Paine drank his coffee, trying to think of something to say to her. She sat holding her untouched coffee mug, letting the steam take the warmth out of it. He knew she was waiting for him to say something to her, one way or the other, to tilt her life toward 100 percent.
'I take it no one's heard from him again,' he said.
She shook her head no.
'I talked to Coleman yesterday afternoon, and then Hermano, the guy he was working on the drug bust case with. Coleman acted like an egg on a griddle. I think they're coming down on him from up top. He tried to get me to rejoin the force.'
'Christ.'
'Coleman always was an asshole. But now I think he realizes it for the first time. Hermano was just scared. I don't think this had anything to do with what Bobby was working on.'
Her fingers working on the handle of her coffee mug, she waited.
'Terry' he said, 'I'm as blank as you. I don't have any idea what this is all about. That's why I want to go through the house-'
'Then let's do it,' she said angrily, getting up.
They started in the basement. Bobby had a workshop down there, one half of the cellar behind a sheetrock barrier that was all his own. There were two workbenches, one covered messily with tools, fuses, rolls of duct tape, tubes of glue; the other immaculate, a fisherman's shrine, neat racks of lures above neatly labeled drawers of miniature tools and fly-tying equipment.
Paine went through everything, the drawers, the boxes, the discarded shopping bags with abandoned receipts inside. When he finished in the tool room he went through the other half of the cellar, the playroom, which contained only toys except, on one side under a low Tiffany-style fluorescent, a pool table, now piled high with boxes of military novels and sealed Christmas ornaments. Paine checked down the slipcovers of the two old chairs in the corners, moved the canned food shelves under the stairs.
'What's next?' Terry asked.
'Where does he keep the rest of his stuff?'
'Mostly in the bedroom. The garage, too.'
'The garage, first.'
They went to the garage. Paine checked under the seats in their Plymouth Voyager, slid his fingers up under the dashboard, lifted the ashtrays in the back seat to check the wells. There were open cartons of oil and bags containing power steering fluid, transmission fluid, an oil filter. He found nothing but receipts.
'Okay, Terry, let's look at the bedroom.'
The bed was made; there was a quilt with pastel squares framing yellow and blue geese. The chest of drawers was tall, four long drawers and two half drawers at the top; it was mahogany, with Queen Anne legs; on top of it was a silver tray holding perfumes and a black glazed ceramic whale with the back scooped out for a change holder.
Paine went through the change holder; there was change and a couple of receipts from Sears, a pocket comb with a couple of tines missing, a Sears wallet photo of the two girls and Terry, all of them smiling, bunched together, Terry in back with her arms around them. Paine looked at it for a minute, and then put it back.
'Which drawers are his, Terry?'
She was standing behind him, arms folded. 'Bottom two.'
The room was hot. There was a small air conditioner set into one window, but it wasn't turned on. The room was dark, blinds down, thin slices of heated light thrown against the far wall. A dressing mirror slanted downward, reflecting floor and bed at an angle.
Paine pulled open the bottom drawer. Folded Izod shirts, no pockets; shorts, pockets empty. Two pairs of jeans. Behind, on the left side, a cluster of papers, insurance policy sheets, car registration forms, police benefit department information.
'He stored all the important papers there,' Terry said behind him.
Paine put the papers back, slid his hand to the right along the back length of the drawer. An unused belt coiled like a snake, a package of unopened handkerchiefs. Two pairs of folded chinos, pockets empty. In the right far corner, a blue rectangular box. Paine pulled it out: a twelve-pack of Trojan condoms, two left.
Behind him, Terry said nothing. Paine put the box back.
The upper drawer was filled with boxer shorts, T-shirts, a folded pair of flannel pajamas that looked unused. White crew socks, black nylon stretch socks. A flat, wooden, hinged box in the right front with more change, another comb, more receipts and paper clips in it. Under it was a bill in a long brown envelope. He lifted it out, studied it: a doctor's charge with an outstanding balance that he realized the import of as Terry spoke.
'That was from the second miscarriage,' she said. He turned on his haunches to look at her: her arms folded, seemingly cold in the hot room, hugging herself. 'There was some question about insurance payment, so they told us to wait on the bill.'
'I'm sorry Terry,' Paine said.
Her reply was too quick. 'Don't be.'
Paine looked at her a moment, turned away, slipped the bill back into its place and closed the drawer.
He stood, stretched his back. 'Let me look at the closet,' he said.
There was one closet, long sliding doors. She owned two-thirds of the left side; Bobby's clothes had the rest. Paine slid the door over, went through the two suits, the dress uniform. There were six white shirts, two blue, a couple of sports shirts with twin breast pockets. Another pair of chinos, hanging. There were three pairs of shoes, a pair of Adidas, the floor behind them was clean.
'He took nothing with him,' Paine said, standing.
'No.'
'Let's look at the laundry,' Paine said.
She turned. Paine followed her out into the hallway. She stopped by the bathroom door. 'Here.' Just inside the bathroom door was a white wicker hamper, stuffed to overflowing.
'I haven't done wash in a few days,' she said. She opened the hamper, began to pull clothes out. The top was filled with girl things that she tossed aside; about halfway down were a couple of Bobby's shirts, which she handed to Paine. He went through the pockets, found nothing. There was another shirt at the bottom of the hamper, a long-sleeved sport shirt, wrinkled, that looked like it might have been there for a while. Again, nothing.
'What about the washing machine?'
Without speaking, she walked past him, down the hallway beyond the kitchen, opened a door into the laundry room.
Paine went in, snapped down the door of the dryer. It was empty. He pulled up the door on the washer, found a load of wash filled to the brim, blue liquid laundry detergent drying like a stain over the clothes on top.
'I was doing that when he decided to go out the other night,' Terry said. 'I never turned the water on.'
Paine lifted the top clothes out; two of Bobby's shirts. He got damp blue detergent, mildly sticky, on his hand. He went through the pockets on the first shirt. The second one had a folded piece of paper in the left breast pocket.
A leak of blue detergent had reached into the paper, dying it. Paine unfolded it, held it up toward the light.
In Bobby's hasty scrawl was written: AA Flt. #85.
Paine handed the note to Terry. 'Recognize this?'
She looked at it; she didn't recognize it, but she knew what it was. She knew Bobby's handwriting well enough, was smart enough to know what it was, what it meant.
Paine gently took the paper from her; if she had been halfway back before, she was back to zero again. She clasped her hands together, not finding the solace she needed, and then she leaned into Paine, folding against him, her hands opening to clutch him, digging into him as if he was a human life raft. She began to weep again, and he felt her body shaking against him.
'Oh. . Jack. . I still thought. . maybe he was just drunk. . just on a bender, maybe he. . was calling from a bar somewhere nearby. . I was stupid, but. . I still hoped. .'
Paine put his arm around her and held her, and let her cry. And with his other hand, he held the paper up and
