City of the Sun (22 page)

He reached across his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Wenck?” he said. “It’s Oscar. Is Gilley with you? Good. It’s time we did business.”

BEHR SAT IN PAUL’S OFFICE
using the computer late into the afternoon. He began by checking Riggi’s name with various search engines and newsgroups. No mention appeared. Most people were referenced in some fashion, by wedding, funeral, or various other announcements that invariably found their way onto the Internet. Behr considered whether he was dealing with an alias or a changed-name situation. He leaned back and noticed the plaques that hung on the office walls around him, proclaiming Paul’s achievements in sales, completion of seminars, and qualification in various financial instruments. He glanced at the photos on Paul’s desk — Carol, Jamie, the three of them — smiling in testament to the family they’d once been. The images sent him back into the stream of data that filled the computer screen before him. Paul stepped in and out from time to time to retrieve documents from his file cabinets for the next client meeting, which he took in a conference room down the hall as Behr continued on into a more exhaustive background search. Paul’s secretary also popped in and out of the office, fetching and dropping off papers, giving him a quizzical look each time, but Paul had her trained well and she asked him no questions. Behr entered into the Indianapolis municipal records database and searched property titles. It was there that he began getting hits. Riggi owned more than half a dozen commercial properties. There wasn’t much information beyond location, assessments, and the fact that the taxes were current. Behr wrote down the addresses, and when he looked up, he realized it had grown dark.

They left together, Paul locking up the office behind them. They crossed to the parking lot. He’d been riding with Behr all day and would need a lift home.

“What did you come up with?” he asked.

“So far Riggi’s story is true. He owns rental property all over town. You got a minute before I drop you?”

Paul was drained after the long day, but he nodded. They headed toward the first address, Behr referring to a handwritten list as they drove.

The first property was a small strip center off Binford Boulevard. It housed a taco joint, a watch shop, a dry cleaner, a pediatrician’s office, and a frozen yogurt shop, which was the only business still open at the time. They looked at it for a moment from across the street, then drove along the storefronts, the dark glass reflecting the pinpoints of streetlights back at them. They continued on, looping around the back, where they found a row of Dumpsters and two parked cars. Behr paused to write down the license plate numbers. The back door to the fro-yo place swung open, a peel of light spilling out from the inside. A diminutive dark-skinned man dragged an industrial-size trash bag out. He rocked back and forth from foot to foot for a moment, gaining momentum, then slung the garbage up and into a Dumpster. The man paused, dusted off his hands, and stared at them in the car for a few long beats. Paul wondered if Behr would go and question him. Instead he put the car in gear and slowly pulled out.

The second location was a minimall similar to the first. There was a tanning salon, a Subway shop, an herbal health-food store, an out-of-business independent video store, and a beauty salon. They stared for a while, and then Behr shrugged and drove on.

“These addresses mean anything to you?” he asked, handing Paul the list.

Paul looked it over. “These street numbers don’t, but if this one is at the intersection of Shade-land and Forty-sixth, I do know it,” he said, pointing at the fourth location down the list.

They had reached the third center, Behr trolling slowly along past more nondescript businesses. “That’s the second pediatrician’s office,” Behr noted, the air seeming to hang still in the car. “What’s the address you know?”

“It’s where Jamie went to the dentist,” Paul answered.

Behr goosed the accelerator, causing the car to leap out into traffic.

They continued through the rest of the dozen properties, the collective adrenaline level rising at each stop. All but two of the properties housed doctor and dental offices that were pediatrics-based or family practices.

“Frank, my stomach’s churning here. This is no coincidence, is it?” Paul asked.

Behr shook his head slowly. A sense of knowing emanated from him even as he pulled over, turned, and removed a thick file folder from the backseat. “I’ve researched the other missing children in the area who fit the profile. This is my case file,” Behr explained.

“You’re checking if any of them were patients?”

“Right.” Behr turned the pages of police records. “There were seven cases in the past three years of boys who went missing in greater Indianapolis under circumstances similar to Jamie’s. There were actually nine total, but two turned up. One visited a shopping mall on the other side of the city, got lost, feared trouble with his parents, and stayed on the streets for close to a week before returning home. Case closed. The other is dead, the body discovered ten days after the disappearance, having been struck by a car and dragged into a wooded area. Again, case closed.” It was as much as Paul had ever heard Behr speak at one time.

Behr began writing down a list of the names of the other seven boys.

“The police reports don’t list their doctors and dentists, do they?” Paul asked.

“Not usually, unless there’s a reason,” Behr said, glancing over the documents on the odd chance that they did. “And no, not in this instance.” He closed the folder.

“Are the doctors involved?”

Behr seemed to turn the question around in his mind like someone playing with the old Rubik’s Cube before he answered.

“I’ve never seen a connection between the missing kids. I’ve been working under the assumption that the abduction was related to the newspaper delivery route. I was wrong. I’m guessing Riggi, or someone who works for him, follows certain patients home. Or they case the offices. Maybe they access the practices using passkeys to get names and addresses.”

Behr turned around with the case file and dropped it in the backseat. He looked at the list in his hand. The names of seven boys, ages eleven to fourteen, all gone. “There’s nothing else to be done tonight,” he said.

“Shit,” Paul breathed.

“I’m at the first doctor’s office at 8:00 A.M. Yo u with me?”

“Hell, yes.” Paul nodded.

Behr went into Dr. Milton Howard’s practice minutes after it opened and found it already busy. Walk-ins, mothers with sick infants and toddlers, were in the waiting room. He’d left Paul in the car, as numbers didn’t help in this kind of task. He approached the desk, where an attractive Latin woman wrestled with patient records, the ringing phone, her morning coffee, and the tremendously large hoop earrings she was wearing. When Behr reached her, she didn’t even look up.

“Put the child’s name on the sign-in sheet,” she instructed.

“Yeah, excuse me,” Behr began, “what’s your name?”

She looked up. “Gloria. What you need?” She didn’t have the time or the inclination for a smile.

“I’m an investigator,” Behr said, passing her his card. “I was hoping to get a patient list for the past two years or so.” He smiled at what he imagined was the likelihood of his request being granted.

“Honey, you can subpoena that. Otherwise, never gonna happen. Anything else?”

“What’s the least busy time of day? Maybe I can come back when we could talk a little more—”

“Baby, you looking at it,” Gloria told him. “It only gets worse.”

Behr heard a wet cough, glanced back, and saw a mother holding a red-nosed child behind him.

“Lunch?” he tried.

“With you? Uh-uh, no. Move over, let the patients through.”

Behr edged to the side and allowed the woman to sign in. She then retreated to a small plastic seat near a fish tank. He leaned back over the desk before two more women, one with a boy who’d just begun to walk, the other with a daughter who was about nine years old, could squeeze in on the list. Gloria sighed at the fact that he was still there.

“How about this? I ask you a name, you tell me if he’s a patient. Then I get out of your face.”

Gloria tapped a fingernail on the desk before her. It was long, probably acrylic.

“Fine. Go.”

“Aaron Barr.”

“No,” she said, almost before he’d finished speaking.

He paused, hating to push it, but he had to ask. “You want to check the patient rolls, maybe?”

“No. I don’t need to. I know the patients and I got a good memory for names.” She tapped her temple with an acrylic spear.

Behr shot through three more names before he hit the number. “Adam Greiss.”

Gloria nodded, her eyes growing large and her throat working as she swallowed. Tough as she was, she had to talk when she heard the name. “He used to come here. He disappeared two years ago. He was about twelve.”

Behr felt his heart banging in his chest. “Did he ever turn up? You know anything else about it?”

“No. It was sad what happened. Weird. Scary.”

“That it is,” he agreed.

“You on his case, looking for him?” she wondered.

“Yeah. Indirectly,” he answered.

The line behind him was three or four deep now. He rattled off the last two names but drew blanks from her.

Paul saw Behr leaving the doctor’s office at a near run. When he drew close to the car and came around to the passenger side, Paul put down the window. “Get something?” he asked.

Behr nodded. “One hit. A patient. You drive to the next place so I can just hop out. It’ll be faster.”

Paul slid over behind the wheel and pointed the car toward the next location. The car wasn’t smooth like his LeSabre, the transmission changed gears in a jagged way, but he was surprised at its power, which he used to get them where they were going faster than the law permitted.

He waited, fairly going out of his skin, in the idling car, while Behr checked each office systematically. He found that four other missing children were former patients of the doctors and dentists. One doctor, who specialized in pediatric oncology, refused to give any information, even a confirmation, regarding his patients and threatened to call the police on Behr if he continued to press the matter. They were both in a lather by the end of the day, with only one address to go. The last office was that of Jamie’s dentist, Dr. Ira Sibarsky, and Paul led the way.

“Hey, Karen,” he said to the receptionist-hygienist who was up front, seated at a computer desk beneath an oversize toothbrush mounted on the wall.

“Paul,” she said, surprise and dismay registering on her face. It was the expression of helpless pity that everyone who knew about Jamie gave him. If he’d ever appreciated the sympathy, he sure couldn’t remember when. “How are you?”

“Good, good. Can I talk to Ira for a minute?” She nodded and disappeared in the back. Paul looked at Behr and they stood and waited, breathing in the faint mint and medicinal smell of the place. Soon the dentist, a smallish man with curly gray hair and a rounded rabbitlike nose, appeared in the doorway and beckoned them to the back.

The dentist’s office was decorated in muted plaids. X-rays of teeth and bite molds littered a scarred wooden desk. Paul remembered the other times he’d been in the office, when the biggest problem in his life was a pair of Jamie’s cavities that needed filling. Sibarsky sat back in a threadbare office chair and took off his glasses.

“What’s up, Paul, and … ?”

“This is Frank Behr. He’s a private investigator who’s helping us regarding Jamie.”

“Oh, I see,” Sibarsky said. “Any word?”

“What can you tell us about your landlord?” Paul said, unwilling to discuss details.

“My landlord?” the dentist asked, concern spreading over his face.

“That’s right. I’d tell you if you had any cause to worry, Ira,” Paul said with assurance.

“Hemlock Point Realty. I don’t have much contact with them. I leased the space from Polly someone or other seven years ago. She’s the one I call if need be. I send in a check on or about the first of the month. The roof leaked once. They put in a new bathroom three or four years ago. Why?”

“Have you ever dealt with Oscar Riggi?” Paul asked. He’d learned from watching Behr that this was a probing exercise, not a conversation, and as such he was best served not wasting time answering the other person’s questions. It may have struck Sibarsky as a bit rude, but Paul was well beyond caring.

“No. I don’t think I know him. Something about the name is familiar.”

“He’s the principal of Hemlock Point. Midfor-ties. Expensive clothes. Bald-headed. Strong-looking,” Paul elaborated.

Sibarsky nodded. “Sure, sure. I’ve seen him. He inspected after the new bathroom was installed.”

“He ever come by at other times?” Behr asked, joining the proceedings for the first time.

Sibarsky’s glance swiveled toward Behr. “No.”

“Does he have a key? Could he access the office when you’re closed? Have you ever been robbed or suspected that your records or files were disturbed?” Behr continued.

“No. You don’t think …” Sibarsky considered, seeming to grow nervous at the idea of it. He stared at the two blank faces and stuck to answering the questions. “I suppose the company has keys in case of emergency. I’ve never seen evidence they were in here. Do you think he’s involved—”

“What about other employees of Hemlock Point?” Paul cut him off.

“Have you ever met or heard of Tad Ford or Garth Mintz?” Behr added.

“No, I haven’t,” Sibarsky said, raising his hands off the desk slightly.

Paul glanced at Behr and the look he got in return told him they were done there.

As they got up, Ira Sibarsky’s lips moved silently for a few seconds before he spoke. “I’m … we’re all real sorry about the situation. …”

Paul snapped off a curt nod and walked out the door.

They stood outside the car and looked over the list of the places they’d been to, the names.

“There’s one more stop,” Behr said.

“Besides Riggi’s house,” Paul clarified.

“Right.” It wasn’t a medical office or a strip mall. It was a house, a rental property, on Kellogg Street. “I’ll drive this time,” Behr said.