City of the Sun (4 page)

“Carol, let’s go on up to bed.”

Though she seemed not to hear him, she got up and walked toward the stairs, with Paul right behind her.

At the foot of the steps, Paul clicked on the switch illuminating the front of the house for Jamie, as they did every night.

Carol looked at him and then turned off the lights before going up.

PAUL SKIRTED THE CITY
and its afternoon traffic, taking County Line until he hit Mitchner. Indianapolis was only a couple hours’ drive from where he and Carol had gone to college, and also from where they’d grown up, and he had originally been drawn to the city for its many corporate and technological parks full of businesses and executives to whom he could sell insurance. The chance to buy a house of his own on a tree-lined street was an added bonus back then. Now he worked his way south into Warren and neared the Windemere Homes neighborhood, where the streets had been getting drab for the last several minutes. Lawns were not well tended there during the summer, much less in midwinter. Shrubbery was nonexistent. Most houses were on the one-more-year plan as far as repainting went. Even though the address was all the way out, Paul had decided to drive over without calling first. He couldn’t bring himself to go through it all over the phone, and this way, if he changed his mind at any point, he could just drive on.

He glanced over at the copy of Jamie’s file resting on the passenger seat. He checked the worn business card in his right hand as he drove. Frank Behr, the investigator’s name, had been familiar, but he hadn’t been able to place why, so he had Googled the man’s name. What came back was a story he remembered reading many years ago.

A man named Herb Bonnet, who worked at a trucking company, had become aware of the smuggling and selling of stolen farm equipment, and money laundering, by the owners of the company. Bonnet had gone to the police, and when the owners were indicted and word got out that he was set to testify, he was beaten badly by two anonymous attackers. It was like something out of the movies. Even though he was put in the hospital for a week, Bonnet didn’t relent on his plans to talk in court. One afternoon, while sitting guard duty outside Bonnet’s room, a patrolman, Frank Behr, looked down the hall through a glass-paneled door. A man was coming toward him, wearing a black pea coat and looking “all wrong and out of place,” Behr had been quoted as saying.

The patrolman leaped up and pushed a swinging door into the man in the pea coat, who turned out to be a gunman coming for Bonnet. Officer Behr put him into a wall, knocking over a cart of housekeeping supplies, as the man drew a .38 with a taped handle. Officer Behr then disarmed him and wrestled him into custody. The would-be gunman, a distant relative of one of the owners of the trucking company who had been paid ten thousand dollars to kill Bonnet, ended up with a broken wrist. Officer Behr had become a local hero behind the incident. There were commendations. He was promoted off patrol to uniformed detective.

A decorated cop, even if it had been more than a decade ago, seemed worth the effort of a drive. A patch of two-story cement buildings with gray facades passed by outside Paul’s window, and the cars parked on the streets didn’t look like they’d been started lately. He slowed the Buick to a crawl and began checking addresses on the low buildings that looked like double-wide trailers sunk onto cinder-block foundations.

Paul pulled over and parked, taking the file with him as he got out of his car. Number 642 was either a depressing office or an even more depressing two-family residence. A dump truck passed in front of him and hit a pothole with a sound much like an explosion. The truck left Paul in a swirl of brick dust and exhaust, which cleared to reveal a homeless man on his knees, rummaging through several bags of garbage, on a patch of brown grass and dirt in front of 642. Half a pizza, coffee grounds, rotting ribs, a broken jar emitting rancid mayonnaise surrounded the man. Paul could smell it from five yards away. He walked past him to the door and knocked repeatedly, getting no answer. He suddenly saw the downside of just driving over without calling as he turned to look for another entrance. He didn’t see one and considered heading back toward his car.

“Who’re you looking for?” the homeless man on the ground asked in a clear voice.

Paul turned and regarded him. “Frank Behr. You know where I might find him?”

The man clambered to his feet, which took a long time, since he was so large. He was squared off all over, too, from hands to shoulders to jaw. He had a slightly ruddy face and a bushy mustache. The bridge of his nose showed he had worn a football helmet for several years of his life.

“I’m him. Who’re you?”

Paul spent a moment more than a little surprised. “Paul Gabriel. I might want to hire him … you.”

Behr slung a heavyweight bag of trash over his shoulder and gestured toward another. “You want to give me a hand with this? We’ll go inside and talk.”

“Bring the garbage inside?”

Behr shrugged. Paul hefted a bag and they walked toward the door.

The place was both office and home to the investigator, and it had all the charm of a brake-shop waiting room. A plaid recliner and a television tray covered with empty bottles were in close proximity to the television. The setup was that of a man who liked to watch sports and drink beer. Across the room, a crowded desk bearing an old computer, phone, and fax, a battered desk chair, and bulging file cabinets gave the impression that Behr liked his work but hadn’t gotten enough of it lately.

Behr dropped his bag in the middle of the floor and Paul followed suit. The investigator motioned for Paul to have a seat and left the room. A moment later he returned carrying two cans of soda.

“What’s with all this? If you don’t mind my asking.” An odor of sour milk and tuna fish began to permeate the room.

Behr handed Paul a can. “Trash archaeology. It’s Derek Freeman’s.”

“The Pacer?”

“Yeah, the power forward. I paid a guy I know twenty bucks to get it for me.”

“You must be a real fan.”

Behr looked at Paul, the slightest glint of humor in his eye. It wasn’t a confidential case. He decided to explain.

“The
Trib
hired me. Freeman’s suing them for libel over their report of him having an affair. You can learn plenty from someone’s trash. Receipts, empty prescription bottles. Discarded papers. Gambling receipts. Phone bills. Strange DNA on Q-Tips. Condoms when their wife is on the pill. They’re hoping I’ll prove their story. At least enough to keep them out of court. And I will.” Behr shrugged and popped his soda can open. If he was at all embarrassed about picking through refuse, he didn’t show it. As Behr drank off half his soda, Paul noticed the man’s hand was the size of a brick.

“What can I do for you?”

Paul fiddled with his own soda can and took a breath. “I think I need … I need a detective. My son. He’s twelve. He was twelve and a half. He’s almost fourteen now. He’s been gone a year and two months.”

A darkness came over Behr and seemed to fill the room, as if an eclipse was taking place in the sky outside.

“Gone?”

“Went out on his paper route end of last October. Didn’t come back.”

“Police?”

“We’ve been to them, of course.” Paul raised the manila file folder by way of explanation.

“Of course. Amber alerts. Neighborhood canvass. They papered the runaway shelters, then pulled the manpower. You don’t know if they’re incompetent or don’t care.”

Paul was a bit taken aback at the man’s directness and let the file resettle in his lap. “All of the above.”

Behr sat back and thought. “Over a year and the trail will be cold. Ice-age cold.”

Paul was quiet. He glanced around the place. Bookshelves were filled with nonfiction hardcovers. A glass gun case held several rifles. Law enforcement plaques hung on a paneled wall near the desk. They were awards for community service, distinction in the line of duty. The dates ended several years back.

Behr stared at him and Paul came out and said it. “I’d like someone to look into it. You were recommended.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“The cops aren’t incompetent, and they do care. It’d be a thousand to one finding anything … and even then you wouldn’t like what I found.”

Paul couldn’t help feeling a foolish sense of rejection and a sudden desperation, a swirling vortex of helplessness threatening him. “But …” He gestured at the trash on the living-room floor. “You can’t be so busy—”

“It’s not about that,” Behr half barked. Something close to anger sounded in his voice for a moment, then departed. “Listen, how’s your wife coping?”

“Well, I guess. In her own way … but badly. Real bad.”

Behr nodded with knowing. “What other way is there?”

Silence took over, and neither man seemed willing to tamper with it for a long while, then Behr spoke again. “It’d be very costly, you know. Not just the hourly, but also the expenses. And time-consuming.”

Paul shrugged.

“I see. You’re willing to pay. Anything you’ve got.”

“That’s right.”

“Put your house up. Sell everything.”

“Yeah.”

“But even then … Look, Mr. Gabriel, for most people hope’s a beautiful thing. For you and your wife it’s dangerous. I don’t want to take you through anything more than you’ve been already.”

Paul stood. “There’s nothing that could be worse than not knowing. Not even … nothing.”

Behr seemed to understand but averted his gaze.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I can’t do this. There are plenty of other investigators and I’m sure you’ll find a good one. Now I’ve got some garbage to sort.”

Paul put his unopened soda can down on the television tray and headed for the door.

Behr knelt on the floor and went about his business, not noticing that beneath the soda can rested a manila folder.

CAROL ANSWERED THE DOOR
late on a Thursday afternoon and found a heavyset woman in her forties with dyed black hair standing outside.

“Hello, Mrs. Gabriel?” she said through the screen door.

“Yes?” Carol caught an almost magenta hue coming off the woman’s hair.

“I understand you have a missing boy.”

Carol’s heart instantly pounded and she felt herself go weak. “Yes. Do you know something about him?”

“I might be able to help. My name is Ms. Raven. I’m a spiritualist. I’ve worked on these cases before.”

Carol’s heart began to slow. If this had been last week even, she would have probably said No, thank you. Instead she swung open the screen door. “Umm … Why don’t you come in? My husband will be home soon.”

When Paul arrived, he found them sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Ms. Raven held Jamie’s Colts cap. Paul joined them and learned how she had come to them.

“I have a friend down at the station who I confer with on certain cases. He told me about yours and I thought I would try.”

“Well, we appreciate it, but …” said Paul.

“Do you believe?” the woman asked.

“In what?” Carol said aloud. Paul gave her a look.

“Psychic powers. It helps if you believe. I get stronger sensations that way.”

“Oh, well. We don’t
not
believe. We don’t really think about it, I guess.”

“We want to believe.” Paul gave it a try. “Is there anything we can do?”

Ms. Raven closed her eyes and sat back, feeling the baseball cap.

Tater, curled up across the kitchen, looked up from time to time.

The kitchen had fallen silent, and just when the quiet threatened to go on forever, Ms. Raven spoke. “I see a van,” she said with conviction.

“We have a van.”

Carol glanced at Paul, not wanting his talk to mess the woman up.

“And a bicycle. A blue bicycle.”

“Yes. Jamie’s bike was blue.” Paul spoke again. Carol’s stomach turned over at the possibility that this woman’s vision was real.

“You’re on a trip. Down south. Jamie has gone for a bike ride.” Ms. Raven became agitated, her breathing short and sharp.

Paul and Carol grew confused.

“The bike has fallen and Jamie seems hurt,” she went on. “He’s not dead, but hurt.”

Carol moaned involuntarily and her face squeezed the way it did before her tears came.

Seeing this, Paul was prompted to speak. “Look, Ms. Raven. I think you’ve got it wrong. We weren’t on a trip. We were right here. We’ve checked around. The police, the hospitals. It was no bicycle accident. Thank you for trying, but maybe we should, you know, stop.”

Ms. Raven sat there for a minute, then two, breathing through her mouth, before she answered. “This is not an exact science.”

“I understand that. Look, we appreciate your help, but I think this is upsetting my wife.” Carol didn’t dispute him. “What do we owe you for this?”

Ms. Raven put down the cap and gathered her coat and bag. “You don’t have to pay me. It’s quite all right,” she said, slight offense in her voice. “If we schedule a time for me to come back, I can look at his room. Try further …” She shrugged on her coat.

Paul showed her to the door and held it for her. “Please, let me give you something. For your time,” he offered again.

“Well, I’m normally thirty dollars an hour,” she said.

Paul handed her some bills. “Here you go. Thanks a lot.”

She gave him a flyer from a store where she worked reading palms and tarot cards. “Here’s my number if you want to consult further.”

“Thanks again.” Paul closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

Carol was still sitting there. Tater had left the room.

“Do you think we should have listened to her more?”

Paul said nothing and tried to keep the cynicism off his face, knowing that if he spoke he could not keep it out of his voice.

“She was right about the van. And the bike.”

“She’s got a friend at the station. She probably read the file.”

“We should have her back and try—”

“She took money,” he said with finality, “at the door.” He crumpled the flyer and fired it in the general direction of the trash can.