Reilly 02 - Invasion of Privacy (8 page)

Neither moved for a while. The harbor seal seemed to be trying to decide whether to slide back off the deck into the ocean. Bob was wondering if he should jiggle up and down and holler, chasing the seal off. He must look like a seal himself, in his long black sleeping bag. The animal twitched his nose, but made no other move.

Bob wasn’t afraid. He had never heard of a seal biting anyone, though if it rolled over on him it would certainly hurt. He felt like he was the one out of place. He was sleeping in the seal’s spot.

The mists drifted overhead; the deck moved. Green water lapped at the pilings.

The seal began backing up, using its flippers to push itself Leaving a wet trail, it retreated to the far edge of the deck. Its mouth opened in a huge yawn. It sighed just like a human, put its head down, and rolled over, so Bob could see only its roly-poly, long gray back.

Bob joined it in another yawn, pulling the edge of the bag over his head, lodging himself a little farther into his cubbyhole, and fell back to sleep.

6

SITTING IN HER CAR AT TERRY’S GATE THE DAY AFTER Bobby disappeared, Nina put the heel of her hand on the horn and let it stay there.

Terry threw open the door of the house at the top of the hill and stood on the porch, her hair flying out from her head like something alive in the wild March wind. She’d thrown the lynx coat on. "Wha
_t
do you want?" she called.

"Come on down here and I’ll tell you."

Terry picked her way down. Already taller than Nina, she looked larger than usual in her baggy clothing, with the effect of an animal bunching up its fur to look menacing to an enemy. When she got to the gate, she stood there, arms folded, and said, "So?"

"Just returning the visit."

A small smile curled around Terry’s lips. "I don’t know what you mean."

"I want to talk to you."

"I’m busy."

"If you don’t let me in, I’m going to talk to the police. They’ll get a search warrant. You broke into my house. And my son’s missing. I’m not here to play around."

Terry looked surprised, but Nina didn’t know whether or not to credit the raised eyebrows or slightly open mouth. "Have it your way," she said.

Once again she opened the gate and Nina followed her up the hill, but this time they took the main trail to the house. Rivulets of melting snow ran down it, making the walking harder.

Up close, the A-frame needed a paint job, and the porch needed new supports.

A man sat at the oak table near the window, smoking. Young, blond, and strapping, wearing a blue baseball cap, a dirty plaid jacket, and muddy boots, he looked a lot like the man Nina had met on her last trip here, Jerry but with a stubble instead of a beard. This must be his son.

"Go home, Ralphie," Terry said. "I’m busy now."

"I got here firs
_t
," the young man said. "You promised."

"Get lost."

"Is she the lawyer lady?" He talked deliberately, with slight pauses between words, as if the language made sluggish progress from his mind, only to get stuck in his throat.

"None of your business," Terry said, but he got up to stand by her, reeking of gasoline and oil. He reached a hand out absentmindedly to pat Terry’s arm. She pulled her coat away, making a face. "You’re filthy."

"Pleased to meet you," he said to Nina. "I like your coat collar. Is it mink?"

"It’s fake," Nina said. "I don’t wear real fur."

"But you wear leather shoes, I bet," he said with a laugh.

Terry, who had had enough, said loudly, "Ralphie, I said get going!" She herded him to the door, opened it, and invited him out.

"I’m going, I’m going." He stubbed out the cigarette on the hardwood floor and stomped out in his heavy boots.

"Jerk-off," Terry said contemptuously, watching his retreat down the path. If Ralph was her lover, the relationship was definitely doomed. She made sure the door closed behind him, then turned to Nina, who was wondering at the heavy furniture, the Early American oils on the walls.

"My parents’ stuff. I never bothered to take any of it down. I basically live in my studio," Terry said. "Let’s get this over with quickly. I know nothing about your kid being missing."

"You broke into the house and trashed my room," Nina said. "I saw you."

"Really? Prove it."

"Where is he?"

"Read my lips. I don’t know."

"Okay," Nina said. "I think I can make a report to the police that’s going to guarantee you get picked up on a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold. Maybe they’ll let you go at that point, maybe they won’t. You familiar with the inside of a mental hospital, Terry? Oh, I see you are."

Terry’s face had paled. "You can’t do that. I’m your friggin’ client!" she cried.

"Not anymore."

"I don’t have your kid. Look around. He’s not here."

She wouldn’t tell Nina to look if Bobby was there. Her heart sank. "You trashed my room last night, didn’t you?"

"What if I did?" Terry asked, with genuine curiosity. "You going to get me arrested for reading your love letters?"

"You hit me on the head," Nina said. "You tried to hurt me."

"Looks like you’ve survived," Terry said, "so far."

Nina said, "Don’t bullshit me anymore. And don’t come around trying to bully me or scare my family. I’ve got a gun and I will use it if I have to." She didn’t, but Terry didn’t have to know that. "I won’t be off guard next time."

As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t mentioned a gun. That could magnify the seriousness of Terry’s vandalism and incite her. There were already too many nuts with guns running around.

Because she still hoped to find Bobby, she searched the small untidy house thoroughly. Terry didn’t try to stop her. There was no sign of him. In the bedroom Terry took off her coat and tossed it onto the bed, where it lay in a furry heap, like an exotic pet. Under the kitchen sink Nina found her letters, out of order, some of them torn.

Terry had followed her around, saying nothing. She eyed the box, her expression, for once, blank.

"You’ve got it back. I just borrowed it. So let’s forget the whole thing," she said.

"Why do you care about my personal business?"

"Just checking something."

"Checking what?"

"To see if you are who I thought you might be."

"And who is that?"

Terry wore a look as cold as the landscape outside the windows, and didn’t answer.

"What’s this all about?"

Terry opened the front door, and said, "If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here right now."

"What did I do?"

"Only ruined my life."

"Is this about the case? Maybe I can fix it."

"It’s too late," Terry said calmly, neatly guiding her out. "You’re not getting out of this." A mountain of hate rose behind her yellow eyes. She shut the door in Nina’s face.

For the last two years, Paul had worked out of a small office on the third and top floor of a building just off Ocean Avenue in Carmel. Big Sur, to the south, and Monterey, just over the Carmel Hill, added to his client base.

The office had one thing to recommend it. The main window overlooked the neighboring courtyard of the Hog’s Breath Inn, a restaurant and bar where he spent much of his free time.

Paul kept the shade up at the window above his desk while he punched numbers and letters onto his keyboard and skimmed the information on his video monitor, even though it made it a little harder to read. He didn’t like desk work much, but this project had to be done on the computer.

His client, a biotechnology firm in San Jose, needed to find someone, a reported computer nerd who had recently set up a home page of his own on the World Wide Web. The nerd called himself der Fliegel, the Fly, and had loads of info to share on a certain proprietary formula. Paul went searching for tiny bug-tracks in cyberspace.

While he searched, Paul looked down at the Hog’s Breath courtyard, where tourists in shorts mixed with local business types. He checked his watch and dreamed of lunch, a thick steak with home fries, coleslaw maybe—no, how about a Caesar salad, crunchy and tart.... There were some attractive women down there. One dark-haired girl with pale white skin, wearing a halter thing that showed off her magnificent breasts, sat cross-legged, disconsolate, alone. Should he quit now and go down early?

A guy in a white T-shirt with tattoos up to his armpits sat down next to her and put his hand on her delicate white knee. A shame, but now he gazed upon a tall, golden Californian who had just walked in, swinging her purse, her narrow ass swinging along in rhythm.... The Hog’s Breath was a great place to unwind after work and meet women, and, of course, it was owned by his favorite steely-eyed movie actor.

Now and then Clint did show up at his restaurant, soft-spoken and mellow, shaking hands with the locals, asking how the steak was tonight, if there was anything they needed. Once, about a year before, when Paul was working late in his office, Clint came in with a few friends and opened up the place just for them, lit the fireplace in the middle, and they all settled down to talk and laugh.

Paul had met him once, while Clint was still the mayor of Carmel, at a chamber of commerce reception. Clint had an inch or two on him, but he slouched a lot, and he was getting downright elderly. He had the dignity of a senior statesman, the big hands of a wrestler. He said, "How are ya, Paul?" in that soft, almost sinister voice of his, and Paul said, "I really liked that scene in The Dead Pool where you—" but Clint was being pushed gently forward to meet his next wellwisher.

Paul didn’t really envy Clint. He liked his freedom, and Clint didn’t seem to have much of that—but he would have liked to sit down with him some night over a couple of bourbons and talk with him about the Dirty Harry movies, how much he loved them but how full of crap they were, the police procedures a joke.

At one time Paul had worked in San Francisco as a homicide detective, and he’d always wanted to tell Clint that Inspector Callahan would have been out on his ass in about twelve seconds with that attitude, like Paul had been.

The computer beeped, pulling Paul back into the present. "You have been idle too long," the screen said. He took one more longing look out the real window before he turned back to his virtual window to redial the on-line service.

A kid that looked just like Nina’s kid came strolling through the courtyard, down there in the crowd. Paul got up, looking hard.

About eleven, shaggy black hair, tall for his age, carrying his No Fear hat, a backpack on his back, looking around from under Nina’s exact eyebrows—yes, Nina’s kid.

The kid walked up to a waiter and asked him something. The waiter shrugged his shoulders, moving on.

Where was Nina? Paul jogged down the hall, down the stairs, opened the back door of the building, and crashed right into the boy, and the kid staggered back. Paul held out his hand to steady him, saying, "Whoa! Take it easy!"

Upstairs again, the boy set down his bags and plopped down on Paul’s black Italian leather couch. Paul gave him a soda, which he guzzled, eyeing him warily.

"I was coming up here anyway," said the kid.

"Why don’t you start by telling me where your mother is," Paul said. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the kid’s name, even though he’d seen him with Nina many times.

"She didn’t call you?"

"Nobody called me to say you’d be dropping by two hundred and eighty miles from Tahoe, no. What’s going on?"

"Not much," the kid said jauntily, dirty face smiling above muddy pants. "I’m visiting my grandpa. He lives in Monterey."

"Is he here in town with you? Or are you alone?"

"I took the bus. I wanted to have an appointment with you."

"Sorry. But your name escapes me," Paul said.

"Bob."

"Right. Your grandpa forgot to wash your face this morning, Bob."

The boy’s hand almost made it to his cheek before he checked himself, and lowered it. "So, you got a minute for an appointment?"

"I guess so," Paul said. He sat down opposite the couch, put his hands on his knees, said, "What can I do for you?"

"I need to hire you to look for someone for me."

"I see."

"This would be me hiring you, not my mom. She says you’re good."

"I’m very good at some things. Who are you looking for?"

"My father."

Uh-oh. "Your mother know what you’re doing, Bob?"

"Not exactly." He bunched up his grungy sweatshirt, producing some bills. "I can pay you thirty dollars today, and I’ll give you three dollars a week for as long as it takes." He put the bills on the table, giving Paul a challenging look.

Paul didn’t pick them up. "I think I’d like to hear some more about the case first," he said. "I’m picky."

"My mother won’t tell me anything about my father, so I’m going to find him without her help."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," the kid said. "She won’t talk about him. But," he said, riffling through pockets on the outside of his backpack, "I have my birth certificate with his name on it." Triumphantly he produced a folded-up sheet of paper, which Paul examined carefully.

"How about your grandpa?" Paul had met Harlan Reilly several years before. He still remembered him, a golfer with a wide, ruddy face, and a new wife named Angie-baby. "Doesn’t he know anything?"

"He’s no use. My mom won’t let him tell me anything."

"I’ll have to think this over for a few minutes, Bob," Paul said. "Meanwhile, let’s walk back over to the Hog’s Breath and have some lunch, okay? If you don’t have to be getting right back. Then I’ll drop you off at your grandpa’s."

"I could use a sandwich," the kid said. "But you don’t have to drop me off, I’m meeting a friend here."

"Right," Paul said. "You go on down to the bathroom at the end of the hall and wash your face and hands. I’ll get my wallet, then we’ll go." The kid nodded and went out the door, leaving his backpack and sleeping bag on the rug.

Paul shut the door behind him and called Nina’s office.

Sandy put him through to Nina right away and he heard her voice, clear and close as if she was in the next room.

"I thought you might like to know your son is down the hall washing up for lunch," he told her.

"Bobby?"

"Only son you’ve got I know about." He gave her a minute to collect herself. Her voice had been shaky. She must have put the phone down for a second. When he heard her breathing on the line again he said, "How long has he been gone?"

"Since Wednesday night. We’ve got the police up here combing the town, looking all over. I never dreamed he’d go so far." A distant nose blew. "Is he all right?"

"Fine. Not upset, no sign of any physical trauma. He ran away?"

"In the middle of the night. He didn’t leave a note, but he took some food and his sleeping bag. Oh God, Paul, I’ve been so worried. Is he back? Let me talk to him."

"Wait a minute," Paul said. "Your son disappears and you don’t call me?"

"I tried once. But ... we’ve been concentrating up here, Paul. Nobody saw him at the bus station or the train station. Who would ever dream an eleven-year-old boy would go so far on his own? Hang on." He could hear her call out, "Sandy, Paul’s got him! Call Matt and Andrea." She got back on the line and said, "Is he there?"