Despite my father’s protests and outrage, my mother had never wavered in her support, constantly standing up to him and explaining that it was important I chase my dreams. She’d died a few years ago from a rare form of kidney cancer. As my father and I still struggled to make sense of her absence, his loneliness drove a greater interest in my work.
“I took on a new case,” I said. “Missing girl.”
“Anything I can help you with?”
“It’s still early. I’m trying to put things together.”
“I’m here whenever you need me,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I’ll come by soon.”
I knew he was at his weekly match at XS Tennis Village down on the South Side. I could hear the echo of the voices and the sound of tennis balls popping off racket strings.
“My match is about to start,” he said. “Gotta run.”
“Hit the ball in your strike zone.”
“Something I told you when you first picked up a racket.”
As I hung up the phone, there was a polite knock on my door.
“Enter at your own risk,” I yelled. I kept the lights off. There was plenty coming in through the windows. Last year my next-door neighbor’s millennial son had spotted me leaving the apartment with a Styrofoam coffee cup and lectured me about my lack of environmental awareness and the need for me to get serious about reducing my carbon footprint. Using fewer lights wasn’t going to save the world, but at least it was a start.
The door swung open and in walked Violet Gerrigan all gussied up in another one of those expensive suits—this one a deep red—and carrying an oversize black leather handbag that had more gold buckles and locks on it than the vaults in Fort Knox. Her hair and makeup were the same. She gave me a polite smile but showed no teeth. Standing next to her was a tall boy somewhere in his late teens. He was thin, dressed in tennis whites, and his blond hair was tousled about in a way that was meant to make you believe he hadn’t given it much attention, when in reality he had probably spent the better part of an hour in front of a mirror agonizing over the arrangement of every strand.
“Good morning, Mr. Cayne,” she said. The rich could even make their greetings sound like commands. “This is my youngest son, Connor. My oldest is married and lives in Seattle with his wife and two children.”
I nodded at both of them. Connor reluctantly returned the nod. His hair held up. He appeared to be timid.
Mrs. Gerrigan didn’t wait for me to make the offer; instead, she took a seat in the same chair she’d sat in yesterday. Connor stood with his hands behind his back and waited for his mother to sit before taking the chair next to hers. Chivalry was alive and well in the Gerrigan household.
After she had settled her handbag on the small end table and gotten herself situated in a chair that I’m sure was much more uncomfortable than she was accustomed to, she said, “Have you gotten any closer to locating my daughter?”
I always marveled at how people with her pedigree could talk and barely move their mouths. Violet Gerrigan had mastered the technique.
I swiveled my chair around and opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of ice tea all in one motion. I made an offering gesture to my visitors, both of whom declined. I popped the top and took a short pull and let the cold liquid explore my mouth before swallowing.
“Not much has changed since we last spoke twenty-four hours ago,” I said. “But I’m pursuing a couple of promising leads.” I really had only one lead, and that was Chopper McNair, whose whereabouts I had yet to ascertain. I was still waiting on Burke to see what he was able to dig up. But when you said “a couple of leads” to a client, it always sounded encouraging, especially when they’d already paid the retainer in full.
“I was thinking of hiring another detective who could work with you,” she said. “Maybe you can cover more ground with another set of eyes and ears.”
“I appreciate the gesture,” I said politely. “But I work best alone.”
“She’s been missing for three days now.”
“I’m aware of that,” I said. “And I’m working extremely hard to move this along. Hiring someone else will only mean two of us doing the same thing and getting in each other’s way.”
Violet Gerrigan considered my words carefully, then said, “I wanted Connor to come because he told me something last night that you might find helpful.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Is that a real gun?” Connor said. He was pointing to the corner of my desk. His hand shook.
“It is according to the last guy I shot,” I said. “The trail of blood he left as the medics carried him away confirmed its authenticity.”
“You shoot people?” Connor said.
“Only when I have to.”
Connor’s face deepened a couple of shades of red. He swallowed hard. His eyes kept drifting back to the gun.
“Tinsley smoked weed,” Connor stammered. He looked at his mother as if he were sorry for saying it. “She and her friends smoked mostly when Mom and Dad weren’t home.”
I took the gun off the desk and slid it into the middle drawer. Distraction now gone, I could see some relief on his face.
“Is that all you have to tell me?” I said.
“I know it’s not a big deal, but Tins knew that Mom wasn’t a big fan of it, so she didn’t want me to say anything. I promised her I wouldn’t. But now she might be in trouble, so I figured it was more important to tell the truth if it could help find her.”
I found it interesting that he thought she was in trouble rather than just missing. Was there something he wanted to say but was holding back?
“A little weed is against house rules?” I said, directing my attention to Mrs. Gerrigan.
“I don’t want drugs in my house,” she said, all dignified.
“Most people nowadays don’t consider weed to be any more of a drug than alcohol.”
“The problem is that it doesn’t just stop at marijuana. It’s not uncommon for people who use it to go on to more serious drugs. They’re a danger to themselves and society at large.”
“It’s only weed,” I said, resisting a very primal urge to roll my eyes. “You can get a bag at any local library.” I looked at Connor. “Was there harder stuff she was doing that I should know about?”
Mrs. Gerrigan and Connor looked at each other for a moment before he averted his eyes.
“I didn’t see her do anything else,” Connor said. “Just the grass.”
I turned again to Mrs. Gerrigan. “Has Tinsley ever gone off before without telling anyone?”
“Only once that was of any consequence,” she said. “But she was only seventeen at the time.”
“And where did you find her?”
“At the Ritz Hotel in Paris.”
I had to stop myself from laughing. When the average kid ran away from home, they scrambled across town to a friend’s or relative’s house. But a rich kid ran all the damn way to Paris to hang out under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.
“Is it possible she decided to take another trip over the pond?” I said.
“Doubtful,” Mrs. Gerrigan said. “She would’ve taken Tabitha or made arrangements for her.”