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Authors: Howard Shrier
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softly. “It’s gone. We needed it so badly. You can see how bad. It was spent the next day, keeping us afloat for another few weeks. You won’t tell anyone, right?”
“No.”
“All right. Thank you. And look …”
“What?”
“I can’t pay you extra on top of whatever you’re earning. But while you’re investigating your own case, if there is any connection, anything you can find out about Dad, what happened to him … Because if we don’t …”
“What?”
“Look around you. My father wasn’t the shrewdest operator. The store is poorly located and our margins are thin. We’ve been on a tightrope for months, barely holding on, to tell you the truth. And with Dad missing now, everything is frozen. We’re in limbo with the banks, the insurance, our suppliers. If we lose the store …” He sank back onto a stack of rice sacks and shook his head. “If I’m left alone here with Mum, my life is over. My sisters are older—they’re both married and starting families. If Dad stays missing, I’m going to have to take over here. This will be my life, this place Dad bought in fucking Somerville. You’ll call, right, if you find anything? You have the number?”
He wouldn’t let me leave without a business card with all his contact info, plus a few more copies of the flyer of his father, missing now for more than twenty days.
Sheldon Paull called me on the way back. I put him on speaker and asked if he knew anything about David playing poker.
“Funny you should ask,” he said. “I don’t think I was supposed to know about it. But one night, maybe a month ago, I got up to pee in the middle of the night and his door wasn’t all the way closed. The light was on. Nothing unusual, he often works through the night. I was walking past and I heard him go, “Yesss,” that way you do when you’ve done something great. I’m wondering, did he make a breakthrough or something? Something related to work or maybe Talmud? But no. Through the door I could see his arms in the air like he just scored a touchdown. And pocket aces on his screen.”
“How often does he play?”
“That was the only time I saw it.”
“He ever talk about it?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if he ever played in live tournaments.”
“Seems unlikely to me.”
“No sudden trips to Vegas or Atlantic City?”
“David?”
“Nothing to suggest problem gambling?”
“Please,” Sheldon said. “What is all this, anyway?”
“We think David may have been making money playing poker.”
“If he was, he kept it from me.”
“You said he’s smart. Maybe he thought he could beat the odds. Get out of his financial hole. Maybe he got in over his head.”
“He was smart, is smart, and he could beat the odds if he wanted to. But he would have needed a stake.”
“He could have built one online.”
“But if he cashed any out, there’d be a record on his credit card statement.”
“Which there wasn’t,” I admitted.
“Anyway, it still doesn’t seem like David. He’s the opposite of the addictive personality. He gets his satisfaction from his work. That it for now?”
“Yes, thanks.” As soon as I hung up, the phone buzzed: it was Jenn, saying Dr. Stayner’s office had called to say he’d see me if I could be there in twenty minutes. I pulled over to the right, provoking only one middle finger and one hostile blast of a horn.
“That sounded warm and fuzzy,” she said.
“Can I get there in twenty from the Mass Avenue Bridge?” I said.
“Yes. Just stay on Commonwealth past the hotel till you get to Brookline and bear left. Park when you get to Francis.”
“Got it. Anything from the phone calls?”
“Drive now,” she said. “Talk later.”
CHAPTER 7
S ean Daggett had four properties in the Boston area, not counting the one down the Cape.
There was the garage in Somerville, the one his father had owned, and his father before that, passed down the dark generations for certain kinds of
“No.”
“All right. Thank you. And look …”
“What?”
“I can’t pay you extra on top of whatever you’re earning. But while you’re investigating your own case, if there is any connection, anything you can find out about Dad, what happened to him … Because if we don’t …”
“What?”
“Look around you. My father wasn’t the shrewdest operator. The store is poorly located and our margins are thin. We’ve been on a tightrope for months, barely holding on, to tell you the truth. And with Dad missing now, everything is frozen. We’re in limbo with the banks, the insurance, our suppliers. If we lose the store …” He sank back onto a stack of rice sacks and shook his head. “If I’m left alone here with Mum, my life is over. My sisters are older—they’re both married and starting families. If Dad stays missing, I’m going to have to take over here. This will be my life, this place Dad bought in fucking Somerville. You’ll call, right, if you find anything? You have the number?”
He wouldn’t let me leave without a business card with all his contact info, plus a few more copies of the flyer of his father, missing now for more than twenty days.
Sheldon Paull called me on the way back. I put him on speaker and asked if he knew anything about David playing poker.
“Funny you should ask,” he said. “I don’t think I was supposed to know about it. But one night, maybe a month ago, I got up to pee in the middle of the night and his door wasn’t all the way closed. The light was on. Nothing unusual, he often works through the night. I was walking past and I heard him go, “Yesss,” that way you do when you’ve done something great. I’m wondering, did he make a breakthrough or something? Something related to work or maybe Talmud? But no. Through the door I could see his arms in the air like he just scored a touchdown. And pocket aces on his screen.”
“How often does he play?”
“That was the only time I saw it.”
“He ever talk about it?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if he ever played in live tournaments.”
“Seems unlikely to me.”
“No sudden trips to Vegas or Atlantic City?”
“David?”
“Nothing to suggest problem gambling?”
“Please,” Sheldon said. “What is all this, anyway?”
“We think David may have been making money playing poker.”
“If he was, he kept it from me.”
“You said he’s smart. Maybe he thought he could beat the odds. Get out of his financial hole. Maybe he got in over his head.”
“He was smart, is smart, and he could beat the odds if he wanted to. But he would have needed a stake.”
“He could have built one online.”
“But if he cashed any out, there’d be a record on his credit card statement.”
“Which there wasn’t,” I admitted.
“Anyway, it still doesn’t seem like David. He’s the opposite of the addictive personality. He gets his satisfaction from his work. That it for now?”
“Yes, thanks.” As soon as I hung up, the phone buzzed: it was Jenn, saying Dr. Stayner’s office had called to say he’d see me if I could be there in twenty minutes. I pulled over to the right, provoking only one middle finger and one hostile blast of a horn.
“That sounded warm and fuzzy,” she said.
“Can I get there in twenty from the Mass Avenue Bridge?” I said.
“Yes. Just stay on Commonwealth past the hotel till you get to Brookline and bear left. Park when you get to Francis.”
“Got it. Anything from the phone calls?”
“Drive now,” she said. “Talk later.”
CHAPTER 7
S ean Daggett had four properties in the Boston area, not counting the one down the Cape.
There was the garage in Somerville, the one his father had owned, and his father before that, passed down the dark generations for certain kinds of
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