Read Online Hellbox (Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Pronzini
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quick.”
“Uh-huh. I wondered about that.”
“I talked to some of the neighbors before I came here, as many as were home. None of them had seen her.”
Broxmeyer nodded and then asked, “Has your wife ever done anything like this before? Gone off someplace and not returned when she was supposed to?”
“No.”
“Two of you have an argument, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Was she upset or worried about anything?”
“Not that I know about. No.”
“What was her frame of mind when you left her?”
“She was fine. Cheerful. We’re enjoying … were enjoying the stay. Like the area, were thinking about making an offer on the Murray property.”
“Retiring up here?”
“No. Second home.”
“Where’s your first home?”
“San Francisco.”
“Uh-huh,” Broxmeyer said. “Well. How long have you been here?”
“Since early Saturday.”
“No, I don’t mean Green Valley. I mean waiting here in the station.”
“Better than half an hour.”
“Could be your wife’s come back in the meantime.”
“She hasn’t,” I said. “I tried calling on my cell phone a couple of minutes before you came in.”
“She have a cellular, too?”
“Yes, but she didn’t take it with her. It’s in her purse at the house.”
Broxmeyer scrubbed at his face again, blew out his breath in a heavy sigh. “Well, I hate to say this, but there’s not much I can do for you right now. Officially, I mean. A person has to be missing forty-eight hours before I can make a report, mount any kind of organized search.”
“I know that. But at least you can put out a BOLO alert.”
“BOLO alert. You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I’m in the business myself.”
“Is that right?” He was more alert now. “Police officer?”
“I used to be. Licensed private investigator since I left the SFPD twenty-five years ago.”
I had my wallet out and opened it to the license photostat, laid it on the desk in front of Broxmeyer. He leaned forward to look at it, looked at me, looked at the license again before he shunted the wallet back across the desktop. Whatever he thought of my breed, he wasn’t letting me see it; his lean face was expressionless.
“About that BOLO,” I said.
“Sure,” he said, “I’ll do that for you. Least I can do. I’m married myself—I know how worried you must be.”
No, you don’t, I thought. You can’t imagine how worried I am. Or how much I love Kerry. Or that I’d cut off my right arm, give up my life in a nanosecond, to save her from harm. Nobody can possibly know how I feel right now but me.
Broxmeyer rummaged around on his desk for a pad of paper and a pen. “Your wife’s name?”
“Kerry. K-e-r-r-y. Kerry Wade. She kept her maiden name.”
“Description?”
I gave it to him, in detail. Age: 55, but after her facelift, she could easily pass for ten years younger. Height: 5'4". Weight: 120. Body type: slender, willowy. Hair color: auburn. Hairstyle: medium short, with a kind of underflip on the sides. No visible distinguishing marks.
“What was she wearing?”
“White shorts, light blue blouse, white Reeboks with blue trim. And probably a wide-brimmed straw hat. She wouldn’t go out in the bright sun without it.”
“Okay,” Broxmeyer said when he’d finished writing, “I’ll have Marge put it on the air right away.”
“Thank you.”
“One more thing. Contact phone numbers—the house, your cellular. Your wife’s, too, for the record.”
I recited the cell numbers from memory. “I don’t know the house number. Not even sure the phone’s connected.”
“Cellulars’ll do. I’ll call you, or somebody will, if there’s anything to report. Your wife comes home on her own, let us hear from you right away.”
I said okay.
He worked on his tired eyes some more. “Look,” he said, “this kind of thing happens a fair amount up here in the summer. People wander off into the woods, get themselves lost. Usually, they find their own way
“Uh-huh. I wondered about that.”
“I talked to some of the neighbors before I came here, as many as were home. None of them had seen her.”
Broxmeyer nodded and then asked, “Has your wife ever done anything like this before? Gone off someplace and not returned when she was supposed to?”
“No.”
“Two of you have an argument, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Was she upset or worried about anything?”
“Not that I know about. No.”
“What was her frame of mind when you left her?”
“She was fine. Cheerful. We’re enjoying … were enjoying the stay. Like the area, were thinking about making an offer on the Murray property.”
“Retiring up here?”
“No. Second home.”
“Where’s your first home?”
“San Francisco.”
“Uh-huh,” Broxmeyer said. “Well. How long have you been here?”
“Since early Saturday.”
“No, I don’t mean Green Valley. I mean waiting here in the station.”
“Better than half an hour.”
“Could be your wife’s come back in the meantime.”
“She hasn’t,” I said. “I tried calling on my cell phone a couple of minutes before you came in.”
“She have a cellular, too?”
“Yes, but she didn’t take it with her. It’s in her purse at the house.”
Broxmeyer scrubbed at his face again, blew out his breath in a heavy sigh. “Well, I hate to say this, but there’s not much I can do for you right now. Officially, I mean. A person has to be missing forty-eight hours before I can make a report, mount any kind of organized search.”
“I know that. But at least you can put out a BOLO alert.”
“BOLO alert. You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I’m in the business myself.”
“Is that right?” He was more alert now. “Police officer?”
“I used to be. Licensed private investigator since I left the SFPD twenty-five years ago.”
I had my wallet out and opened it to the license photostat, laid it on the desk in front of Broxmeyer. He leaned forward to look at it, looked at me, looked at the license again before he shunted the wallet back across the desktop. Whatever he thought of my breed, he wasn’t letting me see it; his lean face was expressionless.
“About that BOLO,” I said.
“Sure,” he said, “I’ll do that for you. Least I can do. I’m married myself—I know how worried you must be.”
No, you don’t, I thought. You can’t imagine how worried I am. Or how much I love Kerry. Or that I’d cut off my right arm, give up my life in a nanosecond, to save her from harm. Nobody can possibly know how I feel right now but me.
Broxmeyer rummaged around on his desk for a pad of paper and a pen. “Your wife’s name?”
“Kerry. K-e-r-r-y. Kerry Wade. She kept her maiden name.”
“Description?”
I gave it to him, in detail. Age: 55, but after her facelift, she could easily pass for ten years younger. Height: 5'4". Weight: 120. Body type: slender, willowy. Hair color: auburn. Hairstyle: medium short, with a kind of underflip on the sides. No visible distinguishing marks.
“What was she wearing?”
“White shorts, light blue blouse, white Reeboks with blue trim. And probably a wide-brimmed straw hat. She wouldn’t go out in the bright sun without it.”
“Okay,” Broxmeyer said when he’d finished writing, “I’ll have Marge put it on the air right away.”
“Thank you.”
“One more thing. Contact phone numbers—the house, your cellular. Your wife’s, too, for the record.”
I recited the cell numbers from memory. “I don’t know the house number. Not even sure the phone’s connected.”
“Cellulars’ll do. I’ll call you, or somebody will, if there’s anything to report. Your wife comes home on her own, let us hear from you right away.”
I said okay.
He worked on his tired eyes some more. “Look,” he said, “this kind of thing happens a fair amount up here in the summer. People wander off into the woods, get themselves lost. Usually, they find their own way
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