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Authors: Reed Farrel Coleman
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little better now.”
I was a big football fan and this was all very fascinating, but I didn’t drag my ass up here to get Jimmy Palumbo’s autograph or to discuss his past domestic woes. He did seem like a nice enough guy, though, and I thought he’d be fun to have a beer with.
“You ever work any private security?” I asked.
“Used to, not so much no more. Why you wanna know?”
“While I’m in with Rusk, write your contact info down on a piece of paper for me. I have some connections and maybe I can get you some outside work.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“Okay, you can call Rusk now. Which way to his office?”
“Walk through the galleries and take the elevator down to the lower level, turn left and you’ll see his office door.”
As I walked across the stark, hardwood floor, Palumbo spoke my name in hushed tones. Made me smile to hear it. It had been thirty years since someone called me Officer Prager. I’d worry about how to explain away my lie when I got to Rusk’s office. For the moment, I was busy admiring the views through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that let ambient natural light flood into the gallery space. The views were nearly as impressive as the Lichtenstein and the Warhol, the Wesselmann and the Rauschenberg I passed on my way to the elevator.
Rusk met me at the elevator door and looked pretty much how I expected him to look. He was small, in his early sixties with delicate features and a ring of neatly groomed gray hair around a bald pate. He wore a blue camel hair blazer—gold buttons et al—with a gold and red family crest embroidered on the pocket. There was a red silk hanky in the pocket that matched his French-cuffed shirt. His tie was a perfectly knotted and textured piece of gold silk. His teeth were white and straight, of course, and the crimson-framed glasses he wore over his blue eyes cost more than the Honda in the parking lot. I couldn’t tell you the cost of the antique Patek Philipe watch he stared at impatiently as he waited to see who would get things going. I guess he got tired of showing me his watch.
“What can I do for you, Officer Prager?”
“This visit isn’t official,” I said, trying to sidestep the lie I’d told upstairs.
He furrowed his brow. “Then I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Sashi Bluntstone.”
“Oh, dear. Has there been some awful news?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Nothing in particular. It is simply that the child has been missing for some time now and I could think of no other reason for a police official to come to me.”
“That’s reasonable,” I said. “Again, Mr. Rusk, my visit isn’t official. I’ve been hired by the Bluntstone family to investigate their daughter’s disappearance, to make sure the police are doing all they can.”
“Investigate? Why on earth would you come see me? You couldn’t possibly think I had anything to do with her disappearance.”
“Well, you are one of Sashi’s most vociferous critics.”
“Vociferous... my, my, no dumb cops on this beat, eh?”
“I also know how to tie my own shoes and everything.”
“Please, Officer Prager, I’ve been rude. Come into my office and let us discuss this.”
Rusk’s office was startling. The back wall was a huge pane of glass not unlike those on the gallery levels upstairs and it looked out onto the Sound and the southern shore of western Connecticut. The furnishings themselves were all very austere, almost industrial, and there was not a stitch of art on the walls or anywhere else in the office. Rusk gestured at a metal chair in front of his desk and when I sat in it, he retreated around the desk and sat in a metal mesh desk chair.
“As you were saying...”
“No, I don’t think you had anything to do with Sashi’s disappearance. If the cops did, they would have been here already.”
“Forgive me, Officer Prager, but I now find myself even more confused by your presence here.”
“First, Mr. Rusk, please call me
I was a big football fan and this was all very fascinating, but I didn’t drag my ass up here to get Jimmy Palumbo’s autograph or to discuss his past domestic woes. He did seem like a nice enough guy, though, and I thought he’d be fun to have a beer with.
“You ever work any private security?” I asked.
“Used to, not so much no more. Why you wanna know?”
“While I’m in with Rusk, write your contact info down on a piece of paper for me. I have some connections and maybe I can get you some outside work.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
“Okay, you can call Rusk now. Which way to his office?”
“Walk through the galleries and take the elevator down to the lower level, turn left and you’ll see his office door.”
As I walked across the stark, hardwood floor, Palumbo spoke my name in hushed tones. Made me smile to hear it. It had been thirty years since someone called me Officer Prager. I’d worry about how to explain away my lie when I got to Rusk’s office. For the moment, I was busy admiring the views through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that let ambient natural light flood into the gallery space. The views were nearly as impressive as the Lichtenstein and the Warhol, the Wesselmann and the Rauschenberg I passed on my way to the elevator.
Rusk met me at the elevator door and looked pretty much how I expected him to look. He was small, in his early sixties with delicate features and a ring of neatly groomed gray hair around a bald pate. He wore a blue camel hair blazer—gold buttons et al—with a gold and red family crest embroidered on the pocket. There was a red silk hanky in the pocket that matched his French-cuffed shirt. His tie was a perfectly knotted and textured piece of gold silk. His teeth were white and straight, of course, and the crimson-framed glasses he wore over his blue eyes cost more than the Honda in the parking lot. I couldn’t tell you the cost of the antique Patek Philipe watch he stared at impatiently as he waited to see who would get things going. I guess he got tired of showing me his watch.
“What can I do for you, Officer Prager?”
“This visit isn’t official,” I said, trying to sidestep the lie I’d told upstairs.
He furrowed his brow. “Then I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Sashi Bluntstone.”
“Oh, dear. Has there been some awful news?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Nothing in particular. It is simply that the child has been missing for some time now and I could think of no other reason for a police official to come to me.”
“That’s reasonable,” I said. “Again, Mr. Rusk, my visit isn’t official. I’ve been hired by the Bluntstone family to investigate their daughter’s disappearance, to make sure the police are doing all they can.”
“Investigate? Why on earth would you come see me? You couldn’t possibly think I had anything to do with her disappearance.”
“Well, you are one of Sashi’s most vociferous critics.”
“Vociferous... my, my, no dumb cops on this beat, eh?”
“I also know how to tie my own shoes and everything.”
“Please, Officer Prager, I’ve been rude. Come into my office and let us discuss this.”
Rusk’s office was startling. The back wall was a huge pane of glass not unlike those on the gallery levels upstairs and it looked out onto the Sound and the southern shore of western Connecticut. The furnishings themselves were all very austere, almost industrial, and there was not a stitch of art on the walls or anywhere else in the office. Rusk gestured at a metal chair in front of his desk and when I sat in it, he retreated around the desk and sat in a metal mesh desk chair.
“As you were saying...”
“No, I don’t think you had anything to do with Sashi’s disappearance. If the cops did, they would have been here already.”
“Forgive me, Officer Prager, but I now find myself even more confused by your presence here.”
“First, Mr. Rusk, please call me
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