the car, continued on home eating his pizza with one hand, steering with the other—and put his car into a tree. It was theoretically possible.
Darin Kagin’s silent chattering face flickered on CNN at the edge of his vision. The TV had been left on, the sound muted. Broker reached over and tapped the remote button. The TV zapped off with an electronic sizzle.
He looked around one more time. No Harry.
He picked up Harry’s phone and dialed Anne Mortenson’s number from Mouse’s instruction sheet. No answer. Then he tried the public library number and was transferred to the reference desk.
“Anne Mortenson?”
“Yes?”
“This is Phil Broker with the Washington County Sheriff’s Department. I’m looking for Harry Cantrell. Can you help me?”
There was silence on the line for a beat, two. “Yes, he called this morning and asked to borrow my car.” Her voice was level and direct.
“And?”
“Pardon me?” Anne said.
“Did he borrow your car?” Broker said.
“Yes. His broke down. So I drove over and picked him up. He dropped me off at home; it’s only a few blocks to work.”
“Did you happen to see his car?”
“Ah, no. He met me at the end of his drive by the mailbox.” For the first time there was a slight waver in her steady voice. Concern, like a dropped stitch. “Is this official or personal?”
“Welll . . .” Broker drew the word out.
Anne’s voice regained its strength. “It’s official, I imagine. Harry is under a cloud. It’s about his drinking.”
“Okay, you’re right. I need to find him.”
Anne cleared her throat. “When he’s been drinking, I usually don’t encourage that behavior in any way. But on Wednesday mornings Harry visits his mother in the Linden Hills nursing home. I made an exception for that.”
Broker hid his dismay. Initially, she had sounded smarter than that. “Linden Hills near downtown, on Green Street.”
“That’s it. He brings her flowers. She doesn’t recognize him anymore, but she recognizes roses. That’s Alzheimer’s for you. He left here over an hour ago. If you hurry, you might be able to catch him.”
Broker pulled a pen from his chest pocket, poised to write on Mouse’s instruction sheet. “I need a description of your car.”
“Yes, it’s a new Subaru Forester, red, mono color, no cladding.The S model.” Anne gave him the plate number. As he wrote it down, she thought out loud, “Do you think maybe I made a mistake?”
Broker didn’t want to give her a straight answer. “The sooner I find him, the better,” he said. Then, after a quick thank you, he hung up and dashed for his truck.
Leaning forward in his seat, he pushed the Ranger over the speed limit, ran stop signs, and passed on the shoulder. Broker came into town hot and swung into the nursing home lot. He scanned the aisles of cars. No red Forester. He went inside, stopped at the reception desk, and inquired.
A nurse walked him down a hall into a private room. An elderly woman sat up behind a tray that was positioned across the bed. She was very involved in staring at a bouquet of roses.
“Every Wednesday morning Harry brings her flowers,” the nurse said.
“How long ago did he leave?” Broker asked.
The nurse led Broker back into the hall and chatted with another nurse. She turned to Broker. “He was in and out, just making a delivery. So it was quite a while ago.”
Back in the parking lot, Broker raised his eyes to the canopy of elms and cottonwoods where millions of leaves hung absolutely still, pressing down. His body suddenly crossed a threshold, and his sweat came all at once. Mopping his wrist across his brow, he stared across the hills, at the gingerbread facades on the houses, the quaint steeples, the river, the bridge.
Missed him.
Chapter Eight
Broker hated offices, so he moved fast through Washington County Investigations—a grid of gray cubicles with six-foot privacy walls that housed General Investigations, Fraud, and Narcotics.
Darin Kagin’s silent chattering face flickered on CNN at the edge of his vision. The TV had been left on, the sound muted. Broker reached over and tapped the remote button. The TV zapped off with an electronic sizzle.
He looked around one more time. No Harry.
He picked up Harry’s phone and dialed Anne Mortenson’s number from Mouse’s instruction sheet. No answer. Then he tried the public library number and was transferred to the reference desk.
“Anne Mortenson?”
“Yes?”
“This is Phil Broker with the Washington County Sheriff’s Department. I’m looking for Harry Cantrell. Can you help me?”
There was silence on the line for a beat, two. “Yes, he called this morning and asked to borrow my car.” Her voice was level and direct.
“And?”
“Pardon me?” Anne said.
“Did he borrow your car?” Broker said.
“Yes. His broke down. So I drove over and picked him up. He dropped me off at home; it’s only a few blocks to work.”
“Did you happen to see his car?”
“Ah, no. He met me at the end of his drive by the mailbox.” For the first time there was a slight waver in her steady voice. Concern, like a dropped stitch. “Is this official or personal?”
“Welll . . .” Broker drew the word out.
Anne’s voice regained its strength. “It’s official, I imagine. Harry is under a cloud. It’s about his drinking.”
“Okay, you’re right. I need to find him.”
Anne cleared her throat. “When he’s been drinking, I usually don’t encourage that behavior in any way. But on Wednesday mornings Harry visits his mother in the Linden Hills nursing home. I made an exception for that.”
Broker hid his dismay. Initially, she had sounded smarter than that. “Linden Hills near downtown, on Green Street.”
“That’s it. He brings her flowers. She doesn’t recognize him anymore, but she recognizes roses. That’s Alzheimer’s for you. He left here over an hour ago. If you hurry, you might be able to catch him.”
Broker pulled a pen from his chest pocket, poised to write on Mouse’s instruction sheet. “I need a description of your car.”
“Yes, it’s a new Subaru Forester, red, mono color, no cladding.The S model.” Anne gave him the plate number. As he wrote it down, she thought out loud, “Do you think maybe I made a mistake?”
Broker didn’t want to give her a straight answer. “The sooner I find him, the better,” he said. Then, after a quick thank you, he hung up and dashed for his truck.
Leaning forward in his seat, he pushed the Ranger over the speed limit, ran stop signs, and passed on the shoulder. Broker came into town hot and swung into the nursing home lot. He scanned the aisles of cars. No red Forester. He went inside, stopped at the reception desk, and inquired.
A nurse walked him down a hall into a private room. An elderly woman sat up behind a tray that was positioned across the bed. She was very involved in staring at a bouquet of roses.
“Every Wednesday morning Harry brings her flowers,” the nurse said.
“How long ago did he leave?” Broker asked.
The nurse led Broker back into the hall and chatted with another nurse. She turned to Broker. “He was in and out, just making a delivery. So it was quite a while ago.”
Back in the parking lot, Broker raised his eyes to the canopy of elms and cottonwoods where millions of leaves hung absolutely still, pressing down. His body suddenly crossed a threshold, and his sweat came all at once. Mopping his wrist across his brow, he stared across the hills, at the gingerbread facades on the houses, the quaint steeples, the river, the bridge.
Missed him.
Chapter Eight
Broker hated offices, so he moved fast through Washington County Investigations—a grid of gray cubicles with six-foot privacy walls that housed General Investigations, Fraud, and Narcotics.
Similar Books
