she had a brother in the business. When'd they call you in?"
"They didn't."
"You're here."
"Gary was arrested last night in New York. That was the first I heard he'd run away."
"Arrested for what?"
"He picked a guy's pocket, but they dropped it. They released him to me. He ran again."
"Oh, shit."
"Right."
Sullivan's mouth twisted sympathetically. "Well, at least you can tell them he was okay last night. Bet you're in the doghouse, though."
I took out another cigarette, lit it in answer. I shook out the match, said, "How come you guys are involved? No offense, but most police departments don't put a lot of effort into teenage runaways."
"Your brother-in-law is from here. Played football with my chief. Called him the first day after the kid didn't come home."
"Old buddies, huh?"
Sullivan just looked at me.
"Hey, Sullivan," Burke called from behind some shrubs. "Back door's open."
"Go on in," Sullivan said.
"Detective," I said, and Sullivan looked at me, "if Tory Wesley was home alone and this was a party that got out of hand, where's she now?"
He eyed me. "Haven't seen her around town, it's true. You're thinking she ran away, too?"
"If it was my fault something like this happened to my folks' house, I'd run away."
"I might do the same," Sullivan agreed. "She tight with Gary Russell?"
We rounded the well-pruned plantings, followed Burke inside.
"I don't know. My sister thinks they saw each other for a while over the summer. I also talked to a kid named Morgan Reed."
Sullivan snorted. "Little bastard," he said. "Punk-in-training, Morgan Reed."
"Who does he train with?"
"Upperclassmen. Seniors and juniors. We got some doozies here, Smith. This is a quiet week, seniors are at Hamlin's."
"They're football players? All your doozies?"
"This town, you can do whatever the hell you want all week, long as you win on Friday night. Morgan says Tory Wesley and Gary Russell are an item?"
"Were. He says it's long over."
"Long over? Russell kid's only been in town a couple of months."
"Morgan said he only was interested in her before he knew kids who were cooler."
"Yeah," Sullivan said, stepping over the remains of a kitchen chair. "I guess that would be this crowd."
We all stood for a moment, looked around. "Shit," Burke said. "Stinks in here."
It did. The gas wasn't on, but beer, chips, and pizza had had days to meld with the ashes of cigarettes and joints and bake in the angled autumn sunlight. Flies buzzed and darted in the rancid air with the energy of an unexpected reprieve.
Sullivan took a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket. I gave him my cigarette to light off of. He offered his pack to Burke.
"I don't smoke," Burke said.
"Helps with the smell," said Sullivan; still Burke shook his head.
"Wonder where the parents are," Sullivan said.
I said, "Neighbors might know."
"Neighbors. Tell you something: less classy neighborhood than this, houses closer together, neighbors would have heard the party. Somebody'd have called us before things got this bad."
Things were pretty bad. Graceful dining room chairs lay crippled, broken, around a mahogany table with deep gouges in its shining polish. China shards sprinkled a corner of the dining room as though there'd been a dish-hurling contest. In one spot in the living room the pearl-gray carpet was still squishy underfoot; there must have been a lake of beer spilled there. Unexpectedly, a cat appeared at the top of the stairs and meowed. With clear distaste, it tiptoed down through the broken glass to join us, rubbed against Sullivan's leg. Sullivan bent down, scratched its head. "When's the last time anyone fed you, huh?"
"You want me to take a look around upstairs?" Burke asked.
"Might as well."
Burke's face said that was the wrong answer, but he went to do his duty. Sullivan headed back to the kitchen. He found the cat's plastic water dish under the radiator, filled it, pulled a can of food from a cabinet. When he ran the electric can opener the cat spun
"They didn't."
"You're here."
"Gary was arrested last night in New York. That was the first I heard he'd run away."
"Arrested for what?"
"He picked a guy's pocket, but they dropped it. They released him to me. He ran again."
"Oh, shit."
"Right."
Sullivan's mouth twisted sympathetically. "Well, at least you can tell them he was okay last night. Bet you're in the doghouse, though."
I took out another cigarette, lit it in answer. I shook out the match, said, "How come you guys are involved? No offense, but most police departments don't put a lot of effort into teenage runaways."
"Your brother-in-law is from here. Played football with my chief. Called him the first day after the kid didn't come home."
"Old buddies, huh?"
Sullivan just looked at me.
"Hey, Sullivan," Burke called from behind some shrubs. "Back door's open."
"Go on in," Sullivan said.
"Detective," I said, and Sullivan looked at me, "if Tory Wesley was home alone and this was a party that got out of hand, where's she now?"
He eyed me. "Haven't seen her around town, it's true. You're thinking she ran away, too?"
"If it was my fault something like this happened to my folks' house, I'd run away."
"I might do the same," Sullivan agreed. "She tight with Gary Russell?"
We rounded the well-pruned plantings, followed Burke inside.
"I don't know. My sister thinks they saw each other for a while over the summer. I also talked to a kid named Morgan Reed."
Sullivan snorted. "Little bastard," he said. "Punk-in-training, Morgan Reed."
"Who does he train with?"
"Upperclassmen. Seniors and juniors. We got some doozies here, Smith. This is a quiet week, seniors are at Hamlin's."
"They're football players? All your doozies?"
"This town, you can do whatever the hell you want all week, long as you win on Friday night. Morgan says Tory Wesley and Gary Russell are an item?"
"Were. He says it's long over."
"Long over? Russell kid's only been in town a couple of months."
"Morgan said he only was interested in her before he knew kids who were cooler."
"Yeah," Sullivan said, stepping over the remains of a kitchen chair. "I guess that would be this crowd."
We all stood for a moment, looked around. "Shit," Burke said. "Stinks in here."
It did. The gas wasn't on, but beer, chips, and pizza had had days to meld with the ashes of cigarettes and joints and bake in the angled autumn sunlight. Flies buzzed and darted in the rancid air with the energy of an unexpected reprieve.
Sullivan took a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket. I gave him my cigarette to light off of. He offered his pack to Burke.
"I don't smoke," Burke said.
"Helps with the smell," said Sullivan; still Burke shook his head.
"Wonder where the parents are," Sullivan said.
I said, "Neighbors might know."
"Neighbors. Tell you something: less classy neighborhood than this, houses closer together, neighbors would have heard the party. Somebody'd have called us before things got this bad."
Things were pretty bad. Graceful dining room chairs lay crippled, broken, around a mahogany table with deep gouges in its shining polish. China shards sprinkled a corner of the dining room as though there'd been a dish-hurling contest. In one spot in the living room the pearl-gray carpet was still squishy underfoot; there must have been a lake of beer spilled there. Unexpectedly, a cat appeared at the top of the stairs and meowed. With clear distaste, it tiptoed down through the broken glass to join us, rubbed against Sullivan's leg. Sullivan bent down, scratched its head. "When's the last time anyone fed you, huh?"
"You want me to take a look around upstairs?" Burke asked.
"Might as well."
Burke's face said that was the wrong answer, but he went to do his duty. Sullivan headed back to the kitchen. He found the cat's plastic water dish under the radiator, filled it, pulled a can of food from a cabinet. When he ran the electric can opener the cat spun
Similar Books
