City of the Sun by David Levien

the house. It hadn’t changed much since they’d moved in. It had been recently painted then, and it was still in good shape. She hadn’t bothered to put geraniums in the window boxes last season. All the same, she hated the place now. Hated it for all that she had once loved about it and for what it now represented — a dream of a happy safe life that had curdled. She knew, though, that she could never move. That Paul never could, either. Not until they got some final word of Jamie’s death.
    “Be interesting to see Behr’s report,” Paul said, breaking into her thoughts.
    “Yeah,” Carol answered, though she did not agree. Reports full of no information were insults to them and their pain, but that’s all they’d gotten from the previous investigators.
    The car fell silent as Paul steered toward Curley’s, where they always met the investigators. He glanced at his wife and his stomach clenched at the turbulent feeling that hit him there. He cracked the window to let in some fresh evening air and release some of the stale stuff inside the car. Each day had become a series of tasks for him. Getting up, going to work, selling policies, eating, paying bills, keeping up conversations with Carol, checking updates on the missing children Web sites, tending to the house. The tasks were small rivets keeping a lid on what roiled inside him. Rage. Indignation. Helplessness. At different times they would seize him by the back of the neck and thrash him about, until he would force himself to take up a new task and lock things back down. Back at the beginning of his marriage and looking forward to forty, fifty years together with Carol, it didn’t seem like enough time. Now the days stretched out ahead of him, a terrifying snakelike monster he couldn’t hope to ride down. No amount of tasks could control it.
    Behr sat at Curley’s, an untouched basket of bread in front of him, having arrived at the restaurant early. The place was white subway-tiled walls with green-shaded lamps hanging low over butcher-block tables. The menu was comfort food, with dessert included. Curley’s was an anomaly these days, as it wasn’t part of a chain. May as well be, Behr thought, looking around impatiently. He’d shot home after leaving Plainfield and ran addresses, phone numbers, and backgrounds on Ted Fords. There were several and he was able to quickly eliminate most of them based on age and physical descriptions. He didn’t find any with records. He had a feeling he wasn’t on to much. He knew well enough not to put stock in what Handley had told him. Jailhouse information was like hitting major-league pitching. Even Hall of Famers only connected one out of three. Still, he would’ve liked to have gone right over to this Golden Lady joint to see if he could find Ford in person. Instead he waited.
    Before long they entered. Quiet and tentative, Paul held the door for his wife and they crossed to him. Behr didn’t stand or shake hands as they sat, and he felt them glance around at the table and the empty banquette next to him, looking for something.
    “Folks,” Behr said before too much time could slide by.
    “Let’s order first, then talk,” Paul said, eliciting a look of pained patience but no protest from Carol. Paul ordered Salisbury steak, Carol chose a Caesar salad. Behr passed altogether.
    “Where’s your report?” Carol asked before the waitress had taken two steps away. Behr showed his empty palms and then pulled out his notebook.
    She was surprised but not disappointed that Behr didn’t have a typed report to ply them with, and felt the same way about him not donning a suit. This guy was either more good money after bad or maybe something better. He was different anyhow, she thought.
    “Did you learn anything?” she wondered.
    “Tibbs. Just as he got there. I believe he was on his route and never finished it, and that it was no accident.” Behr’s words hit them like a thunder-head. The parents didn’t move