after, there'd be more neat houses clustered here, marked by a stylish sign: Saxony Village or Briarwood Manor. Something cute, pretentious, and Anglo. Mo chided himself for his cynicism, then pulled a U-turn back toward the Gilmores' house.
9
M RS. GILMORE WAS A SHORT WOMAN, around forty, with a washed-out look: wispy blond hair in a cloud of curls, a pale face, no lipstick. Her husband was already in the living room when they came in, standing and pretending to read a newspaper, clearly too nervous to sit down. Mr. Gilmore was tall and thin, slighdy hunched, with dark, thinning hair and a look of both weariness and hostility. He shook hands with Mo, a hard, quick grip, his eyes never leaving Mo's face. Mo wondered how much the last two months had changed the way these people looked.
"Please sit here, Mr. Ford," Mrs. Gilmore said, gesturing at an armchair near a fireplace. They had prepared for his visit: Two other chairs were drawn up to make a neat triangle. "Can I get you some coffee?"
Mo hesitated, then assented. If it would help put Mrs. Gilmore at ease, he'd sit there with coffee at his elbow, although he didn't really want to drink any. He wished he'd eaten some lunch.
"You have a fine house here," he said. "This is a very nice area."
"Well, we once thought so," Mr. Gilmore said.
"My family is from Scarsdale. We used to come up here to go fishing. I always liked it up here." Mo felt as if everything he said was the wrong thing, each statement wounding Mr. Gilmore. He was glad when Mrs. Gilmore reappeared with three cups of coffee on a tray, served him, and sat down.
"Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore," Mo said, "let me begin by repeating what I said on the telephone: I'm not here to tell you anything new. I'm here to find out what I can, hopefully to find something that can help us locate Dub. Detective Avery has retired, and I'm taking over this case. If I ask you things he's already asked you, I'm sorry, but please try to answer as completely as you can. Something may come to mind that didn't when Detective Avery spoke to you."
Mrs. Gilmore nodded encouragingly. In Mo's limited experience, parents of kids involved in crimes, either as victims or perpetrators, tended to have one of two attitudes toward police: either angry and accusatory, or apologetic and embarrassed. It looked as if he had one of each in the Gilmores.
"I don't know if Detective Avery made it clear the way we're viewing this situation."
"He told us some other kids from the area had disappeared," Mrs. Gilmore said. "That maybe the disappearances were connected."
"It's suppositional, but yes. So my goal is to talk to you and the other parents—"
"With all due respect to the other families," Mr. Gilmore broke in, "I want to see someone working for our kid. For us. We had one detective, one old rummy, frankly—"
"Dear," Mrs. Gilmore cautioned. She looked to Mo for sympathy.
Her husband was just getting going. "—one old rummy trying to find five or six kids. Now we've got you, a new guy coming in cold, doesn't know a goddamned thing about the case—"
Mrs. Gilmore raised her voice, surprising Mo. "Allen!" She turned to Mo again, almost in tears. Mr. Gilmore subsided, chastened. Mo cleared his throat. "Let me see if I can address your concerns. First of all, yes, I'm new in the area, but I think there's a certain advantage to having a fresh pair of eyes to look at things. Second, there's an advantage to working on related cases as a group. With your son's disappearance alone, we don't have much to go on. But if you add information from the others, you might see a pattern. Third, I'm not really alone on this. We've got an interagency task force with some very sharp people on it, and I assure you, your son's disappearance is high on the agenda."
Mo paused to get his thoughts in order. What he wanted to do was get the Gilmores talking, telling him about their son, without having to overtly steer them. Probably Wild Bill had been trained before the
9
M RS. GILMORE WAS A SHORT WOMAN, around forty, with a washed-out look: wispy blond hair in a cloud of curls, a pale face, no lipstick. Her husband was already in the living room when they came in, standing and pretending to read a newspaper, clearly too nervous to sit down. Mr. Gilmore was tall and thin, slighdy hunched, with dark, thinning hair and a look of both weariness and hostility. He shook hands with Mo, a hard, quick grip, his eyes never leaving Mo's face. Mo wondered how much the last two months had changed the way these people looked.
"Please sit here, Mr. Ford," Mrs. Gilmore said, gesturing at an armchair near a fireplace. They had prepared for his visit: Two other chairs were drawn up to make a neat triangle. "Can I get you some coffee?"
Mo hesitated, then assented. If it would help put Mrs. Gilmore at ease, he'd sit there with coffee at his elbow, although he didn't really want to drink any. He wished he'd eaten some lunch.
"You have a fine house here," he said. "This is a very nice area."
"Well, we once thought so," Mr. Gilmore said.
"My family is from Scarsdale. We used to come up here to go fishing. I always liked it up here." Mo felt as if everything he said was the wrong thing, each statement wounding Mr. Gilmore. He was glad when Mrs. Gilmore reappeared with three cups of coffee on a tray, served him, and sat down.
"Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore," Mo said, "let me begin by repeating what I said on the telephone: I'm not here to tell you anything new. I'm here to find out what I can, hopefully to find something that can help us locate Dub. Detective Avery has retired, and I'm taking over this case. If I ask you things he's already asked you, I'm sorry, but please try to answer as completely as you can. Something may come to mind that didn't when Detective Avery spoke to you."
Mrs. Gilmore nodded encouragingly. In Mo's limited experience, parents of kids involved in crimes, either as victims or perpetrators, tended to have one of two attitudes toward police: either angry and accusatory, or apologetic and embarrassed. It looked as if he had one of each in the Gilmores.
"I don't know if Detective Avery made it clear the way we're viewing this situation."
"He told us some other kids from the area had disappeared," Mrs. Gilmore said. "That maybe the disappearances were connected."
"It's suppositional, but yes. So my goal is to talk to you and the other parents—"
"With all due respect to the other families," Mr. Gilmore broke in, "I want to see someone working for our kid. For us. We had one detective, one old rummy, frankly—"
"Dear," Mrs. Gilmore cautioned. She looked to Mo for sympathy.
Her husband was just getting going. "—one old rummy trying to find five or six kids. Now we've got you, a new guy coming in cold, doesn't know a goddamned thing about the case—"
Mrs. Gilmore raised her voice, surprising Mo. "Allen!" She turned to Mo again, almost in tears. Mr. Gilmore subsided, chastened. Mo cleared his throat. "Let me see if I can address your concerns. First of all, yes, I'm new in the area, but I think there's a certain advantage to having a fresh pair of eyes to look at things. Second, there's an advantage to working on related cases as a group. With your son's disappearance alone, we don't have much to go on. But if you add information from the others, you might see a pattern. Third, I'm not really alone on this. We've got an interagency task force with some very sharp people on it, and I assure you, your son's disappearance is high on the agenda."
Mo paused to get his thoughts in order. What he wanted to do was get the Gilmores talking, telling him about their son, without having to overtly steer them. Probably Wild Bill had been trained before the
Similar Books
