body out of sight. It was only when Ms. Torrance was almost at the gate that I stepped into view. She didn't look too pleased to see me, but then I couldn't imagine her looking too pleased to see anyone. Even Jesus would have received a frosty reception from Ms. Torrance.
“My name is Charlie Parker. I'm a private detective. I'd like to see Carter Paragon, please.” Those words were assuming the status of a mantra, with none of the associated calm.
Ms. Torrance's face was so hard it could have mined diamonds. “I've told you before, Mr. Paragon isn't available,” she said.
“Mr. Paragon certainly is elusive,” I replied. “Do you deflate him and put him in a box when he's not needed?”
“I'm afraid I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Parker. Please go away, or I'll call the police. You are harassing Mr. Paragon.”
“No,” I corrected. “I would be harassing Mr. Paragon, if I could find him. Instead, I'm stuck with harassing you, Ms. Torrance. It is Ms. Torrance, isn't it? Are you unhappy, Ms. Torrance? You sure look unhappy. In fact, you look so unhappy that you're starting to make me unhappy.”
Ms. Torrance gave me the evil eye. “Go fuck yourself, Mr. Parker,” she said softly.
I leaned forward confidentially. “You know, God can hear you talk that way.”
Ms. Torrance turned on her heel and walked away. She looked a whole lot better from the back than she did from the front, which wasn't saying much.
I stood there for a time, peering through the bars like an unwanted party guest. Apart from the Explorer there was only one other vehicle in the driveway of the Paragon house, a beat-up blue Honda Civic. It didn't look like the kind of car a man of Carter Paragon's stature would drive, so maybe it was what Ms. Torrance used to get around when she wasn't chauffeuring her charge. I went back to my car, listened to a classical music slot on NPR, and continued reading Rolling Stone. I had just begun to wonder if I was optimistic enough to buy one hundred rubbers for $29.99 when a white Acura pulled up behind me. A big man dressed in a black jacket and blue jeans, with a black silk-knit tie knotted over his white shirt, strode up to my window and knocked on the glass. I rolled down the window, looked at his shield and the name beside his photo, and smiled. The name was familiar from the police report on Grace Peltier. This was Detective John Lutz, the investigating officer on the case, except Lutz was attached to CID III and operated out of Machias, while Waterville was technically in the territory of CID II.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice liked to say.
“Help you, Detective Lutz?” I asked.
“Can you step out of the car, please, sir?” he said, standing back as I opened the door. The thumb of his right hand hung on his belt, while the rest of his fingers pushed his jacket aside, revealing the butt of his .45 caliber H&K as he did so. He was six feet tall and in good condition, his stomach flat beneath his shirt. His eyes were brown and his skin was slightly tanned, his brown hair and brown mustache neatly trimmed. His eyes said he was about mid-forties, maybe older.
“Turn around, put your hands against the car, and spread your legs,” he told me.
I was about to protest when he gave me a sharp push, spinning me around and propelling me against the side of the car. His speed and his strength took me by surprise.
“Take it easy,” I said. “I still owe payments on the car.”
He patted me down, but he didn't find anything of note. I wasn't armed, which I think kind of disappointed him. All he got was my wallet.
“You can turn around now, Mr. Parker,” he said when he had finished. I found him looking at my license, then back at me a couple of times, as if trying to sow enough doubt about its validity to justify hauling me in.
“Why are you loitering outside Mr. Paragon's home, Mr. Parker?” he said. “Why are you harassing his staff?”
He didn't smile. His voice was low and
“My name is Charlie Parker. I'm a private detective. I'd like to see Carter Paragon, please.” Those words were assuming the status of a mantra, with none of the associated calm.
Ms. Torrance's face was so hard it could have mined diamonds. “I've told you before, Mr. Paragon isn't available,” she said.
“Mr. Paragon certainly is elusive,” I replied. “Do you deflate him and put him in a box when he's not needed?”
“I'm afraid I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Parker. Please go away, or I'll call the police. You are harassing Mr. Paragon.”
“No,” I corrected. “I would be harassing Mr. Paragon, if I could find him. Instead, I'm stuck with harassing you, Ms. Torrance. It is Ms. Torrance, isn't it? Are you unhappy, Ms. Torrance? You sure look unhappy. In fact, you look so unhappy that you're starting to make me unhappy.”
Ms. Torrance gave me the evil eye. “Go fuck yourself, Mr. Parker,” she said softly.
I leaned forward confidentially. “You know, God can hear you talk that way.”
Ms. Torrance turned on her heel and walked away. She looked a whole lot better from the back than she did from the front, which wasn't saying much.
I stood there for a time, peering through the bars like an unwanted party guest. Apart from the Explorer there was only one other vehicle in the driveway of the Paragon house, a beat-up blue Honda Civic. It didn't look like the kind of car a man of Carter Paragon's stature would drive, so maybe it was what Ms. Torrance used to get around when she wasn't chauffeuring her charge. I went back to my car, listened to a classical music slot on NPR, and continued reading Rolling Stone. I had just begun to wonder if I was optimistic enough to buy one hundred rubbers for $29.99 when a white Acura pulled up behind me. A big man dressed in a black jacket and blue jeans, with a black silk-knit tie knotted over his white shirt, strode up to my window and knocked on the glass. I rolled down the window, looked at his shield and the name beside his photo, and smiled. The name was familiar from the police report on Grace Peltier. This was Detective John Lutz, the investigating officer on the case, except Lutz was attached to CID III and operated out of Machias, while Waterville was technically in the territory of CID II.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice liked to say.
“Help you, Detective Lutz?” I asked.
“Can you step out of the car, please, sir?” he said, standing back as I opened the door. The thumb of his right hand hung on his belt, while the rest of his fingers pushed his jacket aside, revealing the butt of his .45 caliber H&K as he did so. He was six feet tall and in good condition, his stomach flat beneath his shirt. His eyes were brown and his skin was slightly tanned, his brown hair and brown mustache neatly trimmed. His eyes said he was about mid-forties, maybe older.
“Turn around, put your hands against the car, and spread your legs,” he told me.
I was about to protest when he gave me a sharp push, spinning me around and propelling me against the side of the car. His speed and his strength took me by surprise.
“Take it easy,” I said. “I still owe payments on the car.”
He patted me down, but he didn't find anything of note. I wasn't armed, which I think kind of disappointed him. All he got was my wallet.
“You can turn around now, Mr. Parker,” he said when he had finished. I found him looking at my license, then back at me a couple of times, as if trying to sow enough doubt about its validity to justify hauling me in.
“Why are you loitering outside Mr. Paragon's home, Mr. Parker?” he said. “Why are you harassing his staff?”
He didn't smile. His voice was low and
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