boss about something. I don’t think it’ll take too long. I’ll pick you up at your place in about an hour.”
“Don’t eat,” she said. “Let’s have dinner. I’ll let you bullshit me all you want.”
English had been surprised to find himself in possession, after a single afternoon on the case, of Jerry Twinbrook’s mail—a letter, a bill, and a bank statement. As an interrogator he’d fallen short, getting nothing in the way of names and numbers. Mrs. Twinbrook had wanted to talk only about paintings, mentioning important figures and styles and periods as if they were things he found in the papers every day. She’d seemed as anxious to locate her son in the history of art as she was to find him in time and space. “Maybe I should go back and talk with the father,” English suggested to Ray Sands. “The father seemed a little more down-to-earth.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sands said. “It’s typical. There’s never any information from the people who suddenly can’t find a family member. Nothing in the way of hard facts, in any event. If they don’t have documents, they don’t have anything.” He laid his head back against his stack of pillows. He was dressed in pajamas now, he was pale, there were medicines on the nightstand and a flat dark outside the bedroom windows, in which hovered the reflection of his bedside lamp. “Families communicate a lot less than they think they do,” he said.
English stood nervously in the room, went over and closed the curtains without asking. “This one’s from an art gallery,” he said, handing Sands the envelopes one at a time. “Here’s a bill from Blue Cross. And this looks like a bank statement.”
“That’s the one that tells the tale.” Sands opened the bank statement first.
English crossed his hands behind his back and waited, curious to find out how much Jerry Twinbrook made and how much he spent.
But Sands wasn’t interested in those numbers. “New England Telephone,” he read as he lifted one of Twinbrook’s checks up to the light. “Take it.” He flipped through others. “A tavern; a tavern”—he held each check close to his face—“same tavern, Walker’s Inn; Hammond Office Supply.” He turned this last check over. “That’s in Marshfield. So are these taverns,” he said, consulting the backs of those checks.
English looked at the payment to the phone people: seventy-two dollars. “Where’s Marshfield?”
“It’s between Boston and the Cape, on the Bay.” Sands flipped through more checks. “Phil-Hack Realty, also in Marshfield. This man’s bank and his house are in Orleans, but his life seems to take place in Marshfield.” He turned the check over again. “Dated January 3.” He handed it to English. “Now, nothing is certain, but if you told me you guessed that to be some sort of monthly payment, I’d have to agree.”
English was lost. “Monthly payment for what?”
“For real estate, young man. A house, a piece of land. Possibly an apartment, if this agency handles rentals.”
“But he lives in Orleans. I stopped in and talked to the neighbors. They know him. He comes and goes. That’s where he gets his mail.”
“Perhaps he’s moved.” Sands looked amused.
“Now what?” English said.
“Do as much as you can over the telephone. Call these taverns, call Phil-Hack Realty, see what they have to say about Gerald Twinbrook. You can call the taverns tonight. They’ll be open. Use the phone in my office. Make a note of the calls. If you get no help, try the two art galleries.”
“What do I say?”
“Identify yourself and tell them you’re a detective—not a private detective, a detective. Don’t identify your client. Just say you’re trying to reach Gerald Twinbrook, Jr., on a routine matter. Give them a description if the name isn’t familiar. Did you get a description?”
“His mother says he looks like the people in his paintings and he has brown hair.”
“And what do
“Don’t eat,” she said. “Let’s have dinner. I’ll let you bullshit me all you want.”
English had been surprised to find himself in possession, after a single afternoon on the case, of Jerry Twinbrook’s mail—a letter, a bill, and a bank statement. As an interrogator he’d fallen short, getting nothing in the way of names and numbers. Mrs. Twinbrook had wanted to talk only about paintings, mentioning important figures and styles and periods as if they were things he found in the papers every day. She’d seemed as anxious to locate her son in the history of art as she was to find him in time and space. “Maybe I should go back and talk with the father,” English suggested to Ray Sands. “The father seemed a little more down-to-earth.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sands said. “It’s typical. There’s never any information from the people who suddenly can’t find a family member. Nothing in the way of hard facts, in any event. If they don’t have documents, they don’t have anything.” He laid his head back against his stack of pillows. He was dressed in pajamas now, he was pale, there were medicines on the nightstand and a flat dark outside the bedroom windows, in which hovered the reflection of his bedside lamp. “Families communicate a lot less than they think they do,” he said.
English stood nervously in the room, went over and closed the curtains without asking. “This one’s from an art gallery,” he said, handing Sands the envelopes one at a time. “Here’s a bill from Blue Cross. And this looks like a bank statement.”
“That’s the one that tells the tale.” Sands opened the bank statement first.
English crossed his hands behind his back and waited, curious to find out how much Jerry Twinbrook made and how much he spent.
But Sands wasn’t interested in those numbers. “New England Telephone,” he read as he lifted one of Twinbrook’s checks up to the light. “Take it.” He flipped through others. “A tavern; a tavern”—he held each check close to his face—“same tavern, Walker’s Inn; Hammond Office Supply.” He turned this last check over. “That’s in Marshfield. So are these taverns,” he said, consulting the backs of those checks.
English looked at the payment to the phone people: seventy-two dollars. “Where’s Marshfield?”
“It’s between Boston and the Cape, on the Bay.” Sands flipped through more checks. “Phil-Hack Realty, also in Marshfield. This man’s bank and his house are in Orleans, but his life seems to take place in Marshfield.” He turned the check over again. “Dated January 3.” He handed it to English. “Now, nothing is certain, but if you told me you guessed that to be some sort of monthly payment, I’d have to agree.”
English was lost. “Monthly payment for what?”
“For real estate, young man. A house, a piece of land. Possibly an apartment, if this agency handles rentals.”
“But he lives in Orleans. I stopped in and talked to the neighbors. They know him. He comes and goes. That’s where he gets his mail.”
“Perhaps he’s moved.” Sands looked amused.
“Now what?” English said.
“Do as much as you can over the telephone. Call these taverns, call Phil-Hack Realty, see what they have to say about Gerald Twinbrook. You can call the taverns tonight. They’ll be open. Use the phone in my office. Make a note of the calls. If you get no help, try the two art galleries.”
“What do I say?”
“Identify yourself and tell them you’re a detective—not a private detective, a detective. Don’t identify your client. Just say you’re trying to reach Gerald Twinbrook, Jr., on a routine matter. Give them a description if the name isn’t familiar. Did you get a description?”
“His mother says he looks like the people in his paintings and he has brown hair.”
“And what do
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