The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes Page A

right a tight-lipped man and his son argued over car insurance.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Haslam said, catching my eye, keeping his voice low. “This seems so—I don’t know—crazy. Going to work, going to lunch, with Valerie missing.” He shook his head and repeated the word. “‘Missing.’ It sounds so stupid, so melodramatic.” He rubbed his forehead with his hands, circling his temples with his fingertips. “I can’t do any good staying home. I know that. This morning I drove around before I went to the office, looking for her. And why would she hang out near my office unless she wants me to find her? And if she wants me to find her, why doesn’t she come home?”
    He had a faint nervous tic on the left side of his jaw. On closer inspection he fit pretty neatly into the “distraught” category. He just put up a better front than most.
    He extended both hands, stared at them like they belonged to somebody else, and folded them on the table. Then he sucked in a couple of deep breaths. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice calmer. “I’m Preston Haslam. That’s how I meant to start.”
    His handshake was firm and cool.
    He leaned closer to me, spoke softly and quickly. “I’m grateful to Jerry for hiring you. But now that I’m back—I mean, Jerry’s a kid. I’d like to join him or replace him or whatever. No conflict of interest. We both want you to find my daughter. I’d just like to, well, take over. His family wouldn’t miss the money or anything, but it’s not right. They shouldn’t be paying for my family. Okay?”
    â€œDid you talk this over with Jerry?”
    â€œYeah. Sure. Can I write you a check or what? Jerry said five hundred for a retainer.” He had his checkbook out on the table. He hunched over it like he was hiding evidence of a drug deal.
    â€œLet’s talk first,” I said to slow him down. I wondered if he always spoke at top speed or if it was another sign of nervousness. “When did you see Jerry?”
    â€œI see him all the time. He’s out in the driveway trying to make his old hulk of a car work. I wave to him in the morning and he’s still there at night.”
    â€œDo you think he could be feeling, uh, guilty about Valerie?”
    His hand hesitated over the checkbook. “Well, if he did, that would make two of us,” he said, glancing up abruptly. Beneath the glasses he had soft brown eyes, long-lashed. “Look, you want a drink? I’m going to have a bourbon and water. I don’t usually, but—” He waved and the waiter flew over, took my order for a screwdriver—orange juice for breakfast, right?—and Haslam’s Jim Beam.
    â€œWhy should Jerry feel guilty?” Haslam asked, picking up where he’d left off. “He’s a terrific kid, like a brother to Valerie.”
    I said, “Why do you feel guilty?”
    He finished writing, ripped the check out, and replaced the folder in his breast pocket. “Because I didn’t know,” he said more slowly. “I’ve been in Chicago the past week, on business.”
    â€œYour wife didn’t mention it?”
    â€œMy wife is not—well, she’s not in good health. I try to avoid traveling, but sometimes I have to go.”
    Our drinks came with the soup. The screwdriver was strong. Haslam drank his bourbon like a thirsty man.
    â€œWhat is it you do?” I asked. I’m always interested in the occupations of people who can write five-hundred-dollar checks without looking worried, and pay tuition at places like the Emerson.
    â€œInvestments,” he said. “Stockbroking, analysis. A little work with the commodities market. That’s why I had to be in Chicago. It’s mostly plodding stuff, but I’m good at it. I can’t let this business at home get to me at work,” he said as if he was trying to convince