The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes Page B

himself instead of me. “Oh, hell. I probably should have had you come to the house instead of trying to squeeze this into the workday, but I didn’t want to upset my wife. She’s feeling very guilty, very depressed. I thought maybe if I handled it here … I don’t know.…”
    I took another sip of my drink. My interrogation technique can be summed up in three words: Let them talk.
    While he talked I watched. He had a trick of fiddling with his glasses, sliding them up and down his nose. His navy suit was expensive, probably custom tailored. He seemed intense, but not worried. I imagine a worried-looking stockbroker would not last long. The glasses gave him a solid, respectable look. Intellectual, but jovial. Good eyes. Long fingers; buffed, manicured nails. Onyx cuff links.
    â€œDo you know why your daughter ran away?” I asked when he seemed to run out of chatter about his job and his wife and how hard this had been on her.
    â€œNo idea,” he said quickly. Then he hesitated, as if the first had been a knee-jerk response and not what the situation required. He said, “I don’t know. Because she wants more attention, I guess. My wife, well, she has health problems. Sometimes, I don’t know, I think she’s almost jealous of the girls. And she’s not strong. She has to rest a lot. I suppose she doesn’t really take good care of any of us. Valerie had to take on a lot of responsibility early.”
    â€œWhen did you see her last?”
    â€œWhat’s today? Thursday? A week ago Tuesday. At night. Watching TV in her room. My wife saw her the next morning.”
    â€œAnd hasn’t seen her since, Mr. Haslam—”
    â€œPres, call me Pres, okay?”
    â€œYour daughter’s been gone for over a week. Why did it take your wife so long to—”
    â€œLook, she thought Valerie was with her friends, okay? Sherri, that’s my little one, said Valerie was staying with a friend at school, and maybe she did for a few days. Maybe she’s just with a different friend now.”
    â€œThen there wasn’t any argument at home, right before she took off?”
    â€œMathilde says there was no argument. She doesn’t argue. And listen, what’s important here is finding Valerie, making sure she doesn’t get hurt out there. Later, when she’s home, we’ll deal with whatever upset her so much. You just find her. All this question-and-answer stuff isn’t going to help—”
    â€œMr. Haslam,” I said very quietly, “if you want somebody to find your daughter and not ask questions, you’d better get yourself a bloodhound and give him a shoe to sniff. Investigators ask questions. I’ve already asked Jerry a few. He doesn’t think Valerie ran away. If she didn’t, then we have to consider other possibilities. Have you called the police?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “I, uh, I’d rather not—”
    â€œYour daughter has been gone over a week—”
    â€œI’d rather not,” he repeated.
    â€œShe’s only fourteen years old, Mr. Haslam—”
    â€œListen,” he said flatly. “This isn’t the first time.” He swallowed hard, avoiding my eyes, slicing his spring roll into tiny bits. “She’s run away before.”
    â€œBut Jerry said—”
    â€œMaybe Jerry doesn’t know that much about Valerie,” he said. “She presents herself in different lights. She’s a good little actress, my Valerie.”
    â€œShe’s run away more than once?”
    â€œTwice before,” he said. “The first time she came home on her own. Mathilde thought she might do it again. So she waited. She hoped. You can understand that.”
    â€œAnd the other time—”
    He pushed a piece of spring roll around his plate. “The police picked her up.”
    â€œIn the Combat Zone?”
    â€œHow did