Cold Case Read Free

no ugly stain on cash that must surely have come from the drug trade. It could be what I’d named it for the IRS’s benefit: track winnings. Simple luck, passed on with love from Big Sister to little sister. College. Travel. An apartment of her own when she turned eighteen …
    Except it would all be a lie without Carlos Roldan Gonzales’s name attached.
    Lies don’t usually bother me much, but I try not to lie to Paolina. She means too much to me. And lies have a sneaky way of tiptoeing back to haunt you.
    I glanced at my watch and doubled my pace, vaulting a fence, cutting diagonally through my backyard.
    I wondered if the guy had really been DEA or just a casual drugstore holdup man. The cops would go a hell of a lot tougher on him if he were DEA. I know; I used to be a cop. They hate federal poachers.
    Safely in my kitchen, I downed an icy Pepsi straight from the can, standing in front of the open refrigerator to bring my temperature down from boil. I stuck my hair in a stretchy cloth band, bobby-pinning it haphazardly to the top of my head. I was dabbing my sweaty neck with a wadded paper towel when the doorbell rang.
    A prompt sleazy lawyer followed by a prompt potential client. What more could a private investigator want?

2
    As I marched toward the front door, I wondered what lies Vandenburg, the sleaze, had slipped by me, what half-truths he’d told.
    What lies would this client try?
    With a touch—hell, a wallop—of vanity, I consider myself an expert in the field of lies, a collector, if you will. I’ve seen liars as fresh and obvious as newborn babes; a quick twitch of the eye, a sudden glance at the floor immediately giving the game away. I’ve interviewed practiced, skilled liars, blessed with the impeccable timing of ace stand-up comics. I don’t know why I recognize lies. Somebody will be shooting his mouth, and I’ll feel or hear a change of tone, a shift of pace. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe I got so used to lies when I was a cop that I suspect everyone.
    I’d rather trust people. Given the choice.
    My potential client beamed a hundred-watt smile when I opened the door, bounding into the foyer like an overgrown puppy. Even if he’d been a much younger man I’d have found his enthusiasm strange, since the number of people pleased to visit a private investigator is noticeably fewer than the number eagerly anticipating gum surgery.
    He’d seemed both agitated and exhilarated on the phone that afternoon, otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to a Sunday evening appointment. He’d mentioned a missing person, given his name with no hint of reluctance. I’d checked with the Boston police; there was no 3501, i.e., missing person file, currently devoted to anyone sharing a last name with Mr. Adam Mayhew. Which left a ton of possibilities. The person in question could have been reported as a 2633, the current code for a runaway child. Could have had a different last name. Hadn’t been absent the required twenty-four hours. The missing individual might be considered a voluntary—a walkaway or runaway adult.
    Possibly my client-to-be knew exactly where the missing person could be found. Quick case; low fee.
    Which would be too bad, because the sixtyish gentleman currently shifting his weight from one foot to the other as though testing my wooden floorboards looked like he could donate megabucks to the worthy cause of my upkeep and not miss a single dollar. His shoes were Bally or a damned good imitation, slip-on tassle loafers with neither a too-new nor a too-used sheen. Well-maintained classics, indicating a man with more than one pair of shoes to his wardrobe. A man with quietly expensive taste and access to a good dry cleaning establishment. A formal soul, rigged out in full business attire on a shirtsleeves, sweat-hot evening.
    No wedding band. Inconclusive. A class ring, the Harvard Veritas , common enough around here, worn with casual