Cold Case Read Free Page B

the paintings of a Grandma Moses. We glorify poets and authors who begin careers in their fifties, or later. I wonder if it’s endemic to the beast,” he continued softly, almost as though he were speaking to himself, “a way in which humans maintain belief in their own potential: Someday I’ll write a brilliant novel, paint a great picture … A way to keep the essential meaninglessness at bay.”
    â€œWe seem to have wandered a bit from Thea Janis,” I said.
    â€œExcuse me. Please.”
    The thought washed over me like a wave of ice water.
    â€œShe’s not the missing person you talked about on the phone, is she?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” he said. “Of course it’s Thea.”
    â€œBut she’s been missing for—”
    â€œTwenty-four years,” he said.
    â€œTwenty-four years!” I echoed.
    â€œYes,” he said, quite calmly. Twenty-four years , as if it were the same as twenty-four hours.

3
    Twenty-four years …
    Guess I could have given myself an extra ten minutes, circled the block to make sure no DEA agent was tailing me, taken evasive action if necessary. Stopped at another drugstore and bought some Extra-Strength Tylenol for the headache gripping the base of my skull.
    I sucked air, blew it out in a sigh.
    â€œTwenty-four years,” I repeated, tempted to add a pungent curse, the way I would have when I was a cop. A mere glance at the silver-haired man with his grave expression and hopeful eyes kept my language pure.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œSo why the rush?” I asked quietly, leaning my elbows on the desk, my chin on clasped and ringless hands. “Why the eager-beaver phone call, the immediate appointment?”
    â€œThea Janis is back,” the man said vehemently, stepping on the tail of my question.
    â€œAnd you’ve seen her,” I said matter-of-factly.
    I could feel my eyebrows creeping up my forehead, registering disbelief. I tried to force them down. I was totally prepared for a positive response. Everybody looks like somebody. He’d spotted Thea’s double, her sister, her distant cousin, waiting at a bus stop. He’d squealed his brakes a moment too late; his vision had taken wing.
    â€œI have not seen her.”
    The man had a way of surprising me.
    Memories of Thea Janis, of her disappearance—wait just a minute, her death —floated through my mind like half-forgotten song lyrics. I was pretty certain there was more to this business than a runaway teen genius.
    Death.
    â€œWasn’t it suicide?” I asked harshly, because I was hot and sweaty from my quick march home, because I was growing more irritated by the second. Finding the dead is not my forte. They tend not to reappear, even after twenty-four years. Unless we’re talking Elvis. “Didn’t someone find her clothes on a beach?”
    â€œThere may have been clothing on some beach,” he said angrily, “but no one ever proved it was Thea’s, not absolutely. Not to my satisfaction.” He slid his rump to the edge of his chair, assuming a defensive posture.
    I smiled and made nice, kept my voice low. “You haven’t seen her in over twenty years. Right? So what makes you think I can find her?” I asked gently. “Now? After a lifetime?”
    â€œLook for yourself.” He opened the caramel briefcase, shuffled papers, extracted a manila envelope, and placed it on my desk, carefully aligning it with the edge of the blotter. I’ve seen priests handle the Host with less reverence.
    â€œTell me about it,” I said, keeping my hands tightly folded. Some lessons, once learned, become automatic: Don’t touch anything that might retain fingerprints.
    â€œDo you have a copy of Nightmare’s Dawn?”
    Thea’s book. Thank God he’d named it, or I’d have been up all night obsessing about the title. Haunting images. Prose blended with poetry. A brilliant