Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) Read Free Page A

around Abby’s house and playing with the kids sometimes, but the thought of meeting Juliet’s mom gave me an acid burn just below my heart. I’ve never been very good at meeting mothers.
    “Actually,” I said, “I need to work on some research for—”
    “This is my
mother
we’re talking about, Nicholas. No excuses, dude. You’re coming. Don’t worry, she’s very nice. She doesn’t know much English yet, so you won’t even have to talk to her a lot. Please say you’ll come. For me?”
    “All right. I’ll come.” The things we do for love. Maybe Freud had it right. Perhaps all motivation stems from the desire to get laid.
    “Awesome,” Juliet said. “See you at Lyon’s Den in a little while.”
    It was just past ten, and we weren’t supposed to meet until noon, so I had time to do a couple of background checks on thecomputer. I transferred my bass filets from the refrigerator to the freezer, crammed my bills into a drawer, sat down, and started with Mark Toohey.
    Leitha was right about his age. Some things she probably didn’t know: Mark Toohey was born in Waterloo, Iowa, where he dropped out of school the day he turned sixteen. He’d had a variety of addresses since then, one being the state penitentiary in Starke, Florida. He served six months on a burglary charge, and still had four years of probation time left. His proud parents still lived in Iowa. I printed the data on him, including his current address and phone number, and that of his employer.
    Nine times out of ten, when a young girl like Brittney Ryan has an older boyfriend, she is easy to find. Find the boyfriend, find the girl. I didn’t bother to call Toohey because, also nine times out of ten, the boyfriend will lie to protect the runaway. I planned to make a surprise visit to Mark Toohey’s place the next day, put this little job in the scrapbook.
    I heard Bud barking, so I opened the hatch and let him inside. He danced around on my vinyl tile floor for a minute, gave my leg a hug, climbed on the couch and settled there with a smile on his face and his tongue out.
    I ran Kent Clark, the tennis pro, next. He graduated from the University of Miami in 1986 with degrees in communications and physical education. He taught high school in Boca Raton until 1998, but his employment history was sketchy after that. He didn’t file a tax return in 2001, but did file for bankruptcy and a divorce.
    I looked up the number and called Seminole High School in Boca Raton on my cell phone. After several rings, a lady with a nasally grandmother voice answered.
    I introduced myself as principal Steven Gill from Hallows Cove Junior High. Gill was the principal when I went to school there thirty years ago, but I was counting on her not knowing that.
    “I’m checking references on a Mr. Kent Clark,” I said. “His résumé says he taught down there from nineteen eighty-six to nineteen ninety-eight. Is that correct?”
    “I’ll have to pull his file,” she said. “Can you hold?”
    “Of course. Thank you.” I waited, started wondering how much collective time, the world over, is wasted on
hold
every day. Probably thousands of hours. Why couldn’t all that time be put to use somehow? What do most people do while they’re on hold? I guessed most people just sat there with the phone pressed against their heads, like I do. How many man-hours, man-
years,
are sucked into the abyss while waiting for people to come back to the phone? Someday I’m going to find out, and give everyone on hold something to do. Clip their toenails or something. I’ll probably win the Nobel Prize.
    When she clicked back on, I detected some nervousness in her voice, a slight raise in pitch.
    “Yes. He was employed here during those years. Anything else I can help you with today?”
    “Can you tell me why he left?”
    “By law, I really can’t give you any details, Mr. Gill. I’m sure you know that.”
    “Right. May I speak with the principal?”
    “You can, but it’s