Where Is Bianca? Read Free

hadn’t returned. He still figured she was needling him, and it made him sore. But by the fourth day he was on his hands and knees calling hotels, and on the fifth day he came to see me.”
    â€œTo locate her so he could coax her back?”
    â€œThat was my job,” Baer nodded. “He was afraid that if he waited to hear from her, they might wind up in a divorce court. He didn’t want that. No, sir.”
    â€œGrounds?” Corrigan said.
    â€œAdultery. He didn’t like having to tell me,” Baer said. “I asked what the argument had been about, the one that had sent Bianca roaming. He said at first that it was just a family misunderstanding. Honestly, I’m only half as dumb as I look. What did the guy take me for?”
    â€œWhom did he finally name?”
    â€œA dame named Frances Weatherly. She writes plays, those far-out ones—full of kookie symbolism, the kind they produce in back rooms off Broadway. This she-playwright had a new play, and she wanted a decent theater for it. So she came to Fielding Theatrical Realty, which is how their lives got intermingled. Lessard actually said ‘intermingled.’”
    The phone on Corrigan’s desk tinkled. It was Solly, from downstairs.
    â€œMan inquiring for you, Captain. A Vincent Lessard.”
    â€œI’m waiting for him. And, Solly.”
    â€œYes, Captain?”
    â€œIt won’t hurt to tape it.”
    â€œI’ll advise CC,” Solly said.
    â€œThis man’s wife is missing. So tell Communications Center it’ll be all-go if she owned a Mayan ring.”

2
    Even the innocent rarely face the law with a total naturalness. Corrigan seldom put stock in the first image an individual presented to him.
    A darkly handsome man, conservatively tailored and barbered, Vincent Lessard entered Corrigan’s office with a spurious self-assurance that seemed to be covering up a carefully controlled fear.
    He gave Baer a strong man’s nod. Then he stared at Corrigan with large dark eyes in which alarm was barely detectible.
    â€œI’m glad you were able to make it so quickly,” Corrigan said in his pleasant tenor. “Have a seat, Mr. Lessard.”
    Lessard gripped the arms of the straight wooden chair and eased himself down, not taking his eyes from Corrigan’s face. Sunlight from the dusty window struck his chiseled face, making it glow like a spotlight; it also glinted on the drops of sweat below the line of his thick, black, wavy hair. He reminded Corrigan of a boy who had been told that no one could lie while meeting his parents’ eyes. Or perhaps it had something to do with Corrigan’s eye-patch. It was a minor irritant to Corrigan, sometimes not being able to tell whether an interviewee was exercising hard control over inner fears or mere fascination over the piratical patch.
    â€œIt’s about my wife, isn’t it?” Lessard said. He had a stage-British accent. “Is she—has something happened that—” There was the lightest break in his voice. Corrigan instantly recognized what Chuck Baer had mentioned. Lessard was emoting by the book. The script called for distress, so the actor was registering distress. On the other hand, Corrigan was not leaping to conclusions. There were people who put on an act about everything, even the real things when no act was necessary. If Lessard were such a man his act proved nothing. And he might well be such a man.
    â€œI don’t want to alarm you,” Corrigan said, “and maybe we’re taking up your time for nothing. But there is a report.…” He stopped deliberately.
    â€œOh, God,” Lessard said. “Has Bianca been hurt? Attacked?”
    â€œWe’re not sure we even have a lead on your wife,” Corrigan said. “But we need your help, Mr. Lessard. If you’ve no objection to answering a few questions?”
    â€œOf course not, Captain! I can’t imagine how I can