A sharp knock unnerved Margaret, and she excused herself and rose to answer it.
Diane kept on talking. “Illusion of a conversation makes them ideal companions, for a parrot will only tell you what you have already said. That could, if viewed through the proper lens, be considered affirming by some.”
“I do not want a parrot,” she shouted in the foyer.
“You should get that door before he gets away.”
Through the side window appeared a middle-aged man in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and a narrow red tie. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hopping with impatience like a runner on the blocks. Margaret opened the door, and the suit showed an identity card with a photograph laminated next to the name. The man in the flesh bore only a slight resemblance to the man on the card. “Harry Linnet,” he said as she read along. “Mon Valley resident agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is this a good time, Mrs. Quinn?”
“Come in, come in.” She ushered him to the living room. “You have some news about Erica?”
“Sounded like you were in the middle of a conversation.”
“I'm Diane Cicogna, her sister. We were talking about a parrot.”
“A parrot?”
“Yes, they make excellent pets, don't you think? Someone to talk to when you're alone?”
“I guess, but they only say what they've been taught to say.”
“That's their advantage over husbands.”
He pulled at the knot of his tie and followed the women inside. Agent Linnet waited until the women sat on the sofa before claiming the outer inches of the easy chair opposite. “The Pittsburgh office sent me over to talk with you about your daughter, see if the Bureau can help. Actually, they were asked by headquarters down in Washington to look into this. You must have friends in high places. How long has it been?”
Jackson, Margaret thought. He said he had a friend at the FBI. Still loves me in some small way. “That was thirty years ago.”
Linnet frowned and snapped open his memo pad and took out a ballpoint pen. He dared not look either woman in the eyes. “I'm sorry. How long since you noticed your daughter was missing?”
“Twenty-two days. I was away, visiting my sister in Washington, as a matter of fact. My husband was supposed to be keeping an eye on Erica.”
“The truth is, nine times out of ten, a girl that age is a runaway. Had she been acting strangely at all before her disappearance?”
“Tell him,” Diane said. “Tell him she was in love. She ran away with the boy just like you would have if—”
“It wasn't a matter of courage.”
“Courage, Mrs. Quinn?”
“It was the boy. What teenager doesn't act a bit strange when she's in love?”
Diane spoke over her. “You're wrong there. Love is always a matter of courage.”
Linnet thumbed through his notes. “This boy, Wiley Rinnick, you disapproved? Had he been acting differently at any time before they went away? Were they in any way political? Would you consider him in any way dangerous?”
“What are you driving at?” Margaret asked. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing, really. Just, in your estimation, does he pose a threat?”
With a clap on her knees, Diane drew his attention. “Not a threat, sir, but a promise. He has absconded with my niece.”
Linnet nodded and put on a grave face. “Of course, of course. But I meant threat in a more general sense. These are strange times, Mrs. Quinn. Just last month, there were two assassination attempts on President Ford's life. Two troubled women. Women, for the first time in our history, and you would be doing your patriotic duty if you know anything about any threats your daughter or her boyfriend may have made against the president.”
Diane slid forward on her seat. “That's what this is all about?”
“No, she's not political,” Margaret said. “No more rebellious than any other teenager—”
“I have to tell you, Mrs. Quinn, I've already been to the Rinnick house, and there's some evidence that your daughter's boyfriend has some un-American ideas. I've already spoken to the borough police, and I've spoken to your husband. He seems to think the boy is a radical.”
“My husband thinks everyone who dated my daughter was a radical. She's not an enemy of the nation. She's missing.”
Focusing somewhere below her chin, he sucked on the cap of his cheap ballpoint, leaving a dot of ink on his lips, and she felt exposed and crossed her arms across her breasts. She wanted to stand, go to the phone and call her husband to come home at once and be with her, but the agent held his gaze on her, his eyes focused on her folded arms. “Mrs. Quinn,” he said, “I don't mean to suggest… It's my job to rule out the possibilities. We're all concerned about the president, after all.”
“Do you know anything about my daughter?”