Gus met hisprivate investigator at Cafe Rene. Despite the French name, it was about as continental as French toast and French fries. It was a dive of a joint, with dank walls of exposed red brick and hanging light fixtures that looked like they might drop from the ceiling at any moment. The sagging wood floor was in such disrepair that years of foot traffic had worn paths in the polish. Private booths and bottomless cups of coffee, however, made it Dexter Bryant's favorite meeting place. That, and the fact that they never enforced the rules against cigar smoking.
Dex was a former Seattle police officer who had specialized in child abductions and teenage runaways while on the force. As a P. I. he was a reputed crackerjack at finding missing persons. To look at him, you'd think he was a missing person. He hadn't shaved since retiring, and he'd grown back the ponytail he'd worn as a teenage hippie, before he'd sold out and joined the police force. In his own mind, however, he had never completely sold out. His heart went out to the lost souls he searched for.
They took an isolated booth in the back, where Gus gave him the latest. Dex lit up a cigar and listened. He didn't just smoke his cigar, he admired it, checking out the burn as his client talked on. He took a long, slow drag when Gus had finished. Thick gray smoke poured from his lips as he spoke.
"We need to go on the offensive, try to develop some leads. You got media contacts?"
"Sure."
. "My advice is to use them."
Gus sipped his coffee, waved away the cloud of smoke. "I did already. Ended up with a very interesting piece on wife beating on the tube."
"Oh, yeah. I saw that. Screw those sneaky reporters, then. Go the advertising route. You can afford it." "Advertising?"
"Yeah. Just buy a big ad, put your wife's picture on page three of the P-I. You know, the space those fancy department stores buy every other week for their once a year sale. Offer a reward for information that leads to her return. I'll bet dollars to doughnuts that'll prompt some calls for me to follow up on."
"Can't hurt."
"Here, I brought some samples for format." He opened his briefcase and spread them across the table. A clump of ash fell from his cigar, which Dex brushed away.
Gus thumbed through the samples. Nothing particularly creative, much like the side of the milk cartons he'd never really paid attention to.
Dex said, "I got the template on my computer. We can plug in your wife's picture and information and have it over to the paper in time for tomorrow afternoon's Times, Wednesday morning's P-I."
"Shouldn't I run this by the FBI first?"
"What for? So they can run it up their bureaucratic flagpole and come to the same decision we did, only three weeks later. That's why you hired me, Gus. To do the right thing and to do it right now."
Gus hesitated, then figured what the hell. "Okay, let's go with it."
"Great. I'll need a little advance, of course."
Gus pulled out his checkbook. "How much?"
"Just make it out to the Seattle Times and leave the amount blank. I'll fill in whatever the ad costs. And by the way, while you've got the checkbook out .. ."
Gus looked up suspiciously.
"Now, don't go looking at me like that," said Dex. "I told you I was a full-service private investigator. I'm just throwing out ideas. This one's a little off the wall, but I know this psychic."
"A psychic?"
"Yeah. Someone who can hold a piece of jewelry or an article of clothing, pick up on some vibes or whatever, maybe help you find your wife. I think it's a little hokey, but some police forces use them, so why shouldn't you? If you're serious about pulling out all the stops, that's just an option I want to make available to you."
"I'll think about that. Let's see where the ads take us first."
"Sure. It's your call."
Gus handed over the check, then took a closer look at the sample ads scattered on the table before him. A seventeen-year-old girl. A boy in kindergarten. A half dozen others. Wives, sons, and daughters. Just a bunch of names and faces on paper, the black-and-white legacy of families torn apart.
"Were any of these-people ever found?"
Dex chomped nervously on his cigar. "Yeah, most of them."
"How many alive?"
He answered in a quiet, serious tone. "A few."
Gus leaned back, his expression vague. Dex said, "There's no guarantees in this business, Mr. Wheatley." "You're telling me," Gus said with concern.
Andie's meeting lasted till almost five. They walked out together and separated in the hotel lobby. Victoria took a cab back to the airport, promising Isaac she'd probably have some revisions to her profile. Gould headed for the bar, mumbling something about the prospect of finding more of those tasty little goldfish crackers. Isaac walked Andie to her car.
Andie enjoyed spending time with Isaac again. Since his promotion to ASAC, she hadn't seen him nearly as often as when he was her direct supervisor. The more they were together, however, the more she realized it wasn't his supervision she missed. It was his company.
The rain had cleared, but the pavement was still wet. It was just beyond dusk, and the sun had disappeared without ever really appearing. Andie walked the brightest path to her car, beneath the center line of street lamps.
"So, what's up with Gould?" she asked.
Isaac buried his hands in his coat pockets, walking at her side. "Like I said, I just wanted another perspective on this."