Hard Time

She frowned again. “How did they do that?”

 

 

I shrugged. “The pad itself hadn’t been tampered with, so my best guess is with UV–sensitive ink. They spray the pad, then after you go in they shine an ultraviolet light on the pad. The keys you’ve touched are clean, see. Then they just have to try those numbers in different combinations until they get the right sequence. If that’s the case we could reset the combination—but we’d have to remember to touch every number on the pad each time we went in. A magnetic card lock would be less vulnerable—but you have to remember to carry the card with you all the time. Anyone can break a padlock, but you have to stand there with equipment, which makes you more vulnerable to a passing squad car. Or to Elton. He’s keeping an eye on the joint for us.”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Vic! An alcoholic street dweller!”

 

“He’s not usually falling–down drunk,” I said with dignity. “And his drinking doesn’t stop him from using his eyes. Anyway, I’ll ask Mary Louise to look into it. If she has time.”

 

My voice trailed away into doubt. Mary Louise seemed more than just too busy to work for me right now. She seemed scared.

 

Tessa was too absorbed by her own needs to notice my hesitation. “Daddy thinks I should—we should—get a system like Honeywell’s, that notifies a central computer of an unauthorized break–in.”

 

“Your daddy could well be right. But the guys who came in here wouldn’t have triggered anyone’s alarm system.”

 

We thrashed it around inconclusively, until the woman from the agency came to get more direction.

 

I tried the Baladines a couple of times during the afternoon, but only got Rosario, the maid, who said, Robbie not home, Robbie away, Missus away. The third time I called I asked for one of the precocious swimming daughters. I remembered they had names like street signs, but it took me a while to come up with Madison and Utah. The intersection where bad deals are done.

 

I didn’t introduce myself in case there was a parental warning out on me. Madison had seemed alarmingly forthcoming in her remarks when I was out there two weeks ago. She didn’t disappoint me today.

 

“Robbie isn’t home. He ran away, and Mommy’s out looking for him. Daddy is furious, he says when he finds Robbie he’ll make sure he toughens up, we’ve been soft on him too long.”

 

“He ran away? Do you know where he’d go?” I hoped there was a sympathetic grandmother or aunt someplace who might stand up for Robbie.

 

That’s why Eleanor had taken off, Madison explained, to go to her mother’s in case Robbie was hiding there. “We’re going to France on Saturday, and Robbie better be back before then. We’re renting a castle with a swimming pool so me and Utah and Rhiannon can practice. Do you know we’re having a swimming meet here on Labor Day? If Rhiannon beats me in the backstroke, I am going to be so sick. Robbie would never beat me, he’s too fat, he can’t do anything with his body. Like last summer when he fell over his feet playing football at our cousin’s. He got his feet tangled up in his shoelaces. He looked so funny, me and my cousin Gail laughed our heads off. Robbie was up all night crying. That’s something only weak girlie girls do.”

 

“Yes, I remember,” I said. “You didn’t even cry when a fire truck ran over your cat. Or did you cry because the nice shiny engine had a smear on it?”

 

“Huh? Fluffy didn’t get hit by a fire truck. That was Mom; she ran over her with the car. Robbie cried. He cried when she killed a bird. I didn’t.”

 

“You’re going to be a credit to Dr. Mengele one of these days.”

 

“Who?” she screeched.

 

“Mengele.” I spelled the name. “Tell BB and Eleanor he has an opening for a bright young kid.”

 

I tried not to slam the phone in her ear: it wasn’t her fault her parents were bringing her up to have the sensitivity of a warthog. I wished I could take some time off to look for Robbie, but I had more to do here than I could figure out. Such as what to do about Veronica Fassler’s call from Coolis. In the morning I’d take another trip out there, but for right now I could try to get the doctor who’d operated on Nicola Aguinaldo at Beth Israel.

 

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