As I walked back to the kitchen, Julian crowded up on my shoulder. He was nervous, but I got the sense he had my back. I’d underestimated him, again, thinking he’d chosen to come in with me because it was getting dark outside. The kid was a better dog than even Looper, loyal through and through.
We found Birdwine by his hideous avocado-colored stove. One of its electric eyes glowed deep orange, and a fry pan full of smashed eggs sat on the dead, gray burner next to it. Birdwine had his back to us, rattling the pan and humming, stirring eggs that weren’t cooking at all. He peered owlishly over his shoulder as we came in. He was beat all to hell. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and blood had crusted at the corners of his lips.
“Mmm, Pau,” he said, which I took to be a greeting. He was so drunk that turning his head set him swaying, like a man standing on a little boat at sea, riding the swells. “Ahmmakineg.” I’m making eggs.
“I think you might be making deadly house fires,” I told him.
He gave me a sloppy version of the big grin I’d always liked, the one that showed the gap in his front teeth. They were all still in his mouth, from this angle, anyway.
“God, I’m scared to see the other guy,” Julian whispered, blinking rapidly.
“There is no other guy,” I said.
Birdwine came back from binges with cracked ribs, loose teeth, and new, exciting angles in his long nose. I used to worry that he’d accidentally kill someone. He was so big, and he knew how to fight. But he never once had broken fingers or even bruises on his knuckles; he closed his sprees by pissing people off, and then taking the beating.
The kitchen was large, with room for a butcher block table and two chairs near the door. Birdwine’s old laptop, a huge slow thing I called his Craptoposaurus, was sitting on it, open. I went over to it and checked the screen.
He was logged into Facebook, which was odd enough to make me do a double take. Not a social media guy, that Birdwine. Unless he had been trying to work, drunk, and this page was related to Hana? I wanted to slide into the closest chair and start digging, but Birdwine’s sleeve was dragging dangerously near the lit burner. I left the browser open and went to get him.
“Julian, would you finish the eggs? You can make eggs, right?” I said, taking Birdwine by the shoulders, turning him away from the stove.
“Everyone can make eggs,” Julian said, overly hearty.
I steered Birdwine across the kitchen. He was unwieldy and out of balance, but he shuffled in the direction that I pointed him.
“Look, Birdwine, it’s Julian, remember him?” To Julian I said, “And get him some water.”
I dumped Birdwine in one empty chair, then went back to the other myself, the one close to the computer. Facebook was open to the page of a woman named Stella Martin. Her feed was full of pictures from what looked like a family beach vacation. I didn’t know any Martins, but the first name rang a faint bell.
“There’s so much shell in here,” Julian said. “I think it’s all the shells.”
I glanced at Birdwine, swaying in the chair.
“Forget it. Turn the stove off and bring the water,” I told Julian, and then muttered to myself, “Stella, Stella, Stella. Who are you?”
“Stellaaaaa!” Birdwine bellowed, sudden and loud, in a drunken Marlon Brando. Julian jumped and dropped the egg pan into the sink with a clatter. Birdwine cackled to himself.
I gave him a stern look.
“Do you see something about Hana?” Julian asked.
“I don’t know yet. Birdwine? Is this about my case? Huh?” Dammit, I should have had him updating me every single day. But I hadn’t wanted that. I’d been very busy trying not to think about where Hana might be, what he might be finding. Trying to get square at my firm.
He didn’t answer. Stella Martin’s profile picture showed an attractive dishwater blonde, somewhere around forty. Her top posts were all from the vacation. I scrolled through lots of pics of Stella with a dorky, freckled man that she’d tagged “The Hubs.” They had a slew of children: a teenage boy already towering over his mother and then a herd of little blond girls like stair steps running down from him. I put the oldest girl at ten or eleven—close to Hana’s age—but beyond that, I couldn’t see any connection.
Then I remembered. Stella was the name of Birdwine’s ex-wife. The one who called him Zachary. She’d left him for another man, and now they lived in Florida.
“Are you posting on your Stella’s wall, Birdwine?” I asked. I meant to say it quietly, and I was surprised to hear how sharp and loud my voice had gone.
“Nah,” he said. “Ammustaliner.” Nah, I’m just stalking her.
“What?” asked Julian. He had found a huge plastic cup with the Hulk on it and was filling it from the tap. “Who is Stella?”
I sat back. This was ex-wife bullshit, which made it instantly Not Julian’s Business. Not mine either, truth be told, but I scanned the page anyway, and saw that Birdwine was logged in as someone named Jennifer James.
My loud voice said, “Who’s Jennifer James?”