“Good news?” I asked.
“Only if the expression ‘No news is good news’ is really true.”
“It’s not,” I said.
“Damn.”
“Anything on your end?” she asked.
Cal and Jim. What the hell was I missing? It was there, just out of reach. You know that feeling, when something you know is right around the corner, like the name of the dog on Petticoat Junction or what was the name of the boxer Mr. T played in Rocky III? It was like that. Right out of reach.
Cal and Jim.
The answer was here somewhere, just hiding, just around that mental corner. Damned if I wasn’t going to keep running until I caught that sumbitch and nailed him to the wall.
“Not yet,” I said. “But let’s keep working on it.”
Early the next morning, Detective York sat across from Mr. and Mrs. Perez.
“Thank you for coming in,” he said.
Twenty years ago, Mrs. Perez had worked in the camp’s laundry, but I’d only seen her once since the tragedy. There had been a meeting of the victims’ families—the wealthy Greens, the wealthier Billinghams, the poor Copelands, the poorer Perezes—in a big fancy law office not far from where we now were. The case had gone class action with the four families against the camp owner. The Perezes had barely spoken that day. They’d sat and listened and let the others rant and take the lead. I remember Mrs. Perez had kept her purse on her lap and clutched it. Now she had it on the table, but both hands were still bolted to its sides.
They were in an interrogation room. At the suggestion of Detective York, I watched from behind one-way glass. He didn’t want them to see me yet. That made sense.
“Why are we here?” Mr. Perez asked.
Perez was heavyset, his button-down shirt a size too small so that his gut strained the buttons.
“This isn’t easy to say.” Detective York glanced at the mirror and while his gaze was off, I knew that he was seeking me out. “So I’m just going to come out with it.”
Mr. Perez’s eyes narrowed. Mrs. Perez tightened her grip on the purse. I wondered idly if it was the same purse from fifteen years ago. Weird where the mind goes at times like this.
“There was a murder yesterday in the Washington Heights section of Manhattan,” York said. “We found the body in an alley near 157th Street.”
I kept my eyes on their faces. The Perezes gave away nothing.
“The victim is male and appears to be between the ages of thirty-five and forty years old. He is five-ten and weighs one hundred seventy pounds.” Detective York’s voice had fallen into a professional rhythm. “The man was using an alias, so we are having trouble identifying him.”
York stopped. Classic technique. See if they end up saying something. Mr. Perez did. “I don’t understand what that has to do with us.”
Mrs. Perez’s eyes slid toward her husband, but the rest of her did not move.
“I’m getting to that.”
I could almost see York’s wheels spinning, wondering what approach to take, start talking about the clippings in the pocket, the ring, what. I could almost imagine him rehearsing the words in his head and realizing how idiotic they sounded. Clippings, rings—they don’t really prove anything. Suddenly even I had my doubts. Here we were, at the moment when the Perezes’ world was about to be gut-torn open like a slaughtered calf. I was glad that I was behind glass.
“We brought in a witness to identify the body,” York went on. “This witness seems to feel that the victim could be your son Gil.”
Mrs. Perez closed her eyes. Mr. Perez stiffened. For a few moments no one spoke, no one moved. Perez did not look at his wife. She did not look at him. They just stood there, frozen, the words still hanging in the air.
“Our son was killed twenty years ago,” Mr. Perez said at last.
York nodded, not sure what to say.
“Are you saying that you’ve finally found his body?”
“No, I don’t think so. Your son was eighteen when he vanished, correct?”
“Almost nineteen,” Mr. Perez said.
“This man—the victim—as I mentioned before, he was probably in his late thirties.”
Perez’s father sat back. The mother still hadn’t moved.
York dove in. “Your son’s body was never found, isn’t that correct?”
“Are you trying to tell us…?”
Mr. Perez’s voice died off there. No one jumped in and said, “Yes, that’s exactly what we are suggesting—that your son Gil has been alive this whole time, twenty years, and didn’t tell you or anyone else, and now, when you finally have the chance to be reunited with your missing child, he’s been murdered. Life’s a gas, ain’t it?”
Mr. Perez said, “This is crazy.”
“I know what it must sound like—”
“Why do you think it’s our son?”
“Like I said before. We have a witness.”
“Who?”
It was the first time that I had heard Mrs. Perez speak. I almost ducked.
York tried to sound reassuring. “Look, I understand you’re upset—”
“Upset?”
The father again.
“Do you know what it’s like…can you imagine…?”
His voice died off again. His wife put her hand on his forearm. She sat up a little straighter. For a second she turned to the window and I was sure she could see me through it. Then she met York’s eye and said, “I assume you have a body.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And that’s why you brought us here. You want us to look at it and see if it’s our son.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Perez stood. Her husband watched her, looking small and helpless.
“Okay,” she said. “Why don’t we do that?”
Mr. and Mrs. Perez started down the corridor.
I followed at a discreet distance. Dillon was with me. York stayed with the parents. Mrs. Perez held her head high. She still gripped the purse tight against her as though she feared a snatcher. She stayed a step ahead of her husband. So sexist to think it should be the other way around—that the mother should collapse while the father pushed on. Mr. Perez had been the strong one for the “show” part. Now that the grenade had exploded, Mrs. Perez took the lead while her husband seemed to shrink farther back with every step.
With its worn floor of linoleum and walls of scrape-the-skin concrete, the corridor couldn’t have looked more institutional without a bored bureaucrat leaning against it on a coffee break. I could hear the echo of the footsteps. Mrs. Perez wore heavy gold bracelets. I could hear them clank in rhythm with the walking.