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Calvino had previously told the Colonel how Ratana had discovered Facebook and suddenly found herself with thirteen hundred “friends.” They posted pictures of their food, their gardens, beaches they were on, new shoes, children, friends and themselves, and announced where they were at any moment. People like that never went missing. Calvino expected that one of these “friends” had sent her a message about Koh Samui, the vacation paradise in the south, because he’d told her that after he returned from Rangoon he’d take her and John-John, her six-year-old son, there on a long weekend. It was as good a way as any to spend some of the money Alan Osborne was paying him to find his son. He figured she’d asked her Facebook pals for travel advice.
“You found a resort in Samui?”
“I’ll read the message. ‘Hi, everyone. I’m in Rangoon where I met a stallion of a Bangkok PI. He asked me to help him out on a missing person case. Wow, I get to play a James Bond girl. How cool is that? Working undercover.’”
One of the other crows flew close to the table with the deconstructed buns, eyeing another piece. A waiter shooed it away and cleaned the table.
“Something wrong, Vincent?” the Colonel asked.
The color had drained from Calvino’s face.
“I’m glad you told me.”
“Be careful, Khun Vinny. The woman’s name is Bianca.”
“I know,” he said.
“She also posted photos with a young Thai guy on the beach. They looked to be more than just friends. He had his arm around her waist.”
The edge of disappointment and worry turned her voice into a blade that cut his breakfast appetite.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“Bianca has over three thousand friends on Facebook. And they have friends, who have friends of their own. You’ll have to tell Colonel Pratt.”
“I get the picture. I’ve got a problem.”
He looked at Pratt as the Colonel lifted his coffee cup toward the waiter.
“So does Colonel Pratt.”
He closed his eyes.
“Let’s hear it.”
“This Bianca also said the Bangkok PI’s friend played saxophone at the 50th Street Bar last night. She said he’s a Thai cop.”
“Keep an eye on your messages, and phone me if she posts anything else.”
In the back of his brain the tune of “Big Mistake” was playing to the accompaniment of an
alto saxophone. It was a melody that wasn’t going anywhere but a blind alley.
“What should I reply to my friend?” she asked.
“Right now, don’t reply. Keep quiet.”
“That’s not how friends treat each other’s messages.”
“You can make it up to her later. Trust me. Don’t say anything. I’ll talk to Pratt.”
The call ended as Calvino looked across at the Colonel, who couldn’t help but read the distress in the American’s normally confident face. The crash and burn of self-esteem made someone like Calvino blink.
“You look like you have a problem.”
Calvino’s face never lied.
“It’s possible.”
