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“Good deal.”
We hugged again, pecked each other’s lips. I was genuinely sad and distressed to see her go. From her forlorn expression, I knew the feeling was mutual.
As she started away, I called to her, “Wait.”
She paused and turned toward me.
“I meant to ask you and keep forgetting. Do you still have that photo you took of Jeb and me that summer?” I could still see it in my mind’s eye, tucked into the small photo album Mom used to take everywhere with her, before the advent of smart phones and the ability to take not just a dozen snapshots everywhere, but thousands. Jeb and I were on our little back porch in the redwood chairs with their floral pattern cushions. We both had looked annoyed because she’d interrupted our game of Trouble. I wished I’d held on to that picture; it was the only one of the two of us.
She cocked her head. “From all those years ago? I don’t know, but I’ll take a look when I get back. If I find it, I can ask Judy Cope next door if she can scan it with her printer and then I can just email it.”
I was surprised by my mom’s ingenuity and technical know-how; it hadn’t even occurred to me to ask her to simply scan the photo. But the picture itself? It was most likely long gone. Over the years, Mom had moved several times and with each time, there was an unburdening. Now, in a one-bedroom downtown that leased to its tenants based on income, she had even less space for mementos. Still, maybe she’d hung onto it, knowing its link to such a traumatic event in our lives.
“That would be great.”
“No promises.” She started away again. “But I’ll look as soon as I get home.” She stared longingly at the sign for security. “If I get home…” she started off again. Her worries were kind of cute in a way, but I hated to interrupt her forward momentum again.
“One more thing.” She stopped and let out a frustrated sigh. There was no way in hell she’d miss her flight, even if the line for security was long, but try telling her that.
“Do you remember what Jeb looked like?”
“Yeah, pretty much, but hon, that was ages ago. And I’m getting to that stage where I go into a room and forget why.” She laughed.
“One little thing. Do you recall if he had a couple moles on his face?”
My heart sunk when she rolled her eyes. “Seriously? That was thirty-some years ago. I don’t remember what we had for lunch yesterday.” She moved toward me and smooshed my cheeks. “I know you’re doing your due diligence by asking. You’d remember better than I would.”
This time, she turned and left for good. I watched as she disappeared among O’Hare’s throngs of travelers.
I stood for a while, waiting. I searched my memory for the face of the man who called himself Jeb and couldn’t recall for sure if he had those same moles. I didn’t think so, but again, I wasn’t sure.
IV
I went with Harriet McGill because her website said she specialized in missing people and, more importantly, that she could work with aliases. That piece of information might have been a benefit for all private investigators these days, but she was the only one that advertised it on her website. And that function could come in extremely useful, especially if all it involved was plugging the name Chris Sgro, or a variation of it, into an online database.
I called her and was surprised that she could meet with me the next afternoon after I got off work.
So now I found myself on the Purple line L train, on my way to downtown Evanston, where Harriet’s office was located. I imagined entering a rundown office building with no elevator. Her office would have a frosted glass window with her name etched on it. Inside, there’d be a hat and coat rack and a battered metal desk, seen through a haze of cigarette smoke.
I had watched too many noir movies.
I walked from the Davis stop to her office on Sherman Avenue, just a bit north of downtown proper. I was surprised to see she wasn’t in an office building, but a rambling, turn-of-the-century brick house, half of its exterior covered with ivy. It was well kept up, with cream trim and green shutters. The walkway to the front door was lined with rose bushes. They looked very healthy and well-tended, blooming in shades of yellow, red, and orange.
Did she live here? Was I in the right place?
There were no mailboxes outside, nor was there any kind of intercom. I stood for a moment at the heavy green painted wooden front door, wondering if I should use the brass knocker to announce my arrival.
A voice startled me. It came out of the Ring doorbell that I’d yet to notice.
“Mr. Blake?”
I peered at the doorbell, noticing its light had morphed from green to white. I assumed I was being recorded. “Yes! Here for our six o’clock appointment.”
There was a buzzing sound and the door’s clock clicked. I reached out for the brass knob, turned it, and went inside, grateful for the blast of cool coming from the house’s central air conditioning.
The foyer sported dark, polished hardwood floors and a big round oak table piled high with stacks of leather-bound books. A red and cream Persian rug gave the space a homey, yet elegant feel. A curving staircase with a mahogany banister led up to a second floor. I could see a stained-glass window on the landing. It depicted a cobalt blue sky and yellow lanterns that glowed with an almost electric power.
“I’m in here,” a voice called out from my left.
