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I noticed a pocket door three-quarters of the way closed. I slid it back a little farther. And there she was.
Harriet McGill had appropriated the old living room as her office. The room was stunning, with more dark polished hardwood, more faded but elegant rugs, bookcases filled to overflowing with books and not knickknacks, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on a woodsy garden with wildflowers and pampas grass. I felt as though the L had transported me to an English manor house rather than a northern suburb of Evanston.
Harriet McGill herself sat in the dying sunlight, not at a big desk, as I’d expected, but on a lovely dark blue velvet couch. A glass-topped coffee table revealed a notebook, iPhone, and a pen lined up and at the ready. The woman was tiny and, in the right light, might pass for a child or an adolescent. Her feet, in sensible black Chuck Taylors, didn’t reach the floor. She wore black jeans and a white button-down shirt, a size or two too big. Her hair, a mane of ash blonde with a streak of purple running through it on the left side, framed her face and curled just above her shoulders. Round red glasses magnified pale blue eyes.
I wondered if I was seeing a psychic or a private detective.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Take a seat. The meter’s running.” She smiled.
I sat in a chair framed in stainless steel with dark gray cushions. It looked hard and uncomfortable and proved to be the exact opposite. I sunk into it, grateful to be off my feet.
We spoke a little in the kind of pleasantries people do upon meeting for the first time—the summer heat, the journey from the northside of Chicago to the northside of Evanston—but Harriet wasted no time, for which I was grateful.
“So, I took some notes from when we chatted on the phone, did a bit of digging in advance. I think I can help you.”
These were words I longed to hear, and I said so.
She held up a hand. “Don’t get too excited. I can maybe find this Chris Sgro person. I probably won’t be able to do much with your missing husband.”
She stopped and peered at me over the top of her glasses. “Don’t look defeated so early in the game! It’s just that the police are already on it, as effective or ineffective as their efforts may be. And two, unless you have very deep pockets, searching for someone who may not want to be found can exhaust a lot of resources, both time and financial.”
I nodded. I was disappointed, but she was simply saying what I’d expected to hear. I’d done my own search on our credit cards and bank account and, if Marc had left me, he wasn’t leaving a trail behind.
I repeated the story my mother had told me while she was visiting and explained how it tied in with Jeb’s disappearance all those years ago.
“And you say that this Jeb has contacted you again?”
“I said someone purporting to be him has contacted me.”
“What’s your take? Do you think it’s him?”
“Come on. It’s been decades. He can’t have been abducted in 1986 only to resurface now. Why?”
She shrugged. “I’d like to say that was impossible. But I’ve seen enough in my years in this job to knowanythingis possible, likely even. If there’s one thing I’ve learned is that the old saw is true: truth really is stranger than fiction. So, what’s your gut tell you when you looked at this guy?”
“My gut? I honestly don’t know. I mean, when I first encountered him, I supposed it could be him. For one thing, he had an amethyst pendant I gave him when we were boys. He has the same lanky build. The eye and hair color tracked.”
I didn’t mention the moles I’d just recently recalled in my dream. “He seems to know a lot about that time, more than someone could guess it or research from the scant coverage the story got when he vanished.”
Yet I felt uncertain more and more as the days passed and Jeb did not re-enter my life. Now that I wanted him to—so I could at least examine his face for birthmarks—he seemed determined to stay away.
What if he never came back? Is that what I wanted?
“Look, if this Sgro person did take him back then, we may be able to find some significant stuff out. What I can do for you, since you mentioned you’re concerned about money, is run a public records check on him. We’ll start with the rather unusual name first and then, if nothing pans out, I can access a different database that captures known aliases of people.”
“And you think that’ll work?”
“I hope it will. I aim to please, Mr. Blake.”
“Sam.”
She smiled. “Harriet.”
We chatted a bit more and I let her know how grateful I was for her help, for someone who seemed to care more than the police did. I stood and made for the door. “How long do you think it’ll be before you might have something?”
“I should be able to pull some good info for you by tomorrow or the next day at the latest. Years ago, checking something like this out might have taken weeks.” She tapped her laptop’s cover. “Modern tech has changed all that.”
“Okay.” I reached for my wallet. “I can give you your retainer now. You take Visa?”
