Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,54
monster that creates catastrophic, spiraling violence is more important than my love life.”
For a moment, Elien looked like he might say more. Then he shrugged, took out his phone, and said, “Let’s see what we can find.”
I did some online searches and found five people called David Bass in the DuPage-St. Tammany greater area. I searched county property tax records against those five addresses and eliminated three of them; my guess was that the David Bass I was looking for didn’t own a two-hundred-thousand-dollar yacht, a hundred-thousand-dollar Tesla, or a two-million-dollar historic home just off the Quartier.
“Nobody has his address,” Elien said. “I’ve tried everyone in the support group except Zahra, and she won’t give it to me because she’s a doctor and it’s confidential.”
“What about his phone number?”
“I have his phone number, but he’s not responding to my messages, and he doesn’t pick up when I call. His voicemail is shut off.”
“What’s the number?”
Elien read it to me, and I tried a reverse-number lookup.
“Dead end,” I said. “What kind of car did he drive? Or did someone pick him up?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never saw him leaving a support group meeting?”
With a frown, Elien said, “I think he drove himself.”
“You think?”
“I didn’t catalogue what everybody drove.”
“How about a Prius?”
“No, he definitely didn’t drive a Prius.”
Scanning the tabs of property record searches, I said, “What about an Impala?”
“I don’t know.”
“A Sonata?”
“Uhh.”
“Ok, here’s a picture of a 2002 Chevy Impala. And here’s a picture of a 2010 Hyundai Sonata. Did his car look like either of those?”
Elien’s thin, dark brows drew together. “It was brown?”
Grinning, I said, “So you’re definitely not a car guy.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s ok. We’ll figure it out. We’re down to two addresses. One is outside of Bragg, in an unincorporated part of DuPage Parish. Let’s see what Google Maps shows. Mobile homes. Ok, and this other address is, ok, back in Moulinbas. Street view says . . . apartment above Ye Olde Bookes Ande Treasurees. God, how many extra e’s did this person need?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Moulinbas makes sense, right, because he could have walked to Tamika’s?”
“Moulinbas isn’t tiny.”
“Well, let’s map it. Google Maps says . . . twenty-five-minute walk.”
“That’s pretty far.”
“It’s definitely walkable.”
“But it’s pretty far.”
“Well, since you’re a guest and you salvaged something from the wreckage of my attempt at dating, I’ll let you decide.”
“You’re such a gentleman.” Elien frowned and finger combed his blowout hair. “You decide.”
“Oh my God, Elien. Just pick one of the two.”
“You think Moulinbas.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Let’s try the address in Moulinbas.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
Elien hemmed. “Unless you think we should try the one out in DuPage Parish.”
“Let’s go.”
“I want to know if you—”
“You were much more decisive when it was my love life on the line,” I said, kicking him in the shins and ankles. “Get up.”
“Jesus, God, ouch, that hurts!”
“Here we go.”
“You’re a fucking barbarian,” Elien said, fighting a smile.
“Whatever it takes,” I said.
We drove across town again, and I found a spot across from Ye Olde Bookes Ande Treasurees. The bricks had been painted gray, and a maze of Virginia creeper crawled along the wrought iron, the leaves turning scarlet in the autumn weather. Elien and I crossed the street. The second-floor apartment had a private staircase on the side, but a locked gate prevented access. Elien pointed to an intercom, and I buzzed up.
“Yes?” The voice was male and nasally.
Elien looked at me and shook his head.
“Hi,” Elien said. “We’re looking for David Bass.”
“This is he.”
Elien gave another shake.
“My name’s Elien Martel. I’m trying to find a David Bass I know from a support group.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Elien Martel. From the support group.”
“I don’t know any Elien. I’m sorry.”
“Ok,” Elien said, “thank—”
The speaker went dead.
“—you.” With a shrug, Elien said to me, “This is why I thought we should try the address in DuPage Parish.”
“Does Richard really put up with this kind of stuff?”
Elien grinned as we made our way back to the car. “All the time.”
“That man is a saint.”
“And he never kicks me in the legs.”
“I’ll tell him how well it works.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
The drive out of Bragg was pleasant; the October day was drawing to a close, the sun low and fat in the west, the autumn sunlight cutting broad lines through fields of corn, outlining the round bales of bahiagrass, trimming the aisles of the pecan groves. It was the smell of the hayfield, though, that stayed in the car: dusty and sweet. Elien sneezed once.
“Let me guess,” he said, running his arm under his