“I don’t mean to be a pain in the ass, but I’m freaking out, and what’s the point of having a brother who’s a cop if he won’t help you?”
“Indeed,” I say, and look at my watch. The snow has started again, very lightly, stray slow drifting flakes.
“Derek didn’t come home last night. I know you’re going to be like, okay, they had another fight, he disappeared. But that’s the thing, Hen: we didn’t fight this time. No argument, nothing. We made dinner. He said he had to go out. Said he wanted to take a walk. So I said sure. I cleaned up the kitchen, smoked a joint, and went to bed.”
I scowl. My sister, I believe, loves the fact that she can smoke pot now, that her policeman brother can no longer lecture her sternly about it. For Nico, I think, this is a silver lining. She takes a last drag and pitches the butt into the snow. I crouch down and pick up the doused stub of cigarette between two fingers and hold it in the air. “I thought you cared about the environment.”
“Not so much, anymore,” she says.
Nico swivels back to a sitting position, wrapping the thick collar of the coat around her. My sister could be so beautiful if she just took care of herself—combed her hair, got some sleep every once in a while. She’s like a picture of our mother that someone crumpled up and tried to smooth out again.
“So then it’s midnight, and he’s not back. I called him, no answer.”
“So he went to a bar,” I offer.
“I called all the bars.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, Hen.”
There are a lot more bars than there used to be. A year ago you had Penuche’s, the Green Martini, and that was pretty much as far as it went. Now there are lots of places, some licensed, some pirated, some just basement apartments where someone has got a bathtub full of beer, a cash register, and an iPod set on shuffle.
“So he went to a friend’s house.”
“I called them. I called everyone. He’s gone.”
“He’s not gone,” I say, and what I’m not saying is the truth, which is that if Derek really had pulled a runner on her, it would be the best thing to happen to my sister in a long time. They had gotten married on January 8, that first Sunday after the Tolkin interview. That particular Sunday had set the record, apparently, for the most weddings on a single day, a record unlikely ever to be beaten, unless it’s on October 2.
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“I told you, I can’t. Not today. I’m on a case.”
“God, Henry,” she says, her studied insouciance abruptly gone, and she’s hopping off the car and jabbing me in the chest with a forefinger. “I quit my job as soon as we knew this shit was really happening. I mean, why waste time at work?
“You worked three days a week at a farmers’ market. I solve murders.”
“Oh, excuse me. I’m sorry. My husband is missing.”
“He’s not really your husband.”
“Henry.”
“He’ll be back, Nico. You know he will.”
“Really? What makes you so sure?” She stamps her foot, eyes blazing, not waiting for an answer. “And what are you working on that’s so important?”
I figure, what the heck, and I tell her about the Zell case, explain how I’ve just come from the morgue, that I’m developing leads, trying to impress upon her the seriousness of an ongoing police investigation.
“So wait. A hanger?” she says, sullen, peevish. She’s only twenty-one years old, my sister. She’s just a kid.
“Maybe.”
“You just said the guy hung himself at the McDonald’s.”
“I said it appeared that way.”
“And that’s why you’re too busy to take ten minutes to find my husband? Because some jerk-off killed himself at the McDonald’s? In the goddamn bathroom?”
“Nico, come on.”
“What?”
I hate it when my sister uses foul language. I’m old-fashioned. She’s my sister.
“I’m sorry. But a man has died, and it’s my job to find out how and why.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry. Because a man is missing, and it’s my man, and I happen to love him, okay?”
There’s a hitch in her voice all of a sudden, and I know that’s it, that’s game over. She’s crying, and I’ll do whatever she wants.
“Oh, come on, Nico. Don’t do that.” It’s too late, she’s sobbing, open mouthed, violently pushing tears from her eyes with the back of her hands. “Don’t do that.”
“It’s just, all of this.” She gestures, a vague and