“He wanted to go, but his brother wouldn’t take him,” Sean said. He scratched the end of his nose and picked off scorched skin to reveal newborn freckles underneath. “You’re going to find him, aren’t you? Like on TV.”
“I’ll do my best,” Cloister said.
At the same time, Sean’s dad said, “Of course he will. I told you he won’t be far.”
He grabbed Sean by the shoulder, twisted his fingers in his son’sBen 10T-shirt, and shrugged at Cloister. “He had nightmares,” he said. “I think that’s enough.”
Cloister nodded his understanding and asked, “Just a minute more? One more question.”
Sean’s dad looked reluctant, probably torn between concern for a missing boy he could put a face to and the idea that he could protect his own kid from anything like that—as though bad things couldn’t happen to Sean if he didn’t know about them. Instead of giving him the chance to make up his mind, Cloister asked his question.
“Is there anything that Drew did this year that was weird?” he asked. “Did he have any new friends or somewhere he played?”
Sean pulled a thoughtful face and twisted his mouth to the side.
“I ’unno.” He shrugged. After a squirming second, he blurted out, “He was really mad this was his last year? He said it was all Billy’s fault. He was really mad, I guess. Is that good?”
Cloister nodded. “That’s great,” he said and held out his hand. Sean put his sticky little mitt into it and grinned gappily at the solemn handshake. “You’ve been a big help.”
Sean got to shake Bourneville’s paw too as she gave her best lolling dog grin. Then his dad pulled him and his sister away. Cloister watched them go and then unfolded himself from the rock he’d been perched on. He brushed off the seat of his jeans and turned to look around, although he wasn’t sure whose benefit that bit of pantomime was for. Bourneville didn’t care, and Cloister already knew he’d keep track of where Javi was. Awareness of the dark, intense Javi was an itch at the base of Cloister’s neck.
Or maybe balls would be more accurate.
It was distracting, and that was disconcerting. He never got sidetracked at work, certainly not by nice shoulders in custom tailoring. Especially not when it was a missing-person case. Those were always bad ones. He didn’t sleep much anyway, but hardly at all when someone was lost. All of a sudden, though, his brain had decided to dedicate processing power to mooning over a hopeless crush.
Maybe he should get some sleep later.
Javi was standing in front of the Retreat’s office, dark head inclined toward a scruffy man in worn overalls. Groundsman, Cloister assumed from the dirt on the knees and the heavy-duty pruning shears he held as he talked.
Muttered, really. He kept his head down and shoulders up—awkward with either social interaction, authority, or sharply handsome men with elegant hands.
Cloister could sympathize. He wasn’t comfortable around any of those things either. His instincts made him bristle instead of cower. But then he had a gun and maybe a foot in height on the dark, scruffy gardener.
“Come on, girl,” he said as he clipped Bourneville’s leash onto her collar. “Fuss.”
Back to work. She shook her head, shedding chip crumbs, and took up her usual position at this side. Her shoulder bumped companionably against Cloister’s knee as they walked to the office. According to the girl he spoke to, Reed was away. He had an “important appointment.” Cloister assumed it was with his lawyer, insurance company, or both.
Up close the groundsman had the well-worn face of someone who worked outside. It made it difficult to tell how old he was. The stubble on his dusty jaw was patchy, but the skin was rough and full of dark pores. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, Cloister guessed.
“I never saw a boy out on his own,” the man muttered, wrinkling his nose and blinking nervously. “Told the other cops that.”
“I’m just making sure you didn’t forget anything, Matthew,” Javi said. “Sometimes you say something in the heat of the moment and then realize you left details out. So you didn’t see any boys that night?”
Matthew hunched his bony shoulders, scratched at a welt on his neck, and fidgeted. “Saw lots of boys. Always lots of kids around. I don’t watch them, but I see ’em.”
“Did you see the Hartley boys?” Javi asked. “William and Andrew?”
The corner of Matthew’s mouth jerked, and he shifted in place. “Might have seen them.” He drew the words out like he was using pliers. “Weren’t alone, though. If they’d been alone, I’d have said something.”
“Who were they with?” Javi asked.
He snipped the air nervously with the pruning shears, and the rusted hinge creaked. “Each other,” the man said. “The older boy was going somewhere, and the kid wanted to tag along.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Late. I was going home.”
“Were they arguing?” Cloister asked as he leaned against the low fence. It creaked under his weight, but it held.
