“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said.
Tancredi cocked her head to the side and squinted at him suspiciously. “Yeah,” she said as she rolled the word over her tongue. “You really need to learn to lie better. Let me know if you need any help.”
She left, twisting her hair back in a braid as she walked away, and Cloister went back to staring at the computer.
The transcripts of the 9-1-1 calls weren’t much use. It sounded as though someone had given each caller the same script to read from. The names were different, the locations, but they hit all the same points. Someone had gone missing, it wasn’t like them, they wouldn’t do this to whomever was calling and/or their mother, and they knew something had happened.
It didn’t mean anything—their fear just had a lot of things in common—but it made it hard to pick out any that might be relevant to his case. The distinct details, what they had of them, got lost in the noise.
By the time he finished, his back ached, his skull felt like someone had it in a nutcracker, and he had a list of five names that might be connected to the Hartley case. Three boys and a girl, all between thirteen and fifteen, all disappeared at the same time of year, all of them with a new boyfriend or girlfriend who couldn’t be tracked down. All their parents, with the exception of one boy whose father was a firefighter, worked in either banking or construction.
Now all he had to do was pick one of them and hope they were the one who could confirm his theory before he had to hand Javi a handful of frogspawn and no evidence.
SIX YEARSago the Szerdos’ housekeeper had called the police to report that the family’s fourteen-year-old son hadn’t come home. His mother was too distraught to make the call. According to the police report, Leo Szerdo was the sort of golden boy that Cloister imagined Javi had been. He was moderately athletic and had excellent grades and a college recruiter’s wet-dream list of extracurricular activities. His mother thought he was an angel, his father thought he was a chip off the old block, and the housekeeper thought he was a spoiled brat.
Sometime between being found and the present, the luster wore off for his family. He had a criminal record for drug possession and the occasional bout of disorderly conduct. At the address on file for him, his mother claimed they were no longer in contact. Eventually—reluctantly—she handed over the address where he was staying.
The twenty-year-old was slouched on the bed in the hotel room his parents had to be paying for. One tattooed arm was slung over the cushions. His hair was ratty with grease, and a cold sore scarred the corner of his mouth. It cracked and bled as he spoke.
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “I was a stupid kid. I ran away from home, and I was so grateful when my parents found me. That what you wanna hear?”
The words singsonged out of him. He was long past bothering to make them sound believable.
“Is it the truth?” Cloister asked. He sat on an office chair dragged away from the computer desk. Apparently Leo didn’t have many friends over. Bourneville lay on the ground next to him on a short leash as she fidgeted and grumbled into her paws. Her tail tip tapped the floor in irritated thuds.
Leo rolled his eyes. “Who cares?” he said. “It’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it? Good boy gone bad? Stupid, ungrateful boy who doesn’t appreciate his parents’ sacrifices? What do you care, anyhow? It was years ago.”
“It’s in connection with another case—”
“The Hartley kid,” Leo said. “Right?”
He made a scoffing noise at Cloister’s blink and leaned forward to grab a pack of cigarettes off the table. His fingers were roughly tattooed with black lettering, and they trembled as he tapped out a cigarette.
“I’d rather you didn’t smoke, Mr. Szerdo,” Cloister said.
“Yeah? Well it’s my home, and I can do what I fucking want,” Leo said harshly. He hitched his hips up and worked his hand into his jeans to pull out a lighter. He spun the wheel with his thumb, which made the flint spark. He was doing it too hard and fast for it to catch. Giving up for a second, he plucked the cigarette from between his lips and pointed it at Cloister. “It’s a fucking shame about the Hartley kid, okay? It’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t know what my goddamn parents told you, but the only person I hurt is me. Okay? I’m not some pervert.”
He tried to light his cigarette again. He managed it, and the paper flared as it caught. The smell of burning hung in the air, undercut with the bitter smell of nicotine. It put Cloister’s teeth on edge. He’d never liked the smell.
“You’re not under suspicion, Mr. Szerdo.”
“Fuck I’m not,” Leo spat. He leaned forward abruptly, and smoke drooled from his mouth. “Why else would you be here?”
“Did you know Birdie Utkin?”
There wasn’t a lot of color in Leo’s face. He had the greasy pallor of someone who’d been treating themselves badly for a while. But what there was leeched away and left the spots and scars stark against his coarse skin. He licked his scabbed lips.
“How…? Who told you…?” He stopped and clenched his jaw, and the muscles bunched like ropes in his cheeks as he stood up abruptly and pointed at the door, the cigarette pinched between his fore and index fingers. “Get out. Unless you’re going to arrest me. Get the hell out of my house, or I’m calling a lawyer.”
Cloister could taste the nicotine in the back of his throat—a musty, clinging smell that would be with him the rest of the day. He could have tried to calm Leo down, explain what he needed, and that he wanted to help. Instead he let Bourneville’s leash slip through his fingers. She lunged up from the ground and glanced at him for her cue.
“Get it,” Cloister whispered and snapped his fingers.
Bourneville barked her acknowledgment and stalked around the apartment nose-first. She skirted the bed, and sniffed the crumpled, sweaty sheets with interest and under the window. The stiff-legged, deliberate stalk covered more ground than you’d expect, and she looked as though she were heading off to murder something.
“Hey, wait. What the hell is she doing?” Leo protested. He took a step toward Bourneville. She ignored him. Cloister got up and blocked him with one arm. Despite the concern twitching at the corners of his eyes, Leo backed off. He sniffed and tried to front up some confidence as he looked at Cloister and squared his shoulders. “You can’t do that. You don’t have a search warrant.”
“I don’t need one,” Cloister said. “A sniff test from a trained K-9 dog is probable cause for a search, Mr. Szerdo. Why? Is there something you don’t want found?”
