“He turned seventeen in August.”
The jury was out on whether his age was in his favor or against it, but Billie was secretly relieved she wouldn’t be looking for a toddler. “Has anything like this happened before?”
“No.” The woman shook her head adamantly. “Adin is a good boy. He’s just... gone. He had dinner, went to bed as usual, but then he was gone. His bed hadn’t been slept in.”
No one was everjust gone.There was always a story. He went to bed, but his bed wasn’t slept in. It was unlikely to be abduction, though of course that wasn’t completely out of the question. Had he climbed out a window, gone out on the town, and decided not to come back? Or could he have walked out the front door without being detected, perhaps?
“How long ago was this?” Billie asked.
“Two days ago. Well, I knew on Thursday morning that he was gone.”
Billie nodded. It was Friday now, so if he went missing on Wednesday after dinner, that was almost two days. A lot could have happened in that time, but it wasn’t terrible odds. “Have you spoken to anyone else about this? The police, perhaps?”
The woman nodded, and her mouth cracked a little, turning down. “Yes. I checked with his friends and when they hadn’t seen him I went to see the police. They were not helpful...” Again the voice strained a touch. There was something there. “I was at the police station yesterday, and when I was leaving, a Miss Primrose recommended I see you.”
Constable Primrose. She was good like that. Billie had connections all over Sydney. She passed the woman, now quietly crying, ahandkerchief embroidered with the initialsB.W.It was received with a murmured thank-you. The woman dabbed the corners of her eyes and then placed it on the desk, took off her gloves, and put them in her lap, her pale hands kneading and turning. She wore a gold ring on her left hand, Billie noted. The spooked impression had not left her entirely, but she was opening up now, easing herself into Billie’s care. Still, Billie gave her time. Finally the woman took a sip of her tea with a not-so-steady hand, added a lump of sugar, and took another sip. After a minute some color came back into her face and her shoulders dropped an inch.
“So you would characterize this situation as unusual?” Billie asked. Teenagers did have a habit of running away.
The woman nodded adamantly again, her eyes still wet. “Yes.” Her tone implied a degree of personal offense.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions,” Billie said soothingly, “but it is important to get as much of the story as possible in order for me to help you. If we are to find your son promptly, I can make no assumptions.” She didn’t know what it was like to be a mother, but she imagined losing a child or having one unaccounted for would be very nearly unbearable. It was bad enough with a missing adult, as she knew too well. “Where do you think your son might be, if you had to guess? Does he have a girlfriend perhaps?” Billie’s even-featured face was a picture of care and restraint. A good, compassionate listening face, but there was a veneer of professional composure as well. She’d learned from the best.
“There is no girlfriend. He’s a good boy. None of his friends have seen him.”
Not when his mother is asking, anyway,Billie thought. She considered things. Missing about two days. No girlfriend the motherknew about. Friends claiming not to have seen him. “If I accept this case,” she said, “perhaps you could write down their details for me just the same. I’d like to speak with them myself.”
The “if” hung in the air. “Oh, of course.” The woman fiddled with her reptile bag for a moment, then opened a small fabric purse and pushed a folded ten-pound note across the desk toward Billie. “Will this be enough for a retainer?”
“If you like I can begin inquiries today. The retainer is suitable. I charge ten pounds a day plus expenses.”
The woman didn’t seem sure what to make of that. The sucked-lemon look returned. She sat with her knees pressed together, unmoving. “That’s a lot,” she protested.
Billie had heard that before, more than once. She leaned back in her chair, crossed one leg over the other, and let the tension in the office sit for a while before responding. Once the air was so still it could almost have suffocated a small bird, she gave a tight-lipped smile and said, “Frankly, no, it isn’t a lot. I give cases my full attention, full-time and at all hours, and I need to pay a decent wage to my assistant, who is also worth every shilling, I assure you. My day is not nine to five. In fact, I may get furthest from nine at night to daybreak. Sometimes the work becomes dangerous.” When the woman opened her mouth to object, Billie cut her off, not finished yet. “I can’t know whether cases will turn that way until I am further in, and neither can my clients. There are frequently disgruntled husbands and jilted lovers and betrayed friends or business colleagues to contend with—and sometimes far worse. People come to me with things they can’t do or don’t want to do themselves, and often for good reason. And perhaps you haven’t employed a private inquiry agent recently, but you’ll find a lot in my trade who’d happily chargeyou one hundred pounds or more if they thought they could get it out of you, for a simple case that could be resolved in just a couple of days.” She crossed her legs the other way and gave the woman a level look. “No, ten pounds a day is not a lot,” she concluded, and waited.
One PI Billie knew of had taken a client for a staggering five hundred pounds, but you couldn’t get that kind of cash out of many clients, and Billie had no interest in working like that in any event. Attempts to regulate the industry had thus far been unsuccessful, though Billie was not totally unsympathetic to the idea, despite the red tape it would doubtless bring. For every one of them who left a client disgruntled and without a shilling to their name, the same shilling-less condition caught two investigators like a virus. Shonky investigators were bad for the industry, bad for Billie. And though she was no angel, it also made Billie sick to think of robbing people in their most vulnerable moments.
At least, the ones who didn’t deserve it.
The woman’s face had softened slightly, the sucked-lemon look vanishing and the hands on the reptile handbag loosening a touch. The monologue had worked. “What kind of expenses?” she ventured, now trying even to smile a little as if to appease the investigator across from her.
“Anything extra that comes up, travel, for example, if required, but you’ll be informed first and can give your approval. I like everything on the level and up front.” Billie still hadn’t touched the ten pounds, and it sat there between them, a symbol of uncertainty. “Do you have a clear photograph of your son? If I am to proceed I would need an up-to-date photograph and his full name.”
The woman took an envelope from her handbag and passed it over. She seemed to have accepted the terms. Inside was aphotograph, bent slightly in the upper corner. “His name is Adin Brown. This was taken about a year ago.”
Billie studied the picture. Adin was a good-looking boy, and certainly a healthy enough lad to get into trouble, by the looks of it. His hair was distinctive and curly, with a bit of height at the front. He wore his cotton shirt open a touch, just enough to suggest there were a couple of hairs he wanted to show off. There might be a girlfriend. But then, the mother could be right, too.
The woman, still not having given her name, let out a long sigh, seeming unaware she was even doing it. “I never thought I’d hire a lady detective,” she remarked.
Billie shifted forward in her chair again. “Well... Mrs. Brown, I presume?” Her visitor nodded. “Mrs. Brown, life takes us to interesting places. You’ve done the right thing if the police aren’t showing any initiative. When a person goes missing, every hour counts. Though I must stress that I am not a detective.”
The woman looked panicked again for a moment, shoulders high, mouth tight, and those dark brown eyes showing their whites. “You’re not...?”
“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve come to the right place,” Billie assured her. “It’s just that private inquiry agents in this country are prevented by law from using the word ‘detective’ regarding their work.” It was, in fact, practically the only legislation pertaining particularly to the trade. The Australian police were more protective of the term than their North American counterparts evidently were. “If you could write me that list, that would be a good start. May I ask, does Adin have a place of work?”
“He works for the fur company, yes.” She pushed a business card across the table and Billie leaned forward and picked it up:
Mrs. Netanya Brown
