Kevin Guilfoile - Cast Of Shadows

“Fine,” Mrs. Barwick said. “Have you been looking for a job?”

The first syllables of Sally’s response came out so loud, the cute guy upstairs must have heard them, even with the TV and the vacuum on. “ Jesus, Mother. I have a job.”

Mrs. Barwick said, “Yes, but I only tolerated this spy stuff you do because I figured you’d give it up when you got married. Now I want you to have a career. The way modern science is going, maybe I don’t need you or your sister. Maybe I can clone myself a grandson.”

“Investigation is a perfectly good career, Mom.”

“What is? Chasing cheating husbands and taking dirty pictures through the soiled windows of cheap motels? It’s no wonder you hate men.”

“I don’t hate men. I had a date on Thursday.”

“Tell me everything about him.”

And so on.

When the phone rang again twenty minutes later Sally figured her mother had been unsatisfied with her choice of last words and wanted to take another stab at it. She tossed the Tribune crossword puzzle off her lap, sending the cat running, and turned down the radio before reaching for the phone.

“This is a weird one, Barwick,” Big Rob said.

“What have you got?”

“I just had a beer with Phil Canella. Seriously, I oughta move this operation to the burbs. He’s got more business than he can handle. The closer you get to the Wisconsin border, the more suspicious the spouses, I guess.”

“What’s up?”

“Remember the Finn case? The parents of that clone boy who wanted the scoop on the cell donor?”

“Yeah, sure.” Truth was, she hadn’t stopped thinking about Justin Finn.

“Well, there was another private eye at the bar with us, a friend of Philly’s. Scott Colleran of Gold Badge Investigators. You heard of him?”

“No.”

“His office is way up north. By Six Flags in Gurnee. Anyway, we met up for happy hour at the Toad, swappin’ stories and whatnot, and it turns out Scott’s got a client who wants pictures of the Finn kid.”

“What? No! Who?”

“Come on. Scotty’s not gonna give up his client. We’re in the confidentiality business, remember?”

“Confidentiality doesn’t apply inside the Ten Toad Saloon, apparently.”

Big Rob laughed. “We were just talkin’. Anyway, that case got you so worked up when we were on it, I thought you’d think that was funny.”

Yeah, some crazy old man looking for snapshots of five-year-old boys. Hilarious. “This Colleran guy isn’t serious about taking the case, is he?”

“Sure he is. Why wouldn’t he?”

“What if somebody’s casing a kidnapping? What if the client’s a child molester?”

“Nah, pedophiles take their own pictures. Or they buy them on the Internet. Besides, Scott checked him out. Says it’s on the up-and-up.”

“Good. Scott Colleran checked him out. I guess the children of Chicago can walk the streets safely.” This was the sort of sarcasm Sally’s mother hated.

“Come on. Colleran’s all right. Like I said, he vouches for the guy.”

“I told you there was something unholy about that Finn case, Biggie,” Barwick said. “This is all related.”

“Relax. It’s probably just a run-of-the-mill custody deal.” He paused and Sally could hear him take a bite of something crunchy over the phone. “So do you want the job, or what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Same as Philly, Gold Badge has more work than they can handle. This is what I’ve been talkin’ about: an office in the burbs. Anyway, I knew you had a hard-on for the Finn case so I told Colleran you were a first-rate shooter and looking for some extra work. The job’s worth four hundred to you, minus my commission. Four-fifty, if you can get it done without turning it into a conspiracy. Or worse, a moral dilemma.”

Sally knew this was a horrible idea. She also knew she couldn’t say no to a chance to snoop around the Finn case. “What sort of pics are they looking for?”

“Close-up. Face only. Nothing for the raincoat crowd. Front and side. Mug shot deal, or as best you can get without being noticed. You’ll need a telephoto.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Biggie.”

“That offer of four-fifty is for a limited time, hon.”

This was a test of sorts, she realized. Big Rob was alternately encouraging and skeptical about her long-term prospects as a private investigator. He was clearly fond of her, but he also wondered if she (or any woman) had the constitution to do competent work for questionable clients. Information is morally neutral, he’d say. You have to be as well. “Yeah, yeah. You know I’ll do it. You’ll get me the address?”

“Got it right here.”

Three mornings later, Barwick sat on a man-made slope overlooking a soccer field, casually snapping photos through a long lens. The sky was Chagall blue with a single Magritte cloud. The air was comfortably cool and dry. Below, boys and girls chased one another across a truncated field. There were nets and lots of uncalled hand balls and, occasionally, even goals, but no one kept score. It was difficult to tell who was on what team, with kids in both jerseys tending to gang up on the one closest to the ball. First-year players, teenies they were called, were still finding their way in the game.

Through the lens, Barwick found and lost Justin a dozen times, snapping the shutter when she could catch him between the back-and-forth and the up-and-down. She recalled Eric Lundquist’s face, kept fresh in her memory by a recurring dream, and tried to match it against the boy’s, almost two years older than when she took on the earlier case. She supposed Big Rob might have been right. Lundquist could be the donor. There might be an explanation for the birthmark. Maybe the old woman had forgotten. Maybe she was lying. Maybe it was some sort of genetic quirk. Sally had known identical twins in high school and she could always tell them apart. Their ears were a little bit different. Maybe one had a birthmark and the other didn’t. What did she really know about genetics, anyway?

On the job, Barwick wished she could be more like Big Rob, wished she could keep her curiosity on a leash. But how could she watch this kid through the camera, violating him with each exposure, and not wonder who was paying for this and why? She’d been trying to think of an explanation that didn’t churn her stomach, and to this point she’d come up with nothing.

“Which one is yours?”

Barwick brought the camera down between her knees and turned toward the voice. She was sitting about six feet to Sally’s left: petite, pretty, not as old as most of the other moms. She’d brought a picnic basket, a cardboard carton of juice with a straw, and a home magazine.

“Oh, no,” Barwick said. “I mean, none of them are mine. I’m a student at the Art Institute. This is for midterms. Big show. You know – Innocence of Youth.” She laughed. “It’s a whole big theme or something.”

“I thought you were a little young for the mom thing.”

Barwick waved her hand. “I’m not as young as you, am I?” The woman blushed. “I’m Sally.”

The mother put her juice down and stretched her body close enough to extend a hand. “Martha Finn,” she said.

Barwick thought immediately of the different ways Big Rob might tell her she’d blown the case. Sarcasm was the most likely approach, but he could just as well choose a violent tantrum. He could decide she was unreliable. A flake. He could stop calling with work.

Still, have a spaz now and she’d no doubt make things worse.

“Nice to meet you,” Barwick said.

“Do you mind?” Martha asked, lifting her basket and making a motion with her shoulders in Barwick’s direction.

“Please,” Barwick said and the two scooched closer together.