Jodi Compton - The 37th Hour

“I guess that’s why I was angry when I thought he had a girl in his room on Christmas Eve. Like he felt it was okay for him to do that, because he was Mike. Since then, I’ve wished I’d covered for him.” Bill shook his head. “I didn’t know then he was going to up and leave home because of what happened.”

After a moment of silence, I realized Bill Shiloh was done. There was no moral to the story, no coda, other than his expression of mild regret.

I had one last question, but I thought I already knew the answer. “I don’t think Mike’s in trouble,” I said. “But if he were, do you know of a friend he’d go to?”

“To Sara,” Bill said. “He’d go to her.”

After two open-ended interviews, casting with a broad net for anything that might be useful, I finally had a very specific task: finding Sinclair Goldman.

That task led me to the public library at midday. None of Shiloh’s brothers or sisters seemed to have a current or even an old phone number or address for her. Sinclair, of course, was deaf, but I was working on the assumption she’d have a TTY phone, one adapted for use for the hearing-impaired.

Normally, a phone number would make things easy. Vang, back in Minneapolis, could run any name I gave him through the national phone disc and come up with a number. It was deciding what name to give him that would be the problem. Sinclair’s last name could be Goldman, or she could have split up with her husband and gone back to Shiloh. Her first name could be Sinclair, if she’d had it legally changed, or it could still be Sara.

Sitting at a broad table in the library’s reading room, I mixed and matched the possibilities on a piece of scratch paper. Sinclair Goldman. Sara Goldman. Sinclair Shiloh. Sara Shiloh. Four possible names. No, six, I realized. Naomi told me that Sara spelled her first name without the h. But one thing I’d learned in doing routine investigative work was to always account for clerical errors, especially common misspellings of variant names. Michele and Michelle. Jon and John. If I asked Vang for this favor, I’d have to include Sarah Goldman and Sarah Shiloh as possible names. Vang’s list might stretch into the hundreds of listings. Even a thousand.

Some of those women I’d actually reach the first time. But I’d also end up leaving dozens of messages on machines and in voice mailboxes, then I’d be stuck by a phone in a cheap motel room somewhere, waiting for return calls.

There was even a possibility that Sinclair’s phone wasn’t listed under her name but her husband’s, whose first name I didn’t even know. Something with a D, Bill Shiloh had said.

There had to be a better way than going through official data banks.

When people aren’t crooks, and aren’t hiding, there are a couple of easy ways to find them. Through their profession is one way.

Sinclair was a poet. She didn’t seem to be well known, if there was such a thing as a well-known poet other than the rare few called on to read at presidential inaugurations. But even so, she was a semipublic person. Her name, Sinclair Goldman, was her brand. She wasn’t likely to have changed it, even if she’d broken up with her husband.

Through an entryway off to my left I could see into another room, full of computers. They were Web stations. I picked up my piece of scratch paper and crossed to the doorway.

Every station was occupied. Nearby, a sign advised, Please sign up for Internet time. Half hour while others are waiting. A clipboard hung below.

Almost all the users seemed to be high-school students. Did the schools release them to do library research on their own? Did they cut school to go on the Internet? I’d been no stranger to cutting school as a kid, but never to go to a library.

The youngest user was perhaps 15. He was looking at pictures of muscle cars.

“Excuse me,” I said. I held up my Hennepin County badge. “This is police business.”

His eyes widened a little and he got up, reaching for a backpack next to the seat.

“Don’t move your stuff,” I said. “This probably won’t take long.”

I slid into the warm seat and typed the address of a meta-search engine Shiloh favored into the window of the browser. When the portal came up, I typed “Sinclair Goldman” into the search field.

It drew two hits. One was the site for Last Light Press; that was promising. The other one was of more interest. It was the site of Bale College.

Clicking through, I learned that Sinclair Goldman was on the Bale faculty for the current semester. Sinclair Goldman was a lecturer, Creative Writing 230. Practice of Poetry. My heart felt a little lighter, like it always did when a trail was getting warmer.

Further mouse-clicking told me her class met today, but too late for me to catch her there unless Bale was somewhere in northern Utah. It wasn’t. The ‘Getting Here’ page showed a star on a map a bit south of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

“Just another minute,” I told the waiting kid as I clicked on “Contact Us” and reached for the library’s supply of scratch paper and a little half pencil.

I called from a quiet phone near the library’s rest rooms, and the operator switched me through to the literature department.

“This is Detective Sarah Pribek,” I told the young man who answered the phone. “I’m trying to get in touch with Sinclair Goldman. I know she’s deaf,” I put in quickly. Already I’d heard him draw in his breath to explain that to me. “But I have to get in touch with her today. It’s police business.”

“She’s on campus right now. She has a poetry seminar from two to four.” He had a pale, hollow voice and a student’s accent. Apropos of very little, I imagined him. About 20, with very short hair dyed white-blond from some more mundane color.

“I’m in Utah,” I said. “I’m coming to Santa Fe, but not that fast.”

“We’re not in Santa Fe. We’re-”

“I don’t need directions. I just need to know where I can get in touch with Sinclair Goldman after she leaves campus. A phone number or an address.”

Predictably, he balked. “We can’t give addresses out.”

I’d expected as much, and I couldn’t press the issue. I was on the phone. He was right not to give out her information on my word that I was a police officer.

“A phone number, then,” I said.

He sounded incredulous. “I really don’t think she has a phone. Ms. Goldman is hearing-impaired.”

“I know that, but-”

“I can tell you she has office hours here on Tuesday from-”

Goddammit. “Look, I’m a sheriff’s detective from Minnesota. I’m not coming to New Mexico to talk to her about a term paper, and I can’t wait until Tuesday. Will you please check for a phone number?”

A beat of silence. “Please hold.”

He came back a minute later. “I have a number,” he said, sounding surprised. He read it. “The thing is, there’s a name in parentheses next to it. Ligieia Moore. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your help.”

Ignoring his question, I broke the connection with my index finger and waited before dialing again.

Sinclair was in class right now, so was anyone even at home? Maybe D. Goldman, husband. Or Ligieia Moore, whoever she was. Maybe this number was some kind of contact. An assistant? Her editor, even?

The phone rang four times and someone picked up. “Hello?” It was a light, feminine voice.

“My name is Detective Sarah Pribek, and I’m trying to reach Sinclair Goldman. Who am I talking to?”

“This is Ligieia,” she said. “Sinclair isn’t here. Did you say you were a police officer?”

“I’m a sheriff’s detective from Hennepin County, Minne-sota,” I said. “I need to talk to Ms. Goldman as part of an investigation. I called Bale College, and this is the number they gave me for her. Is there a better one I should have called?”