Stephen White - Missing Persons

“Do you know anything at all that might help me find him?”

“I wish I did,” she said. “I really wish to heck that I did.” She made her hands into fists and lifted them so that they came together just below her chin. “A few of my people here are totally reliable, you know what I mean? But some of the rest? Flakes. If they were gone for the amount of time that Bob’s been gone-a couple of days-I wouldn’t give it a second thought. Par for the darn course is what I’d think. Par for the darn course. But Bob? He’s not part of either group. He’s not regular, he’s not a flake. He’s…

“You know what? I’ll just say it: I don’t really like Bob, but I… like him. Do you understand? I do hope he’s okay.”

I understood.

I crammed in a quick stop at Mustard’s Last Stand on Broadway, inhaled my hot dogs with only a small side of guilt over the indulgence, and made it back to my office with just a few minutes to spare before my next appointment.

Was the after-work plan I cobbled together a good idea? Probably not. But once my workday was done I realized that I was fresh out of good ideas, so I was left to settle for questionable ones.

I assumed that it would take me a day or so to get an appointment arranged to see the inside of Doyle’s house, but I was wrong. When I phoned the listing agent asking if she could meet me for a showing, her eyes apparently began flashing dollar signs at the prospect of mining a buyer for a house for which she was already representing the seller. She asked me what time I got off work. I told her I was done at six. Without a moment’s hesitation she asked if 6:15 would work for me. “You won’t believe the water features in the backyard,” she exclaimed. “They are worth the purchase price all by themselves. Trust me, they’re…”

I didn’t tell her that I already knew.

When I called Viv, our part-time nanny, she informed me that Lauren would be late getting home, too. Viv promised me that she was happy to stay with Grace a little longer. In my head I added a small bonus to her monthly check. I also left Lauren a voice mail at her office that I would pick up some Thai takeout for dinner.

The woman I was meeting was named Virginia Danna. She pulled up in front of Doyle’s house in a silver Lexus SUV, the big version, the fancy Land Cruiser clone that was all shoulders and hips. I was parked a couple of doors farther north and walked the short distance from my car in time to meet up with her near the front porch.

“Dr. Gregory?” she beamed when she spotted me coming. “You’re going to absolutely love this place. The bathrooms need a little work, but oh, oh, the potential with the…” She was a tall, thin-the word svelte actually came to mind-elegantly dressed woman with just a hint of an accent, as though she’d emigrated to the United States from someplace when she was quite young. Despite her last name, for some reason I was guessing she was from Brazil. Her wardrobe made few concessions to winter. She wore no coat and she balanced effortlessly on high heels. All in all, very not-Boulder.

“Ms. Danna?”

“Yes, yes. I’m so sorry. My manners sometimes escape me when I’m excited. And this house, it…” She reached out to shake my hand. “Will you excuse me for just a moment?” She pressed a speed-dial button on her cell. “Yes, yes. Dr. Gregory is here. We’re going in now. Fine, fine. Yes, I’m sure. Doctor Gregory. That’s right, on Twelfth. Thanks!” Ms. Danna turned back to me. “With what’s happened to some poor agents in Denver-I’m sure you heard-we’re required to check into the office before all private showings. I hope you understand, it’s…”

“Of course.”

She was in the lockbox in seconds, retrieved the front door key, and held the door open so I could precede her inside. “I don’t really like to show houses when they’re unfurnished like this one is, but…” She sighed. “I tried to get the owner to rent some things, you know, just for… The right furniture makes everything seems so much brighter and…”

Ms. Danna had an obvious penchant for uncompleted thoughts. Regardless, I was grateful for the opening she’d just offered about Doyle. Offhandedly I asked, “Is the owner in town? Did he move to a larger house?”

She was easing me out of the cramped entryway into an adjacent living room with scratched red-oak floors, the original single-pane metal casement windows, and an undistinguished fireplace. “In town? No, no. Not exactly. But we’re in constant touch, constant. I promise I can get a response to an offer in a heartbeat. A day at the outside. He’s motivated, he is-he’s already dropped the price once. Don’t get me wrong; I mean that in all the right ways. Do you live here in Boulder?”

The last question was ripe with raw hope that my answer would be yes and that I might offer her the opportunity for a real estate trifecta: a buyer who purchases a home from a listing agent and then agrees to enlist the same agent to sell his existing home. Three commissions-seller, buyer, seller-and a veritable cascade of closings.

“I do. In Spanish Hills. But I work downtown near the Mall, on Walnut, and with the traffic lately, the drive is getting…” I tried to find the right word before I settled on “tiresome.”

Her excitement at my disclosure was palpable. A Spanish Hills listing? Although naming one of a few other even more precious local neighborhoods might have earned me an almost orgasmic response, in Boulder it didn’t get a whole lot better for local real estate purveyors than Spanish Hills. “Inventory” in Spanish Hills usually meant that there was a single home for sale. With my pronouncement that I lived on one of the rare parcels across the valley, I felt an instantaneous change in the electrical charge in the room.

But Ms. Danna knew that she had to sell me on the house at hand and couldn’t risk my getting too sentimental about leaving my current home. She played her hand well. “Don’t I know?” she said. “That’s the beauty of living right here on the Hill. Everything is so close: Chautauqua, downtown, the greenbelt, the mountains, the turnpike, shopping. The location is so…”

Perfect?

I caught her staring down at my left hand and accurately predicted her next question. “You’re married?”

“Yes.”

“Children?”

“One.”

“Spanish Hills?” she mused. “It’s so pretty up there. I have clients who have waited for years to… the views are so…”

Expansive? And the houses so… expensive. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I lived in one of the few modest homes-modest by Boulder standards-in the whole neighborhood. She’d be so disappointed.

“Yes, it is lovely,” I said, but I was allowing my eyes to wander the recesses of the bland living room and was beginning to wonder what I’d hoped to gain by traipsing through Doyle’s empty house. I moved through an opening from the living room into an equally bland dining room. Ms. Danna followed right behind me.

“Good size, don’t you think?” she said. “Plenty of room in here for a…”

Table? Family gathering?

The kitchen had been recently renovated and had a nice little built-in breakfast nook with a large window facing the yard. A compact laundry room was stuffed into what had probably once been a butler’s pantry. The quality of the remodel wasn’t congruous with the asking price for the house; the new cabinetry and appliances were the kind of warehouse stuff you might expect to find in a Boulder rental.

Ms. Danna apparently shared my impression. “Some new countertops in here, maybe stone, or even cast concrete, and you’d need to do something with that…”