Faye Kellerman - Bone Box

Decker said, “You must have been frustrated.”

“Beyond frustrated. No one was listening to us.”

“What happened with his apartment?” McAdams said.

“I paid his unpaid bill for the month, but I told the apartment management I wasn’t paying anything else. I didn’t cosign the lease. I wasn’t obliged to pay them anything. After I explained the situation, the building supervisor let us in there to clean up. I boxed up Lawrence’s things …” She lowered her head. “My husband and I went through everything we could find. Every bill, every piece of correspondence, every scrap of paper. We didn’t find his phone or laptop or iPad. And the service providers wouldn’t give me access to his information because they didn’t know if Lawrence was alive or dead. He was a grown man—or grown woman. For all we knew, he could have been put in witness protection.”

“Why would you think that?” Decker said.

“Like I said, he knew a lot of counterculture people. Not that Lawrence seemed to be the type of guy to become an informant, but I really didn’t know a whole lot about his life, did I?”

“Right.”

“Besides, Lawrence bucked authority wherever, whenever. Anyway, when it was plain that he wasn’t going to suddenly show up, we hired a private eye.”

“And?”

“He talked to people—Lawrence’s old friends, his new friends, his friends on Facebook. The investigator talked to people Lawrence worked with, talked to old college friends and faculty. He charged us a lot of money. He got nowhere.”

“Did he give you the files, Mrs. Pettigrew?”

“He gave us a report. You can have it if you want. But if the body isn’t Lawrence, I’d want that back as well.”

“Of course,” McAdams said. “Could we have the PI’s name? He probably has an entire file on Lawrence—more than he included in the report.”

“His name is James Breck. He was a former New York police detective. He came highly recommended. My opinion is he was just churning up hours. But of course, I wasn’t thinking charitably about anyone at that point.”

“We’ll check him out,” Decker said. “Where is his office?”

“Somewhere in Queens. I have an address, but I don’t know if it’s current.”

“Anything you can give us will help,” McAdams said.

Decker said, “In the report, did he list the people he talked to?”

“I don’t remember. I haven’t looked at the report in a while. I did have a list of people that I thought he should talk to. If you hold on, I’ll get you the report and see what I still have in the file.”

“That would be great,” Decker said.

As soon as she left, McAdams said, “Breck is in Astoria.” He took out his cell and called him up. He reached a human voice. Surprise, surprise. “Hello, this is Detective Tyler McAdams from Greenbury Police Department in Upstate New York. I’m trying to get hold of James Breck … okay, do you have any idea how often he calls in for messages?” Tyler paused as he listened. “Could you please have him give us a call as soon as possible? It’s important … yes, thank you.” McAdams spelled his name and left both his and Decker’s cell numbers. He hung up.

“Answering service?” Decker asked.

“Yes. It’s strange to actually talk to someone. Here’s the address.” McAdams looked at his watch. It was seven in the evening. “I don’t think he’ll be in, but we could swing by and leave cards to show we’re serious.”

“Let me call Rina after we’re done here …” Decker stopped talking as Joanne Pettigrew came back into the room.

She said, “Yes, I suppose we did give James a list of all Lawrence’s friends.” She handed it to Decker along with a folder. “Tell me if you find anything interesting.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“Although I suppose you won’t want to be wasting your time if it’s not Lawrence.”

“I’ll be happy to look it over regardless.” Decker smiled. “Anything you’d like to ask me?”

She sighed again. “Not at the moment. Maybe I’ll think of something later on.”

“You have my number. Feel free to use it.”

“Thank you.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Decker stood up and said, “Thank you for your time and for the dental X-rays. If we have something, I’ll let you know right away.”

He extended his hand and Joanne took it with the slightest of touches. No energy in the gesture. She had used up her reserves for the evening.

McAdams looked over Lawrence Pettigrew’s PI report as Decker drove back toward Brooklyn. Just as they wended their way over the bridge and into Flatbush, the Bluetooth kicked in. It was a number Decker didn’t recognize. He accepted the call.

“Decker.”

“This is James Breck.”

“Mr. Breck. Thank you so much for calling me back. I’m here with my partner, Detective McAdams.”

“What is this in regards to?”

“Lawrence Pettigrew.”

“Ah, so you found him … or her, I guess.”

“We don’t know. We’re in Brooklyn right now. You have a listed address in Queens. We can come to you.”

“I’m at home. I don’t have his folder on me. It’s in the office.”

McAdams said, “Is it possible to meet you at the office?”

“Let me think … maybe around nine.”

“Nine is fine. Thank you.”

Breck said, “Being that you don’t know if you found Lawrence or not, I’m assuming you found a body.”

“We did.”

“In an advanced state of decomposition.”

“Yes.”

“I have a copy of his dental records.”

“We got a set from Mrs. Pettigrew.”

“She has the originals so they’re probably better. I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you,” Decker said.

McAdams looked at his watch. “That’s an hour from now.”

“We’re ten minutes away from my son and daughter-in-law’s house. I’d like to stop in and say hello.”

“Sure.” McAdams paused. “Do you ever discuss your cases with your kids?”

“Not really, no, especially now that Sammy has a child. Parenthood is like the first stage of mortality. Once you have children, you realize you’re no longer invincible.”

After an interlude of coffee and cake with Rina, Sammy, and Rachel, the two detectives were off to Queens.

McAdams was unusually quiet.

“Tired?” Decker asked.

“No, I’m fine.” He paused. “It’s weird. This is probably the most I’ve ever seen of the other four boroughs. Well, three actually. We haven’t made it to the Bronx yet. To us Knickerbockers, the only city is Manhattan.”

“You’re an original Knickerbocker?”

“Not at all, but I have enough money to buy the title.”

The car’s navigation told Decker to turn right in one hundred feet.

“I really am sheltered,” McAdams said. “I only know Queens as an exit on the highway going to Kennedy. I really have to get out more.”

It took another ten minutes until the navigation informed them that they had reached their destination. It was a three-story ’60s-style office building—read it as no style—located in a strip mall. Breck’s office was above a fast-food sandwich shop, now closed, and next door to a Pilates studio, also shuttered. There was some illumination coming from behind the closed blinds. The door was locked: Decker rang the bell. Several footsteps could be heard before the door opened.

Breck was his fifties: short and slight, white hair that held hints of blond. Pale blue eyes were focused behind spectacles and a flared nose sat on a round face. His smile was white and broad. He immediately asked for ID. Decker showed him his badge, and he and McAdams went inside a one-room office. Furnishings included three desks, each with a computer, a printer, and a landline phone, two walls of file cabinets, a copy machine and a fax machine, a small kitchen bar with a coffeepot, a water cooler and a fridge, and a very big cardboard box that held a junk pile of laptops, phones, and electronic tablets.