Chapter
2
T
he story Bryan Hayes told me sitting there at the table with his legs wound around the chair's metal ones was an old one, one I knew well. His father had died soon after Bryan was born, leaving his mother to raise two kids by herself. She'd gotten a job in a store selling dresses, and when she couldn't meet the bills that way, she'd worked as a waitress two nights a week. To all intents and purposes she was never around, a fact Bryan had hated and felt guilty about hating. He'd resolved the dichotomy by blossoming from a quiet, well-behaved boy into a full-time pain in the ass, playing Cain to Melissa's Abel. There'd been calls from teachers, visits to the principal, fights in school, shoplifting, a stolen car. In short, the usual JD litany.
Although Bryan didn't come right out and say so, it was obvious to me he felt finding his sister was his shot at redemption, his chance to make up for all the grief he'd caused his mother. He'd spent the months since her disappearance hoping Melissa would turn up. But time was running out. His mother was in the hospital, chained to her bed by wires and tubes, begging him to find out what had happened, and he had given his word that he would.
“Maybe it's stupid,” he said, giving me a wan smile. “But I don't want to break another promise.”
I made a sympathetic noise and waited for him to continue.
Bryan drained the last of his beer and carefully put the glass back down on the table. Then he leaned forward. “I know this kind of stuff is expensive and I don't have a lot of money, but my mom gave me some.”
“So she knows you're here?”
Bryan nodded. He took his wallet out of his pocket and handed me a small wad of new-looking bills. “There's four hundred in there. I can give you another four hundred next week.”
“Fine.” I unzipped my backpack and stuffed the money inside. I'd gotten over feeling guilty about charging for my services a while ago. If Bryan had gone to one of the private investigators listed in the phone book this would have cost him thousands.
“Aren't you going to count it?”
“Should I?”
“No.”
“Okay.” I left my backpack on the table. “Now that that's out of the way, why don't you show me your sister's picture.”
Bryan handed me a copy of the same flyer I'd seen on my walk over to the Yellow Rhino. “Here,” he said, smoothing the wrinkles out of the piece of paper with the flat of his hand before handing it to me.
I studied it again. According to the stats at the bottom of the page, Melissa Hayes was nineteen years old, five feet five inches tall, weighed 128 pounds, had hazel eyes and light brown hair, and was last seen wearing jeans, a plaid flannel button-down shirt, a navy jacket with a leather collar, and a pair of sneakers. She had no visible scars or other identifying marks. What the poster didn't say was that she had her brother's smile and the shape of his chin.
As I studied the photograph, I couldn't help thinking that three of the children who had gone missing in the area in the last two years had come to a bad end, but they'd been much younger. The odds of a happier ending for a nineteen-year-old girl were considerably higher. I held on to that thought as I went back to looking at Melissa's picture. In it she was leaning against a tree trunk. A small blue colonial with white shutters figured in the background. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and she'd tied a green shirt over her shoulders. The day must have started off cool and warmed up. Her hair was long and parted on the side. Her smile was bright, her features symmetrical. Like her brother, she could have fit into any college campus in the country.
“May I?” Bryan asked as he reached over and took the flyer from me. He devoured it with his eyes before sighing and handing it back. “She's pretty, isn't she?”
“Very,” I replied, noting his use of the present tense. I hoped he was right. I hoped it wasn't just wishful thinking. “When was this taken?”
“Last year.”
“She looks happy.”
“She was.”
I indicated the house in the background. “Is this your home?”
He nodded.
I pointed to the flyer while I tried not to think about how much I wanted a cigarette. “May I keep this?”
“Sure. I have lots more.”
“Where'd you put them up?”
“Mostly around campus. You think I should have put them up some other places too?” he asked worriedly.
I reassured him while I smoothed out the paper and laid it on the table. Melissa looked like someone who would be kind to children and animals, and I hoped she would fall in with the ninety-five percent of missing persons who vanish because they wanted to rather than the five percent who are kidnapped and killed.
“Have the police been through her belongings?”
Bryan nodded. “I gave them her address book.”
“Do you know if she kept a diary?”
“No. She always she said she was going to start, but she never got around to it. I suppose you want to see her room too?” His voice betrayed the slightest hint of exasperation.
“It would be helpful, unless, of course, you have a problem with that.”
“No,” he replied quickly. “None at all.”
I tapped my fingers on the table while I gathered my thoughts. I was finding it difficult to concentrate in the surrounding din. We should have gone somewhere else. Bryan opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, closed it again, and took his hat off, ran his fingers through his hair, and put it back on again.
“Do you have something you want to tell me?” I asked as I got my notebook and pen out of my backpack.
Bryan licked his lips.
I opened the notebook. “I can't help you if I don't have all the information.”
“Talk to Tommy West.” Bryan spit the name out as if it had been a tack.
“Who's that?”
“Melissa's boyfriend.”
I felt as if I were playing twenty questions. “Okay. What about him?”
“They were always fighting.”
I thought about Murphy. And George. “Lots of couples fight.”
“She was getting ready to dump him and he didn't like that. He said he wasn't going to let her go.”
“Did you tell this to the police?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“A detective interviewed him. For all the good it did.” Bryan's tone was bitter. “Marks ...”
“... the detective?”
“Right.”
I wrote his name down and underlined it.
“... said West didn't have anything to do with Missy's disappearance. ”
I stated the self-evident. “But you disagree. You think he's involved.”
Bryan contorted his face into a ferocious frown. “The guy's a scumbag,” he told me, stretching out the last word. “I told Missy to stay away from him, but she wouldn't listen. She told me to mind my own business.”
“Why is he a scumbag?”
Bryan clenched and unclenched his fists while he talked. “West thinks he owns the world. He thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants to whoever he wants. His kind always do.”
“His kind?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you be a little more explicit?”
But Bryan was on a roll and didn't want to stop to answer my question. “I mean on top of everything else, he's got that goddamned snake. Anyone who keeps something like that has to be cracked in the head, right?”
I made a noncommittal noise. I guess George hadn't told him that Noah's Ark, the pet store I ran, specialized in selling reptiles. “What kind of snake?”
“A big one.”
Over the past few years owning a pet store, I've learned that when it comes to snakes, people tend to exaggerate measurements. “How big?”
“Big enough. Maybe from there to there,” he said, indicating two table lengths and the space between them.
“Twelve feet? Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm not sure. I didn't measure the damn thing.”
I put my pen down. “Is it a Burmese? A boa?” I wondered if West had gotten it from our store. I hoped not.
“How the hell should I know?” Bryan's voice began to rise. “He ...”
“Tommy West?”
“Who the hell else am I talking about? Just lets it crawl around his room at the frat house. You know what I think happened?”
“What?” I asked even though what he thought was obvious.
“I think the snake killed my sister and then Tommy went and buried the body, that's what I think.”
“But the police don't?”
“They think she's off on a holiday.”
I picked up my pen again and wrote down Tommy West's name followed by a question mark. “Contrary to what you see in the movies, snakes don't usually kill people.”
“But it could happen.” Bryan's eyes were glittering.
“Yes, it
could
happen. Anything can happen. It's just not very likely that it did. You see, even snakes of that size tend to go after smallerâ”
But Bryan wasn't in the mood to listen to a lecture on boids. “Let me tell you,” he interrupted. “If it wasn't for my mother, I'd beat what happened to my sister out of him.”
“Really?” I regarded him for a moment before I spoke. “The way you're acting, I'm surprised you haven't tried already.”
Bryan muttered something I couldn't catch, slumped in his seat, and glared at me while he cracked his knuckles. His cheeks were still bright red, his jaw was clenched. This was a person whose emotions ran close to the surface.
“Well, have you?”
“I just talked to him,” he answered sullenly.
“Are you sure that's all you've done?”
Bryan didn't answer. He didn't have to. The look on his face was enough.
“I want you to stay away from him, understand?”
Bryan mumbled something.
“I mean it.”
“I heard.”
“Good. Because if you don't, I'm going to give you your money back.”
“I said, I heard.” Bryan's voice was truculent. He'd slumped farther down in his chair and was pulling the zipper on his ski parka up and down. “So I pushed him a little. Big deal. What difference does it make?”
“Let me explain.” I leaned forward slightly. “In order to find out what happened to your sister, I need to talk to this guy. He is a primary lead. But, unfortunately, this guy does not have to talk to me. And I can't force him to. The only thing I can do is try and get him to cooperate with me, and he's not going to do that if he's pissed at you. See?”
“Yeah,” Bryan muttered. “I see.”
“Good. I don't suppose there's anyone else you've been chatting with?”
His no was so low, I had trouble hearing it.
“But you
are
going to talk to him?” Bryan demanded, suddenly alarmed at the possibility I wouldn't.
“Among other people. Yes.”
“You don't need to talk to anyone else. Just take a look at the snake. You'll see what I mean.”
“Is that right?” I'm not particularly fond of being told what to do, especially when the person telling me doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. I took a deep breath, moved my chair back a little, and watched a couple of girls thread their way through a narrow opening to another table. One of them caught sight of Bryan and waved. He returned the gesture unenthusiastically.
“Yes. It is. Anyway,” he added, “I'm the one that's paying.”
“That's true. You are. But your money is buying my expertise. Now, this is the last time I'm going to say this. If you don't trust me, don't hire me, but if you want me, you have to let me do things my way. Otherwise you're going to have to get yourself someone else.”
“I didn't mean to ...” Bryan's voice trailed off. He suddenly looked like a little boy caught stealing money out of his mother's purse. “Listen, I'm sorry.” He resettled his hat. “It's just hard whenâ”
I put up a hand to forestall further apologies and asked Bryan for some more particulars on his sister. He started smiling once he began talking about her. According to him, Melissa should have been nominated for sainthood. “A” student. Student council. Honor society. Candy-striper at the hospital. Volunteer at a hospice. To hear Bryan tell it, her only mistake was hooking up with the wrong guy. Well, maybe he was right. A lot of times that's enough. The question was: Was Tommy West the wrong guy?
Half of my mind was listening to Bryan chattering, while the other half was thinking I should call Calli when I got back to the store and see what she could find out about Melissa. She'd bitch, but what else are old friends for. We'd worked together at the
Post Standard
when I'd first come up to Syracuse. Then she'd run off to marry an avocado farmer out in California, acquiring the improbable name of Calli Cornfeld, and I'd quit to write the great American expose that would win me my Pulitzer.
In retrospect, we'd both been delusional. So here we were again. Older. Single. In debt. Only Calli was a reporter/ columnist on the paper and I was running my dead husband's pet store. I gnawed at a fingernail. Calli had always said she was the smarter one. She was right. I was contemplating why I'd kept the store, when I realized Bryan had stopped talking. Then I noticed the red spots on his cheeks were back. I asked him what the matter was. He didn't answer. I don't think he even heard me.
All his attention was focused on something across the room. I noticed his hands were balled up into fists and he'd half risen from his chair.