“I don’t know if I’d say—”

“Come on, Benington. What’s going on with your boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you do know Grant’s got a taste for scotch. I mean, that don’t require any sort of special training to deduce.”

“I’m aware, sir.”

“He’s been fine the last year or two, but he’s has not always been the straight and narrow. Any chance he’s going through a thirsty spell, and you just don’t have the heart to rat him out? It’s not a part of your job to protect him, you know.”

“I’m not protecting him.”

Wanger shoveled a pile of lo mein noodles into his mouth, his massive black mustache glistening with MSG.

“Look, I’ve known Grant for two years,” Sophie said. “He’s shown up for work hung-over a few times.”

“A few?”

“A few times a week. Rolled in still drunk once or twice. But he’s never not shown up.”

“Boy could be going through some shit not on your radar.”

“I don’t think so.”

“So you guys are all cuddly then?”

She imagined lifting the paperweight off her desk—a viceroy butterfly enclosed in a clear globe—and smashing it into Wanger’s ball sack.

“No, but I do sit across from the man every day. I wouldn’t be a good detective if I couldn’t tell if something was bothering my own partner, would I?”

“So does this mean you’re worried?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve tried him at home?”

“His cell is the only way to reach him. I also texted him and sent him an e-mail. No response. I was thinking of driving over to his apartment in Fremont.”

Wanger was already nodding as he chewed.

“Do it,” he said. “Right now.”

• • •

Sophie stood at Grant’s door on the third floor of his townhome walkup. The building was nice, but Grant had about as much design sense as a monk.

She pounded on his door again.

“Grant! You in there?”

No answer.

Turning away, she pushed the thought out of her mind that he was lying dead in there. She had circled the surrounding blocks several times, but couldn’t find his black Crown Vic. At least that was something.

Halfway down the last flight of stairs, her phone rang—Detective Dobbs calling. She answered as she moved past the mailboxes and toward the front door.

“What’s up, Art?”

“I just got a strange call. A groundskeeper spotted a man in the Japanese garden at the Washington Park Arboretum.”

“So what?”

“Silver responded. Turns out it’s Benjamin Seymour, your missing lawyer.”

“So Seymour’s okay?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just go see for yourself.”

Sophie pushed open the front door and headed down the concrete steps toward her silver TrailBlazer which she’d double-parked in front of the building.

“I’m on my way,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“Fremont. Have Bobby keep eyes on him.”

“Any word on Grant?”

“I’m just leaving his apartment. He isn’t here.”

“Your boy’ll turn up. Probably just tripped over a big night.”

“Hey, Art?”

“Yeah?”

Her car alarm chirped.

“He’s not my boy.”

“If you say so.”

Chapter 17

Grant could see that he was standing on two feet, but it didn’t feel that way. He’d had his share of I-feel-like-death hangovers in recent years, but nothing approaching this. His head felt like the Liberty Bell—deeply cracked—and a pool of something in his stomach was threatening to surface.

He stepped over his still-sleeping sister onto the frigid hardwood floor and made a mad dash to the bathroom off the kitchen.

Knees hit tile, and he just managed to throw open the toilet seat before spewing his guts into the bowl.

He flushed.

Hauled himself up.

Cranked open the faucet and rinsed his mouth and spit.

He’d had a few drinks the night before, but he didn’t deserve this.

Grant turned the water off and straightened. His back cracked. He dug the crust from the corners of his lids with a knuckle and checked his reflection in the mirror—eyes sunken and red-veined, hair like something out of an eighties music video.

He ran a hand over the scratch of fresh beard.

Something about his face seemed off. After a night of too much booze and restless sleep, he could faithfully count on swollen cheeks and puffy eyes. But this morning, nothing about him looked bloated. His face was as thin as he’d seen it in years. Verging into gaunt.

He walked through the kitchen and up the hallway into the foyer.

Unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the porch.

His ears popped from that persistent pressure gradient.

The rain had stopped and the air smelled of wet pavement. The sky hadn’t cleared, but the clouds overhead were thin enough for the incoming sunlight to burn his eyes. It was a suddenly warm Friday for December and people would be pouring out of their homes and into the green spaces with the kind of shared satisfaction that only rainy cities relish on days like this.

A woman ran by pushing a jogger-stroller.

The streets hummed with traffic.

The hedges dripped.

Wind pushed the scent of a distant coffee shop his way.

He glanced at his watch—later than he thought. They’d slept past noon.

His fingernails looked dirty, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Don’s blood.

The despair and heartache nearly brought him to his knees.

The view off the front porch was panoramic—Lake Union spread out before him, a fleet of sailboats and kayaks speckling its grey surface with color. The Cascades were still socked in. Farther up on the north bank, the hulking ruins of Gas Works Park loomed over squares of bright, rain-fresh grass like the skyline of a steampunk novel. Grant couldn’t see the people, but he imagined them on picnic blankets, children scrambling up the hill, dragging kites in the breeze behind them.

He drew in a deep breath.

Took a step down.

Then another.

As if this day was just something he could walk out into.

What had been a dull, painless throbbing behind his eyes ratcheted up a few degrees until it felt like someone was rolling his optic nerve between two meaty fingers.

He descended two more steps.

The meaty fingers became a poking needle.

His stomach contracted into a ball of molten iron, and the agony doubled him over, Grant clutching his gut as he tried to backpedal up the steps.

By the time he reached the landing, clawing desperately for the door, the pain had begun to moderate.

Grant stumbled back into the gloom of Paige’s brownstone.

His sister was sitting up on the mattress in the living room, her knees drawn into her chest.

“How far did you get?” she asked.

“Two steps from the bottom.”

Grant made his way over to the couch and collapsed onto it.

“Did you throw up yet?” she asked. “That’s how I start the morning these days.”

“First thing.”

“It’s not a hangover.”

“I know.”

“It only gets worse.”

“Is this you trying to help?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s warmer outside than it is in here,” Grant said.

“I think it’s your body temperature, not just the house. Chills?”

Grant hadn’t noticed chills specifically amid the grocery list of other symptoms, but he did feel feverish.

“Yeah. I’m gonna build a fire.”

“We’re out of firewood.”

“We aren’t out of furniture.” He sat up, wrapped the covers around his shoulders. “What’s going on in this house, Paige?”

“I don’t know.”

“No idea.”

“None.”

“Nothing weird has happened to you lately that you’re forgetting to tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t desecrated any sacred Indian burial grounds lately, have you?”