“Under what suspicion?”

“Well, there was the bus driver who said —,”

“That would the same bus driver who stated quite clearly that Jack never rode the bus, correct?” Atkinson interrupted.

“Yes. But I looked beyond that,” I said, curtly. “Because the bus driver went on to say that he saw Jack every single day after school. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. He was usually alone on the days he had soccer practice…which he did on the day he went missing. But he never made it to practice. So no practice, and the bus driver didn’t see him. He specifically remembered not seeing him on that day after school.”

“Why specifically?” Atkinson pressed. I figured you could take the cop out of the uniform but between us we both had an instinct to interrogate.

“The bus driver had made some sort of comment about the shirt that Jack had been wearing. A band the driver liked – The Who, I believe.”

“Good work, Mr. Blume. I don’t recall ever uncovering that. Case solved.”

I shrugged, trying to tell if the old chief was being sarcastic or good-natured. “Anyway, every student in Jack’s class saw him all day long, right up until the final bell. That leaves about three minutes between filing out of class, hitting the street, and passing the bus. Harlowe was the only person of note that would have had access to Jack.”

“Circumstantial at best. Anyone could have seen the boy between then,” Atkinson said.

“That’s the one X-factor,” I said. “That’s why Harlowe was eventually dropped as a suspect. Too many what-ifs and not enough evidence.”

Atkinson nodded and then seemed to consider something. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Blume?” he asked, reaching for a decanter of amber colored liquor.

“No, thanks,” I said, surprised at the answer.

“Well, I ask only because I feel that the conversation is over,” Atkinson said. “And I’d hate to think that you drove all the way out here for nothing more than my worthless pat on the back.”

“What do you mean?”

“The thing with the shirt might be a new discovery,” Atkinson said. “But ultimately, it’s nothing. Like the case itself. It’s too cold…dead and long gone. I fear I can’t really help you. But I will certainly make myself available for any questions you have. Next time, maybe call before driving all the way out here.” Atkinson rose from the creaky chair, signaling the end of this round.

He sounded almost sympathetic as he stiffly made his way to the hallway that would then lead me out of den and back towards the door. “You sure about that drink?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” I said, getting up. “Thank you very much for your time.” And with that, I left as quickly as I could, before I could change my mind.

It was time to visit the woman behind all this.

SEVEN

Empty memories.

Elizabeth Ellington’s house looked nicer in the daylight, but not by much. When I had passed by during the night, I had missed its design. The neighborhood she lived in was not nearly as upscale as the one Henry Atkinson called home, but it was respectable. The houses were nice, but the lawns didn’t look like something out of a magazine, and there were toys spread here and there where careless children had forgotten to pick up after themselves.

I drove up to the curb alongside Elizabeth’s large front yard, throwing my car into park. I had no way of knowing for sure if she was in, instead I was hoping that Amir’s description of her was accurate. If she only went out at night, surely she must be home.

I dashed through the drizzle up to the entrance and saw that the porch was about fifteen feet high. I could only imagine what the inside looked like... Not as glamorous at Atkinson’s, but still…

It must be lonely and depressing, I thought, to be in such a large home with no company other than memories of your family.

It almost made me feel bad for ringing her doorbell. I heard it sounding out from the other side of the door, a choral chime that seemed to echo forever. I waited a minute and then rang again. After the second ring, I thought I heard the faintest movements somewhere in the house.

I then remembered that this was a woman who was obviously filled with remorse and fear. After all, she’d tried to visit me three different times only to change her mind in the end. With a heavy sigh, I leaned against her door and started speaking in a loud and non-threatening voice. I felt silly doing it, but it was necessary given the situation.

“Mrs. Ellington, my name is Thomas Blume. I believe you have been trying to get up the nerve to speak to me. And I think I might also know why.” My voice bounced around the large porch, coming back to me like the echoes of a ghost. “I just want you to know that I am aware of what happened, and I think I might be of some use to you if you are indeed seeking answers. I am safe and reliable and…well, I just want to help if I can.”

I stepped away from the door and nearly headed to my car. To hell with it, I thought and instead took a seat on the first step of her porch just under the shelter. I stared out at the lush grass through the moist haze, while a steady trickle of water sounded somewhere to my right as a broken gutter cascaded rainfall down onto the driveway. I sat for a few minutes lost in my thoughts.

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long. I heard the door open behind me. I turned and saw the pallid face of a woman peering out, the edges of her face framed by curled blonde hair.

“Mr. Blume?” she asked. Her voice was strained and uncertain. It was evident that she didn’t speak to many people.

“Yes,” I said, not yet standing because I didn’t want to frighten her.

“You’re right,” she said. “I did want to speak with you. I saw an ad for your services in the paper, and I thought perhaps you could help somehow.”

The paper? I hadn’t posted any such ad. It only took a few seconds to realize who had: Amir. He must have secretly placed the ad in the hopes that I might find some work that didn’t involve investigating my family’s murder. I made a mental note to scold him about it later. Even though it had worked like a charm.

Elizabeth then stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. She obviously did not want to invite me inside. She squinted at the wan sky and came over to me. She kept her distance, though. It was clear that she had not yet decided to trust me. Hell, I didn’t blame her. I was a muscular guy who, according to Sarah, always looked like I was suspicious about something. I wouldn’t have trusted me either.

“You know about my son’s disappearance?” she asked.

“I do. I spoke quietly. “I recently did some digging when I knew that you were looking for me.”

“And how did you know I was looking for you?”

I smiled and said, “I’d be a terrible ex-cop if I hadn’t noticed you at my apartment. Especially when you were so bold as to knock on my door.”

She blushed, and it was that blush that helped me to see how Elizabeth Ellington had been incredibly beautiful one day — likely one day in the very recent past. Now, however, she looked deflated and tired like the faded glamour of a grand old hotel, shadows of the glory days clinging to its facade.

“Do you have any suspects?” she asked.

“I do.”

She hesitated here and gave me a tired-looking grin. “I suppose I need to hire you, don’t I?”

“That would be nice.”

“What do you charge?”

I shrugged. There was no way I could tell her that researching her son’s case had managed to make me want to drink less. It had cleared my mind more than it had been cleared in the last six months. So I simply answered: “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I feel pretty strongly that Stephen Harlowe was let off the hot seat far too early. I’m not saying he’s responsible for it, but all signs point to him. At the very least, I think he knows more than he’s saying.”