Missing (3 page)

"Maybe Mason decided to tie one on."

She shook her head. "Mason doesn’t usually
drink Scotch."

We stared at each other.

"Looks like there was somebody here after I
left," Cindy said, trying to sound indifferent and not
succeeding. "Somebody who really liked Scotch."

"Who does Mason know who drinks Scotch by the
fifth?"

Cindy righted the bottle and set it down hard on the
Parsons table. "Del, the guy that Mason used to live with, the
guy I told you about . . . he drank a lot of Scotch." She smiled
forlornly. "That’s one of the few things Mason told me about
him—that Del drank Chivas like soda pop and did a lot of drugs."

She folded her arms across her chest and turned her
head away from me, staring out the picture window at the winking
lights of the city. In spite of the emotional openness that was her
chief article of faith, Cindy Dorn wasn’t prepared to handle the
reality of a rival.

"We don’t know what happened yet," I
said.

"Except that he wasn’t alone," she said
in a hollow voice. "Del could have paid a chance visit. Or it
might have been someone else—a stranger."

She shook her head. "I’ve been through this
before, Harry. I know the signs. Mason wouldn’t have gone off with
a stranger. But he might have gone off with a friend. If he was in a
hurry, he might have left that goddamn glass out on the deck. He
might even have forgotten the promise he made to me."

She put a hand over her eyes and drew her knees to
her chin.

"How do we find Mason’s friend?" I asked
after a time.

"Sully would know where Del lives," she
said, still huddling on the couch. "Ira Sullivan. He’s been a
friend of Mason’s for years."

I glanced at my watch. "It’s ten-thirty. You
think Sullivan would mind a visit?"

"He’s a night owl and he loves company."

"Where does he live?"

"On Telford in Clifton."
 

3

IT took us about ten minutes to reach the Clifton
hillside and another five to find Ira Sullivan’s brownstone
apartment building on Telford. I parked beside a gas lamp and sat
there for a time, waiting for Cindy to decide whether she still
wanted to press the question of where Mason Greenleaf had disappeared
to.

"I guess I gotta do this, huh?" she finally
said.

"No, you don’t. It’s my bet that Mason will
show up in a couple of days. You could wait and let him explain it to
you."

"Half of me is so pissed off, I could care less
about explanations. But the other half—" She turned on the car
seat and stared at me with that frank look of hers. "I gotta
find out, Harry. I’d worry too much if I didn’t."

"All right."

I opened the car door, and the hot night air came
pouring in, full of the smell of magnolia and the rasping of
crickets. Cindy got out and started for the brownstone apartment
building. I fell in behind her.

The apartment house was old and well-tended—the
kind of neat, bundled-up Clifton address that caters to elderly
couples and well-to-do singles. No children, no pets, no nonsense.
Ira Sullivan’s place was on the second floor, up a wide staircase
trimmed in brass and floored in marble. The wide landings were cool
like marble and shot with the soft glow of burnished wood and
polished brass.

When we got to Sullivan’s door, Cindy gave me a
cautionary look. "Sully’s a little odd."
"Meaning?"

"Meaning I should do the talking."

"Fine."

She stared at the polished door with foreboding.
"He’s going to eat this up," she said under her breath.

Raising a hand, she knocked.

A moment passed, and then an extremely tall,
ungainly—looking man answered the door. At first glance he looked
like a wildly overgrown Tweedledum. He had that same petulant,
down-turned mouth and barrel belly. His red hair stood straight up
about three inches high, mowed level on top like a fade. His blue
eyes were so lively, they looked electrified, as if he’d just
pulled his hand from a socket.

"Cin," he said in a booming bass voice.
"What brings you to my neck of the woods? And where the hell is
Mason?" He craned his neck and stared at me so intently, I
thought his eyes would pop.

"You’re not Mason."

"Harry Stoner," I said, holding out a hand.

The man shook with me. "Well, come the hell in,
Harry Stoner. And Miss Cindy."

He waved us through the doorway.

The living room was papered in stripes and furnished
in dark blue chintz. A gilt Japanese screen, picturing geese flying
over a temple pagoda, blocked off the view of the street. A red
Persian rug covered the floors. We sat down on the chintz couch.
Sullivan sat across from us in a fanback chair the size of a stuffed
bear.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Sullivan said.
"Or is this a social visit?"

I could feel Cindy squirm beside me. "We’re
looking for Mason, Sully."

"You won’t find him here," the big man
said amiably. "In fact, I haven’t seen him in ages. Not since
the last time we all got together at the Cincinnati Club. You
remember that evening, don’t you, Cin?"

Cindy shuddered. "I remember."

Sullivan laughed a booming laugh. "I never did
apologize for my behavior, did I? Well, I was a little drunk and you
both forgave me. Right?

"People always forgive Sully," he said
merrily. "It’s written in the social contract. 'Sully is to be
forgiven his excesses.' "

"About Greenleaf?" I said.

Sullivan arched an eyebrow at me. "Yes?"

"He’s disappeared, Sully," Cindy said,
getting it over with. For a split second Ira Sullivan looked shocked.
Then he smiled cynically. "When you say 'disappeared', Cin,
honey, exactly what do you mean?"

"He hasn’t been at home or work for three
days. His car is gone, too."

"Is he out of town, perhaps?"

"I don’t think so."

Sullivan put on his thinking cap. "Could he be
staying with a friend?"

"It’s possible."

"Uh-huh." Sullivan gave Cindy a wry look.
"Did you two have a little tiff, maybe?"

"Sully, this is serious. Mason vanished three
days ago without a word. We need to talk to him. I need to talk to
him."

Sullivan took this in dispassionately, then shifted
his gaze to me.

"And who are you, sir?"

"I’m a detective Ms. Dorn hired to find
Greenleaf."

Sullivan paled. "Detective? You say you are a
detective?"

I pointed a linger at him. "Right the first
time."

Sullivan turned back to Cindy—his expression
completely changed. "This is rather melodramatic, Cin, even for
you. You hired a detective?"

"I’m worried, Sully."

"You must be crazed with anxiety," he said
caustically. "What
is it you want from
me?"

"She wants the address of Greenleaf ’s friend
Del," I said.

Sullivan bit his lower lip. "You think he’s
with Del again?"

Cindy nodded. "I think it’s possible."

"Well, I don’t." Sullivan leaned back in
the huge chair, folding his arms across his Tweedledum belly. "That’s
over with. Anyway, Mason wouldn’t do that to you, sweetie. For
better or worse, he loves you."

"I didn’t think he would, either," she
said sadly. "But somebody was with him in the apartment. We
found an empty bottle of Scotch and a glass. Mason once told me that
Del drank a lot of Scotch."

"A lot of people drink a lot of Scotch, for
heaven’s sake. That’s no reason to call a cop. I myself have been
known to drink a lot of Scotch."

"I don’t," Cindy said. "Neither does
Mason. Please, Sully. Help us find Del."

Sullivan shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "The
man you’re talking about has problems of his own right now, hon.
Serious problems. The last things in the world he needs in his life
are burly detectives and hysterical women."

"Why don’t you just give us the address,"
I said, "and let Del decide what he does or doesn’t need?"

"Don’t try to intimidate me," Sullivan
snapped. "I’m a lawyer. So don’t you try to intimidate me,
Mr. Stoner."

"I’m not trying to intimidate you. Just give
us the address, and we’ll leave."

"Please, Sully," Cindy said.

Sullivan sighed dramatically. "Del Cavanaugh
lives on Rose Hill in Avondale. 52 Rose Hill Place. But for
chrissake, don’t you go upsetting him." He shot me an angry
glance, then said to Cindy,

"He’s a sick man, Cin. A dying man."

"AIDS?" Cindy said, looking horrified.

Sullivan nodded. "If Mason did have a drink with
him, if he did go to visit him for a few days . . . well, it was just
to comfort an old friend. Keep that in mind, okay?"

Cindy Dorn whispered, "Okay."

Out in the car again, in the hot, too-sweet-smelling
night, Cindy stared through the windshield at Sullivan’s apartment
house. As I started up the engine, she turned on the seat and said,
"I think you’d better take me back to Finneytown."

"What about Del Cavanaugh?"

She shook her head. "I can’t do it."

"Then why don’t you let me do it? That’s
what you hired me for."

"No, Harry. If Mason is with Del . . . well,
he’s got a good reason to be there. And I should have known that. I
shouldn’t have doubted him."

"If you’re satisfied, I’m satisfied."

Cindy frowned. "I won’t be satisfied until
Mason is back, until I can touch him and hold him again. But I’m
not going to barge in on a dying man. That would be unforgivable.
Mason will come home when he’s ready. And he’ll explain it or not
explain it. That’s just the way it’ll have to be."

"All right, Cindy."

I pulled onto Telford and circled around to Ludlow,
then down the hill to the expressway. It took me about twenty minutes
to get her home, back to the yellow-brick birdhouse on Blue Jay
Drive.
 

4

A COUPLE of days went by, days and nights of fierce
mid-July heat. I thought about phoning Cindy Dorn to see if Greenleaf
had checked back in but thought better of it. She’d settled on a
scenario she could live with until he returned, and there was no
point in reminding her that that scenario was founded on speculation
and an empty bottle of Scotch.

So I didn’t call her. And then on a blistering
Tuesday morning she called me. I knew at once that something had gone
badly wrong. I could hear it in her voice—a trill of terror.

"Harry," she said, "could you come
over to Mason’s house? Right away?"

"What’s the trouble, Cindy?"

"Some police are here. They found—" Her
voice broke, and she began to sob.

There was a confusion of noises on the other end of
the line, then a man came on, speaking in the mechanical accent of a
beat cop.

"Are you a relative of Ms. Dorn’s?"

"I’m a friend. What’s the problem, officer?"

The cop didn’t say anything for a second. "We
found a body. A guy . . ." I could hear him leafing through
papers on a clipboard.

"Mason Greenleaf."

"Where?" I said, feeling bad for poor Cindy
Dorn.

"The Washington Hotel, down there on Main."

The Washington Hotel was a run-down, by-the-day
residential hotel, one step above a flophouse. I couldn’t imagine
how Mason Greenleaf had ended up dead in such a godforsaken spot.

"Put the lady on the line," I said to the
cop.

Cindy came back on, crying. "Harry, he’s dead.
Mason is dead. They want me to—" Gagging, she swallowed hard.
"They want me to identify the body."

"I’m on my way," I told her. "It’ll
take me about ten minutes. Just hang on until I get there."

"I’ll try,"
she said.

***

It took me closer to fifteen minutes to get the car
out of the Parkade, climb Gilbert Avenue, and curl around the Park
Road to Celestial Street. On the way I kept thinking about the
Lessing case. Ira Lessing was a homosexual who had been beaten to
death by two teenage male prostitutes. His case was the reason why
I’d avoided homosexual clients. His case was also the reason why I
no longer routinely carried a gun. What I’d done to Lessing’s
killer one rainy summer morning live years past—done in cold blood
and then covered up like a common criminal—had left an indelible
mark.

By the time I pulled up in front of Mason Greenleaf
’s condo, the TV people had arrived for a midday sound bite. A WLW
camera crew was setting up on the sunlit sidewalk to the right of the
Greenleaf house. Several cops watched them work from the shade of the
condo’s front stoop. A group of street kids—like the ones Cindy
and I had seen on Saturday evening—sailed noisily up and down the
pavement, Hitting and darting around the TV truck like jays.