Blunt Darts (12 page)

One admirable thing about the tape. It cuts everyone off equally. The second message, after two hangups, was too concise to be affected by the machine’s intolerance for talking.

“I regret to report there has been no progress at this end, Mr. Pembroke. You need not contact me.”

I thought of Nancy DeMarco and wished that
someone
would make some progress toward finding Stephen.

Apparently, however, I thought and wished too long. By the time I got back downstairs, an orange parking violation card fluttered between my windshield and wiper. I put it in my pocket, stopped at a steak house on the way to Meade, and picked Valerie up at 1:35.

The Sturdevants lived on Fife Street, a string of large, split-level homes about half a mile long on one side of the road. On the other side of the road was apparently untouched forest. Val said that it was “conservation land,” which sounds ecologically advanced but which really means that the town fathers and mothers had voted to buy up vacant land to ensure it would not be developed into new homes or businesses. It also meant that the Sturdevants and other home owners could enjoy in perpetuity gas-fired barbecues and sun decks in their back yards and views of a forest primeval from their front yards.

We stopped the car at 9 Fife, distinguishable from the other splits only by its mailbox label and a bright-green upper story over a flat-white lower story. I’m sure that the Sturdevants thought the color choice enhanced the “country” look of their neighborhood. To me, their house looked like a giant 7-Up can somebody had tossed out a car window.

The flagstone path led in a straight line from the edge of the road slightly upgrade to the front door. The neighborhood was
sans
sidewalks, another favorite, faux-rural affectation.

A woman of perhaps forty answered Valerie’s ring. She frowned as she recognized Val. An invisible puff of air-conditioned atmosphere wafted past her to us.

“Hello, Mrs. Sturdevant,” began Val. “This is—”

“My husband and I had a talk after I spoke to you, Miss Jacobs.” Mrs. Sturdevant was slim and ash-blonde, but with a pinched face and eyes that flickered nervously from Val to me and back again. “Her father is not at all sure that you should talk to Kim about all this. We’re afraid it might upset her.”

Val looked taken aback, so I slipped into the conversation as gently as I could. “Mrs. Sturdevant, I’m John Cuddy, a private investigator looking for Stephen Kinnington. If I were in your position, I think I’d have the same hesitation. But a boy your daughter’s age has disappeared and,” I embroidered a bit, “the family is frantic to find him. If we could just come in and talk with you for a few minutes, we’ll abide by whatever decision you reach.”

The wheels were turning in Mrs. Sturdevant’s head. I had the feeling that they turned infrequently, and even then, slowly. “Well,” she began before pausing. She seemed to have been prepared by her husband to defend against a frontal assault, but not to decline an invitation to diplomacy.

“Please?” said Val in a soft voice.

Mrs. Sturdevant blinked and relented. “All right, come in.”

We followed her. The house was dark and quiet inside as well as cool. We turned left and climbed eight low steps to the living-room level. A large picture window provided a striking view of the conservation land across the street. In a corner of the room squatted a twenty-five-inch color console television (I believe RCA calls the cabinet “Mediterranean”). The sound was off, but the video displayed some sort of game show. An overweight woman in a red dress was hugging a slim, middle-aged host who smiled enthusiastically. Mrs. Sturdevant took a chair with her back to the TV. Valerie and I sat on the couch. Although there was a remote control device on the coffee table between us, our hostess made no effort to turn the set off. Perhaps she had become oblivious to it.

“Would you like some coffee and cake?”

Val, remembering my awkwardness at Miss Pitts’ house, was about to decline for both of us. I cut her off and said we’d be pleased.

“I’ll just be a minute,” said Mrs. Sturdevant, who had barely disappeared around a corner before Val turned to me.

“But I thought—”

“You were right,” I said, my hand up in a stop sign, “but I wanted a word with you before we tried persuading her.”

Val nodded and smiled.

“Now, as I see it, Mr. S. probably gave her some marching orders, and we’ve altered the conditions. However, we have to get to her without giving her a need or opportunity to call Mr. S. for further instructions.”

“Agreed,” said Val, “but in the kitchen she could—”

“Right again. She could call him now. But I’m betting that Mrs. Sturdevant has a one-project-at-a-time mindset. Accordingly, I think it’s safe for now.”

“Safe from what?” spoke a new voice.

Val and I both swiveled around. A much younger version of Mrs. S. stood in the foyer. She had the ash-blond hair and slim figure, but her ’do was kept in place with a yellow band, and her face was open and relaxed. Her eyes only momentarily went toward me before fixing on Valerie.

“Hi, Ms. Jacobs. Safe from what?”

“Hi, Kim,” covered Val. “We’re talking about Stephen.”

At the mention of his name, Kim started running up the stairs toward us and talking at the same time. “Have you heard from him? How is he? Where is he?”

She reached us at the couch just as Mrs. Sturdevant came bustling into the living room, carrying one full coffee cup and one empty one.

“I thought I heard your voice, Kim. We haven’t reached a decision yet,” she said, parroting my earlier phrase. “Please go to your room.” Mom was nervous still.

“I want to find out about Stephen,” said Kim, her eyes steady.

I decided that the mother probably hadn’t won many of these contests recently. “Mrs. Sturdevant?” I got up and walked over to her. Val joined us. I lowered my voice with my back toward the daughter. “The main concern here is not to upset Kim, right?”

Mrs. Sturdevant looked confused, but she nodded, if hesitantly.

“Well,” I said, “it seems pretty clear that Kim is going to insist on finding out what I can tell her about Stephen.” I paused just a beat. “She doesn’t strike me as a girl who’s going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Mrs. Sturdevant nodded again. The cups were rattling against their saucers in her slightly trembling hands. “She is a very determined girl sometimes.”

I gave Val a gentle nudge, a signal we’d worked out on the drive over.

She said, “Mrs. Sturdevant, why don’t you and I go into the kitchen? I guarantee that Mr. Cuddy will be very careful with Kim and not do anything you’d disapprove of.”

“Well … ?” said Mrs. Sturdevant.

“Mom,” said Kim, clearly and stubbornly. “I’m going to find out about Stephen.”

Mrs. Sturdevant, prodded, said, “If you think it’s best.”

“I know it is,” from Val, relieving the woman of the formerly full, now slightly spilled, cup and guiding her toward the kitchen.

Kim and I were alone. She wore running shorts and a halter top, small breasts just pushing out against the fabric. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted the bright pink of her lipstick. I had the feeling that the lipstick went on after Daddy left in the morning and came off before Daddy got home at night. Kim had a Sony Walkman strapped around her waist, the light earphone attachment resting on her shoulders like a high-tech necklace.

“It’s your house,” I said, “but why don’t we sit down?”

Kim gave a little frown, then sat in her mother’s chair. I don’t think the daughter noticed that the TV was on, either, but the heavyset woman in the red dress must have done well again, because she was once more hanging on the host, who still smiled, though only sportingly now.

“Who are you?” Kim asked warily.

“My name is John Cuddy,” I said, handing her a card and even flashing my identification. I thought they might impress her, but she barely glanced at either. “I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find Stephen, and I’m hoping that you can help me.”

Kim shook her head. “I don’t know where he is. I thought
you’d
be able to tell
me
how he’s doing.”

We looked at each other for a moment. I had the feeling that Kim’s wheels turned faster and a lot more frequently than her mother’s.

I sighed in what I hoped was a reassuring way. “Look, I was hired by Stephen’s grandmother, not his father. The judge, for reasons I can’t imagine, doesn’t seem much interested in finding his own son. Valerie—Ms. Jacobs—and I have been chasing down every lead we can find. She told me you and Stephen were good friends, that maybe you could help.”

Kim settled back into the chair. Her left hand began to fiddle with the earphones around her neck. “Ms. Jacobs said Stephen and I were, like, good friends?”

I sensed an opening. “Actually, I asked her who was closest to Stephen in the class, and she said you were.”

Kim flushed a little, partly from pride, partly from embarrassment. Mostly from pride, though, if I had to bet.

“Stephen’s a hard person to get close to,” she said. “He and I went to different schools ’til last year, and last year’s homeroom was alphabetical. You know, they’d assign us to rooms based on our last names. Then somebody got the idea that alphabetical assignment was, like, ‘stultifying.’ That’s the word the principal used this year, ‘stultifying.’ So they just assigned us randomly.” Kim smiled. “So, this was the first year I had a lot of classes with Stephen.”

I leaned back against a couch cushion. “I’ve seen photographs of Stephen, but I’ve never met him. What’s he like?”

Kim eyed me for a moment, hopefully deciding I was sincere. “He’s the smartest guy I’ve ever met. There are a lot of kids at our school who are great test-takers, even without, like, studying or anything, you know? But Stephen is really different. He’s smart past everybody, even the teachers. Way past.” She gave me a smug smile. “He’s a genius. Stephen could be, like, anything. Anything he wants.”

“What
does
Stephen want?” I asked.

Kim frowned, but not at me. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, looking down at her lap.

Dead end. Back up and try another street.

“When did you last see Stephen before he disappeared?”

“It must have been the day he left. We were in school together. There was this morning class, one of those nothing things you have when exams are over. Then we had lunch.” Kim smiled again. “We ate together, at one of the picnic tables outside school.”

“Did Stephen say anything that indicated why he was leaving or where he was going?”

Kim frowned again, this time at me. “No,” she said, a little too certainly.

I sighed and spread my hands in front of me. “Look, Kim, I will not reveal to anyone anything you tell me.”

She eyed me cautiously once more. “Like, lawyers and clients?”

I shook my head. “I won’t bullshit you, Kim. There is no investigator-confidential-source privilege in Massachusetts. But that just means that I might go to jail for keeping quiet about what you tell me. It doesn’t mean I won’t keep my word.” I leaned forward again. “Stephen’s in trouble because someone is after him. I don’t know why someone’s after him, and I’m not sure you do. I
am
sure that if I don’t get more information about Stephen, I’m never going to find him.”

Kim dropped the frown and resumed fiddling with the earphones. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

I resisted the temptation to ask her why she might think that. “Please, trust me.”

Kim shook her head. “Stephen once told me not to trust anyone. He said
he
didn’t trust anyone.”

Quietly I said, “He trusted you.”

A wistful smile. “No, not much.” Kim wiped at her eye, then said, “Look, mister, I don’t know where Stephen is. I don’t even know why he, like, left. I was hoping you could tell me he was okay. If you can’t cover that, you can’t. If I can’t cover where he is, I can’t. Okay?”

“No.” This time I shook my head more emphatically. “Not okay. I care
about
Stephen, Kim. I care because—despite all his family’s money—he’s had a tough life so far, and it’s my job to find him. But you care
for
him, and despite what you’ve said so far, I think he did trust you with something, with some information. There is no way I can make you trust me, but I don’t see how you can think Stephen is better off out there than back here with us protecting him.”

Kim glared at me. “Us! Us protecting him? It’s his father who’s after him. The judge and his talking gorilla, Blakey. How can you protect Stephen from them?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but maybe the reason Stephen ran would give me leverage enough to do that.”

“‘Leverage,’” she snorted sarcastically. “That’s what my father uses to close computer sales. That’s how you’re going to stop the judge and Blakey?”

“Kim, I don’t know what your image of Willard Kinnington and his power is, but nobody’s all-powerful. There are things, facts or evidence, that can scare the judge, same as you or me. If Stephen knows or found out something, and that knowledge or fact was important enough to make him run, it may be important enough to bring him back and protect him from his father.” I paused. “What do you say?”

The glare slid away, and Kim chewed her lower lip. “I’m just so scared for him,” she said, the tears welling up.

I dug out a handkerchief, and Kim cried quietly into it for about ten seconds. Then she wiped her eyes and nose. “What do you want to know?” The girl was flushed and red-eyed, but seemed cooperative.

“What did you and Stephen talk about at lunch that day?”

Kim sniffed and began. “The same thing we always talked about. His quest.”

“His quest? You mean, like a search or a mission?”

“Yes. Stephen and I got to be, like Ms. Jacobs said, ‘close.’ I kind of watched him last year and the beginning of this year. He’s real intelligent-looking and, well, anyway, I saw that he didn’t seem to have any friends. I mean, Stephen would talk to the other kids, but just kind of politely, like he was talking to a teacher or somebody’s father and he didn’t want any trouble. I think Stephen just wasn’t much interested in what the kids were doing and talking about. Like, whenever he talked with me, it was like we were on a different level from the rest of the kids.”