Missing (22 page)

"I could use a drink," she said with a
grotesque smile. "How ’bout you?" She didn’t wait for
an answer, patting around the coffee table like she’d misplaced her
glass. I spotted a tea tray on the opposite side of the room, near a
picture window looking out on the illuminated green oval of the CTC
parking lot and the dark night that surrounded it like a woods. I got
up and fetched her a tumbler, setting it down by the bottle.

"Thank you," she said, sounding genuinely
grateful.

She poured a stiff shot and brought the glass to her
mouth with both hands, shutting her eyes as she drank. It was enough
to bring her back into focus, although I knew from experience she’d
drift away again before long.

"Mason Greenleaf ?" I said again.

She nodded, setting the glass back down. "It was
a tragic thing. Very tragic. You know we were all so upset about . .
. when Paulie was arrested in the park. And we didn’t know what to
do, or why it had happened. And Paulie was so frightened, so very
frightened." Her voice filled with sympathy for her son. "The
policemen had told Paul Senior that in cases like Paulie’s, there
was always an adult who . . . someone who . . ."

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, so I said it
for her. "Seduced the boy?"

She nodded and took another drink. "You know,
Paul Senior was always such a disciplinarian. He never tried to
understand Paulie’s needs. Or anyone else’s needs," she said
with casual bitterness. "I couldn’t live with a man like that.
Neither could my son. So I left him and took Paulie with me. But
Paulie suffered without a man’s guidance. I couldn’t give him
that. And of course his father wouldn’t help unless Paulie did
things his way. So when this other man, Mason Greenleaf, took such an
interest in Paulie, why, I thought it was a blessing. Paulie just
seemed to blossom after he befriended him. He blossomed. But then
this thing happened, this mistaken thing in the park. And Paul was so
angry, and Paulie was frightened. And the police were so sure there
had been—what you said. They told Paul that it wasn’t Paulie’s
fault, that if we found this other man, they would drop the charges.
And Paulie . . . he finally admitted who it was to Paul."

She smiled a sick smile. "I never would’ve
guessed it was Mr. Greenleaf."

The way she’d told the story, I suspected that it
had come as a surprise to Greenleaf, too. It sounded to me as if he’d
been deliberately sacrificed by the boy’s father—and possibly by
the boy himself—to keep little Paulie out of the newspapers. But
the fact that he’d been set up didn’t mean that Mason hadn’t
been guilty of some kind of misbehavior with Paul Grandin, Jr.
Indeed, his subsequent behavior toward Paul was hard to explain as
anything but an admission of guilt—or partial guilt.

"There were some letters Greenleaf wrote,"
I said.

Sarah Grandin smiled fondly. "Beautiful letters.
I read them over with Paulie several times. Full of confidence in
him. And affection. And of course, he kept sending Paulie money, too.
Little sums to buy himself treats and to treat his friends." Her
smile went away. "Of course, Paul never gave Paulie a dime. I
don’t know how many times I’ve had to give him money out of the
alimony payments, because his father is so cheap and vindictive
toward me."

I suppose I could have asked her a dozen more
questions and gotten the same vague, boozy, dishonest answers. But it
was Paul Grandin, Jr., I needed to talk to.

"Mrs. Grandin," I said, "it’s very
important that I talk to your son. Do you know where he is staying?"

"He’s in town. He’s with friends."

"Which friends?"

She shifted her eyes wildly, as if she were coming to
the sharp edge of that corner I’d backed her into. "I have it
written down. Do you need me to . . . ?"

"Get it," I said coldly, like a cop.
 

23

THE address that Sarah Grandin gave me was on St.
Paul Street in the nice part of Eden Park, a well-tended Cape Cod
bungalow with white clapboard siding and sky-blue trim that ran
around doors and windows like the bunting on a sailor suit. I’d
just made it up from the street and onto the stoop when it began to
rain. I had felt it gathering as I drove across town from Rue de la I
Paix. The first wave hit as I knocked on the door, washing up and
down St. Paul in heavy windblown gusts.

I knocked at the door again—hard—and a short,
trim, gray-haired man with a thin birdlike face and darting birdlike
eyes answered. He was wearing the day’s end remains of a business
suit—white dress shirt, gray pinstripe slacks, red bowtie still
knotted at the collar twelve or thirteen hours after he’d put it
on. A sheet of newspaper dangled from his right hand like a hankie he
couldn’t shake loose.

"What is it?" he said in a high-pitched,
nervous voice.

"Are you Charles Rodner?" I asked.

He nodded.

"My name is Stoner, Mr. Rodner. I’m a private
detective."

I reached into my coat and pulled out my wallet,
showing him the photostat of my PI license. He took it in with
astonishment, making a little O with his mouth and capping it with
the tip of his right hand.

"I’m looking for Paul Grandin, Jr.," I
said, pocketing the ID.

"His mother, Sarah, told me I could find him
here."

The man’s face went pale. "You say his mother
told you he was here?"

He chewed his lip, as if that was hard to believe or
as if he just didn’t want to believe it—that Paul’s mother was
handing out his name and address to detectives.

He wasn’t what I’d expected, either. I thought
I’d find Grandin with another version of Tim Bristol. But Rodner
was closer to my age—midfifties, actually—and as respectable as a
church deacon. I figured him for P&G bookkeeping, which would
account for the pallor and the obvious case of nerves when I showed
up asking for Paul. It passed through my mind that Rodner fit the
description of the well-dressed older man that Greenleaf had been
drinking with at Stacie’s bar.

I stepped a little to my right to dodge the rain that
was coming off the eaves in a steady stream. "Look, I’m
getting soaked here, Mr. Rodner. Do you think I could come inside?"

The man shied away from the door as if I’d thrown a
punch—as if that was how anything disagreeable affected him. I
could already see what Paul Grandin, Jr., liked about him: he didn’t
know how to put up a fight. It made it less likely that he’d been
the angry man in the bar.

"Come in," he said, waving the newspaper.

I stepped into a short hall. To my right, a portal
opened on a parlor, furnished in antiques and near-antiques. A lot of
rich mahogany with well-turned legs and tapered feet. A lot of faded
floral print on tuxedo sofa cushions and chairs. Persian throws. A
heavy sideboard with a quart of Cutty sitting like a teapot on a
silver tray, surrounded by cut crystal that glimmered in the
lamplight. Photos framed in silver on the mantel and sideboard, too.
Landscape oils on the wall, one of them a Constable. The room smacked
of money scrupulously saved and scrupulously spent, of nostalgia and
loneliness. One of the photos on the sideboard pictured an older
woman with fine-spun gray hair and Charles Rodner’s chiseled
birdlike features. It took me a moment to realize that all the photos
were of the same woman, taken at various points in her life from
childhood to stately old age.

Rodner saw me looking at one of them and ran a finger
across the top of its silver frame. "My mother," he said
fondly. "She lived with me here for forty-nine years. This was
her house before it became mine."

"You’ve lived here a long time," I said,
brushing my slacks off before I sat down gingerly on one of his
flowered chairs.

He sat down across from me, resting his chin on his
right list.

"Yes. I should move, really. The neighborhood’s
changed so much—it’s become dangerous. But I like being near the
park. And I do rent the upstairs rooms to boarders, so I’m not
completely alone."

Frightened perhaps by the storm, a black cat wandered
in, curling like ivy around the legs of the sideboard. It wandered
over by Rodner, who dropped his left hand over the side of his chair
and petted it idly.

"I might as well tell you right off that I don’t
know where Paul is." He scooped the cat up with both hands and
deposited it in his lap, stroking it down its back. "In fact,
I’m appalled that he gave his mother my address. I assume you are
working for his mother?"

It was a fair assumption, and as it seemed to be
agreeable to the man, I confirmed it with a nod.

"Truth be told, I haven’t seen Paul in several
weeks. Before he showed up that Sunday afternoon, I hadn’t seen him
in months, not since he roomed upstairs."

"When was he a boarder here?"

"In the late spring of this year. As I said, I
occasionally rent the upstairs to young men and women. Particularly
youngsters who are involved with the theater. I’m a patron of the
Playhouse, and I always try to do my bit to help young actors out. I
guess I wanted to be an actor myself"

He shot a dark look at Mom, still sitting on the
mantel as she’d sat on his ambitions. "Anyway, Paul was one of
the youngsters I’ve tried to help. I met him at a Playhouse
function. Someone told me that he was a talented boy and that he was
having a hard time making his way as an actor. So I offered him a
room in exchange for doing some household chores and maintenance."

Charles Rodner shook his tiny head. "He was
not—I’m afraid—a good worker. So our bargain didn’t last very
long. Paul was full of charming excuses but not dependable and
somewhat dishonest. I felt sorry for him and was perhaps overly
generous at first when it came to lending him money. But he never
repaid me and, in fact, began to steal things from my home to pawn or
sell. He did other things too—dishonest things, hurtful and petty.
I won’t be taken advantage of." He glanced down at the cat and
repeated it firmly, as he stroked its glistening back. "I will
not be taken advantage of."

I assumed that that was about as resolute as Charles
Rodner got. While writing people off didn’t seem in character for
him, I had the feeling that once they were written out, they stayed
out. Which meant that Paul Grandin must have been awfully damn
desperate to have returned to the man’s house.

"Do you remember what day it was that Paul
showed up here?"

"Yes. It was July fourteenth. I remember because
it was my mother’s birthday, and I’d intended to spend the
evening alone. Out of the blue Paul appeared on my doorstep.
Apparently there had been some . . . unpleasantness and he’d spent
a night in jail. Anyway, he was desperately in need of a place to
stay. I allowed him to remain here for the night." He held up a
forefinger. "Just the night."

"Did he tell you why he’d gone to jail?"

Rodner stroked the cat and smiled a dainty smile.
"Paul had managed to get himself in a bit of trouble in a bar,
flirting with the wrong company. I think he was hoping that I would
help him settle the matter. Quite frankly, I had the feeling that I
was not the first person he had turned to in his hour of need. Later
that evening, he admitted that he’d spent the weekend visiting
other friends, hopping from house to house, looking for someone to
help him. He seemed fairly desperate. He didn’t look at all well,
either," the man said cheerily. "He said he’d been ill."

"Did he mention visiting a man named Mason
Greenleaf?"

"Greenleaf? Who would that be?"

"An old friend of Paul’s. He lives in Mount
Adams, too. On Celestial Street."

"He may have mentioned him, among others whom
he’d visited before coming to me. Frankly, I wasn’t paying a
great deal of attention to his ramblings. I confess I rather enjoyed
Seeing Paul Grandin humbled."

"I don’t suppose you know where I could find
Paul now, do you?”

Rodner laughed disturbingly. The sudden noise made
the cat hiss and leap from his lap. Apparently it scratched him as it
jumped to the floor because he kicked at it angrily and cursed: "You
hurt me, you bitch!"

His face twisted with pain and the embarrassment of
showing it. Blushing, he rubbed his pant leg and bit his lip. "I’m
going to have to put some peroxide on this," he said with a
whine.

"I just have a few more questions."

Struggling to his feet, he stared at me as if I ’d
clawed him.

"There is nothing more to say. Paul came to me
because he had nowhere else to go. In all his life he was never
truthful to anyone, and in the end his lies were repaid by ordinary
contempt. He had approached many people over the weekend, and in each
case he met with the same scorn and rejection. He was no longer the
fair-haired boy blessed with the devil’s own looks and charm. That
time had passed. He was twenty-six, and he looked ten years older.
Hair greasy, teeth green, clothes slept in, his charm reduced to a
most pathetic attempt to play on my affection, in order to get
himself out of yet another jam. But I knew Paul and saw through him
and would not allow myself to be taken advantage of again. I got what
I wanted from him. He got nothing from me."