With my phone I took a picture of Blaine’s grandfather in front of the camp. Then I hurried to the corner of the room where Tito had found the image. A number of photographs were there, family snapshots mostly. Blaine and his wife and children, holidays and vacations, that sort of thing.
There was a shot of Blaine and Rye in their teens with the grandfather on the front steps of what appeared to be a large home, all three unsmiling.
I was struck by the similarities between this image and that of Rose and Boyd and their mother in front of the modest house on Lively Lane. Someone trying to preserve a slice of time, no matter if the participants wanted them to or not.
“What now?” Mia asked. “We’re not going to get much more out of him today.”
“We go see the aunt,” I said. “We have to find Rye.”
The three of us left as a caterer carrying a tray of glasses entered the study.
There was plenty of activity in the house—people running around carrying party stuff, a bar being assembled in the entryway—but no sign of Blaine McFadden.
Outside, several valets were setting up shop by the front door.
Tito hopped in the back of the Escalade, Mia in the front passenger seat. I walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door, but didn’t get in.
A card had been left under the windshield wiper.
I grabbed it and slid behind the wheel.
“What’s that?” Mia asked.
It was a business card identical to the one given to me by the manager at the halfway house in East Dallas, Josh Gannon’s last address.
“It’s for a reporter.” I flipped the card over and read out loud the handwritten note on the back. “Give me a call. Trying to find Boyd Doucette.”
A caterer’s van pulled up behind me, obviously wanting my spot to unload. I put the Escalade in gear and left.
Blaine’s house was on Beverly Drive, a wide, tree-lined thoroughfare. The street was named for Beverly Hills because the man who designed this part of Dallas more than a century before also fashioned the Southern California enclave.
The homes were all similar to Blaine’s—large and well-appointed, no expense spared in design or construction. Blaine’s aunt lived not far away on a more secluded, but no less luxurious, street.
I was headed there when Mia’s phone rang.
She answered. Her body tensed up. She put a hand on the dash as if that would stabilize her movements.
I pulled to the curb. She held the phone pressed to her ear, saying things like, “Is he all right?” and “I’m on my way.”
She hung up. “Caleb is sick.” Her voice was shaky.
“What do you mean, sick?” I said. “Where is he?”
“That was my mother. He was throwing up. They couldn’t get him to stop.”
I put a hand on her arm. Her skin was cold. “Mia. Tell me where he is.”
“At the ER.” Her teeth chattered. “With my parents.”
Tito poked my shoulder. “Don’t just sit there like a bump on a log. Let’s get to the hospital, speedy-pronto.”
Mia told me the location. I made a U-turn and hoped traffic wasn’t too bad at this time of day.
Fifty minutes later, we met her parents in an ER waiting room on the north side of town. Mia and her mother hugged each other. Riya’s face was haggard, her sari rumpled. She nodded hello to me. A moment later she and Mia disappeared into the treatment area.
Her father, Arjun, said to me, “Caleb most probably has a stomach bug.”
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“It is scary because he is so young, but the doctors do not believe the situation to be dire.” Arjun introduced himself to Tito. “Why are you both dressed up?”
“We’ve all been at a funeral,” I said.
“Ah, yes.” Arjun nodded. “Rose Doucette. Your former wife.”
I pointed to Tito. “And his current wife.”
Arjun looked at me for several seconds. Then he turned his attention to Tito, who held up his hand to display a wedding ring.
One eyebrow raised, Arjun said, “How nice for you to be close at this time.”
“That’s us,” I said. “Nice people.”
We found three chairs together and sat down.
“Caleb is a good boy. So sorry he is ill.” Arjun paused and turned his attention to me. “Are you romantically involved with my daughter?”
A sucker-punch. Who knew the old man had it in him?
Tito cocked his head, a smirk on his face.
“Mia and I are very close,” I said. “We also work together.”
“That is not an answer.” He shook his head. “Perhaps you should be an attorney too.”
Tito chuckled.
“Do not let my wife bother you,” the father said. “You are not a desi, so you will never be good enough for Mia.”
I frowned, not understanding the term.
“Desi means you are not from India or Pakistan,” he said.
“Riya wants what’s best for her daughter,” I said. “In her mind, I guess that means a, uh … desi. I respect that.”
“As do I.” He stood. “Do you wish for something from the vending machine?”
I shook my head and he left.
Tito picked up a magazine. “You got a complicated life.”
Twenty minutes later, Mia came back to the waiting room. Caleb was doing well and would be discharged in a little while. She planned to take him back to her parents’ house for the night. Tom, her cousin who was a police officer, was coming over for dinner. She’d be fine, don’t worry.
“I’m not leaving you and Caleb,” I said.
“Yeah, you are.” Tito pointed to the door. “We got some hay that needs bailing.”
“He’s right,” Mia said. “You need to finish what you started. We’ll be okay.”
I stared at her for a moment.
She gave me a hug and returned to the treatment area.
I headed to the parking lot with Tito, wondering how big of a mistake I was making by continuing the investigation and not staying with her.
Turned out, pretty damn big.