Parker was sitting in Moxie Castin’s office. The lawyer had recorded each of the conversations with the man who claimed to have buried Jane Doe, and had now played them twice for Parker.
“Mainer, and probably local to Piscataquis,” said Parker, confirming Castin’s own belief. “But we figured that from the location of the grave.”
“And it sounds like he has the child, or knows where the boy is.”
“He has him. He wouldn’t be calling otherwise.”
“Which means he’s worried,” said Moxie. “Do you think it might lead to harm?”
“If our guy is telling the truth, it was the mother’s last request that he should take care of her son. Why hurt the child now? If he were going to do that, he wouldn’t have bothered calling you. I’m not even sure why he called you to begin with.”
“It’s hardly secret knowledge that you’re looking into this, and you’ve been on TV in connection with the case. You’ve worked for me in the past, so it wouldn’t take much to realize that I might be involved, or could serve as a conduit. My guess is he wants to cut a deal, and it might go easier for him if he makes the first approach instead of waiting for the cops—or you—to come knocking on his door.”
“I wonder if he’s married,” said Parker.
“Sounds like it. He did say ‘we,’ so he is, or was, in some kind of relationship.”
“Hard to give up a child you’ve raised since birth.”
“Maybe he’s hoping it won’t come to that.”
“What are the chances?”
“Slim.”
“Even with you on their side?”
“Even then.”
“That’s not what he’ll want to hear if he calls back.”
“That’s why I won’t tell him,” said Castin. “And he will call back. You can be sure of it.”
The sun was setting, and Parker was tired. He’d left a message for Leila Patton after saying goodbye to Molly Bow, but so far she hadn’t returned the call. He hoped Patton wasn’t reconsidering. He didn’t want to have to travel to Indiana to chase her down, and that was assuming she had anything useful to offer. But he’d traveled greater distances on thinner pretexts, and sometimes it paid off.
“How are we going to handle the police?” he asked.
“We need to draw in our mystery caller, and that requires trust,” said Moxie. “I’m not going to feed him to the cops until I hear his side of the story.”
“At least he confirmed the name Molly Bow’s contact came up with.”
“Karis,” said Moxie, testing the sound of it. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman called Karis.”
“I think you’ve known enough women for one lifetime.”
“My problem was I married most of them. I got alimony like the national debt.”
“Tragic,” said Parker. “We should make the call to Corriveau about the Karis lead.”
“You want to do it?”
“No, I think you should. If you offer all the assistance you can up front, it might stand to us when you eventually convince our guy to come in with the boy. I know I’ll be hearing from Corriveau anyway, once she’s spoken to you.”
Moxie folded his hands over his belly. His suit, shirt, and tie were silk, and all were certainly expensive, yet they looked terrible on him. Parker had known Moxie Castin for years, and he still wasn’t sure whether the lawyer deliberately selected garments that were incompatible with his build, or the cut of any clothing began to deteriorate immediately upon contact with him. It was, Parker surmised, one of life’s great mysteries.
“And you’re worried about Maela Lombardi,” said Moxie.
“More than I was before Molly Bow told me about what happened in Cadillac, Indiana.”
Parker had the sense—not unfamiliar to him in the course of investigations—of being surrounded by a series of disparate pieces, some, none, or all of which might be linked. The challenge was to resist imposing a pattern where no pattern existed, because to do so was to follow a path that could take one further from the truth. Parker had learned instead to examine each piece of a puzzle in isolation, while also remaining cognizant of the places where the tabs and slots might join in the hope of ultimately creating a picture as yet unknown. In any given situation, this task was made more difficult by the fact that every piece was open to multiple interpretations. Each was a signifier, but could also be the thing signified. Practical investigation as semiology: perhaps, Parker mused, he might write a textbook on it, if he lived long enough, and was really bored.
“Do you want to go there?” asked Moxie.
“To Indiana?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been to Indiana?”
“Nope. I don’t think I even know anyone who’s been to Indiana. You’ll be the first.”
“I haven’t said I’ll go yet.”
“I didn’t ask if you were going; I asked if you wanted to go. That’s two different questions.”
“I don’t remember taking the stand, Your Honor.”
“Old habits.”
Parker really didn’t want to go to Indiana, but Leila Patton was incommunicado and he was worried that she might eventually run. The trip to Indiana could entail just a night or two away, if all worked out well. There were also direct flights from Boston to Cincinnati, marginally the nearest airport to Cadillac, which would save him a transfer. But it was still Indiana. He had nothing against the state; he just didn’t want to be there.
“You do seem impatient to be rid of me,” said Parker.
“Not at all. But if Lombardi’s disappearance is connected to the death of this man Dobey, and the disappearance of Bachmeier, then someone is working his or—given the Patton incident—her way toward the missing boy.”
“Which means our caller doesn’t just have the police and us to worry about.”
“Could be he already knows,” said Moxie, “which is why he’s reaching out.”
“All the more reason for you to reel him in as quickly as possible.”
“I’ll do my best. In the meantime, go home and get some rest. You look weary. I don’t like seeing you weary. You might force me to become distressed. I’ll let you know what Corriveau says.”
Parker was already at the door when Moxie shouted, “Just one more thing,” like some better-fed version of Columbo.
“Any more from Bobby Ocean or his idiot son?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Good.” Moxie returned to his papers. “That fucking kid is trouble.”