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Pappas and Valentini checked in with us later that evening. Neither had had much luck, but I admired their persistence.
“You wouldn’t believe how many elderly people are still living in those houses on East 19th Street, guys,” Tony said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Remember that old lady who lived between the McCartneys and the Elliotts?”
“The one who used to spray us with the garden house?” I asked.
“She’s still there, and she must be at least a hundred by now. I tried to explain to her who we were looking for, but her English isn’t any better now than it was then. And there was an older couple across the street who remembered the McCartneys, but they couldn’t remember hearing his parents talk about where he had ended up after university.”
“Which university?” I asked.
“UBC. Oh, and his parents are definitely both dead. That couple said that they passed within a few years of each other quite a few years ago.”
Pappas added his two bits. “Well, guys with the last name McCartney have been very busy committing crimes in Canada; Constantine found twenty-eight who had the first initial S, but none of them looked to be our Stevie.”
“Phew! Thank God,” Norb added. “I don’t want to find out Steven became some kinda rapist or something.” This was priceless, coming from our friendly local arsonist.
“Well, we are overlooking a bunch of other possibilities,” I said, feeling grim. “Steven could be in another country. He could have changed his name. He could be dead, just not in any graveyard around here.”
The others looked like I was feeling. How could we ever hope to find him? He was a ghost, one way or another.
“He could be a spy,” Reingruber added hopefully. “Maybe he knows that we’re looking for him, and he doesn’t want to be found.” What could we say to that?
