We found the right street. Found the right house. Decent place. Well looked after. Neat and clean. A tiny one-storey. Small yard, small singlecar garage. Narrow gate in the wire fence. We went through. Rang the bell. An old woman cracked the door against the chain.
`Good evening,’ Roscoe said. `We’re looking for Sherman Stoller.’
Roscoe looked at me after she said it. She should have said we were looking for his house. We knew where Sherman Stoller was. Sherman Stoller was in the Yellow Springs morgue, seventy miles away.
`Who are you?’ the old woman asked, politely.
`Ma’am, we’re police officers,’ Roscoe said. Half true.
The old lady eased the door and took the chain off.
,You better come in,’ she said. `He’s in the kitchen. Eating, I’m afraid.’
`Who is?’ said Roscoe.
The old lady stopped and looked at her. Puzzled.
`Sherman,’ she said. `That’s who you want, isn’t it?’
We followed her into the kitchen. There was an old guy eating supper at the table. When he saw us, he stopped and dabbed at his lips with a napkin.
`Police officers, Sherman,’ the old lady said. The old guy looked up at us blankly.
`Is there another Sherman Stoller?’ I asked him. The old guy nodded. Looked worried. `Our son,’ he said.
`About thirty?’ I asked him. `Thirty-five?’
The old guy nodded again. The old lady moved behind him and put her hand on his arm. Parents.
`He don’t live here,’ the old man said.
`Is he in trouble?’ the old lady asked.
`Could you give us his address?’ Roscoe said.
They fussed around like old people do. Very deferential to authority. Very respectful. Wanted to ask us a lot of questions, but just gave us the address.
`He hasn’t lived here for two years,’ the old man said.
He was afraid. He was trying to distance himself from the trouble his son was in. We nodded to them and backed out. As we were shutting their front door, the old man called out after us.
`He moved out there two years ago,’ he said.
We trooped out through the gate and got back in
the car. Looked on the street map again. The new address wasn’t on it.
`What did you make of those two?’ Roscoe asked me.
`The parents?’ I said. `They know their boy was up to no good. They know he was doing something bad. Probably don’t know exactly what it was.’
`That’s what I thought,’ she said. `Let’s go find this new place.’
We drove off. Roscoe got gas and directions at the first place we saw.
`About five miles the other way,’ she said. Pulled the car around and headed away from the city. `New condominiums on a golf course.’
She was peering into the gloom, looking for the landmarks the gas station attendant had given her. After five miles she swung off the main drag. Nosed along a new road and pulled up by a developer’s sign. It advertised condominiums, top quality, built right on the fairway. It boasted that only a few remained unsold. Beyond the billboard were rows of new buildings. Very pleasant, not huge, but nicely done. Balconies, garages, good details. Ambitious landscaping loomed up in the dark. Lighted pathways led over to a health club. On the other side was nothing. Must have been the golf course.
Roscoe killed the motor. We sat in the car. I stretched my arm along the back of her seat. Cupped her shoulder. I was tired. I’d been busy all day. I wanted to sit like this for a while. It was a quiet, dull night. Warm in the car. I wanted music. Something with an ache to it. But we had things to do. We had to find Judy. The woman who had bought Sherman Stoller’s watch and had it engraved. To Sherman, love Judy. We had to find
Judy and tell her the man she’d loved had bled to death under a highway.
`What do you make of this?’ Roscoe said. She was bright and awake.
`Don’t know,’ I said. `They’re for sale, not rental. They look expensive. Could a truck driver afford this?’
`Doubt it,’ she said. `These probably cost as much as my place, and I couldn’t make my payments without the subsidy I get. And I make more than any truck driver, that’s for sure.’