“Sampling the goods and he OD’d,” I said. “Too stoned to call Lucy.”
He looked around the room. “How long’s she been asleep?”
“Hour and a half.”
“Ken, too?”
“He went up to see how she was doing a half hour ago and didn’t come down.”
“Escape to sleep,” he said.
“Old Buck tends to nod off when he’s under stress, too.”
He cracked his knuckles. “Some people just have shitty lives, don’t they? And the rest of us live off them. Hey, why don’t we blow this joint, go to the circus or something? Did I ever tell you I once busted a clown when I was on patrol? Peeping Tom. Never worked that into his act.”
He got up and paced the room. “Nice place the scamsters set up for themselves.”
“Crime almost paid.”
Ken came down the stairs, holding on to the banister. His hair was combed but he looked sick. “Guess I dozed off—hi, detective.”
They shook hands.
“Is Lucy awake?” I said.
“Just up. She said if you wanted to come up it was okay. She’s at the end of the hall.”
I went up the stairs. Lucy’s room was pale blue with white trim, smallish, with a canted ceiling and a big four-poster with lace-edged covers. She was sitting on the edge, staring out the window.
I sat next to her. She didn’t react. Her eyes were dry and her lips were chapped.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
“Gone,” she said. “Everything.”
I patted her hand. Fingers cold as Puck’s junkie digits.
“Heard the doorbell,” she said.
“That was Milo.”
She nodded, then kept the movement going, a faint rocking.
“No surprise,” she said. “Guess I always knew, but . . .”
“It’s never easy.”
“Like being stripped . . . one thing at a time . . . empty world.”
I squeezed her fingers.
“He can come up,” she said. “Milo.”
Almost pleading.
I stepped out to the landing. Milo and Ken were still in the entry. It didn’t look as if either of them had moved.
“She’d like to see you.”
He bounded the steps two at a time. When we were alone, Ken touched his belly and gave a squeamish look. “Stomach’s off, can’t hold on to anything. Maybe I’ll finally take off some blubber.”
I smiled.
“Gained way too much. Fifteen pounds during the last year. My divorce. It hasn’t been a friendly one. Kelly—my wife—met another guy. She’d been complaining about being bored, so I suggested she take some classes at the junior college. She met him there, some out-of-work construction guy. I tried to get her to go to counseling, but she wouldn’t. When I finally realized we were going to break up, I tried to keep it amicable, for the kids. But she bad-mouthed me to them.”
“That doesn’t help the kids.”
“It’s been going on over a year, and we’re still in court. Her dad’s got lots of money, lawyers on retainer. She says she won’t give up until she has everything.”
He gave another cough-laugh. “That’s why I was motivated to get in touch with Puck and Lucy. Now this.”
Milo returned. “She fell asleep again.”
“I’d better go lock the door,” said Ken.
Milo said, “Why?”
I told him.
“Oh.” Turning to Ken: “Call me if you need anything.”
“Thanks, detective. Are they treating what happened as an accident?”
“Probably.”
“Guess it was,” said Ken. “Sometimes it seems like everything is.”
Outside at the curb, I asked Milo if Lucy’d said anything.
“She held my hand and took turns smiling and crying. Think she has any chance coming out of this reasonably intact?”
“She’s pretty tough, but this . . . she’s topping off the stress scale.”
“Beautiful day,” he said, looking at the sapphire sky. “I had time to make some calls. The surf shop’s closed, meaning the Sheas may have split, too. Still nothing on Trafficant, and if your Mr. Mellors is a bad guy, he’s been a careful one. Nothing on NCIC. In fact, I can’t find any record of him at all.”
“What’s going on?” I said. “Everyone’s just disappearing.”
He rubbed his face. “We all do, eventually.”
I returned home and tried Columbia University. They’d never heard of Denton Mellors. Either he’d lied about his educational background or was using a false name. Pen name? I got the number for the Manhattan Book Review and called the magazine.