I heard a car pull into the drive. If this was Selma coming in, I’d tell her I was quitting so she wouldn’t waste any more of Tom’s hard-earned money. The front door opened and closed. I called a “Hello” and waited for a response. “Selma, is that you?” I waited again. “The Booger Man?”
This time I got a manly “Yo!” in response, and Selma’s son, Brant, appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a red knit cap, a red sweatsuit, and pristine white leather Reeboks, with a white towel wrapped around his neck. Brant, at twenty-five, was the kind of kid matronly housewives in the supermarket turned around and checked out in passing. He had dark hair and fierce brows over serious brown eyes. His complexion was flawless. His jaw was boxy, his cheeks as honed as if his face had been molded and shaped in clay first and then carved out of flesh. His mouth was fleshy and his color was good; a strong winter tan overlaid with the ruddy burn of snow glare and wind. His posture was impeccable: square shoulders, flat stomach, skinny through the hips. If I were younger, I might have whimpered at the sight of him. As it is, I tend to disqualify any guy that much younger than me, especially in the course of work. I’ve had to learn the hard way (as it were) not to mix pleasure with business.
“My mom’s not here yet?” he asked, pulling the towel from around his neck. He removed his knit cap at the same time and I could see that his hair was curling slightly with the sweaty dampness of his workout. His smile showed straight white teeth.
“Should be any minute. I’m Kinsey. Are you Brant?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself.” I shook hands with him across the littered expanse of his father’s desk. His palm was an odd gray. When he saw that I noticed, he smiled sheepishly. “That’s from weightlifting gloves. I just came from the gym,” he said. “I saw the car out front and figured you were here. How’s it going so far?”
“Well enough, I guess.”
“I better let you get back to it. Mom comes, tell her I’m in the shower.”
“Sure thing.”
“See you in a bit,” he said.
Selma got home at 12:15. I heard the garage door grumble up and then down. Within minutes, she’d let herself in the door that led from the garage into the kitchen. Soon afterward, I could hear the clattering of dishes, the refrigerator door opening and shutting, then the chink of flatware. She appeared in the den doorway, wearing a cotton pinafore-style apron over slacks and a matching sweater. “I’m making chicken salad sandwiches if you’d like to join us. You met Brant?”
“I did. Chicken salad sounds great. You need help?”
“No, no, but come on out and we can talk while I finish up.”
I followed her to the kitchen where I washed my hands. “You know what I haven’t come across yet is Tom’s notebook. Didn’t he take field notes when he was working an investigation?”
Surprised, Selma turned from the counter where she was putting together sandwiches. “Absolutely. It was a little loose-leaf notebook with a black leather cover, about the size of an index card, maybe a little bigger, but not much more than that. It must be around here some place. He always had it with him.” She began to cut sandwiches in half, placing them on a platter with sprigs of parsley around the edge. Every time I buy parsley, it turns to slime. “Are you sure it’s not there?” she asked.
“I haven’t come across it. I checked his desk drawers and his coat pockets.”
“What about his truck? Sometimes he left it in the glove compartment or the side pocket.”
“Good suggestion. I should have thought of that myself.”
I opened the connecting door and moved into the garage. I skirted Selma’s car and opened the door to the pickup on the driver’s side. The interior smelled heavily of cigarette smoke. The ashtray bulged with cigarette butts buried in a shallow bed of ash. The glove compartment was tidy, bearing only a batch of road maps, the owner’s manual, registration, proof of insurance, and gasoline receipts. I looked in the side pockets in both doors, looked behind the visors, leaned over and scanned the space under the bucket seats. I checked the area behind the seats, but there was only a small tool kit for emergencies. Aside from that, the interior revealed nothing. I slammed the driver’s side door shut, glancing idly along the garage shelves in passing. I don’t know what I thought I’d see, but there was no little black notebook within range.
I returned to the kitchen. “Scratch that,” I said. “Any other ideas?”
“I’ll have a look myself later on today. He could have left the notebook at work, though he seldom did that. I’ll call Rafer and ask him.”
“Won’t he claim the notes are department property?”
“Oh, I’m sure not,” she said. “He told me he’d do anything he could to help. He was Tom’s best friend, you know.”
But not yours, I thought. “One thing I’m curious about,” I said tentatively. “The night he died . . . if he’d had any warning . . . he could have called for help if he’d had a radio. Why no CB in his truck? Why no pager? I know a lot of guys in law enforcement who have radios installed in their personal vehicles.”
“Oh, I know. He meant to do that, but hadn’t gotten around to it. He was always busy. I couldn’t get him to take the time to drop it off and get it done. That’s the sort of thing you tend way to deal with it.”
Brant reappeared, wearing the blue uniform that identified him as an emergency medical technician for the local ambulance service. s. NEWQUIST was embroid ered on the left. His skin radiated the scent of soap and his hair was now shower-damp and smelled of Ivory shampoo. I allowed myself one small inaudible whine of the sort only heard by dogs; neither Brant nor his mother seemed to pick up on it. I sat at the kitchen table, just across from him, politely eating my sandwich while I listened to them chat. Midway through lunch, the telephone rang again. Selma got up. “You two go ahead. I’ll pick that up in Tom’s den.”
Brant finished his sandwich without saying much and I realized it was going to be my job to initiate conversation.
“I take it Tom adopted you.”
“When I was thirteen,” Brant said. “My . . . I guess you’d call him a birth father . . . hadn’t been in touch for years, since my mom and him divorced. When she married Tom, he petitioned the court. I’d consider him my real dad whether he adopted me or not.”
“You must have had a good relationship.”
He reached for the plate of cookies on the counter and we took turns eating them while we continued our conversation. “The last couple of years we did. Before that, we didn’t get along all that great. Mom’s always been easygoing, but Tom was strict. He’d been in the army and he came down real hard on the side of obeying rules. He encouraged me to get involved with Boy Scouts-which I hated-karate, and track, stuff like that. I wasn’t used to having restrictions laid on me so I fought back at first. I guess I did just about anything I could think of to challenge his authority. Eventually he shaped up,” he said, smiling slightly.
“How long have you been a paramedic?”
“Three years. Before that, I didn’t do much of anything. Went to school for a while, though I wasn’t any great shakes as a student back then.”
“Did Tom talk to you about his cases?”
“Sometimes. Not lately.”
“Any idea why?”
Brant shrugged. “Maybe what he was working, on wasn’t that interesting.”
“What about the last six weeks or so?”
“He didn’t mention anything in particular.”
“What about his field notes? Have you seen those?” A frown crossed his face. “His field notes?”
“The notes he kept-”
Brant interrupted. “I know what field notes are, but I don’t understand the question. His are missing?”
“I think so. Or put it this way, I haven’t been able to lay hands on his notebook.”
“That’s weird. When it wasn’t in his pocket, he kept it in his desk drawer or his truck. All his old notes, he bound up in rubber bands and stored in boxes in the basement. Have you asked his partner? Might be at the office.”
“I talked to Rafer once but I didn’t ask about the notebook because at that point, I hadn’t even thought to look.”
“Can’t help you on that one. I’ll keep an eye out around here.”