City of the Sun

TEN

It was just after 4:00 when a gold Taurus pulled into the short driveway of 1 Tibbs. A squat man in a brown suit wrestled his briefcase from the passenger seat, climbed out of the car, and headed for his door.

Behr strode across the man ’ s patch of lawn, cutting him off before he had his key out.

“You Louis Cranepool?” Behr snarled. He reared up and used his size on the man. There were many tools of influence at the interrogator ’ s disposal when conducting an interview. Beatings and chemicals were the most severe, and usually illegal, though chummy manipulation yielded nearly as much in Behr ’ s estimation. Chances were this guy had nothing to do with anything, but Behr had only this one time to make a first impression. He decided to try to rattle him, to see if anything shook loose.

“I am.” Cranepool swallowed, taking in the huge man standing between him and his door. “What do you want?”

“You know what I ’ m here about.” Behr let the words settle. “Jamie Gabriel.” If the name did mean anything to Cranepool, then Behr never wanted to sit across a poker table from him. “Your paperboy.”

Cranepool narrowed his eyes in thought. “The one who used to deliver here? Kid who went missing?”

“That ’ s right.” Behr nodded, beginning to modulate his intimidation, already leaning toward the belief that Cranepool wasn ’ t involved. Behr shifted into a more neutral policelike tone, hoping for at least a piece of information. “The date was October twenty-fourth last year. I ’ m assuming you told the police everything you know about it, which was nothing, yes?”

“Uh-huh,” Cranepool said, his fear abating, but only slightly.

“Do you recall if you got your paper on the morning of the twenty-fourth?”

“I did.” Cranepool answered too quickly. “I didn ’ t mention that to the police. I didn ’ t think to and they didn ’ t ask.”

“It was a long time ago. You ’ re sure?”

“I ’ m sure.” Cranepool nodded.

“How?”

“I trade my own portfolio and I check the stock page every night. I missed the paper the next day and had to buy it at the gas station for two days running while they replaced deliverymen.”

Behr involuntarily glanced toward the street. “Now I ’ m on the Internet and I get updates throughout the day,” he half heard Cranepool continue in the background. Behr refocused and asked half a dozen followups, to which Cranepool shook his head. Behr nodded his thanks and began backing off across the lawn the way he had come. Cranepool hurried inside with relief while Behr made his way to the street.

Behr walked around the corner and imagined himself on a bike. He saw that the clearest shot at Cranepool ’ s front door was from where he stood on Perry before making the turn onto Tibbs. Behr brought his right arm across his chest and simulated a cross-body backhanded toss. This is where you would throw it from, he thought. Then he continued around the corner. It was another thirty yards to Mrs. Conyard ’ s house. Jamie had never made it that distance. This was the place. It slammed Behr in the chest. The familiar blackness that came with the realization that a horrible crime had occurred rushed up and tunneled around him. This was the place.

Behr stood out on Tibbs between the Cranepool and Conyard houses for a long time. He knelt down near the asphalt, even brushed it with his fingertips, and looked into the oil stains like a seer. Had he glanced up, he would have seen Cranepool peering at the huge, threatening man from behind his kitchen curtain. When Behr finally stood, the cartilage in his knees cracked, and he remembered the jogger.