Day Thirty-Seven
Lally had never hired a private detective and didn’t know anyone who had.
In fact, it wasn’t until she pulled out an old phone book, the last that had ever been delivered (even the white pages were now yellowed with age), that she even believed PIs were a real thing.
Of course, Google might have been easier, but something printed felt more clandestine.
Internet searches could be traced; flipping through the Yellow Pages could not.
She felt like she should be drinking a dry martini, even smoking a cigarette.
She spoke to two people by phone, the first was a true old gumshoe, a man by the name of Wilford Ilsen, and old was being charitable.
This guy had passed old sometime around the Carter administration.
He talked about his “girl” being out that day and his inability to take notes without his glasses, and apparently only the girl knew their whereabouts.
Lally had a clear picture of him as a withered corpse in a brown sports jacket, the lapels covered in soup. In short, he would not do.
Her second call proved more promising. A man named Harlan Faulkner answered the phone with confidence and panache; the literary nature of his name seemed like a sign.
Faulkner was not Chandler, but it was close enough, and Harlan was a man she could imagine feeling safe with.
He was not young, around Lally’s age, but he was most certainly not old enough to have stormed Normandy.
Also, his “girl” was a gay man named Lyle, which put her instantly at ease.
Harlan assured her she was doing the right thing and discouraged her from feeling silly.
She was right that the cops wouldn’t care, but people who were missing were harder to find the longer they were gone—especially those who didn’t want to be found.
Weren’t all private investigators former cops?
Harlan said there was a reason they were ex-; he even made it sound reasonable, like they were unable to reform a broken system from within.
She was ready to hire him over the phone.
The only complication? He insisted they meet in person.
When she had three days off in L.A., they arranged to meet at his office on La Cienega Boulevard.
La Cienega intersected Wilshire near where the embryos were stored, but she tried to keep that coincidence far from mind.
None of that mattered if they could not locate Norman.
Besides, Harlan’s office was closer to the intersection with La Tijera—a road she knew well, as it led to the airport.
The building was unimpressive from the outside, but surprisingly professional inside; instead of broken blinds, the windows had roman shades and the waiting area had a new-carpet smell.
Lyle asked if she wanted water while she waited for Harlan—he was just wrapping up a call—and when she said yes he gave her a clean drinking glass with water from a blue dispenser.
Without asking, Lyle showed her his boss’s license and proof of insurance.
“A lot of people don’t know to ask to see these, but Harlan thinks it’s important that you do.
” Lally smiled and thanked him; he reminded her of her brother back in the nineties.
Young, confident, and approachable with stylish glasses.
She asked how he got into this line of work; he had a face for commercials.
“Lady, please,” he began. “I was made for this line of work. I can get a story out of anyone.” Lally understood, as she was on the verge of spilling hers.
Lyle didn’t pry, but she made note to be careful what she shared with him in the future.
She asked why Harlan insisted on meeting in person and Lyle said it was a comfort thing, and because oftentimes hiring a private investigator leads to them having to testify in civil or criminal court, and Harlan likes to show that he’s a professional who comes across as such.
It’s only to her benefit. Hearing this reason was the first time Lally thought there could be something seriously amiss.
Court? A trial? She masked her discomfort by drinking her water, asking no more questions until Harlan finished his call.
It was not awkward—Lyle did plenty of talking.
So much so, she began to think he had it backward.
Literally anyone could get a story out of him.
“Lally?”
Harlan stood in the doorway, both more and less intimidating than she’d imagined.
Something about him reminded her of Gene Hackman but sturdier, or someone of normal looks they used to let be a movie star before everyone on-screen was required to look the same.
He was surprisingly muscular for a man of his age, which she imagined to be early fifties.
He had kind eyes that reminded her of her father’s, and he wore a similarly wide tie. “Yes.”
“Come on in.” He smiled, his teeth as white as sunshine.
That was L.A. for you—even the private dicks had their teeth whitened.
He gestured for her to join him in his office, and she placed her water glass on the corner of Lyle’s desk with an apologetic smile.
She took the nearer seat of two that sat across from his desk, wondering how he could conduct a stakeout unnoticed (that smile was like flashing high beams).
The chair’s ivory upholstery was somewhat stained, she imagined from years of nervous people sweating bullets in the very seat she sat in now.
Since the carpet was new, maybe an updated chair was on order.
“You’re here about your sister, yes?” He was soft-spoken and there was a hint of an accent, Chicago maybe. Or Boston.
“Brother, actually.” Lally nodded politely as he flipped to a clean page in a legal pad to take notes.
“Brother. I’m sorry. When did you last see him?”
“See him, see him?” Lally asked; it had been a while. “He called me on my birthday and everything seemed fine. I think that’s the last time we spoke.”
“When was that?”
“June.” And then because she thought it important to be precise added, “Thirty-first.”
Harlan lifted his pen from his paper. “June only has thirty days.”
“Twenty-first! Sorry.” She looked over her shoulder to see if Lyle could bring her more water, but Harlan had closed the door behind them. She didn’t think she would be this nervous. “Gemini. Or Cancer. Sometimes it depends on who you ask.”
“Okay,” he said with his kind eyes. “Just try and relax. No trick questions, I promise.”
As Harlan made a quick note, Lally adjusted herself in her seat.
If she couldn’t quell her nerves, she could at least appear more comfortable, but in a moment of panic she forgot how people sat properly in meetings and draped one of her legs over the chair’s arm before quickly undoing the pretzel she was making of herself.
“A lot of people only talk to their family on birthdays and holidays. But I take it this is unusual.”
Lally did her best to explain everything that Norman was to her, their history and his role in her life still.
He wasn’t just some random relation; since their brother Robbie died and her parents had retired to Italy, he was her family—the entirety of it.
An older brother, a wise uncle, a father figure.
And on top of that a best friend, or at least he had been.
“In short,” she added after she’d gone long, “it’s not the norm. ” It’s not Norman.
She described how she’d dropped in on Jesse and found his behavior odd.
Skittish. Unfocused. Jesse always told it to you straight, that had been the nature of their relationship since they first met.
When she was twenty-two and in line to buy a top at Urban Outfitters, he would quietly substitute it with another.
He would override her when ordering wine in restaurants or when she discussed possible vacation destinations.
(Visiting Estonia? She should try Tallinn over P?rnu.) Recently when she hinted her eyes were looking tired and she might like a surgical refresh, he mentioned if he were her, he would start with her chin.
It sounded awful in the recounting, but she had always appreciated his bluntness.
Which was what made her certain he was hiding something now.
“How long have they been married?” Harlan asked when she went on about Jesse for too long.
“Since 2016.”
“That’s all?”
“It wasn’t legal much before then. In California, at least. Except for a short time in 2008. They’ve been together since the nineties. Why?”
Harlan made notes. “When someone disappears it’s prudent to take a look at the spouse.”
“Disappears?” To Lally that seemed a bit strong. She simply wanted to know why her brother was not returning her calls.
“What word would you use?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.
” She fished in her purse for Norman’s business card.
He’d shared one with her when he had the logo for his firm redesigned.
“Jesse said he was in Milwaukee. I’m pretty sure that’s it.
I tried calling my brother’s office to confirm, but no one is answering the phone.
He recently opened his own firm. I’m not even sure he has an assistant. ”
Harlan squinted like he was recognizing a theme. He then read the card. “Your brother’s an architect?”
“That’s right.”
“And he was in Milwaukee…”
“On a build, supposedly.”
“Private home? Public building?”
“Medical building, I think.” It had been a few weeks, but Lally was almost certain that was what Jesse had said. “Does that help?”
Harlan hummed. Lally wasn’t sure if that meant yes or no. “We can check with the city for permits.”
“All of this is of course according to Jesse.”
Harlan nodded.
“But Jesse wouldn’t harm him.”
Harlan looked out his window into the back alley. The view was a tangle of telephone wires, and the sky was a dull pigeon gray. “You’d be surprised.”
“I would be,” Lally agreed. Jesse knew more than he was letting on, but she would bet almost anything that was where it ended.
“What kind of time frame are we working with here?”
“Time frame?”
“How quickly do you need to find him?”
Lally wasn’t certain how to answer that one without sharing too much. “Do you have an expedited service?” She could only imagine what the rush fees on a job like this might be. Harlan laughed, and she forced a weak smile.
“No, no. I mean, is there a deadline that you’re under. You’re trying to locate him for a family reunion, or to sign documents by a certain date.”
“Oh,” Lally sighed. She imagined Harlan had any number of clients, as someone was paying for Lyle and this office space.
She didn’t want to be bumped down his list of priorities.
“No exact date, but there is a pressing legal matter. So, something like the document thing.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask, as she didn’t know how to explain to him the realities of her ticking biological clock. Fortunately he had no follow-up.
Harlan explained that the first step, should they move forward, was to see if Jesse was telling the truth.
If he was, this could be more or less open and shut.
But if Jesse wasn’t telling the truth, that would be another matter entirely.
“But I must warn you, there are limits to what we can do. I have a pretty good track record of finding missing persons, but we make no guarantees. Some mysteries have no answers. Or at least ones that we’ll ever know. Like who really shot JFK.”
“My father thinks a bird flew into him.”
Harlan stared at her, trying his best not to laugh. Lally shrugged. If only he knew her father. “Well, that’s a new one to me. I might have to look into that.”
Lally held his gaze and pleaded with her eyes. “Please find my brother first.”
She signed the agreement after Harlan went through it with her point by point; Lyle made a copy for her records before complimenting her shoes and she paid the agreed-upon retainer.
She sat in her car when she left, surprised by her decisiveness, even if in the privacy of her rented Honda she was having second thoughts.
Did people really do this, hire private investigators?
Should she have called someone else? Isn’t this what congresspeople or even senators were for?
She didn’t know. What she did know was what she wanted to avoid at all costs.
Calling her parents in Italy to tell them their favorite child was missing.
Especially since none of them had gotten over losing Robbie.