“You miss it?”
“Sometimes. More often than not, though? Not so much. It’s like any dysfunctional relationship—sure there were good things about it or else how would you get into it in the first place? But for the most part, it was killing me. Now I have regular hours, I do work I’m proud of, and I sleep like a baby at night.”
“And the work you did with Sophie Corliss?”
“Confidential mostly. She came to me for help, and I tried to help. She’s a pretty lost kid.”
“And the reason she dropped out of school?”
He gave me an apologetic grimace. “Confidential, I’m afraid.”
“I can’t really get a clear picture of her,” I said.
“That’s because there isn’t one. Sophie’s one of those people—she entered adolescence with no real skills, no ambition, and zero sense of self. She’s smart enough to know she has deficiencies but not smart enough to know what they are. And even if she did, what could she do about them? You can’t decide to be passionate about something. You can’t manufacture a vocation. Sophie’s what I call a floater. She bobs along waiting for someone to come along and tell her where to go.”
“You ever meet a friend of hers named Amanda?” Angie asked.
“Ah,” he said, “Amanda.”
“You’ve met her?”
“If you meet Sophie, you meet Amanda.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said.
“You met Amanda?”
“I knew her a long time ago when she was—”
“Ho,” he said, pushing his chair back a bit. “You’re the guy who found her back in the ’90s. Right? Jesus. I knew the name sounded familiar.”
“There you go then.”
“And now you’re looking a second time? A bit ironic.” He shook his head at that irony. “Well, I don’t know what she was like then, but now? Amanda’s a real cool kid. Maybe too cool, you know? I never met anyone of any age so self-possessed. I mean, to be comfortable in your own skin is a rare quality in a sixty-year-old, never mind a sixteen-year-old. Amanda knows exactly who she is.”
“And who is that?”
“I don’t follow.”
“We’ve heard about Amanda’s cool from a lot of people, and you describe her as knowing exactly who she is. My question is—who is she?”
“She’s whoever she needs to be. She’s adaptability personified.”
“And Sophie?”
“Sophie is . . . pliable. She’ll follow any philosophy if it brings her closer to the group-think of the room. Amanda adapts to whatever the group thinks it wants. And she sheds it as soon as she leaves that room.”
“You admire her.”
” ‘Admire’ is a little strong, but I’ll admit she’s an impressive kid. Nothing affects her. Nothing can change her will. And she’s sixteen years old.”
“That’s impressive,” I said. “I wish, though, that just one person I talked to mentioned something about her that was goofy or warm or, I don’t know, messy.”
“That’s not Amanda.”
“Apparently not.”
“What about a kid named Zippo? You ever hear of him?”
“Sophie’s boyfriend. I think his real name is, like, David Lighter. Or Daniel. I can’t be positive on that one.”
“When’s the last time you saw Sophie?”
“Two weeks ago, maybe three.”
“Amanda?”
“Around the same time.”
“Zippo?”
He drained his drink. “Christ.”
“What?”
“It’s been three weeks on him, too. They all . . .” He looked at us.
“Vanished,” Angie said.
Our daughter climbed the jungle gym in the center of the Ryan Playground. It had been snowing since sundown. There was a foot of sand below the jungle gym but I kept my hand nearby anyway.
“So, Detective,” Angie said.
“Yes, Junior Detective.”
“Oh, I’m Junior Detective, huh? Wow, there really is a glass ceiling.”
“You’re Junior Detective for one week. After that I’ll give you a promotion.”
“Based on what?”
“Solid casework and a certain nocturnal inventiveness after lights-out.”
“That’s harassment, you cad.”
“Last week that harassment made you forget your name.”
“Mommy, why would you forget your name? Did you hit your head?”
“Nice,” Angie said to me. “No, Mommy didn’t hit her head. But you’re going to fall if you don’t pay attention. Watch that bar. There’s ice there.”
My daughter rolled her eyes at me.
“Listen to the boss,” I said.
“So what’d we learn today?” Angie asked me as Gabby went back to climbing.
“We learned that Sophie is probably the girl who talked to the police and said she was Amanda. We learned Amanda is very cool and collected. We learned Sophie is not. We learned five people walked into some room, two died, but four walked out. Whatever that means. We learned that there’s a kid in this world named Zippo. We learned it’s possible Amanda was abducted, because no one thinks she’d run away with so much to stay in school for.” I looked over at Angie. “I’m out. You cold?”
Her teeth chattered. “I never wanted to leave the house. How’d we get Edna the Eskimo for a kid?”
“Irish genes.”
“Daddy,” Gabby said, “catch me.”
Two seconds after she said it, she pitched herself off the bar and I caught her in my arms. She wore earmuffs and a hooded pink down coat and about four layers of underclothing, including thermal leggings—so much clothing the little body wrapped inside felt like a snap pea in its pod.
“Your cheeks are cold,” I said.
“No they’re not.”
“Uh, okay.” I hoisted her up onto my shoulders and gripped her ankles. “Mommy’s cold.”
“Mommy’s always cold.”
“That’s because Mommy’s Italian,” Angie said as we walked out of the playground.
“Ciao,” Gabby chirped. “Ciao, ciao, ciao.”
“PR can’t take her tomorrow—dentist—but she can take her the next couple days.”
“Cool.”
“So what’re you going to do tomorrow?” Angie asked me. “Watch that ice.”