Last of the Independents by Sam Wiebe Read Free Book Online Page B

embolism.” His pronunciation slowed around the last word. “Her parents are dead. My sister lives with us. When you want to talk to her she’s there.”
    We drank our beverages. The office was cool, owing to the fact that I’d left the balcony door open a crack. A car with an overdriven subwoofer passed by, hip hop trickling down toward Cordova. Saturday, September 5th. Almost seven months from the date of disappearance.
    â€œI spoke to Fisk and I spoke to McEachern,” I said, hitting print and standing to wait for the pages to land in the LaserJet’s tray. “So far all I’ve heard is a bunch of bullshit. Which means we’re starting at square one.”
    Szabo’s expression didn’t change.
    â€œI’m going to re-interview everyone, starting with the people who saw Django that Friday. Then everyone who knew him from school. Then your neighbours. Losing McEachern’s files isn’t setting us back all that much, because I’d do this anyway.”
    â€œGood,” Szabo said.
    â€œWe’ll make up new flyers and get them posted around the city, and if we can afford it, take out some ads. There are online groups dedicated to getting information out. Pastor Flaherty might be able to help us finagle some press coverage.”
    He nodded, following me.
    â€œI’ll also contact all the police agencies in B.C., Alberta, and Washington State, have them check any unidentified remains against the description. If you have anything with your son’s DNA —”
    â€œThe sergeant took some things of his.” Same level expression.
    â€œIf you’ve got others, keep them handy, though your own DNA will do in a pinch.”
    I handed him the two pages, listing the addresses of the shops he and Django visited and the day’s itinerary up to the hour of disappearance.
    â€œCan you think of any place you went that’s not on this list?”
    Szabo unfolded a pair of flimsy reading specs and went over it. “Seems to be it.”
    â€œIf you think of anywhere else,” I said.
    â€œI’ll tell you.”
    â€œGood. Let’s meet every Friday for the next month or so. Anything else you think of you write down, no matter how trivial.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œLast thing: Fisk said you overturned a table during your interview.”
    â€œI was upset,” he said. “Like I told you, some —”
    â€œâ€” times you overreact, got it. Not anymore. From here on out you are the model of restraint. We can’t afford offending anyone else. What’s more, I need you to apologize to Fisk. I know that sucks, but we need him to pity you.”
    â€œI don’t want anyone’s pity.”
    â€œIt’s not for you. Apologize, kiss his ass, get him to work with us.”
    â€œAll right,” he said. “I suppose I should do the same with Mr. McEachern?”
    â€œNo, fuck him,” I said, then checked myself. “No, you’re right, it would help to be on good terms with him, too.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œSee you next week, then.”
    â€œAll right.”
    He’d reached the door when he about-faced and placed a fistful of bills and change on the table, spreading it out so I could count it. “Seventy-three dollars,” he said. “Ten percent.”
    I put the music up, reused the teabag for a second pot, and worked my way through the Szabo file. Quarter past ten Katherine came in. She shed her soaked peacoat, hung her umbrella on the balcony rail, and said, “Don’t ever ask me to do that again.”
    â€œShe appreciated it. And you said you liked animals.”
    â€œThe front ends of animals, Mike. The cute, cuddly ends.”
    â€œLeast in this job, unlike, say, government service, your exposure to assholes is brief and irregular, pardon the pun.”
    She looked at the overturned crate and the papers on the table. She noticed the Loeb file on her