“My name is Michael Drayton. I’m a private investigator. I’m sure you remember Cliff Szabo and his son.”
Recognition in his eyes. He said nothing.
“I’m also sure you told the events of that afternoon to countless people — the police and the media, and maybe other investigators. But I’d like you to tell it again, if you don’t mind. What can I call you, sir?”
He seemed reluctant to answer, but at last he said, “Ramsey.”
“Mr. Ramsey, okay. And do you own the store, Mr. Ramsey?”
No response. He stared at me, unblinking, a statue of diffidence.
“Were you working here on Friday the 6th of March? If so, were you in the store when Mr. Szabo and his son were here?”
He shook his head.
“But you do know who Mr. Szabo is?”
He nodded.
“You do business with him every so often?”
Nod.
“How would you characterize Mr. Szabo?”
No response.
“What’s he like? Good guy?”
Ramsey cleared his throat. “Good guy, yes.”
“And his son Django?”
“A good guy, yes.”
“How often did Mr. Szabo come in?”
Pause. “Three times.”
“Including March 6th?”
“Four times.”
“You saw him on the 6th?”
“Yes.”
“Did he usually buy or sell?”
“Both.”
“What did he bring in to sell on March 6th?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t remember?”
“I wasn’t there.”
“On March 6th.”
“Yes.”
“Who was tending the store?”
“Tending?”
“Who was sitting where you are right now?”
He blinked. “My daughter.”
“She dealt with Mr. Szabo on that day?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
Hesitation. “Lisa.”
“When will Lisa be in?”
“Not today.”
“Tomorrow? Thursday?”
“Thursday.”
“I’ll be back Thursday then.” I closed up my notebook, the page empty. While we’d been talking a dreadlocked white kid in cutoffs and sandals had entered the store and started perusing the racks of dusty Nintendo games. I thanked Mr. Ramsey for his time. He didn’t respond.
Tuesday, 2:50 p.m.
Place: Brahmin Stamps Coins and Collectables, 3rd Street.
Speaker: Germit Gil, owner and proprietor
“Yes, I’ve done much business with Mr. Szabo. I believe he is a good man. I like his son very much. At least once a month I’d see him. Sometimes he brought his son. I liked them very much. They seemed happy. He sold me some silver coins that day. I still have them. A very good man. I’m very sorry for him.”
Wednesday, 10:45 a.m.
Place: Coin Land, International Village Mall
Speaker: Bill Koch, store manager
“Cliffy, yeah, he did stop by that day. Sucks for him, huh? He’d bring the kid but usually send him to the food court with a dollar. A single dollar, like four quarters. What can you buy with that, a packet of ranch dressing? He never seemed cross with the kid, but he’s not an affectionate guy. But then I knew a guy in the service, nicest, most brave guy I ever met. They found two hookers buried under his house. Goes to fucking show you, doesn’t it?”
Wednesday, 12:10 p.m.
Place: Diaz Bicycles and Sporting Equipment, West Broadway
Speaker: Arturo Diaz, co-owner
“You know how I know Django ran away? ’Cause whenever they came into my place Cliff would tell him not to go anywhere, not to touch anything, and Django would usually do both. We’d look around and he’d be gone. Then we’d find him downstairs trying to pedal one of the ten-speeds. Just the kind of kid he was. No, Cliff never hit Django that I saw, but maybe he should’ve. My dad tuned me up a few times. That’s how we learn.”
Wednesday, 2:00 p.m.
Place: Mumbai Sweets, Cambie Street and 49th
Speaker: Ashraf Dillon
“Don’t remember, sorry. Lots of people bring their kids to eat. Rice or naan?”
Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.
Place: Emily Carr Elementary School, King Edward and Laurel
Speaker: Henrietta Chang-Clemenceau, seventh grade teacher
“It was so horrible, so sad. It’s why I changed schools. No, I never noticed any physical abuse, bruises and such. Believe me, if I had I would have spoke up then and there. But I’m pretty attuned to moods and attitudes, and Django was troubled. He’d rarely write in his Classroom Journal, and when he did it was about looking forward to the next Friday when his dad would take him out of school. I had words with his father about that.
“I guess that seems counter-intuitive, that you would look forward to spending more time with someone who treats you poorly — and believe me, I did witness Mr. Szabo treat Django like that several times, snapping at him to get his coat, expressing frustration when he didn’t move fast enough. Have you heard of the Stockholm Syndrome? You may think it’s bull, but I’ve seen it.
“Between us? What’s so horrible, Mr. Drayton, is that I can’t shake from my head the idea, the feeling, that Mr. Szabo killed his poor son.”
Thursday I hung back until half past eleven. I’d made about fifty pages’ progress in the Veblen, decidedly less on either of my cases. I’d met with the Kroons and we decided to give the Corpse Fucker two more months of weekends: if he hadn’t reappeared by Hallowe’en, we’d leave the cameras up but forego the nightly watch. That meant resigning ourselves to another attack. No one was happy with that. Everyone agreed to it.
When I walked into Imperial Pawn I saw Mr. Ramsey seated on the stool showing unpolished jewellery to a lanky East Asian woman of about forty. They were the only two people in the room.
“Afternoon,” I said. “Is your daughter in?”
Ramsey looked at me as if he’d never set eyes on me before, and wasn’t all that impressed now that he had. He turned his attention back to the woman, helped her with the clasp on a bracelet.
I leaned over the counter close enough so the two of them were within arm’s reach. “Did some tragic illness befall her? A seventy-two-hour virus, maybe?”
“I like this one,” the woman said. Ramsey nodded.
Looking between them I said, “I don’t understand why you’re not more cooperative, considering you and your daughter are two of the last people to see that child before he went missing.”
The