“Or so?” Bob said.

“About four thousand,” Evan muttered.

“Christ on a cracker,” Bob said.

“Evan,” I said, “did you ever steal any money out of my house?”

He shook his head violently. “Never, swear to God, I never took anything from your place.” He paused. “But… I’ve borrowed some from friends.”

“In addition to the four grand on your Visa?” Bob asked.

Evan nodded sheepishly. “Like, about six hundred.”

All of us, except Evan, were doing a variation of the same thing. Looking down, shaking our heads, thinking, is there no end to the kind of shit that kids can get into?

Susanne turned to me and said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

We took a few steps back in the direction of the office. I let her put some weight on my arm.

“This thing, the gambling debts?” she said. “That’s Bob’s problem.”

I wasn’t sure. I wondered whether Evan’s debt problems could have drawn Sydney in somehow, but I let Susanne continue.

“Maybe the reason she’s gone… is she’s pregnant. She’s too afraid to tell us and she’s run off to have the baby.”

I wasn’t buying it, although, in some ways, it would be a relief to learn this was the reason for Sydney’s disappearing act. At least it would mean she was okay. That she was alive. I could welcome home a pregnant daughter if there was a pregnant daughter to welcome home.

And yet.

“Why run off now?” I said. “If she is pregnant, it’s just at the beginning. Is she going to be gone for eight months? If she were going to run off to have a baby, wouldn’t she have waited a little longer?”

Susanne nodded. “I know, I know. Maybe she ran off to have it dealt with. To get an abortion.”

“She’s been gone for weeks, Suze. How long would she need to do that? And don’t you think, even if she was scared, and embarrassed, that eventually she’d screw up her courage and come to us for help? Something like this, wouldn’t she have come to you, if not me?”

Susanne was starting to tear up. “Maybe not if she blamed me. Because I’d moved us in with Bob, and then Evan. Because she’d think it was my fault.”

I thought there was something to that, but kept it to myself.

“It doesn’t explain other things,” I said. “What about that van you said has been watching your house? Syd’s abandoned car? Or me being tricked into flying to Seattle? My house getting torn apart?”

Susanne shook her head in frustration. “The van, that’s probably just my imagination. I’m so tense, I’m seeing things that aren’t there. You know?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“And it could have been kids who broke into your house. Just stupid vandalism.”

I didn’t bother to tell her about the phone I’d found, how that discovery tightened the knot that brought all these things together.

“And maybe the Seattle thing,” Susanne continued, “was just some prankster. You know there are some pretty sick people out there. It could have been someone who saw the website, just wanted to mess with you.”

How comforting it would be to believe what Susanne wanted to believe, that our daughter was out there, pregnant but safe, just waiting for the right time to come back home.

“Suppose I talk to Detective Jennings,” I said, “and tell her they should check with Planned Parenthood offices, abortion clinics, that kind of thing. See if anyone there has seen Sydney.”

Susanne sniffed and nodded. “Okay.”

“It’s worth a shot,” I said.

“Okay,” she said again.

“Excuse me.” It was Bob, with a contrite Evan standing at his side. Susanne and I looked at the two of them without saying anything. “Evan has something he’d like to say to the both of you.”

Susanne and I waited. Evan cleared his throat twice and said, “I’m sorry.”

Bob offered up several small nods, smiled. Susanne and I looked at each other, then back at Evan.

“Well,” I said. “Everything’s just peachy now, isn’t it?”

TWENTY-TWO

I LEFT A MESSAGE FOR KIP JENNINGS on my way to Riverside Honda. I pulled into the dealership a little after three, settled in behind my desk, and fired up the computer. Following my routine of the last few weeks, I checked the website for any tips about Sydney, and, finding none, checked my work voice mail. There were three calls from people wondering how much they could get for their used cars. I made a note of their numbers so that I could call them back.

The hell of it was, I still had to make a living. I had bills to pay, not the least of which was a round-trip to Seattle.

Andy Hertz had his head down at his desk, writing down some numbers on a yellow pad. “Hey,” I said to him. It wasn’t like him to be antisocial.

“Hey,” he said, glancing up. “Welcome back.”

“Anything going on?” I asked.

“Not much.”

“Sell any cars?”

“It’s been kind of slow,” Andy said. “This idea of yours, to call up people selling their used cars, that hasn’t worked worth a shit.” Then, remembering, “You find Sydney?”

“No,” I said.

I got back behind my desk, unable to think about anything but my daughter. But I’d been able to go through the motions before when she was the only thing on my mind, so I got to it. I dug out my book of recent leads-people who’d taken test drives, asked for brochures, made low offers, and walked away. I took a breath and started dialing numbers.

I didn’t leave messages when no one picked up. The chances that anyone would return a car salesman’s call were about the same as a Prius winning the Indy 500. You had to talk to people directly.

A rich stockbroker from Stamford told me he was still mulling over whether to get the Honda S2000 he’d been in salivating over a few weeks ago. I put him in the “call back” list. An elderly couple from Derby had changed their minds about getting a car now that the husband had been diagnosed with cataracts.

And then I’d come to Lorna and Dell. The couple who’d looked at just about every car on the market and couldn’t reach a decision. They’d come close to driving me mad with their indecision, but some sales you just had to work harder for than others.

I glanced at the clock, saw that it was after four, and took a chance Lorna might be home from her teaching job.

She picked up. “Hello?”

“Hello, Lorna,” slipping into my car salesman voice, which is not far off from my regular voice, except that it sounds as though I’ve just had some cough syrup. “Tim Blake from Riverside Honda.”

“Oh, how are you today?”

“I’m just great, how about yourself?”

“We’re terrific. We’re loving the car.”

I almost asked her to repeat herself, but calm prevailed. “That’s just great,” I said. “I’ve been off a few days, you know. Just what did you end up getting?”

“We bought a Pilot. We spent all this time looking at sedans, and then we thought, maybe we could use a little more room. Are you feeling better?”

Evidently I had been ill. “Yes, much better,” I said. “I trust you were well looked after in my absence.”

“Oh, yes. We came in looking for you, and that nice boy Andy helped us out.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Be sure to drop by and say hello when you’re in for service.”

I hung up.

How it’s supposed to work is this: If a customer you’ve been working with for some time finally decides to buy, and he shows up on your day off to make the deal, the salesperson who helps him splits the commission with you. That is, if he’s not a scumbucket.

I poked my head around the divider and said to Andy, “Hey, you want to go grab a coffee and get some air?”

Andy looked up nervously. “Now?”

“Sure,” I said. “I could use a coffee before I start making any more calls.”

We walked over to the communal coffeepot, poured ourselves each a cup, then walked around to the back of the dealership where there was shade from some tall oaks on a neighboring property.