Free Cast in Stone by G. M. Ford Page B

getting a line on her. You
divide it up however you want."
    I
fished in my wallet and came out with seventy-
    three
bucks. I threw it on the table.
    "We'll
find her," they all agreed.
    "Got
a picture?" George asked.
    "Nope,
just a description."
    "Let
me get my notebook and the map," he said.
    While
the boys sat at the kitchen table and mapped out a plan of attack, I
used the yellow dial phone on the wall to call Rebecca. Rebecca
Duvall, in addition to being my lifelong friend and sometime social
companion, was also the chief forensic pathologist for
    King
County. I tried the office first and was not disappointed. Rebecca
lived at home with her aged mother. Having known her mother for all
my life, I could understand why Duvall worked late whenever possible.
    "Pathology."
    "Rebecca."
    "Leo,"
she said. "I can't talk right now. I've got my hands full of
something." "Something?" "Someone," she
admitted.
    "How's
about dinner? I need to pick your brain."
    "You
really should try not to use that unfortunate phrase with
pathologists."
    "I'll
keep that in mind. How about it?"
    "I've
got about another hour here," she sighed.
    "I'll
pick you up at eight."
    "Sounds
good. Where?"
    "No
idea. You choose," I said. "Pasta?"
    "No
pasta. I've been doing brain sections all day." She thought
about it for a moment. "Let's try the Blob. We threaten to stop
every time we drive by. Let's finally do it. Hillary said it was
surprisingly pleasant inside."
    "This
is the same Hillary who epoxied six kinds of macaroni to her
apartment walls and then painted over it. Random texture, I believe
she called it."
    "Don't
start, Leo. She says the interior decor is nice."
    "Okay,
okay. Sure, what the hell. Eight."
    "Eight-thirty.
And Leo—if you can manage to be less than totally obnoxious, you
may get to pick more than my brain. Mom's out of town for the next
couple of weeks."
    "Should
I consider this to be an offer?" I asked. "You should, at
best, consider that to be a possibility, and wear your new
clothes." "What for, I—"
    "Remote
possibility," she amended before she hung up.
    As
was the case with nearly any event, including such things as sunrise,
the upcoming search for Norma had proved sufficient occasion for
a drink. The Boys passed a bottle of peach schnapps around as they
formulated battle plans. If they noticed my departure, they didn't
let on.

7

    I'm
Sure at one time it must have had a name, some proper noun to lend
substance to the otherwise-ethereal concept floating about the mind
of its creator. The Casbah, maybe. Or Shangri-la. Something
Eastern and whimsical. Everybody I knew always just referred to it as
the Blob.
    Just
as every family must have its black sheep, every city must have its
architectural monstrosity. This was Seattle's. Somewhere out there,
laboring long into the night at some menial task, was the defrocked
city employee who'd allowed this to happen. Permits had been
granted; inspections had been passed; and, in the end, heads had most
surely rolled.
    Attached
like a tick to the base of Queen Anne Hill, it looked like a resort
swimming pool turned upside down. The white two-story structure
meandered aimlessly over nearly half a block. Shapeless,
formless, a series of stark stucco humps, bumps, and mounds,
punctuated here and there by small porthole-like windows, it was
seemingly the product of chance rather than design. Frank Lloyd Wrong
on acid.
    The
attached lot was half full when Rebecca and I pulled in a little
after eight-thirty. For a town where, on a Friday night, you needed a
reservation at a Denny's if you wanted to avoid a half-hour wait,
this was by no means an encouraging sign.
    "Funny,
but I don't see Hillary's car anywhere," I said as I opened the
car door and helped Rebecca out.
    Rebecca
tried to change the subject.
    "You
look great. Is this the first time you've worn it?"
    The
it to which she so casually referred was my new Sunday-go-to-meeting
suit. Back in August, after months of complaining about my
unimaginative