Free City of the Sun by David Levien

delivery in place for the next two days. All the customers on the route were credited for those days as well.
    “Nope, there weren’t any complaints from anyone on the route prior to 5 Tibbs,” Susan Durant said from her downtown office, causing Behr to get that prickle down his spine again, as if he felt he was drawing a bead on where something might have happened to Jamie.
    “I owe you an Italian dinner, Susan,” Behr offered for her time and effort on the phone.
    “Oh, I don’t do carbs, Frank,” Susan said with regret, then added encouragingly, “but we could make it a rib-eye.”
    “A steak it is, Susan.” He promised to call her when things wound down on the case.
    Behr turned off his phone and settled in to wait for a Mr. Louis Cranepool, resident of 1 Tibbs Avenue, to return from work. As he waited, Behr ran scenarios in his head. In the case of a missing kid, the parents always got a hard, and often the first, look from police. Behr was sure that within the police file — the official one, not the copy — there was a report showing that the Gabriels had been thoroughly investigated, maybe even poly-graphed. There were circumstances in which Behr would’ve begun by looking more deeply into the mother and father as well. Veracity of grief was no indicator of innocence in crimes within a family. But having sat with them, Behr recognized the completely blinding condition of
not knowing
what had happened to their son from which the couple suffered. This was much harder to fake. He felt the burled walnut of his custom steering wheel flex under his palms. He looked down and noticed his hands were white-knuckled across it. He relaxed his hands and tried to keep them from becoming fists as he considered what Cranepool’s involvement could be.
     
TEN
     
    IT WAS JUST AFTER 4:00 when a gold Taurus pulled into the short driveway of 1 Tibbs. A squat man in a brown suit wrestled his briefcase from the passenger seat, climbed out of the car, and headed for his door.
    Behr strode across the man’s patch of lawn, cutting him off before he had his key out.
    “You Louis Cranepool?” Behr snarled. He reared up and used his size on the man. There were many tools of influence at the interrogator’s disposal when conducting an interview. Beatings and chemicals were the most severe, and usually illegal, though chummy manipulation yielded nearly as much in Behr’s estimation. Chances were this guy had nothing to do with anything, but Behr had only this one time to make a first impression. He decided to try to rattle him, to see if anything shook loose.
    “I am.” Cranepool swallowed, taking in the huge man standing between him and his door. “What do you want?”
    “You know what I’m here about.” Behr let the words settle. “Jamie Gabriel.” If the name
did
mean anything to Cranepool, then Behr never wanted to sit across a poker table from him. “Your paperboy.”
    Cranepool narrowed his eyes in thought. “The one who used to deliver here? Kid who went missing?”
    “That’s right.” Behr nodded, beginning to modulate his intimidation, already leaning toward the belief that Cranepool wasn’t involved. Behr shifted into a more neutral policelike tone, hoping for at least a piece of information. “The date was October twenty-fourth last year. I’m assuming you told the police everything you know about it, which was nothing, yes?”
    “Uh-huh,” Cranepool said, his fear abating, but only slightly.
    “Do you recall if you got your paper on the morning of the twenty-fourth?”
    “I did.” Cranepool answered too quickly. “I didn’t mention that to the police. I didn’t think to and they didn’t ask.”
    “It was a long time ago. You’re sure?”
    “I’m sure.” Cranepool nodded.
    “How?”
    “I trade my own portfolio and I check the stock page every night. I missed the paper the next day and had to buy it at the gas station for two days running while they replaced deliverymen.”
    Behr