Free Blood Ties by S. J. Rozan Page B

point in saying that. I’d do what I wanted and he’d do what he had to. I took a last drag on my cigarette, threw it onto the gravel. There was nothing left there. “Two things,” I said to Sullivan. “If you find him, will you tell me?”
    He nodded. “Once I have him.”
    â€œAnd I want to talk to my sister.”
    â€œI told you: No.”
    â€œNot with you. After you’re done. She’s my sister, Sullivan, her kid is missing and you’re about to tell her he’s a suspect in a homicide. I want to stay in town, see her after you’re gone.”
    It sounded good. I didn’t add that, before this morning, I hadn’t seen her in years.
    He fixed his eyes on me. “Then you’ll leave?”
    â€œI think you’re wrong about this. But I’ll leave.”
    â€œAll right. I’ll call you when I’m done with her. Where will you be?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “But I’ll keep out of your way.”
    It took some work to get my Acura unpacked, to maneuver past the vans and cars, around the RAV4 that, according to a neighbor, had been Tory Wesley’s sixteenth-birthday present from her folks. The crowd at the end of the drive parted, stared into my windows when I went past. I drove a little; where the streets were sunny and quiet, peaceful as though no one’s child had died a few blocks away, I stopped, called my sister.
    â€œHave you heard anything?” I asked. She’d picked up the phone on the first ring, the same as before. “From Scott, or anyone?”
    â€œNo. Have—?”
    â€œListen,” I said. “Something bad’s happened. Not to Gary. But the police are coming to talk to you.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThat girl you told me about,” I said. “Tory Wesley. She’s dead.”
    Silence. Then, “Dead? I don’t—”
    â€œThey think that’s why Gary ran away, Helen.”
    â€œThey think—what, that he knows something about it? But that’s crazy. What do you mean, she’s dead? What happened?”
    â€œDetective Sullivan’s on his way. He’ll tell you the whole thing.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œHe won’t let me come. He thinks if Gary’s involved I may be too.”
    â€œYou—involved in what?”
    In what. Jesus Christ. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, lit it. “Answer Sullivan’s questions when he gets there, that’s all.”
    A small voice: “I don’t understand any of this.”
    â€œI called because I didn’t want you blindsided,” I said. “I’m still in town. I’ll call again.”
    I hung up, smoked, watched a gardener wrap burlap around some shrubs not hardy enough to withstand winter on their own. A car rolled by me, turned the corner. Eventually I took out the phone again and called Lydia.
    â€œHi,” she said. “What’s up? You don’t sound good.” Behind her words, a horn honked, a siren shrilled. She was on the street.
    â€œI’m not.” I told her what had happened, what we’d found.
    â€œMy God,” Lydia said. “How did she die?”
    â€œThat’ll take an autopsy. She was on the bed, naked,” I added.
    â€œOh, Bill.” Then the obvious, though I hadn’t said it: “And they think it was Gary?”
    â€œAs Sullivan says, he’s the one who ran away.”
    â€œCould it be? Could he have?”
    I thought of Gary’s exhausted eyes, the face that looked so much like mine. “I don’t know.”
    â€œWhat do you want to do?”
    â€œI told them about last night, gave them Hagstrom’s name and number. They’ll fax Gary’s picture to New York.”
    â€œThat’ll make three,” Lydia said. “Sets of pictures going around.”
    â€œMy brother-in-law’s there?”
    â€œI haven’t run into him, but