Free 1 Runaway Man by David Handler Page A

gas. I wondered if Battalino had a wife. I wondered if she made him undress in the dark.
    Now it was Gallagher’s turn: “Any idea why the victim went to Candlewood Lake, Ben?”
    “To cram for the Gauntlet. It’s a week of midterm exams they have at Canterbury.”
    “He was alone up here?”
    “As far as I know.”
    “Did he have any personal problems? Was he into drugs?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.”
    “So why did the roommate lie to the victim’s parents about his whereabouts?”
    “I assume because Bruce asked him to.”
    Gallagher thought this over. “Candlewood’s a mighty lonely spot this time of year. Maybe he had a nice, warm girl with him for company.”
    I let that go right on by. Offered not one word about Bruce’s sexual orientation. And for damned sure nothing about his romantic relationship with Charles Willingham. If the finest college basketball player in America was going to get dragged into this it wasn’t going to be by me. Volunteer nothing. That’s another thing my dad taught me. Especially if you don’t know what in the hell you’re in the middle of. And I really, really didn’t know what in the hell I was in the middle of. “My job was to locate Bruce Weiner,” I said. “His body was still warm when I found him. I called my employer with the bad news. Then I called you.”
    “He died about a half hour before you phoned it in,” Gallagher acknowledged. “The death investigator has confirmed as much. And the tire tracks and shoeprints do indicate that someone besides you has been at the scene since last night’s snowfall. Any idea who that individual might be?”
    “None.”
    “Is it your belief that what happened to the victim was not the result of a random break-in?”
    “I seriously doubt it was a random break-in. But don’t ask me what it was because I seriously don’t know.”
    Battalino glared at me across the table. “I don’t like it.”
    “I don’t either, Lieutenant.”
    “You’re not hearing me. What I don’t like is the load of shit you’re shoveling at us. There’s something more going on here. What aren’t you telling us?”
    “Lieutenant, I’m being as helpful as I can. Believe me, when you speak to Peter Seymour you’ll find him considerably less cooperative.”
    “Well, yeah, he’s a high-priced New York City lawyer.” Evidently, Battalino considered them to be even more of a petty annoyance than New York City private investigators. On a par with, say, the heartbreak of psoriasis. “How much did Seymour tell you when he hired you?”
    “As little as possible. He refused to name his client. And he covered his tracks by paying us through a holding company.”
    Battalino stuck his lower lip out at me. “Where are you going with that? Is he going to deny he hired you?”
    “I’m guessing he tells you he’s never even heard of us.”
    “And now the kid who you say he sent you to look for is dead. Plus the kid’s laptop and cell phone are gone. That just about makes you the putz of the century, am I right?”
    “You could not be more wrong,” a woman stated from the doorway behind me. It was Mom, who stood there looking like a million bucks, in her long sable coat. “Peter Seymour can try to play it that way. But it won’t wash.”
    “Is that so?” Battalino eyeballed her up and down freely. “And you are?…”
    “Abigail Golden of Golden Legal Services. I’m this gentleman’s employer.”
    “You two are related?”
    “It’s a family business. My late husband, Meyer Golden, founded it.”
    Battalino raised his dense growth of monobrow, impressed. “ Briefcase Bob Meyer Golden?” To me he said, “You’re Meyer Golden’s kid?”
    “I am.”
    Mom strode briskly across the interview room and grabbed my duffel coat, motioning for me to stand up. “Lieutenant, we happen to enjoy excellent relations with the NYPD. If you have any doubts regarding the veracity or professionalism of my investigator then I urge you to place a