Free Island of Bones by P.J. Parrish Page B

to the planter and dug out a key.
    “You don’t have your own key?” Louis asked.
    She turned to look at him but he couldn’t see her eyes through the dark glasses. “No. Why would I?”
    You’re his daughter, Louis thought, but he let it go.
    “He leaves a key outside because he is always losing his own,” Diane explained, unlocking the door.
    Louis went in first and did a quick walk-through of all the rooms. There was no one in the house. He came back to the front door, where Diane was waiting.
    “He’s not here,” Louis said.
    Diane shut her eyes in relief.
    Louis turned and looked around the living room. It looked much like he had imagined . Plain, a little run-down, like no one really had the time or energy to invest it with the small things that made the difference between a house and a home.
    The living room was browns and tans, the furniture nondescript and old. Cheap bookcases, filled to bursting. There were a couple of generic framed landscapes on the walls but there was nothing to really speak of the personality of the person who lived here. Nothing except a framed photograph on the end table next to an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. It was of Diane, her hair longer, her smile shy, her cheeks and lips tinted pale pink in the style of old high school senior portraits.
    The room smelled of cigarettes, must, and something Louis recognized but could not name. He had smelled it once before, in the closed-up cabin of an ex-cop named Lovejoy. It was the lonely odor of one man alone, undiluted by fresh air, sunlight, or the perfume of other human beings.
    Louis heard the rasp of drapes and turned to see Diane working at closing the gaps facing the street. Then she turned. She had taken off the sunglasses and she was looking at the room.
    She looked at Louis. “I...I’m sorry, the place is a mess.” She went to the overflowing ashtray, picked it up, and looked around the room, like she wanted to empty it. Then she just set it down on the dusty table.
    “My father is not the neatest man,” she said. And then she gave Louis an odd smile, like she was apologizing.
    “Can I look around some more?” Louis asked.
    She nodded and hea ded toward a back room. The bedroom drapes were drawn so she turned on the overhead light. Louis paused by the door, looking at the room.
    It was like the living roo m, the bed unmade, another overflowing ashtray, a jumble of clothes in a laundry basket in the corner. In the open closet, Louis could see the white shirts, brown slacks, and jackets that made up Frank’s library uniform. On the nightstand, there was a plate with a half-eaten sandwich and a small stack of books with one volume spread open, facedown. A pair of half-lens reading glasses were lying on top of the book.
    Louis picked up the book. The ti tle was “Theory and Practice of Romance Etymology.” Louis set it back, putting the glasses on top exactly as he had found them.
    “I don’t think he’s gone anywhere. At least not for good,” he said. When Diane didn’t answer he turned to her.
    She was looking around the room, her mouth hanging slightly agape, her eyes not quite concealing her disgust. He knew now why she didn’t have a key to her father’s house. It gave her an easy reason to stay away.
    She saw him staring at her and went slowly to the bathroom. “His toothbrush is gone,” she called out.
    “Maybe he’s spending the night somewhere. Maybe he has a girlfriend.”
    She came back into the bedroom. “You’ve been watching him. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. He doesn’t even have any friends. He barely has a life.”
    Louis watched her as she went to the bureau and slowly pulled out the top drawer.
    “You sound like you’re embarrassed by him,” Louis said.
    She spun around. “I’m protective. How can anyone be embarrassed by their parent? They are what they are.”
    She went back to searching through the drawers, but more slowly now, like she had no idea what she was looking