Free The Snake Tattoo by Linda Barnes Page A

through them, hoping to find a picture of Valerie, one with some expression in her eyes, some indication of delight or despair or anxiety.
    Reardon’s productions seemed to involve a lot of teenage girls wearing bodysuits. I didn’t see a shot of Valerie, but faces weren’t the main focus of the photos.
    Reardon’s desktop was clear except for a split-leaf philodendron that needed watering, a telephone, and a thick manuscript clipped together with a long complicated metal arrangement along the left-hand margin. The top sheet said: “ Wanderlust , by Geoffrey L. Reardon.” The “L” had been scratched out, then added again. An arrow indicated that he was considering a change to “L. Geoffrey Reardon.” The manuscript’s corners were dog-eared, as if it had been read by more than a few people. Somebody had penciled comments. I read a page. It was a play. “Cecilia” and “David” seemed to be headed for divorce court.
    C ECILIA: You liar. You never called last night.
    D AVID: You weren’t home.
    I read some more. It sounded like the stuff my ex and I used to sling back and forth. Expletives deleted.
    I opened the top desk drawer and rifled Reardon’s possessions, hoping for, say, a letter from Valerie with a return address. I didn’t find one. I found her name in his rankbook, except I suppose you can’t call it a rankbook when none of the students are ranked. There were check marks by each of the twelve names in Valerie’s class, rows of check marks. At first I thought it was just an attendance book, but there were numbered assignments, all checked off. Whether one student was better than the next was something “L. Geoffrey” kept to himself. I wondered if the kids knew who did good work without the A s and F s to set them straight.
    A studio portrait of a beautiful young man was facedown in the lower left drawer. Signed from Stuart, with love. Maybe one of Geoff’s students had become a Hollywood hunk. Maybe not. A famous student deserved a spot on the memento shelf. Maybe this was personal.
    There was a pile of notebooks in the drawer, student work by the scrawls. I picked one up and glanced through the dated entries. The handwriting was enough to give you a headache.
    The lower right-hand drawer was locked.
    Locks are one of those small motor-skill things I do well, like guitar picking. Back when I was a cop, this felon taught me all about locks, even treated me to a set of picklocks before I busted him.
    Reardon’s desk lock wasn’t much of a challenge, but it got the old adrenaline racing just because I knew I wasn’t supposed to crack it. I felt a shiver up my spine when the lock clicked, and I breathed faster while I shoved my picks back in my shoulder bag and eased the drawer open.
    A half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey and two smeared glasses glared at me. Some find.
    I left my card on the desk with a message to call. Then I used the phone to try Valerie’s parents again.
    A soft-voiced woman answered and agreed when I addressed her as Mrs. Haslam. I started to explain who I was. She interrupted.
    â€œOh, yes, I know. I mean, Jerry told me about you. Miss—what’s your name now? I know I had it here someplace. I wrote it on a scrap of paper. Never mind. He’s such a good boy, Jerry that is. Did you know he was Valerie’s best friend? Her best boyfriend, I should say; she has girlfriends, too. Not really a boyfriend, more a boy and a friend, you know. She’s still so young.…”
    â€œMrs. Haslam, Jerry got in touch with me because of your daughter’s disappearance—”
    â€œYes, that’s what he said. Such a dear boy. Did you see what happened to his mouth? I hope there won’t be a scar or anything permanent or disfiguring or—”
    It was my turn to interrupt. At first she went right on, blathering away about the cut on Jerry’s lip, but I overrode her