the door, giving Dan an odd look. The Philips entered, introduced themselves as Gloria and Paul, and sat before Dan could offer. Everything about them was loud. The only thing standing between the father and a caveman, in Dan’s estimation, was about three grunts. He could have been a mail-order hitman — muscles constricted in his shirtsleeves, his neck a bulbous pillar wider than his face, hair a shock of white greased to his skull. The mother had the air of a woman whose glory days ran along the lines of head cheerleader at Wawa Senior High. Dressed in a Hallelujah Pink sweater with matching lipstick and nails, plunging neckline, and thigh-high skirt, she’d toned down the look with a black nylon windbreaker, placing her one solitary rung above her husband on the evolutionary ladder.
Dan thought he detected an odour — it might have been two — of something faintly melony covering the scent of fried fish. A moment passed before he could distinguish that the fruity smell was coming from her and the fried smell from her husband. He wished he’d eaten. The combination was going to be difficult on an empty stomach.
He asked for their version of events the night Richard disappeared. He listened with considered solemnity as Gloria Philips retold the story, tapping her pink nails on his desk for emphasis. It all sounded familiar except for one detail: Richard had been getting money from somewhere. Dan nodded as Gloria told of a series of unexpected electronic gadgets — cell phones, iPods — and overnight trips to Toronto that her son had explained as being a friend’s invitation to concerts.
Gloria’s account ended. She eyed her husband. “His version’s the same as mine.” The human grunt nodded as Gloria looked Dan in the eye. “But I didn’t come here to hear myself talk,” she said, tapping the file. “I want you to tell me what’s being done to find my son.”
Dan closed the file and sat back. “The reason I asked you to repeat the story is because there’s often a detail that gets overlooked, and sometimes it comes out when people talk it through. The detail that stands out here is that Richard seems to have been getting money from somewhere. Do you have any idea where it came from?”
Gloria looked at Paul then back at Dan. “No. Maybe he was stealing it from somewhere, but not from me. I always know what’s in my purse.”
“What do you know about the place where the police picked up your son twice in the weeks before he ran away?”
She shook her head. “It was some place queers went to prey on young boys.”
And yet somehow those boys always managed to find themselves in those places by accident or were inexplicably drawn to them against their will time and again, Dan finished silently, thinking of the shadows beneath the trestle that had shaped his own adolescent sex life. “Do you think that’s where your son got the money?”
The look of disgust on Gloria’s face could have wiped the rust off a nail. “Are you telling me someone was paying my son for sex? Is that what I’m hearing you say?”
“I’m trying to determine where he got his money.”
Gloria’s voice was hard as flint. “He was fourteen years old! He’s too young for sex.”
“That’s the legal age for sex. Prostitution is another matter.”
“Who the hell made it legal for some pervert to fuck my kid up the ass at the age of fourteen?”
Her husband squirmed in his seat. Gloria reached out and clutched his forearm, driving five pink nails into his skin, either to pacify or restrain him.
“He’s not old enough to engage in anal sex, just oral,” Dan said.
“Nice distinction!”
“I’ll be honest with you,” Dan said. “We have reason to believe your son has been involved in prostitution and possibly in the pornography industry here in Toronto.”
Her husband interrupted. “Let’s get out of here.” He looked over at Dan. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Shut up, Paul. He’s my kid and I want him back.”
“Yeah? Cry me a fucking river. He’ll come back with some faggot disease. And I don’t want him in my house if he does!” Her husband stood and went out, having a moment of indecision whether to slam the door with its glass plates and risk breakage or just close it loudly on his way out. His cuff caught on the knob and he effected what was, all things considered, a very prissy exit for a very large man.
Gloria Philips leaned over the desk. She stabbed at the file with a buffed fingernail. “Find my kid. You find my kid and bring him home or I’ll have you taken off this case!”
Dan sat rigid. “You’re welcome to request another investigator at any time, Mrs. Philips. Just as I’m free to pass the file along to somebody else.”
“I don’t like being told off,” she said icily.
“Neither do I. But I probably know more about finding missing teenagers than anybody else in this town. I’ve already made some progress on Richard’s case and I may make some more. If I do, I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
“You do that, buster.” She stood and walked out of the office.
Scary, Dan thought, wondering what reasonable chance any kid with those parents would have to grow up to be anything other than fucked up.
Sally opened his door and peeked in. “Are they gone?”
“It’s safe.”
“Thank goddess!”
“What were you saying about people not being colourful anymore?”
“Sometimes white trash is too colourful.” She slapped something down on his desk. “Sorry to spoil your afternoon, but the fun’s over,” she said.
Dan saw the name Daniella Ballancourt in capital letters. He opened the file. Her death was no longer being considered suspicious. The coroner had determined the bump on her head was caused during her fall from the boat. The skin around it contained traces of paint consistent with samples taken from a lifeboat strapped directly below the upper deck where she was believed to have fallen. More importantly, a couple had come forward and testified they’d observed Daniella alone on deck moments before she disappeared. She’d been bent over the rail, vomiting. When asked if she needed help, she’d turned them away. The account had been given by a respected judge and his wife. Dan recalled the older couple who’d seemed annoyed by the fright they’d had. He thought they’d said they were on the lower deck when she fell, but perhaps that was another couple. He was on the phone with Saylor again.
“It just showed up on my desk, too,” Saylor said. “Damn!”
“Why did it take so long for them to come forward?” Dan asked.
“I’ve got the inside scoop on that. From what I heard, they didn’t want to be associated with the whole event, from the gay wedding right on down.”
“Then what were they doing there in the first place?”
“They were Lucille Killingworth’s business associates. Apparently she pressured half the Canadian establishment into going to the wedding.”
“I heard that, too.”
“Anyway, it looks like the case is closed. I guess that’s that.”
“So it would seem,” Dan said. He paused. “Did you bring up the fact that Lucille Killingworth had paid for the girl’s abortion?”
There was a hum on the line. “I did,” Saylor said. “It wasn’t well-received. Everyone here was eager to accept the verdict of accidental death. Say no more.”
“Seems odd,” Dan said.
“That’s what I thought.” Saylor seemed anxious to be off the phone. “Well, better luck next time. If you’re out this way, drop in and see me.”
“Will do.”
For