November 19 — 11:10 am

Not on the Schedule

My last conversation with Charm Gillespie had been four months earlier when I called in the aftermath of Eager’s tag on Mitch and Luellen’s door. It had been our first contact since she left town, though I knew Dieter still hassled her, probably on a schedule set in Outlook. I had to remind myself I wasn’t doing Mitch’s bidding so much as chasing my own curiosity when I called the Spokane phone number I’d browbeat out of Eager during one of his many flights back to Portland. One of the girls answered. I didn’t remember much about them except their names, Gem and Jewel. Twins. No clue which one I got.

“Hey there, sweetie. Can I talk to your mother?”

“I’m not your sweetie. I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m sorry.” I swallowed. “Is your mother there?”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Tell her it’s about Eager.”

“We’re not allowed to say his name.”

Blunt, this one. Got her personality from her mother.

“Would you put your mom on?”

“I’ll ask her, but I bet she won’t talk to you. She doesn’t like Eager anymore.”

I listened to the buzzes and hisses of long distance and to the sound of a television while I waited. Distantly, through the phone, I could hear the little girl’s conversation with Charm.

“He says it’s about you-know-who.” As if I’d called about Voldemort.

“It’s that goddamn cop, isn’t it? Tell him I’m not home.”

“Mom.”

“What?”

“He probably knows you’re here.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing.”

“Jesus Christ, you told him I was here, didn’t you?”

“Mo-ommm.”

“Give me the goddamn phone.”

I heard a clatter and a sigh.

“Hello, Mrs. Gillespie.”

“It’s Mrs. Hutchison now.”

“Sure. Mrs. Hutchison.”

“What do you want?”

“I was wondering if you know where Eager is.”

“What makes you think I’d want to?”

“He’s your son. He’s supposed to be living with you.”

“Spare me.” She knew even better than I did how hard it had been to keep Eager in Spokane.

“So I take it you don’t know.”

She went quiet, though I could hear her breathing against a Dr. Phil backdrop.

“Mrs. Hutchison ... Charm—” Maybe pretending we were on a first name basis would warm her up.

“I don’t have to talk to you. We established that a long time ago.”

She had me there. I waited, hoping to draw her out with my own silence. She almost outlasted me, but then she sighed.

“He was here a few weeks ago.”

“Really? How long did he stay?”

“About as long as it took him to ask for money and for my husband to say no.”

“Did you say no too, Mrs. Hutchison?”

“Is that all, Detective?”

“Did he mention where he might be heading?”

“We didn’t chit-chat.”

“Apparently he’s been down this way recently. Do you know anything about that?”

“I’m hanging up.”

I’ve always enjoyed my little chats with Charm. But I never have a fucking clue what they amount to.

Now I need to call her again, a prospect with all the appeal of a colonoscopy. Hard to guess if this morning’s events in front of Mitch’s house will mean anything to her. Still, even Charm Gillespie might get a little misty when she hears her kid took a bullet in the face.

The number 14 bus drops me at Hawthorne and SE 47th, and a fleeting rain chases me the last half block to the door of Uncommon Cup II. It’s been my home away from home since retirement—Ruby Jane’s second location in her growing empire of coffee. I hesitate before going in. When RJ offered me hours a few months earlier, my gut response was to decline. I’d been a cop so long the thought of serving lattes seemed on a par with auditioning for the ballet. Standing behind a counter, asking customer after customer what they’ll have. Saying “thank you” and “come again,” all while smiling and looking them in the eye.

A year ago I’d have sworn I’d come to terms with my neck. But suddenly I found myself self-conscious for the first time in years. You come into contact with plenty of folks investigating homicides, but a little disfigurement isn’t as much of a problem for a cop. If anything, it gave me an edge, generated disquiet, put people off their game. In interviews, with Susan working the warm, sympathetic lady cop angle, I’d lead with my neck. But behind a coffee counter? One gander at me and the come agains were sure to suffer a serious drop-off.

I said I was too busy not finishing the Times crossword to get a job. Ruby Jane told me to shut the hell up and come learn to pull shots. She should have listened to me. Hell, I should have listened to me.

Inside, I take a moment to inhale the aromas of coffee and milk steam. The old Armenian who looks like Saddam Hussein in witness protection is in his usual spot near the window, and a couple of unremarkable specimens hog the couch. Marcy is working the counter. I’m not on the schedule, won’t be for the rest of the week. I’d asked for the time off, and Ruby Jane agreed it was a good idea. By email.

“What’s going on, Skin?”

“Not much. Is RJ coming in?” Time spent with Ruby Jane inevitably consumes all my energy, which makes me wonder why I’m even here. Not that I wonder for long. I know exactly why.

Marcy’s cheeks color, as if she’s surprised I’ve got the nerve to mention RJ’s name. But Ruby Jane wouldn’t have told her what happened. “She went over to the Hollywood shop.”

“I need to make a phone call, thought I would use the back room.”

“No one’s back there right now.”

I make my way through the kitchen to the doorless nook behind the dish sanitizer. It’s not quite an office, just an out-of-the-way spot where Ruby Jane has put a small desk and file cabinet, chair, and a bulletin board with the weekly schedule. It’s not much, but it provides a measure of privacy. I sit down, pull out my cell phone. Charm’s number is saved in my contacts list.

A man answers after half a dozen rings. “Hello, Hutchisons.”

“May I speak to Mrs. Hutchison, please?”

“Who’s this?”

“I’m calling about Eager.”

“The detective.”

“Kadash, yes.”

“She won’t talk to you, Detective Kadash.” His voice isn’t unfriendly.

“Are you Mister Hutchison?”

“Yes.” In the background, I can hear the murmur of a weather report; I’m grateful it isn’t Dr. Phil. “What do you want?”

“I have some news about Eager.”

“Is he dead?”

Preternatural. Or maybe they’d both been expecting a call like this for a while now. “I’m afraid I can’t say for sure. He turned up this morning, but he got hurt and now he’s missing again.”

“He’s not here.”

“I didn’t think he was.” He’d need rocket boots to get to Spokane in the couple of hours since I’d seen him. “I’m just trying to figure out where he might have got to. I was hoping someone there could tell me where he might be staying here in Portland.”

“Have you checked under all the bridges?”

“You think he’s living outside?”

“I don’t know, but that would fit.”

“Does he have any friends or other family down here?”

“Listen, Detective. I don’t know what to tell you. Eager hasn’t been here in I don’t know how long. He shows up every so often, usually to beg for money and upset my wife. Then he disappears again for months at a time. We’ve reported him as a runaway for all the good that does. We just don’t know what he’s up to.”

“He was shot this morning.”

There’s a long silence. Spokane’s high will be forty-two today. “That’s ... unfortunate.”

“You don’t sound too upset.”

“Listen, I hardly know him.”

“You and Charm got married when she moved to Spokane, what, two years ago?”

“I see where you’re going with this, but it won’t fly. Yes, I’m his stepfather, but my focus is on the kids who actually live here.”

“So not upset then.”

He sighs. “Charm will be upset enough for the two of us.” I find that hard to believe, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

“May I speak to your wife?”

“She’s at work.”

“Not you?”

“Christ. Charm was right about you.”

“Mister Hutchison, I didn’t mean—” He hangs up.

I fold my phone, weigh it in my hand along with my limited options. I suppose I could check all the bridges and overpasses in the city. Maybe the other skate parks, though I don’t think Eager will be doing any ollies with a bullet behind his eyeball. But finding Eager is a job I’m no longer in a position to do. I have no access to resources, can’t issue a BOLO, or even ask friendly uniforms to keep an eye out for him. If he ends up in a hospital, the gunshot wound will mean a call to the cops, but no one will tell me about it.

I push myself to my feet, move into the kitchen and all but knock Ruby Jane on her ass.

She backs up into the opening between the kitchen and the counter area up front, hands clasped at her waist. The shoulders of her jacket are spotted with rain.

“Jesus, Skin, you scared the hell out of me.”

“That’s what all the girls say.”

I can smell her shampoo, the crisp scent of apples. Ruby Jane has been letting her hair grow out, and it hangs loose over her shoulders. With some surprise I notice a few strands of grey at her temples, a dash of salt with the cayenne.

“I’m going to make some tea. You want something? Maybe we can talk.” She won’t make eye contact. I’m not used to that. Ruby Jane has never been one who let discomfort unsettle her. “If you want.”

A knot forms in my stomach, and I half wish I’d found somewhere else to make my call. Yet even as the thought blossoms, I know this awkward collision is exactly what I’d hoped for by coming here this morning.

“Sure.” I nod and manage an awkward smile. “Back here? Or—”

“Go grab a table up front. I’ll join you in a minute.”

She doesn’t want to be alone with me. I can’t blame her.