The Never Game

In ten minutes he was approaching Frank Mulliner’s house on Alta Vista Drive. The ranch wasn’t designed by cookie cutter, though it had the same feel as the other houses on this lengthy block. Inexpensive, with wood or vinyl siding, three concrete steps to the front door, wrought-iron railings. The fancier homes had bay windows. They were all bordered by a parking strip, sidewalk and front yard. Some grass was green, some the color of straw. A number of homeowners had given up on lawns and hardscaped with pebbles and sand and low succulents.

Shaw pulled up to the pale green house, noting the FORECLOSURE SALE sign on the adjoining property. Mulliner’s house was also on the market.

Knocking on the door, Shaw waited only a moment before it opened, revealing a stocky, balding man of fifty or so, wearing gray slacks and an open-collar blue dress shirt. On his feet were loafers but no socks.

“Frank Mulliner?”

The man’s red-rimmed eyes glanced quickly at Shaw’s clothes, the short blond hair, the sober demeanor — he rarely smiled. The bereft father would be thinking this was a detective come to deliver bad news, so Shaw introduced himself quickly.

“Oh, you’re... You called. The reward.”

“That’s right.”

The man’s hand was chill when the two gripped palms.

With a look around the neighborhood, he nodded Shaw in.

Shaw learned a lot about offerors — and the viability, and legitimacy, of the reward — by seeing their living spaces. He met with them in their homes if possible. Offices, if not. This gave him insights about the potential business relationship and how serious were the circumstances giving rise to the reward. Here, the smell of sour food was detectable. The tables and furniture were cluttered with bills and mail folders and tools and retail flyers. In the living room were piles of clothing. This suggested that even though Sophie had been missing for only a few days, the man was very distraught.

The shabbiness of the place was also of note. The walls and molding were scuffed, in need of painting and proper repair; the coffee table had a broken leg splinted with duct tape painted to mimic the oak color. Water stains speckled the ceiling and there was a hole above one window where a curtain rod had pulled away from the Sheetrock. This meant the ten thousand cash he was offering was hard to come by.

The two men took seats on saggy furniture encased in slack gold slipcovers. The lamps were mismatched. And the big-screen TV was not so big by today’s standards.

Shaw asked, “Have you heard anything more? From the police? Sophie’s friends?”

“Nothing. And her mother hasn’t heard anything. She lives out of state.”

“Is she on her way?”

Mulliner was silent. “She’s not coming.” The man’s round jaw tightened and he wiped at what remained of his brown hair. “Not yet.” He scanned Shaw closely. “You a private eye or something?”

“No. I earn rewards that citizens or the police’ve offered.”

He seemed to digest this. “For a living.”

“Correct.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

Shaw gave him the pitch. True, he didn’t need to win Mulliner over, as a PI seeking a new client might. But if he were going to look for Sophie, he needed information. And that meant cooperation. “I’ve got years of experience doing this. I’ve helped find dozens of missing persons. I’ll investigate and try to get information that’ll lead to Sophie. As soon as I do, I tell you and the police. I don’t rescue people or talk them into coming home if they’re runaways.”

While this last sentence was not entirely accurate, Shaw felt it important to make clear exactly what he was providing. He preferred to mention rules rather than exceptions.

“If that information leads to her you pay me the reward. Right now, we’ll talk some. If you don’t like what you hear or see, you tell me and I won’t pursue it. If there’s something I don’t like, I walk away.”

“Far as I’m concerned, I’m sold.” The man’s voice choked. “You seem okay to me. You talk straight, you’re calm. Not, I don’t know, not like a bounty hunter on TV. Anything you can do to find Fee. Please.”

“Fee.”

“Her nickname. So-fee. What she called herself when she was a baby.” He controlled the tears, though just.

“Has anybody else approached you for the reward?”

“I got plenty of calls or emails. Most of ’em anonymous. They said they’d seen her or knew what had happened. All it took was a few questions and I could tell they didn’t have anything. They just wanted the money. Somebody mentioned aliens in a spaceship. Somebody said a Russian sex-trafficking ring.”

“Most people who contact you’ll be that way. Looking for a fast buck. Anybody who knows her’ll help you out for free. There’s an off chance that you’ll be contacted by somebody connected with the kidnapper — if there is a kidnapper — or by somebody who spotted her on the street. So listen to all the calls and read all the emails. Might be something helpful.