8 Strawberry Bank Rd.

Suite 20

Nashua, New Hampshire

   “Mr. Baxter? From this morning? About the divorce?” He was trying to make eye contact.

    “Is that your father?” I asked. I remembered a groggy 8:00 a.m. phone call from a man by that name, something about tailing a cheating wife. I had asked Mr. Baxter to meet me at the White Stallion as the Lawless Investigation’s main office was being redecorated.  Actually, the L.I. office was 144 square feet of my condo with a beat up roll top desk and an answering machine.

    “My friend, Morton, called for me.  He sounds just like his dad on the phone. We ... kinda lied. I didn’t think you’d see me if I told you the truth ... that I’m just a kid.” He paused. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled bill. “I can pay you.” He began unfolding the bill. “I want you to find my mother.” He was staring at the bill, snuffling, and rubbing his nose, and I saw tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

    “I don’t understand, kid. Find your mother?”

    “She’s missing. I don’t know if she’s alive ... or ...” Tears began running down his cheeks and he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.

    “Take it easy, kid. Want a Coke?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I went to the bar and poured two Cokes. It was 4:30 and Larry, the day bartender was getting off a little early.

    “I’ll just be a couple minutes, Larry,” I said. His tips were counted, and he was ready to go. And I did owe him plenty of time because I was late more than I was early. “Big investigation, Larry. I’ll make it up to ya.” He nodded without smiling and I went back to the kid. I put the Cokes down and gave him a handful of bar napkins. He took them, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

    “Thanks,” he mumbled and took a gulp of his soda. “Can you help me?” For the first time, his eyes met mine. They were blue-gray and hazy with tears and reminded me of an early-morning Boston sky. I looked down at my Coke, tried to avoid his sad, pleading face.

    “If your mother’s missing, you should be talking to the police. What’s your name, anyway? I don’t wanna keep calling you ‘kid’,” I said. 

   “Tommy. Tommy Baxter. And my father is a cop. He told me she ran off with a guy from where she works. But I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t just leave without saying good-bye...without leaving a

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