Read Good As Gone for Free Online Page B

beneath the sink, opening the minifridge, poking around under the futon that served as his bed. Fleischer possessed a whole lot of nothing. In a corner of the room, a few electrical components were piled one atop the other. A portable boom box that played cassettes, a VHS player, an old-school printer with a tractor feed. But no computer.
    I spotted a small plastic trash can and dumped the contents onto the floor. No question, this was where the rank odor was emanating from. I kicked aside the foodstuff and found some balled-up pieces of paper. Old-fashioned computer paper, unmistakable with those tiny holes on each side. The pages were wet, sticky, covered in what I assumed was maple syrup. I unrolled one at a time, flattening each against the floor, trying not to retch.
    The first page was the printout of a Wikipedia entry for some band I’d never heard of, the second what appeared to be an abandoned attempt at poetry. On the third, I hit pay dirt. An e-mail from someone named Sandrine. “ Je t’aime, ” it read. “À bientôt. ”
    I love you. See you soon.
    Below the e-mail was an electronic signature, complete with the sender’s full name, position, place of business, business address, telephone, and fax number.
    Sandrine Bettencourt, human resources at Le Bon Marché, a department store located in the Left Bank.
    I tore off the signature, folded the scrap of paper, stuffed it into my pocket, shot down the stairs and out into the rain, and made for the Metro at the Bastille.
    *
    The southern bank of the river Seine had inspired artists the likes of Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse, writers such as Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, the poets Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, not to mention the philosopher John-Paul Sartre. The area had also inspired the first department store in the world, Le Bon Marché, designed by Gustave Eiffel. Inside, Le Bon Marché was awe-inspiring, even for me, a widower who considered shopping slightly less desirable than dusting the furniture. Compared to finding your way around Le Bon Marché, finding your way around Paris was easy. Soon as I entered the monstrosity I became lost.
    “Looking for human resources,” I said, just as some overzealous clerk attempted to spritz me.
    “Top floor,” he said. “Sure I cannot interest you in some Guerlain to go with that splendid suit?”
    “Never been so sure of anything in my life,” I said, suddenly wondering if I reeked of Fleischer’s rotting garbage.
    I jumped onto the escalator. Given the wide berth fellow shoppers granted me, I figured I probably still smelled of rubbish. Of course, I hadn’t slept or showered, and I was wearing the clothes I’d worn to the clubs the evening before. Figured there would be plenty of time for bathing once little Lindsay was found.
    When I passed the children’s department my mind flashed on Hailey. If my daughter were still alive we’d have recently celebrated her sweet sixteen. Sixteen. Nearing the end of high school, preparing for prom, visiting colleges, arguing over her borrowing the Volvo, things like that. She’d be dating. Looking for someone so unlike me you’d think we were a different species. But still Daddy’s little girl, Daddy’s little darling. If she were still alive. She could be. And that’s what really sent me over the edge on nights so dark I couldn’t burn them away with a million candles. Those were the nights I’d sit on the floor next to my bed, arms wrapped around my knees like a child sitting on the carpet of a library at storytime. Listening for her screams as though I could hear her no matter where in the world she was. Sitting. Listening. Rocking back and forth like an octogenarian passing time until death arrived. Sitting. Rocking. Thinking. Always thinking.
    She could still be alive. It was that possibility that tore at me. Alive but not. Alive but trapped, held prisoner like Jaycee Lee Dugard or the daughter of that sick, sadistic prick Josef Fritzl over in