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The next job will be to find out why. Don’t forget, her purse was never found.”
    “You’re getting ahead of yourself.” The idea wasn’t bad, just more than he wanted to deal with, at least while Marc and Reb were still closeted together next door. “Don’t forget that the police looked into all that.”
    “I don’t suppose we’ll have any lucky finds,” Madge said, but she sounded undeterred. “It’s probably been destroyed, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try again.”
    “You make a lot of sense,” he told her, and she did. “Let’s think about this before we rush into anything.”
    “If we remember something, it could—” She spread her hands.
    “It could be a clue,” Cyrus finished for her. Movement outside caught his eye. Wally plodded uphill, probably making his way in a circle around the house. “Excuse me. I forgot I promised to talk to Wally.”
    “What about?...” Madge turned her eyes significantly toward his office. “You know. Marc and Reb?”
    “I’ll be outside with Wally. If it sounds as if things are getting hot in there, call me.” He shot her a half-serious frown and strode from the room, leaving the door open and feeling just a little guilt.
    Guilt at his own irreverent sense of humor. Guilt because he’d abandoned Reb to Marc Girard. If Marc were making a move on Reb, Gaston wouldn’t be a silent observer. And he hadn’t teased Madge that badly. He opened the front door and all but fell over Wally.
    “Hey, here I am. Did you think I’d forgotten you?”
    Wally shook his head. “Nah.”
    More guilt!
“The truth’s important, yes?” He waited for the nod before adding, “You know I get caught up in a lot of stuff, but you trust me to do what I say I’ll do—eventually.” He took the boy by a shoulder and walked him to a bench built around the thick trunk of an old oak. The next time he had a few hours off, he’d replace some rotting slats in the bench and make it bigger at the same time.
    Sitting side by side, their backs against the oak, they slipped into silence. Wally wasn’t a talker. He was happy whenever he could trail along with Cyrus, watching and listening and just being accepted. Attempts to talk to the Hibbses about their son, his awkwardness around other kids, his need to have others help him open up, had been met with impatience. According to Doll and Gater Hibbs, Wally was “difficult and always has been,” a self-centered boy who enjoyed making them suffer.
    “What is it?” Cyrus asked.
    Wally gave a great sigh and plunked his bony elbows on bruised and scabby knees—legacies from skateboarding heroics and forgotten pads. He pulled an NYC baseball cap low over his eyes. “My folks are mad at me, real mad.” His soft, hoarse voice troubled Cyrus, as it did Reb.
    When waiting didn’t bring more details, Cyrus said, “Why?” He squinted against bursts of sunlight bouncing off the front windows. The grassy earth smelled warm and sweet.
    “I guess I just don’t turn up home too often.”
    Cyrus bent his head and stared at Wally until the boy looked at him from the shade of his cap bill. “What d’you mean, you don’t turn up at home too often? Where are you when you’re supposed to be at home?”
    “Around.” Wally’s shoulders almost met his ears. “I didn’t think they’d notice I wasn’t there.”
    “Okay,” Cyrus said. “Give me the whole story.” Each time he and Wally got onto the subject of his parents, Cyrus felt the weight of watching every word. As parents, Doll and Gater weren’t naturals, but they loved their boy as best they knew how.
    “They’re upset all the time.”
    “How long did you say you’ve been staying away from the hotel?”
    “Couple of weeks.”
    That wasn’t a time frame Cyrus had been prepared to hear. “But you’ve been here often enough. Where have you been sleeping?” He looked Wally’s clothes over. His
Frog
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N and Dawg
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N Pizza
T-shirt and khaki shorts were