“It’s possible.”
Carl was examining the hand held game. He shook it and smelled it. He bit it. He looked forward to me. I leaned over the seat and showed Carl how to turn the game on and push the buttons.
A castle appeared on the screen. Blue sky. Clouds. Music. Birds flying. A little man ran into the center of the screen. The little man was joined by a pretty girl in a pink gown. Lightning struck the castle. The castle exploded.
“Eep,” Carl said.
The man and the pink-?gowned girl returned and Carl hunkered in, eyes narrowed, concentrating.
Diesel was back on the road, the big Escalade rolling south like a cruise ship under full power. Farms flew by the window, and in the backseat Carl was barely breathing as his fingers twitched on the game buttons and the happy sounds of Super Mario Bros. drifted up to us.
_________________
ROBERTA SCANLON LIVED in a brick row house in a blue-?collar section of north Philadelphia. According to Diesel’s research, she had never married, and she worked out of her house doing Web site design and maintenance. We sat at the curb for a couple minutes, watching the house, getting a sense of the neighborhood. It was quiet at this time of the day. No traffic. No kids playing outdoors. No dogs barking. Only Carl the Monkey making Mario music in the backseat.
“Okay, cutie-?pie,” Diesel said to me. “Go do your thing.”
I blew out a sigh
and heaved myself out of the SUV. I hated this part of my job. I hated prying into people’s private lives and intruding on their grief. I understood that it was sometimes necessary, but that didn’t make it any more palatable. I trudged up the sidewalk and rang the bell, thinking I wouldn’t mind if Roberta wasn’t home. No such luck. Roberta Scanlon opened the door and looked out at me.
“Yes?” Roberta said.
I apologized for the intrusion, introduced myself, and asked if I could speak with her.
“I suppose,” she said, “but I’ve already spoken to the police. I just don’t know what more I can tell you.”
“Did your brother own property in south Jersey?”
“Not that I know about, but he didn’t tell me much. It’s not like we were a close family. I couldn’t even tell you when I talked to him last.”
Roberta was in her forties but looked older. Her brown hair was shot with gray; her face was lined and makeup-?free. Her clothes were shapeless, designed for comfort and not for fashion.
“I couldn’t find any information on your sister, Gail,” I said to Roberta. “I couldn’t find an address.”
“Gail’s a free spirit. She doesn’t exactly have an address, although she obviously lives somewhere. Everyone lives somewhere, right? Even street people live somewhere.”
“How do you get in touch with her? Does she have a cell phone?”
“She has a post office box in Marbury. I sent her a letter about Eugene, but I haven’t heard anything back.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Years ago. She came for our father’s funeral. She flitted in and flitted out. She said she had to get back to her animals. I don’t know what kind of animals she was talking about. Gail always has some sort of cause. She left home after she graduated from high school so she could live in a tree and save a habitat for owls. After that it was wood ducks. And I think at one time she had a collection of rabbits that she’d rescued from a cosmetics lab.”
“But she always gets her mail in Marbury?”
“So far as I know. I guess she could have it forwarded somewhere.”
“And what’s her last name?”
“Scanlon. She never married. None of us ever married.”
I left my card with Roberta and asked her to call if she heard from Gail.
“Well?” Diesel wanted to know when I buckled myself in next to him.
“Not much. Her sister doesn’t have an address, but she has a post office box in Marbury. And it sounds like she’s made a career of saving owl habitats and rabbit eyelids.”