I nodded. Even growing up in the suburbs, there’d been some of that mindset. What happened in the city stayed in the city—that foreign and vaguely sinister place best suited for quick visits to take advantage of the superior shopping and dining. Even after a few years in this region, Kirkman would still have been considered a Chicagoan.

I kept searching, both casting my net wider and zooming in on specifics.

“Lived alone, never married, no local connections,” I said. “No known girlfriend or boyfriend. Something of a loner, but sociable enough if he was drinking with friends.” More keystrokes. “Or maybe not. Got a longer article here. I missed it because they misspelled his name as Kirkson.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“Yes, not exactly fine journalism. It’s the archive of a local crime magazine. I use the term loosely. It was one of those mimeographed newsletters mailed out to a couple hundred subscribers. The guy writing it might not have been professional enough to fact-check names, but he fancied himself an investigative reporter and seems to have done some serious digging on this case. He interviewed the guys Kirkman had been drinking with. They were coworkers from a construction job, and they said Kirkman didn’t usually join them, but he had that night.”

“Hmm.”

“Yep, anytime someone acts out of character—and that action leads to trouble—it could be significant. Which may only mean that it’s significant in the sense he decided to be more sociable and paid for it with his life, because he wasn’t accustomed to driving after a few drinks.”

“True.”

“It’s also possible that this amateur sleuth, in his zeal to tell a good story for his subscribers, made shit up.”

“Also true.”

“The guy wrote a couple more articles on Kirkman’s disappearance. I’ll need to double-check them against more reliable…” When I trailed off, gaze still fixed on my screen, Gabriel walked behind me to read over my shoulder.

“Hmm,” he said.

“Exactly.”

It was a quote from Kirkman’s neighbor, who said she’d seen a police car in Kirkman’s drive twice in the weeks before his disappearance. When the intrepid reporter contacted the state police, they refused to comment, saying it was part of an ongoing investigation.

“And of course it’s Saturday,” I said. “Which means contacting our police sources will cost extra.”

“Do it anyway.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I was just about to start making a proper breakfast when the doorbell rang. Veronica stood on the porch, holding a paper bag from the diner.

“Perfect timing,” I said.

She brought the bag into the kitchen. When I hovered, she said, “Sit. I might be a terrible cook, but I’m perfectly capable of serving food from boxes.” She glanced around. “I saw Ricky’s motorcycle. Are the boys around?”

“Ricky’s upstairs talking to his dad. Gabriel is taking a shower and…”

Footfalls sounded on the steps.