Walking Shadows. Faye Kellerman

      “I’m trying to figure that out. And once I do know what’s going on, I’ll tell you. Here’s my card.” Decker handed it to him. “If you think of anything strange or unusual or just something that you think the police should know, call me. I want to find Boxer, if for no other reason just to know that he’s safe.”

      “Yeah, I get it. Boxer did his job but isn’t as big as some of us. He’s vulnerable.”

      “Nobody is immune to vulnerability, Phil.”

      “But some are more vulnerable than others.” Phil scratched his head on his tiger tattoo. “I mean no harm when I say this, but Boxer … there’s something about him. Some people are just born with a Kick Me sign plastered on their asses.”

      BARBARA HEIGER WAS out to lunch. Decker wandered over to the next open office. It belonged to C. Bonfellow, Bookkeeper. He appeared to be in his midforties, short and overweight with thinning sandy hair and dark suspicious eyes. He sat behind a scarred desk that was piled with paper in slotted trays. “Can I help you?”

      “I hope so.” Decker showed C. Bonfellow his badge.

      “Police? What’s this about?”

      “Do you make out the salary checks?”

      “Me, personally? No. It’s all done by computer. And if you’re looking for someone in particular, I’m not the guy. You need to talk to Susan or Harold in HR. I just balance the numbers.”

      “Where is HR?”

      “Three doors down. Who are you looking for, by the way?”

      “A guy named Boxer?”

      “Don’t know him.”

      “You’re not the only one. Thanks.”

      Decker was about to go, when Bonfellow said, “If you leave your card, I’ll call if I hear of anything.”

      “Sure.” Decker handed the bookkeeper his card. “What kind of things do you usually hear about, Mr. Bonfellow?”

      The man turned pink. “Not that I gossip. I don’t. And most of the time, I’m behind a desk. But people don’t notice me a lot. They kind of talk like I’m not there and I pick up things … keep things filed in storage.” He pointed to his head. “I’ll keep my ears open for this Boxer person. I’ll call you if I hear anything juicy.”

      “Thanks. Don’t put yourself out. If someone found out you’ve overheard a private conversation, it might make them mad.”

      “Oh, I know that, Detective.” Bonfellow smiled. “I’m a very careful man.”

      IN HR, THERE were two people to approach. Decker homed in on Susan Jenkins, who was kind enough to look up the name in the company computer. She was in her midthirties, short but with a very long neck. She reminded Decker of a swan. She wore a black T-shirt and jeans. “There is no Boxer assigned to the warehouse, but … there is a Joseph Boch.”

      “That’s probably the guy I’m looking for. Do you have his address and phone number?”

      “I do, but I can’t give it to you. Company policy.” She smiled. “I’m going to the watercooler. I’ll be right back.”

      “Take your time,” Decker said. Once she left, he looked on the screen. Joseph Boch was thirty-five, and by the date of his employment records, he’d been working there nine months. Decker quickly copied the address and phone number in his notebook.

      She returned a moment later with a conical paper cup and sipped water. “Is there anything else?”

      “Thank you very much, Ms. Jenkins. You’ve been a big help.” He paused. “How long does your average employee work here?”

      She looked up at him. “I really couldn’t tell you. What I can tell you is that we have a lot of turnover, specifically because we have a lot of temp teens working in the summer.”

      “And you have no idea about the working life span of your permanent employees?”

      “If I had to guess, I’d say not more than a few years. It’s barely more than minimum wage unless you’re in management. And most management isn’t from the bottom up.”

      “Where do they go—the ones who quit after a year?”

      Susan was thoughtful. “I couldn’t tell you personally, but it’s the same old story in Hamilton. I think a lot of them have alcohol or serious drug issues. Or both. When they’re sober, they can hold down a job. But it’s a really boring job, so they start getting high again. And when they’re high, they can’t hold down jobs. It’s a vicious cycle. Sad, but not unpredictable. What else does Hamilton have to offer?”

      “You’re here.”

      “I grew up here, but I never intended to stay. I went to Clarion College on a scholarship; met my husband, who was at Kneed Loft; and we moved to Phoenix. He came down with an illness that does much better in cold climate. So here we are.”

      She brought out a brown bag and unwrapped a sandwich.

      “I have my mother and sister here. It’s not so bad now that I’m married with kids. But when I was growing up … geez, all I wanted to do was get out of here.” Biting into her sandwich, she said, “Probably told you way more than you wanted to know.”

      “Not at all, Ms. Jenkins, it’s always good to get background.”

      “I can tell you’re not from these parts.”

      “I work with Greenbury PD. Before that, I was with Los Angeles Police for thirty-five years.”

      “Wow, that’s a change of scenery. What drew you to Greenbury?”

      “Change of scenery as well as a change of pace. Compared to L.A., even Hamilton seems idyllic.”

      “I’m probably making Hamilton more horrible than it is. We have our doctors, lawyers, hospitals, libraries, schools, police, churches, yadda, yadda, yadda. It’s a decent place, but it’s not exceptional. We’re what politicians call God and gun people.”

      “Nothing wrong with that.”

      “I don’t know about that, Detective. With God, it’s a round-trip ticket. The Lord destroys, but the Lord also creates. With guns, it’s strictly a one-way fare.”

       CHAPTER 9

      LENNIE BACCUS WAS eating a muffin and chatting up one of the women who worked behind the counter. When she saw Decker, she stood up, wiped her mouth, and said her good-byes. She took her coffee in her right hand, another to-go coffee in her left, and met up with the boss. “I thought you could use one of these.”

      “Thank you.”

      “Black, right?”

      “You’re a quick study. Let’s go.”

      “Where are we going?”

      “I think I got Boxer’s address. We’ll talk in the car.”

      Silently they walked across a big expanse of asphalt. The parking lot was half full, mostly small cars and pickups. Once in the car, Decker put the keys in the ignition. As soon as he pulled onto the street, he said, “You go first.”

      “Not too much.” Lennie pulled out her notepad. “I talked to four people—the two women who work at the café—Marie and Gilliam. Neither of them know Boxer, but they did know Brady Neil. He used to come and buy coffee and a croissant, and he was always friendly. They felt really bad and a little worried, like it has something to do with the store.”

      “It might,” Decker said. “Joseph Boch a.k.a. Boxer hasn’t