The Stray. Alessio Chiadini Beuri

fear not. If the captain arrested me, it would benefit me more than it would him. An arrest means at least a night in the slammer, an interrogation, maybe with Matthews himself, or Martelli if I'm so inclined. I doubt they'd let Peterson have me. They trust him less than they trust me. For someone who can listen and knows what to look for, a string of questions about my investigation might be more fruitful than reading all the case reports."

      "But if they just wanted to keep you away they'd just keep you locked up!" April's voice trembled. "You need more than a pretext for an interrogation, don't you? They'd have to have well-founded reasons, like a serious criminal charge, to make them question you about what you know."

      "And I'm on my way to get them." Mason rose from his desk and closed the study door behind him, accompanying April, uneasy but increasingly admiring, to her battle station.

Sunshine Cab

      The big engine of the black Ford started at the first attempt. Sometimes she needed some encouragement, but who didn't? That car was her second office and third home after her office in Chinatown. It wasn't a king's bed but it served him like one. Without intermediate stops Mason Stone arrived at the Sunshine Cab.

      Since the company's yard was bustling with cars, he parked on the opposite side of the street. Sunshine was one of the most important companies and favoured G-Model Checkers, but it was not uncommon for other cars to be converted to the job. Classifying the previous night's episode as a simple accident helped to make it less important. When you find yourself in quicksand, the best thing to do is to try to move as little as possible. At the speed at which the event had unfolded, however, he had managed to make out the taxi company's crest and guess the profile of a Checker. It was one of the cheaper cars, known for its reliability and low maintenance requirements, ideal for the job.

      Mason found himself almost hoping that Sam was driving another car. If he didn't, it meant one of two things: either incredible, ostentatious stupidity on the man's part or an attempt to throw him off the scent. If the latter turned out to be true, he would waste a lot of time.

      He had to track down the owner, a Julie Darden. He walked across the dusty yard and into the entrance. There was the stench of motor oil and grease stains all over the floor. The Sunshine Cab was nothing more than a huge, dirty, dusty shed with large windows opening up to the mechanics in the repair shop. No one looked up at him as he made his way to the offices. It was as anonymous as dormant the taxi drivers' capacity for wonder, so accustomed to oddities of all kinds.

      Leaning against the office door, a driver in a foul mood was reading a no less pitiful newspaper, his beard unkempt and his visor cap lopsided three-quarters of the way up on his head.

      "Hello." Mason stopped half a step away from him and the door. The man, distracted by his reading and intent on chewing gum, studied the newcomer for a few moments and then resumed his press review, unperturbed. The taxi driver's shoulder and weight pressed against the door. Mason reached under his arm to hold the newspaper, grabbed the handle and gave a little tug, just to check the man's intentions, who did not move.

      "Are you the fellow who enjoyed terrorizing Tim MaCgrady yesterday?"

      "If you're the one who's now moving and letting me in I'm all you want," he said squinting as he smiled.

      "They're waiting for you." he said and walked away after rolling the newspaper under his arm. Mason Stone watched him disappear into the workshop behind a long row of vehicles and racks of tools, then opened the door. A narrow corridor opened before him. Moments later, a woman appeared through a door at the far end. Mason waited for her to say something, his hands sunk into the pockets of his mackintosh.

      "Can I help you?" he finally said, aloud.

      "You certainly can. My name is Mason Stone. I'm a private detective. I'm looking into the disappearance of Samuel Perkins."

      "Wouldn't it be more accurate to say you're investigating the murder you're accused of?" retorted the woman, her hands crossed under her breasts.

      Realising he was talking to the right person Mason didn't wait until he was invited to approach and firmly covered the distance between them "Is that a side effect, Miss...?"

      "Darden. Mrs. Darden."

      "Am I disturbing you, Mrs. Darden?"

      "Don't stand in the doorway: follow me. If it's as long as I think it is, we'd better get comfortable. Would you like some coffee, Detective?" Mason followed Mrs. Darden to a small office in a prefabricated building. She went off to get coffee and five minutes later, when she returned, she placed a stack of papers in front of Stone in addition to the cup.

      "Comfortable?" she asked him.

      "Too much, comfort withers. What are they?" he asked, pointing to the stack.

      "What he's here for: Samuel Perkins' racing records for the last six months. Amazed?" Mrs. Darden was a beautiful woman with a stern face and an icy soul. A businesswoman in a man's world.

      "Astonishment is for fools. I'm more of a doubtful type."

      "Well, I'll untie that for you: I could refuse to talk to you, no one is forcing me to tell you anything about my business and my company. You are nobody to me, Mr Stone, and you have nothing to bargain with to persuade me to do so. But I want to give you my help: if you have to scare one of my taxi drivers to death to get some information, you must obviously be desperate."

      "I thought it was a rather pleasant conversation instead."

      "Tim almost had a nervous breakdown."

      "A rather sensitive big boy."

      "By coming to you, I'm convinced you won't bring any more confusion into my company. I'll be in the next office if you need me."

      "You take bad news well, Mrs. Darden."

      "I assess situations and adapt. If I didn't know better, I'd have been bankrupt long ago."

      "A woman with that kind of cunning, I wonder where she'd go if she wanted to."

      "In the other room, for the moment."

      "Don't treat me like the big bad wolf, Mrs. Darden. I'm on the shepherd's side."

      "That may be. And I know you believe that, but your actions tell of your nature, I'm afraid. Tell me if I'm wrong. You are not a man who is easily discouraged. You're used to pushing, pushing and pushing. You insist, you're not capable of giving up. There are no boundaries that cannot be crossed. Maybe you don't see them or maybe you choose to ignore them," he didn't wait for her to respond and left.

      A small smile had grown on Stone's face, which he still turned to the portion of the corridor he could see from his chair. It had been a long time since he had felt so attracted to a woman.

      It took him no less than forty minutes to go through the copies of Samuel Perkins' records. The originals were in the hands of Matthews' team, of course. In any case, the whole thing proved almost useless. There were addresses, times and payments. Next to the tables filled out in an undoubtedly masculine handwriting, someone had written mileage notes.

      Probably a Sunshine secretary in charge of monitoring that the prices corresponded to the route and the time taken to reach the destination. From what could be gleaned, Samuel Perkins was a dedicated and almost indefatigable driver: copious night shifts, at least four a week, and almost constant double shifts of around sixteen hours. However, he did not find recurring destinations that caught his eye. The records stopped four days before Elizabeth's death. Before he got up, he jotted down an address, perhaps the only one that had appeared three times in the previous two months. It was nothing to shout about, but it was still something in a city that had more taxis than private cars. It was an address in New Jersey. He turned off the lamp on the desk and left the room, taking the file with him. He knocked on Mrs. Darden's door and when she invited him in, he said thank you and stood in the doorway, his back against the doorframe and his hand on the half-open-door handle.

      "Ask away, Detective," Mrs. Darden said, filing the records in a huge cabinet in front of her desk. It was a cramped, makeshift office. She