Bone Box. Faye Kellerman
that. His teachers knew that. They recommended Morse McKinley to him. He was always interested in government and economics.”
“Morse McKinley would be a good fit then,” McAdams said.
“We thought it would be a terrific fit. And we hoped that maybe he’d settle down in college with more expected of him. Of course, he just went even more extreme without any family constraints.” A shrug. “I may not have understood my son—he could be challenging—but I loved him.”
“Of course you did,” Decker said. “When did you find out he was undergoing hormonal therapy?”
“He told us right away. He announced: ‘I’m dropping out of school to become a woman.’ You know what my husband said?”
“What?”
“He said, ‘There aren’t women in college?’” Joanne shook her head. “I think it deflated the shock value that he hoped he’d get. Like I said, I loved my son. I would have loved him as a daughter.” Tears moistened her eyes. “Male or female.” The tears escaped and fell down her cheek. “When he started taking hormones … it seemed to me that he was starting to find peace. He took the test for his stock brokerage license and got a job with a small firm as a woman. He started dressing like a conventional woman—clothes, makeup, the whole bit. So maybe he did find his true self.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“He didn’t come around the house anymore—that was probably for our sake—but he did call. And we had normal conversations. He talked about work instead of his gender. It was refreshing. When he hadn’t called us in over two weeks, I got concerned.”
“Where was he living, Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“Joanne. He was living in the city, but I didn’t know where at first. Later on, after he went missing, I found out he was living in the East Village in a very nice studio apartment in a doorman building. So he must have been making money.”
“You were at his apartment?”
“Yes. When he stopped calling and wouldn’t answer his cell, I began to get very worried. I called up his work. I didn’t have the number, but I knew the name of the firm. After a couple of tries, I found the right branch. It’s when they told me he hadn’t been at work for the last two weeks. I became … that awful feeling of dread. Like his life on the fringes finally caught up with him.”
“His life on the fringes?” McAdams asked.
“Parties, alcohol, drugs, and lots of weirdos.”
“You think it was someone from his fringy life?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Do you have any names?” Decker asked.
“Not a one.” She waved it off. “Anyway, I finally got his city address from his work files and I went over to the apartment. At first, the super wouldn’t let me in. But I pleaded, and he finally opened the door.”
She stared off into space.
“His apartment was very large—superneat—he was always a neat person. There was no sign of him.”
“What about things in the apartment?” Decker asked.
“His clothes and personal items were still there.”
“Did you happen to check the refrigerator?”
“A few items—mostly water, beer, and club soda. I think Lawrence ate out a lot. I guess he could afford it. His clothes were nice—custom made to fit his body.”
“And that was the only time you ever visited his place?”
“No, there was another time afterward. The management called me to say he hadn’t paid his rent. At that point, I knew something was wrong. I told the police something was wrong. But they kept insisting that without anything to go on, they couldn’t do much. Lawrence could have disappeared on his own accord. When they found out he was undergoing a sex reassignment, they really stopped paying attention. They thought that if something terrible happened, it was because of his lifestyle. Which may be true. But that doesn’t mean you don’t investigate.”
Decker said, “You must have been frustrated.”
“Beyond frustrated. No one was listening to us.”
“What happened with his apartment?” McAdams said.
“I paid his unpaid bill for the month, but I told the apartment management I wasn’t paying anything else. I didn’t cosign the lease. I wasn’t obliged to pay them anything. After I explained the situation, the building supervisor let us in there to clean up. I boxed up Lawrence’s things …” She lowered her head. “My husband and I went through everything we could find. Every bill, every piece of correspondence, every scrap of paper. We didn’t find his phone or laptop or iPad. And the service providers wouldn’t give me access to his information because they didn’t know if Lawrence was alive or dead. He was a grown man—or grown woman. For all we knew, he could have been put in witness protection.”
“Why would you think that?” Decker said.
“Like I said, he knew a lot of counterculture people. Not that Lawrence seemed to be the type of guy to become an informant, but I really didn’t know a whole lot about his life, did I?”
“Right.”
“Besides, Lawrence bucked authority wherever, whenever. Anyway, when it was plain that he wasn’t going to suddenly show up, we hired a private eye.”
“And?”
“He talked to people—Lawrence’s old friends, his new friends, his friends on Facebook. The investigator talked to people Lawrence worked with, talked to old college friends and faculty. He charged us a lot of money. He got nowhere.”
“Did he give you the files, Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“He gave us a report. You can have it if you want. But if the body isn’t Lawrence, I’d want that back as well.”
“Of course,” McAdams said. “Could we have the PI’s name? He probably has an entire file on Lawrence—more than he included in the report.”
“His name is James Breck. He was a former New York police detective. He came highly recommended. My opinion is he was just churning up hours. But of course, I wasn’t thinking charitably about anyone at that point.”
“We’ll check him out,” Decker said. “Where is his office?”
“Somewhere in Queens. I have an address, but I don’t know if it’s current.”
“Anything you can give us will help,” McAdams said.
Decker said, “In the report, did he list the people he talked to?”
“I don’t remember. I haven’t looked at the report in a while. I did have a list of people that I thought he should talk to. If you hold on, I’ll get you the report and see what I still have in the file.”
“That would be great,” Decker said.
As soon as she left, McAdams said, “Breck is in Astoria.” He took out his cell and called him up. He reached a human voice. Surprise, surprise. “Hello, this is Detective Tyler McAdams from Greenbury Police Department in Upstate New York. I’m trying to get hold of James Breck … okay, do you have any idea how often he calls in for messages?” Tyler paused as he listened. “Could you please have him give us a call as soon as possible? It’s important … yes, thank you.” McAdams spelled his name and left both his and Decker’s cell numbers. He hung up.
“Answering service?” Decker asked.
“Yes. It’s strange to actually talk to someone. Here’s the address.” McAdams looked at his watch. It was seven in the evening. “I don’t think he’ll be in, but we could swing by and