Mr. Blake, she said, you need to think why someone would go to all the trouble to get you out of town and then see if they could get you framed for drug possession.

I looked up the street at nothing in particular.

And you need to keep thinking about the question I asked you before. Just how well did you know what your daughter was up to?

I said, The bloodstains on Syd's car' have you found out anything yet?

You'll be the second to know, she said, then got into her car and drove her daughter to school.

I DECIDED TO TACKLE THE CLEANUP a room at a time.

First, of course, I went upstairs to check for any phone or email messages, even a fax. There was nothing. It occurred to me that with all of today's technologies, there were now more ways than ever to know with absolute certainty that no one wanted to get in touch with me.

Then I went back down to the kitchen. It made sense to put this room in order first. I found some garbage bags under the sink and dumped in food that could not be saved. Items from the refrigerator that had been tossed about and gone bad, spilled cereal that covered the floor.

I'd been going at it for about an hour when I heard someone shouting over the drone of the vacuum cleaner.

Hello?

The front door was open. Standing there was a slight man in a suit that had to be five sizes too big for him. You could slip three fingers between his neck and his buttoned shirt collar. His stringy black tie was askew, and it seemed awfully early in the day to look this unkempt. His concave chest made him look as though he was caving in on himself. He was the guy who got sand kicked in his face on the back page of my comic books when I was a kid.

I rang but you couldn't hear me, he said.

Can I help you? I asked.

Are you Tim Blake?

That's right, I said.

Arnold Chilton, he said. I think Bob Janigan mentioned me to you?

Huh?

Then I remembered. The detective, or security expert, whatever. The one Bob said might be able to help us track down Sydney. I was surprised, knowing how pissed Bob was with me at the moment, that he'd still decided to go ahead with this.

Bob got in touch with me a few days ago, he said, but I've kind of been swamped getting my mom moved into a nursing home.

Oh, I said. I extended a hand and he took it.

Arnold Chilton whistled as he took in the mess. I hadn't started on the living room yet. That must have been some party, he said.

It wasn't a party, I said. Someone broke in and tore up the place.

Wow, he said.

Yeah, I said.

You got some time for some questions? he asked.

Why don't we go outside? I suggested. There's really nowhere to sit down in here yet.

Okeydoke, Chilton said. We walked out onto the front lawn, turned, and looked back at the house.

This is good of Bob to bring you into this, I said. He and I, we don't always see eye to eye on everything.

He said something like that.

I'll just bet he did, I said. The police are investigating Syd's disappearance, of course, but having someone else on this, that's great. I've been doing everything I can to find her I even went on a wild-goose chase to Seattle this week but haven't made much headway. You know her car was found?

Didn't know that, Chilton said.

I thought the mention of the Seattle trip and the discovery of Syd's car would have sparked further questions.

Have you spoken to Detective Jennings? I asked.

Who?

Kip Jennings, I said. The police detective?

I think Bob did mention her, or his wife Susanne did.

Susanne is not his wife, I said. We used to be married, but she hasn't married Bob. Yet.

That's right! I knew that.

Did they tell you about Detective Jennings? Did they give you her number? Because you're going to want to talk to her.

I'm pretty sure they mentioned her. I just don't think I wrote it down.

I have her number, I offered.

Good, he said, nodding agreeably.

So, are you, what, a friend of Bob's? I asked. Or have you done work for him before?

Yeah, I've done some stuff for him in the past, Chilton said.

I wondered why my ex-wife's boyfriend might have used the services of a private detective. And whatever reason it might have been, did Arnold Chilton actually produce any results? He wasn't inspiring me with confidence.

So, let's get down to cases, he said. Tell me about the day your daughter disappeared.

I told the story for the hundredth time. Chilton scribbled into a tattered notebook that had been jammed into a jacket pocket.

What about friends? he asked. You got some names of her friends?

Patty Swain, I said. And there was a guy she used to go out with a few times, Jeff Bluestein. He helped me set up the website. That reminded me. I had meant to ask him, when he'd popped by the dealership with Patty, to double-check that emails sent to the site were actually getting there. Not fully understanding how all that stuff worked, I was paranoid about things going wrong.

How do you spell that? Chilton asked.

I started to spell Bluestein, but he held up his hand. The first name, he said.

I blinked. J-e-f-f, I said.

Okay, he said, making his notes. Sometimes people spell it with a G, don't they?

That's true, I said.

But not G-e-f-f. It would be G-e-O-f-f.

Yes, I said. Did I need to tell him it was Syd with a y and not an i?

Now, he said, did you notice anything weird with Sydney before she took off?

No, I said. I only hoped he was right, that Sydney took off. We had a small argument at breakfast. About some new sunglasses she had.

What was that about?

I didn't want to get into it with him. I didn't want to believe it had anything to do with why Syd left, and it wasn't any of Arnold Chilton's business anyway. It wasn't a big deal, I said.

Was she doing drugs? Like, dealing or something like that? I thought about the coke found in my room, but said nothing. He continued, Hooking, maybe?

That made me want to punch his lights out. I felt my hands forming into fists. Listen, Mr. Chilton Just call me Arnie. He grinned.

Arnie, I said, stretching the word out, my daughter was neither a drug dealer nor a prostitute.

Chilton, clearly a very keen detective, picked up something in my tone. Okay, he said, and made a note in his book, muttering under his breath, No drugs, no hooking. He glanced back up. And how about yourself? Can you account for your whereabouts?

What?

At the time your daughter disappeared, where were you?

I said, Arnie, if you don't mind my asking, just what sort of work have you done for Bob? Or anyone else, for that matter?

Pretty much all my security work has been for Bob, he said.

Just what kind of security work was it? I asked. Without, I added, with mock sincerity, violating any sort of confidentiality, of course.

No, no problem, Arnie Chilton said. Watching stuff, mainly.

Watching stuff, I repeated. What kind of stuff?

Cars, he said.

So let me get this straight. You were, what, a security guard?

Arnie nodded. The night shifts are the worst. Trying to keep your fucking eyes open, you're almost hoping someone will break into the compound so it'll keep you awake, you know?

Sure, I said. Arnie, you mind waiting out here a moment while I make a phone call? I just remembered there's someone I have to get in touch with.

That's cool, Arnie said. I'll just review my notes.

I went back into the kitchen and hit one of the buttons already programmed into the phone's speed dial.

Susanne, clearly looking at the caller ID before picking up, said, Anything?

No, I said. Is Bob there?

Yes, she said.

I need to talk to him.

I don't think he'll be interested. He's furious with you. But there was nothing in Susanne's voice to indicate she felt the same.

Magnum P.I. is here.

What?

The other day, Bob said he was sending around an investigator to help find Syd. A guy named Chilton.

I know. I was spending so much time on this, getting so frustrated with those goddamn crutches and cane, Bob wanted Arnie to do some of the legwork.

I need to talk to Bob about him.

Hang on.

She put the phone down. A minute later, Bob picked up the receiver and said, What do you want, Tim? His contempt came through the phone like a virus.

He's a security guard, Bob.

What?

He's a fucking night watchman. This Chilton guy you sent over. This so-called security expert you've hired to help find Sydney.

You know what your problem is, Tim? You're a snob. You run people down.

He's not a licensed private investigator, Bob. He's not some security expert. He's a goddamn security guard.

Look, Bob said, lowering his voice so Susanne wouldn't hear, he was working for me, and I sold him a Corolla, and he couldn't make all the payments. I thought I'd let him work it off.

This guy couldn't find his ass in a snowstorm, Bob.

I try to do something to help, and this is the thanks I get, he said. Maybe this is why I'm where I am, and you're where you are. Bad attitude.

I hung up.

Arnie Chilton was waiting for me in the yard, notepad at the ready.

Hey, he said. I've thought up some more questions. Good ones.