.3.

The Police Department was like a beehive, every cop-bee following his or her own path, duty or agenda. Some people would stand in groups for a while and then the groups would no longer exist all at once. There was a constant humming noise, like if the beehive had a voice by itself.

Brown and Grimes climbed up the stairs, waving once or twice on their way but, like worthy busy bees, they did not let themselves be distracted and soon entered the boss's office where Joan Higgins sat, alone. She really looked like the queen of the place, Brown thought as he closed the door. My, she was gorgeous. Right now she was answering a phone call, her voice deep and musical, her red hair falling down her shoulders in hot waves he would gladly drown into. He exhaled a deep breath. This was the queen, he was a mere knight, an awkward too big one at this.

And this was work.

Higgins motioned for him and Grimes to sit and ended the call quickly. “So guys, was it a criminal fire or not?”
“The forensic team are still working things out, but it appears yes,” Brown said and summarized what they had learned. He went fast: Higgins wanted to be kept updated hourly so she already knew about everything.
“Thanks, Peter,” Higgins said, and Brown felt a strange move in his chest. He was not used to his boss using his first name, and wondered if he ever would. Since she'd taken the head of the service, three months ago, Higgins called everyone this way and insisted that all of them should call her Joan. Yet Brown couldn't help thinking she said his first name in a special way.

Fortunately unaware of her partner's wandering thoughts at the moment, Grimes said, “We ran a search about the blond man's face and we've his name and information. The guy is Braden Cooney, born in Ireland but a bi-national, his mom being american. He's a social worker for the state, and in a private association as well, one that takes care of homeless people.”
Higgins bit at her grey pencil with white, sharp teeth that had Brown's hair shiver sweetly on his nape. He needed to be out of here soon; how was it that everything in her had him thinking only of. . .

“Brown and I'll meet his boss at the social agency first thing. We've been told he didn't go to work today,” Grimes was now saying.
“So he might be on the run too,” Higgins said. “See you, detectives,” she added, lowering her eyes onto the files on her desk.
They stood up and left in silence. Grimes closed the door and shook her head, smiling.
“What?” Brown asked more curtly than was proper.
“Nothing.” His partner looked at him with mischievous brown eyes. “Nothing at all, just wondering if you're hungry or what?” She didn't even bother to let that out as a sous-entendre. She'd guessed his lust for the boss all right, dratt her perceptiveness.
Brown opened his mouth but thought better of it. He swallowed a bit of shame before uttering through his teeth,“We better hurry, their office will be closed soon.”

***

They did not learn much at Cooney's office. The guy was a good worker, his boss said, very involved in the cases he took care of. They were given the list of them, along with his timetable for the week. They decided they'd give a close look at this later, then drove to the head office of the association he also worked with. A slim young woman, who presented herself as Sheila Guilford, welcomed them, and frowned when they asked about Cooney.
“He should've been here for a while. He was supposed to go with me to Mattapan tonight, but I'll have to contact someone else.” She showed a small truck along the sidewalk. “I was counting on him to drive tonight.”
“Is he usually reliable?” Grimes asked.
“Very. I don't understand why he's not here. And he should've called. I'm worrying now.” The dark-haired pretty woman's voice trailed off as if Guilford was discovering just how much her worries looked justified. “What is it? He'd an accident, or what?”
“We have some questions for him, nothing important, concerning a woman named Sofia Anderson.”
“Sofia? Is Sofia in trouble too?” Concern sounded genuine in Guilford's voice.
“You know Sofia Anderson?”
“Yes, she's, well she was a journalist. She once wrote an article about the association, a very nice girl. She and Braden have been good friends since that. He kept in touch with her and still helps her for small errands. Poor Sofia,” Sheila Guilford said shaking her head with pity. “ Please tell me: what happened?”
“We're sorry we can't tell you now,” Grimes said kindly, “but would you please tell Mr.Cooney, if you happen to see him, that the BPD needs to meet him as soon as possible. We'd also need to have any paper or document he'd have written or worked on, and a list of the homeless people he used to care for maybe?”
“Well, there's no such list. We work with people who don't want to be found any time anywhere. They'd not trust us if we asked them for their names or such. We do have some names of course, but not all of them. We just give them blankets or food and try to convince them to go to emergency shelters when we can, but most of them want to stay outdoors.” She caught her breath. “Well, I'll give you what I can.”
“Thank you,” Brown said, then added, like out of the blue, “ Maybe I could go with you?”
“Are you kidding me? D'you think those people want to see the police?”
“Well, no need for them to know I'm with the police,” Brown answered.
Sheila Guilford shook her head.
“You need a driver for tonight anyway?” He urged.
“And what about me?” Grimes said with a sigh.
Brown knew Grimes was not really surprised with his offer to Sheila. By now his partner was quite used to his well-known eccentricity. He smiled. “You can go and see around Cooney's place, could you?” he suggested, “Then you can call it a day, it's been a long one already.”
“All right,” Grimes said, lifting her hands in surrender. “I'll see you tomorrow then, but give me a call if anything happens,” she added heading to their car.
“I didn't say yes!” Guilford protested.
“No, but you need me and I need you so. . .?”
“Okay, but please, remove this black jacket of yours, you look too much like a cop.”
“Do I really?” Brown said with mock surprise.

***

As he was driving towards Mattapan, Brown listened intently to Sheila Guilford. The young woman explained how hard it was for the homeless in the Summer. People often forget homeless people when it's hot, but the heat can be worse than cold. If not for blankets–that were needed in chillier nights–the everyday water and food the association provided for was a necessity.
“I admire you very much,” Brown said sincerely. “You've another job?”
“I am a student at the moment, and I don't work here each evening,” she said with modesty.
“Anyway, what you do is great. And where does the money come from? Charity?”
“Yes, and we also get some subventions, thanks to projects we draw up.”
“Projects?”
“We find doctors, nurses, who get involved with us. We find places for the homeless, sometimes in people's houses or wherever. There's a lot to do. Sometimes we get funds from the State.”
“And Sofia Anderson wrote about all this?”
“Yes, that was a long time ago, before she started to do the interviews, her fashion-work, as she called them. But I did understand: she needed to make money, and anyway, she always kept in touch with us. Even helped Braden in his distributions before her accident.”
“And since this?”
“I haven't seen her since, but I know Braden often goes to her place. I think he's a crush on her in fact,” she said and looked at Brown with a smile. “But maybe it's just my feeling, I don't know for sure.”

***

Two hours later, they'd given away almost all they'd had in the small truck and arrived at Sheila's last scheduled stop, close to a bridge where some people had established their poor frail homes of boxes, blankets–and discarded mattresses when they got lucky. So far, Brown had heard almost nothing about Cooney and only got mistrustful looks when trying to push the conversation any further. He felt both awkward and cynical, and all in all rather discouraged, although he didn't regret having been of some help for Sheila tonight.
“Here,” she said, “this guy has been in the street for years already, and Braden knows him well,” she said as Brown stopped the truck along the sidewalk. He saw an old man, likely in his seventies, tall and grey-bearded, his face lined and tired, his jeans faded, his shirt more a rag than anything else. The guy was sitting on a bench, greedily dragging at a cigarette. His face brightened when he saw Sheila.
“Hi Sheila, good to see you,” he said, standing up with a smile in which several teeth were missing. He nodded at Brown, “A new helper, huh?”
“Peter Brown,” Sheila answered, “Peter, this is Bobby, Bobby Wilson.”
Brown extended his hand, and Bobby shook it firmly. The detective noticed that his other hand remained limp at his side. Bobby smiled dejectedly.
“Yeah, poor Bobby had an accident at work,” he said making fun of himself, “Bobby used to be a hard worker with a nice pretty house and a rather sweet wife, or so he thought, and here I am now,” he ended bitterly.
“I'm sorry,” Brown said, shamefully aware of the void in his words.
“Bobby, there's still room in Pine Hill Shelter”, Sheila said. “Will you come at last?”
“No,” the old man snorted. “I prefer it here, I do what I want and sleep when I want. No schedule, no one bossing around, I'm free!” He said defiantly.
Sheila sighed. “We'll speak of this again when the winter comes, Bobby, will we?”
“Oh, I'll always be glad to speak with you, pretty one,” Bobby said and winked at the young woman. Brown could see behind the old tired guy the man he certainly had been at some point: a charming, teasing, blue-eyed tall man.
“I have fresh water, and a good meal here for you,” Sheila said, handing the man a package that Bobby accepted with good grace.
“I feel I have swallowed only dust today, Sheila, thanks a lot.” He drank thirstily, then wiped his mouth and asked,“By the way, where's Braden? Was to be here tonight, huh?”
Brown felt a tingle of excitation but said nothing. He had agreed with Sheila about how to handle the conversation and she'd done well each time. It was the first time someone asked about the young man though.
“Yes, he was, but he did not show up,” the young woman said. She stopped and sighed, showing a concern that was both well-played and genuine, Brown thought. “Well, Peter here knows Braden as well, and we're both concerned. He didn't call, he was to meet Peter today and didn't show up. Maybe you know something about him?”
“He doesn't answer his calls? He's not in his place?” the old man asked, frowning.
“No,” Sheila answered.
Bobby looked at her with steady eyes, then at Brown. The detective looked back as firmly as he could, but the old man shook his head and turned his gaze to his shoes.“You're Braden's friend? To me you look quite like a cop.” He spat in front of him, and Brown closed his eyes in frustration for a second. “Sheila? You bring cops to me?” Brown heard in Bobby's voice that the poor man was feeling betrayed.
Sheila lowered her head and Bobby began to pick up his meager belongings as if to go away.
“Look,” Brown said, “I'll be honest with you. . .” Bobby looked at him with a rueful smile. “Listen to me, I want no harm to your friend, in fact I'm looking for a friend of his, Sofia Anderson.”
The old man stood stock-still at Sofia's name.
“She's missing. They're both missing. Sofia's sister is looking for her, and yesterday morning there was an arson at Sofia's place,” the detective, rushing the words so that Bobby wouldn't go away.
The old man dropped his backpack and sat again on the bench. “Look,” he said, looking at Brown, as if wondering if he could trust him or not. Maybe he saw something in Brown's deep brown eyes for he took a deep breath and said, “Braden and Sofia are in trouble. Don't know why, but they sure are in trouble. Last time I saw him, Braden asked me if I knew of a place for them to hide for a while.”
Brown said nothing, catching his breath from fear of having Bobby stop talking.
“He said they were after something big, and they were afraid not to be able to speak. Told me Sofia's accident was not an accident, and that she was fearing for her life so I told’ em about a place where some of us would stay put.” He stopped. “If I tell you where that is...”
“I wouldn't go as a cop, I mean, I wouldn't look for anybody else than them.”
“Anyway, boy, I won't tell you where that is. Too many people at stakes.”
Brown sighed: he had thought as much.
“Look,” Bobby said. “I need time. How about meeting here tomorrow at the same time?”
Brown felt relieved, “That'd be great, thank you for anything you can do. I'll be here tomorrow.”
They shook hands again and Brown looked back at Bobby in the rear-view mirror as he was driving away. The old man stood watching them and opening the pack of cigarettes Brown had given to him.
“I doubt a pack of fags will be enough to bribe him,” Sheila said testily.
“Oh, nothing can bribe him, I guess,” Brown said.