Five Days in Summer

alone? Maybe you had a party?”
    He didn’t seem to know which question to answer first.
    “Anyone live with you?” Amy repeated.
    Bobby shook his head. “I don’t like parties. People make me nervous.”
    Amy could see that. But how nervous? she wondered. “So you ate all that corn yourself last night?”
    “Some. There’s more for tonight. And the next night. I like corn. It was on sale.”
    Amy understood something about this man: he ate only one food, and a lot of it, and repetitively. Whatever was on sale. His unhealthy appearance confirmed that he didn’t eat a balanced diet. And he did everything three times. Her guess was that he was obsessive-compulsive. She’d check the state psych records later and see if he came up, maybe find a psychiatrist or someone who could fill her in on his condition and history. He could have Emily in the house, or somewhere else; or he could be too fragile to organize an abduction. That was what Amy wanted to know. Could Bobby Robertson pull it off, would he want to, and why?
    “One more question,” she asked.
    His eyes flicked to Amy, and he blinked — three times.
    “Who was the woman you were arguing with at the store? She followed you out. Did she leave with you?”
    Bobby didn’t like the question. “I didn’t talk to anyone at the store!” he said. “I just — like — corn!”
    He bolted inside and slammed the door.
    “We’ll come back with a warrant,” Amy told Snow as they walked back to the car.
    “You need a crime to get a warrant,” he said. “They don’t issue them just to keep us busy on summer vacation.”
    “You’re not on vacation, Al.”
    The comment sailed right over him. “I’m telling you, you need a crime.”
    “No, you need reasonable suspicion of a crime.”
    Snow shrugged. “I guess I just don’t see it your way.”
    “A woman is missing.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Women don’t just evaporate.”
    His eyebrow cocked. “Amy, spare me. You know as well as I do that wives ditch their husbands this way all the time.”
    Amy stopped walking. “You don’t think Bobby in there is a little unusual? He was seen behind her on line, and he was seen driving off with a blond woman. Why isn’t that enough for you?”
    “He was also seen arguing in the store with a blond woman not Mrs. Parker.”
    Snow got into the driver’s seat and pulled shut his door. Amy slid in beside him.
    “The guy’s a nut. I’ll give you that,” Snow said. “That doesn’t mean he’s a kidnapper. We don’t even know what happened to her.”
    “But, Al, that’s the reason we’re trying to find out.”
    Snow backed up the car and they drove out of Squaws Lane, resuming their silence. Amy didn’t know how she was going to work productively with Al Snow if they couldn’t even agree on the basics. They weren’t officially partners yet, and she decided that despite his seniority, she had every right to pursue this case. Not just a right, but an obligation. She for one would not let Emily Parker vanish in a mist of assumptions.
    Amy dialed the station on her cell phone and told Kaminer she wanted a warrant to search Robertson’s home. He didn’t even question her judgment; he simply said he’d get her one. Then she told him she was thinking it might be a good idea to search the Goodman-Parker home too. Kaminer’s reaction interested her.
    “Good instinct, but, Amy? I’m surprised you didn’t call me on that one sooner.”
    It had only been two hours since she’d visited Gooseberry Way. So her boss had high expectations of her; it was a good sign.
    “Chief, one more thing.”
    “Shoot.”
    “I think we should put a tail on this Robertson guy at least until the warrant comes through.”
    “Done.”
    “When do you think I’ll have the warrants?” she asked when he started to hang up.
    “As soon as I can find out what pond the judge is fishing on.”
    Snow kept a steady speed, right at the limit, and didn’t even glance at her as she made her calls. She looked at him after flipping shut her phone, waiting for some reaction, but his expression stayed cool. So that was how it would be. He wouldn’t instigate, and he wouldn’t interfere. Not the worst bargain she could hope for.
    They drove north on Route 28, turning off just before the Bourne Bridge funneled them off the Cape. Tucked behind one of the many car dealerships that studded the tree-lined route was a small lot marked by an antiqued sign that read RAGNATELLI’S VINTAGE