From The Peripheral Son, the forthcoming book #14 of the Dick Hardesty Mystery series:

02-08-11

I debated on whether to try to call Marty before I left work, but decided it could wait until morning.

* * *

Tuesday being Jonathan's chorus night, Joshua and I were left to our own devices, which included my talking on the phone with a couple members of our gang, and having Joshua beat me in several rousing games of Blockhead, which involves stacking small odd-shaped small blocks of wood on top of each other—the one whose piece causes the stack to collapse being the loser. I then watched some TV while Joshua played in his room until his bedtime rolled around.
When Jonathan got home we tried to work out the logistics of shopping for Joshua's upcoming birthday, and the incomprehensibility of it hit me yet again: sixth birthday? Already? How could that be? And he'd be starting first grade at the end of the month! Jeezus!

We decided that I'd do most of the shopping for birthday gifts we decided on, since I could make the time during the day more easily than he could, and that we'd set aside the following Saturday for buying new clothes and whatever else he'd need for school. And I was reminded yet again that having a kid is a hell of a lot more expensive than having a puppy.

* * *

One of the nice things about having a personal life is that it did give me a chance to step away from the too-frequent frustrations of whatever case I was working on. But transitioning from one to the other did entail some mental gear-shifting. So as I crossed the street from the parking lot to the entrance of my office building, I shifted from Jonathan and Joshua to Victor.

It didn't take too much in the line of deductive reasoning to feel fairly confident that the two articles Victor had been working on for Counterpoint involved the Holcomb and the ACWU. If I had to guess which one was the all-but-finished one, I'd go with the Holcomb.

The more I thought about Victor's basically empty desk and the absence of any papers and notes related to what he might have been working on, the more obvious it became that someone had taken them all. But why take them all? Why not just the ones applicable to whomever took them? Well, the answer to that one was pretty simple. If the drawer were full of files and there was one for, say, the Holcomb but nothing on the ACWU—or vice-versa—that would be a solid indication to anyone who knew of his contacts with both groups of who did the taking. So just take them all.
I put in a call to Marty as soon as I got to the office and left a message. That I'd heard nothing from anyone at the department, as Marty had suggested I might, didn't surprise me; the police always have more to do than there is time to in which to do it. And I was sure that obvious murders took preference over all other forms of possibly-questionable death. If they did step in and decide to go with a full scale investigation, fine. But I wasn't going to just sit back and wait to for them to make up their minds.

Checking the obituary column in the morning paper, I found a two-line notice: Koseva, Victor, 42. A memorial service will be held at 1 p.m. Thursday at the Spector-Case Funeral Home, 4799 Tunney Street.

Period. Not a word about his family or what he did or who he was or how he died. Like his apartment, it was devoid of personality.

I moved on from the obituaries to the crossword puzzle, and was nearly finished with it when the phone rang.
"Hardesty Investigations."

"Dick, it's Elena. I just wanted you to know Mr. Spector, at the funeral home, has arranged to put a notice in the paper, and that there'll be a brief service tomorrow at one o'clock."

"Yes, I just read it. I'll definitely be there."

"Cremation will be tomorrow morning. They need the death certificate before they can proceed. So many details!"

"And you're everything by yourself?"

She sighed. "Yes. Ben is really so busy."

And Frank, I knew without asking, wanted no part of it.