Page 61 of 3rd Tango
His gaze shifts from me, still standing at the rail, to Matt, now on his feet.
Bronson gives a curt nod. “Hello. I’m Eric Bronson.”
I move closer, angling around Lind who seems to have taken root. I offer my hand. “Meg Schock. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I gesture to Matt. “And this is my associate, Matt Stephens.”
The two exchange a silent greeting and Bronson brings his attention back to me. “Thank you. I figured after all these years she was…gone, but…” He takes a second, closes his eyes and breathes.
“There’s always hope,” I add.
He opens his eyes. “Yeah. So much for that.”
Lind finally moves. He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and produces a business card, handing it to Bronson. “If you think of anything, give us a call. And again, I’m sorry to bring you bad news.”
Bronson takes it and flicks a finger against it. “Thanks.”
Taylor says her goodbyes and the two head toward their Bureau car parked at the curb.
“Mr. Bronson,” I say, “I’m not sure how much Agents Lind and Sinclair told you, but we’re from Schock Investigations. We’re private investigators. Well, Matt and my sister are. I’m a forensic sculptor who helps with cold cases. I know this is a bad time, but we’re working on one we think somehow involves your sister.”
Bronson steps back. “Come in. I don’t know what I can tell you, but maybe you can help me find out what happened.”
We walk into a small and efficiently tidy living room. A leather recliner sits adjacent to a patchwork sofa with a fuchsia hand-knit blanket draped over it. My artist’s eye can’t help but notice the craftsmanship.
“That’s a lovely blanket.”
“My wife. They’re all over the house. She was in the middle of one for Ev when she went missing.” He glances up the stairs, then puffs his cheeks, blowing out air. “That damn thing has been in the guest room all this time. I guess we’ll bury it with her, so she’ll finally have it.”
The words are a kick to my chest. This poor man. All these years he’s been in limbo, waiting to hear something—anything—from his sister. Now, it’s over and he’ll have to work through the emotions that come with the grieving process.
Or, maybe his is already done. Either way, his need for answers on how she died will continue. Perhaps we can help with that.
One thing at a time…
He waves us to the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water, iced tea?”
We shake our heads and settle in. On the coffee table is an overstuffed photo album. One of those old three-ring binder styles that’s bursting with ribbons and yellowing paper.
Bronson gestures to it as he drops into his recliner. “I was showing the FBI folks some pictures.” He leans in and pushes it to us. “This is Ev’s. They wanted to take it, but I told them to come back. Now that I know she’s…well…I want to look through it. Ah, damn. She’s been gone twenty years. You’d think it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He points at the album. “You can open it. If you want.”
The offer paralyzes me. If Charlie were here, she’d be halfway through by now. Her experience has taught her the correct coping skills when faced with heartbreak. Me? I don’t have a clue what I should do so I glance at Matt, giving him my wide-eyed help-me stare.
Taking his cue, he reaches for the binder, dragging it closer and opening it.
On the first page are random photos of a young woman with blonde-streaked light brown hair. She’s sitting on bleachers and waving a pom-pom. Football game. High school perhaps? College? I really have no idea.
From what I remember of the painting and photo I’ve seen, it has to be Evelyn. Her hair isn’t as dark, but it’s clearly highlighted in these photos.
Matt scans more pages, all containing pictures of the same woman. Christmas, Halloween and what looked like St. Patrick’s Day.
“She liked parties,” Mr. Bronson tells us.
I point to a photo of the woman with the blonde-streaked hair. “This is her?”
“Yeah.”
Matt turns another and there’s Evelyn, in front of a Welcome to Niagara Falls sign. A second picture shows her with a man.
“That’s her boyfriend. Chris Svenson.”
