Page 7 of Two Marlboros

Perhaps with a few less stops at the machine he could have finished by now, but I restrained myself from saying so. In the meantime, he took the papers to the copier, pulled out the tray, and shoved them in. I did not understand his attitude, because he was not a slacker. When he said he was committed he meantit, but it was equally true that his breaks were getting longer and longer and more frequent.

“You should also question Samantha Miller,” I added, to stimulate a reaction from him. “I will take care of Michael Cossner. I was able to retrieve his address; he still lives with his parents.”

Ashton sighed dryly and closed the copier tray without any delicacy. He approached my desk, and his gaze changed to such an extent that I wondered if I had said something wrong.

“You got it, boss,” he replied, uttering that last word with a slight sting. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He crossed his arms and the frown with which he observed me let me know that this was a rhetorical question. I did not feel that I had asked so much of him, nor that it was an absurd request. The only thing I was certain of was that I did not want to spark that discussion. I knew that in any case he would not understand how I felt.

“No, that’s all,” I replied, and his lips curled for a moment in annoyance at those unexpected words. “Thank you.”

I dismissed him with a glance, and he did not make me repeat it. I, meanwhile, prepared everything I needed to go to the Cossners’: it was time to pay them a visit.

They lived in the heart of Soho, near the Drawing Centre. Their apartment was located in a neoclassical building with no front stairs and adorned with Doric capitals between windows. I rang the doorbell and waited for an answer, which did not take long to arrive. It was a female voice.

“Good morning, this is the police. I would like to speak to Michael Cossner, is he home?”

A truck whizzed by behind me, with a noise bordering on my pain threshold and filling the air with a black cloud that shortly thereafter dissipated but made me bring a hand to my nose.

I got no answer and thought I had lost her because of the infernal noise of the truck. Then a man’s voice babbled something to the woman, but she did not answer him.

“Go ahead up, second floor,” she said again.

The man grunted a few more words in the background, but I could not catch them. The lock clicked and I climbed toward the apartment, where I found the lady waiting for me.

The house was large and bright. The entrance led into a huge living room, where a black leather sofa was the main feature, on which the couple made me sit. Mrs. Cossner was a small, plump woman with two large eyes and a dark, smooth bob haircut framing her face. She sat in the armchair to my right, on the edge of her seat, as if in a hurry to get out of there as quickly as possible, while her husband walked past us and leaned against the doorframe opposite to the sofa, his arms folded and his two big biceps well on display. His graying hair made him appear older than his wife, and his scowling, steady gaze conveyed no friendliness to me.

In front of me was a fireplace of red bricks and elegant trim, above which hung a copy of Hokusai’s “The Great Wave of Kanagawa.” The wall to the left of the fireplace was occupied by a series of bookcases crammed with books, in front of which were placed here and there an array of souvenirs, among which I recognized an Inca figurine and the miniature London Eye, which made me feel at home. The Cossners were well-off, there was no doubt about it; what would have been the point of Michael’s possible involvement in a robbery, then?

The lady rubbed her hands on her pants. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Between the sofa and the armchair was a small high table, on which rested a framed photo of Mrs. Cossner carrying what must have been her son Michael, as a child, on her shoulders. Icould not help but notice a birthmark on the back of the boy’s right hand.

“No, don’t worry. Rather, I would like to ask you some questions about your son. We are investigating the Lexington Avenue post office robbery that occurred yesterday, July the 30th.”

Mr. Cossner let out a loud sigh. He shifted his gaze from me to his wife, who the next moment cleared her throat.

“Of course, we are at your disposal,” she replied, and rubbed his hands together again.

“Can I talk to him?” I asked.

The woman’s lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out and she remained with her mouth open; Mr. Cossner stood up straight, but with his arms still crossed.

“He’s not home right now,” he replied, and soon after she nodded a couple of times. I caught a glance that the two exchanged with suspicious quickness. Why had the boy gone out? I knew he had renewed his sick certificate for another week.

“May I then have his telephone number?”

Once again, the husband hastened to reply. “Sure, but his phone is being repaired. If you try to call, he won’t answer.”

I got the number from the man and attempted a call, but in fact the operator’s voice answered. His wife again seemed to read my mind.

“He dropped it in the toilet, and it wouldn’t turn on. Hopefully he won’t have to change his number.”

“Yes,” I indulged her, “it’s quite annoying to lose all the contacts and messages.”

Neither of them added anything more. Mrs. Cossner still rubbed her hands on her thighs and from time to time looked at her husband; he, on the other hand, scrutinized me with that steady, almost statuesque look of his.

“When can I find your son at home?”

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