The Split Man (Holden Burke #2)

Five

My next call was in another rich neighbourhood—before long I'd felt like I'd have a full catalogue of the city's prosperous hideaways that I'd wandered through like a roving imposter. This one was wrapped around a sickly ribbon of the river that wove through the quiet inner suburbs of the city; there were modern townhouses and gated mini-mansions set along the uneven slopes as I wound my car through the slim braids of asphalt carved into the greenery. I found the address for Gene Randolph.

The house was small by the standards of its surroundings, but it was still something I'd never be within a moon's grasp of with my savings. It was all glass and steel and concrete, a little slit of sleek modernity cut between an Italianate and a Victorian on either side. I buzzed the box at the front driveway gate.

After a few moments, a voice said, 'I'm not speaking to reporters.'

'I'm not a reporter,' I said.

'Well...I can't speak to anyone, then.'

'I'd like to have a word with you about Sebastian Abbott, just for a few moments.'

There was an electronic silence, before the gate finally broke and I went up the drive toward the house The front door drew open as I approached it.

'You're Gene Randolph?' I said.

He looked at me and nodded slowly. He had a good, slim build that was dressed-down in a sporty white dress shirt and long slacks. His hair had been undersold to me: it was a deep and florid shade of titian red, swept back and well-ordered. There was a spray of freckles under the ridges of his eyes and a coloured fullness to his lips.

He was a young man, too, as young as Cameron Zehringer Jr, and easily as wealthy.

'What are you?' he said as I came to the front step.

'An investigator.'

'There've been so many leeching reporters lately. Just trying to be careful.'

'What happened?'

He started to open his mouth, but stopped himself. 'If you don't know, then I probably shouldn't say anything. I don't want to say any more stupid shit than I already have.'

He stepped away and let me inside. I followed him into the den, which was arranged in a sparse sketch of low white cotton sofas and glass coffee tables.

'Is it related to Sebastian, the trouble with the reporters?' I said.

Gene Randolph himself reclined across one of the sofas and shut his eyes. 'No,' he exhaled. 'It's just... Who are you, again?'

'A private investigator. My name is Holden Burke.'

'And you're looking for Seb?'

I nodded. 'I understand that you've been seeing him for a while.'

But Gene wasn't paying full attention to me. He released a slow breath and opened his eyes again. 'I wondered if he'd ever get in trouble,' he said quietly.

I came further into the room. 'Why's that?' I asked.

He shrugged. 'Just the way he was.'

'And which way was that?'

'Like a broken mirror. I could never get a read on him. Always so mysterious, so icy, weird... Then he ran off so suddenly, just left me without a word and I don't know why. But I guess I'm not surprised.'

'He ran off on you too?'

Gene looked at me and smiled bleakly. 'The same thing?'

I sat on a footstool opposite him and dropped my head. 'He was with another guy not too long ago. The same thing. Up and left without a word. Guy hired me to find him.'