66
Toronto 1961
By one o’clock the next day, Brad Forsythe hadn’t showed. I motioned to Birdie.
“Let’s go.”
We drove out to his house. No sign of the Rambler. The same neighbour worked over the same rose bush.
I approached her.
“Lit out last night,” she said. “I saw him loading up his Rambler full of stuff. Said he was going on a much-needed vacation. Hadn’t taken one in years, he said. And then he drove off. How’s your investigation going? Guess you didn’t need his help anymore, huh? Anyway, I say, good riddance. And if you believe he’s taking a vacation, then you’re dumber than I think you are.”
“Thanks for your help,” I said curtly.
“Damn,” Birdie muttered.
Back at the station, I filled Callaway in and told him what we needed and how fast we needed it.
“He’s likely over the bo
