Time Out of Mind by John R. Maxim

headquarters in New York. Before that he'd been living for eight years in an apartment at 1500 North State Street. For at least two of those years he played house with a female street reporter from the same station. Her name is Gwendolyn Fiona Leamas. Gwen Leamas for short. English girl. She preceded the subject to New York by about six months. Her own transfer may or may not have affected Corbin's ‘decision to move east. I'm inclined to think it didn't be cause except for a short-term live-in at her place when he first got here and an occasional night out since then, the word is that they‘re. pretty much drifting apart.”
    “ Why, then, did he come here? Any information on that?”
    “ Bigger job.” Lesko shrugged. “Headquarters. It hap pens.”
    “ No pattern of nonbusiness visits to New York? No ev idence of sudden interest?”
    “ Nope,” Lesko answered. But he would remember the intensity behind those questions. “The job opened up when the guy who had it before got sick. The Leamas girl recommended Corbin but he was probably in line for the spot anyway.”
    “ The Leamas woman's address?”
    “ One forty-five East Seventy-seventh Street. Second- floor apartment facing front. Corbin's there now, probably for the weekend.”
    “ You said they'd drifted apart.”
    Lesko shrugged again. “They're on and off.”
    “ Continue, please.” Dancer wet his lips. “I'm interested in Corbin's personal activities since he arrived.”
    Lesko told of Corbin's finding an expensive apartment in the East Sixties, putting down a large deposit, and then forfeiting it because he decided instead to buy some old dump in Greenwich.
    “ The broker up there gave me some real estate bullshit about the place being a handyman's dream, but I could tell even she thought he was a little bit crazy. And Corbin, as far as I know, never nailed two boards together in his whole life. But there he is, happy as a pig in shit to spend every night and weekend up there cutting back trees, painting, and prowling through junk shops to make it look like it did a hundred years ago. You talk to the neighbors, they don't know whether he's a weirdo or a fag, no offense, so they try to pretend he isn't there.”
    “ Conclusion?”
    ” I don't have one.
    “ You see evidence of unstable behavior and you don't conclude instability?”
    Raymond Lesko sipped his beer. “What instability?” he asked. “The guy found something he likes doing. Other people up there spend all their time putzing around in sail boats or collecting fake ducks.”
    “ But Corbin, you said, had no history of an interest in restoring old homes. Such a consuming hobby, to the extent of researching authentic paints and wallpapers, usually de velops over time.”
    ” I said, as far as I know. It's possible he was into it before.”
    “ But you don't think so.”
    “ No, I don't.” Lesko didn't recall saying anything about Corbin researching wallpaper. Someone else must be watching the guy's progress on that house.
    “ You did, however, mention a history of instability go ing back to his college years.”
    ” I didn't say that either. I said he had some counseling. One time.”
    ” A history of confusion then.”
    The ex-cop shrugged again. Confusion. It was as good a word as any for people who go to a shrink to help them sort out their worries. As for Corbin, the counseling episode in college could have been anything. Maybe the pressure of living up to his jock, war-hero father got to him. Maybe he got whacked out over some girl. On the other hand, maybe he didn't like snow in South Bend, either. Which, Raymond Lesko thought, brings us to this afternoon.
    “ The guy doesn't like snow.”
    ” I beg your pardon?”
    “ The subject, Jonathan Corbin, hates snow. If you're looking for emotional problems, there's at least one with handles on it. When it snows he won't even step out of his door if he can help it. I heard this a couple of weeks ago from a guy he works with. A