Truck Stop by Jack Kilborn Page B

an elderly woman. For a moment I pictured something resembling
All the President’s Men
meets
Driving Miss Daisy
, and I wanted no part of it. But lately it had been kind of slow in the suburbs, and I’d grown tired of writing about the wife beaters, gang bangers, and sexual predators that crowd the police blotter. This would certainly be something different.
    “Mrs. Constentino, you need to stay here in case he calls or shows up.”
    “Does that mean you will you do it?”
    I’d already decided to write the story. What could it hurt if I checked out some of Emil’s haunts and talked to a few people? It would be a way of getting background information.
    “I can try.”
    That brought a cautious smile to her face, the kind that reminds you why you became a reporter.
    The Constentinos had been antique dealers for more than a quarter century. They made a decent living through the eighties and nineties, until the collectibles bubble burst near the end of the last decade.
    “At first we thought the internet would be a godsend for us dealers. But it didn’t work out that way.”
    She explained that quality items had become hard to find as amateurs flooded the business, and that’s why Emil drove to the city.
    “He goes once a month to check in with some people who buy stuff at garage sales and thrift stores. We used to do that too, but it’s hard to find the energy anymore.”
    “Do you sell these things online?”
    “No, too much competition. We stick to mostly flea markets, and collectibles shows.”
    “Can you tell me who he was planning to visit on this last trip?”
    “Sure. But I already tried to call them.”
    “I should double check.”
    She handed me a small piece of lavender paper with three names and addresses written on it in textbook perfect longhand, and a photo of her husband.
    “The first one is a man he’s dealt with for a while, the other two are new, I think,” she said, then waited for me to respond with a word of hope.
    I wasn’t going to lie to her.
    “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything,” I said, then walked to my car and drove away without looking back.
    As soon as I pulled onto the expressway I put a call in to the Chicago branch of the FBI and asked for Special Agent Joseph Andrews.
    “I’m telling you right up front, Al, I do not have the time to be doing you any favors right now.”
    “Busy, huh?”
    “Very.”
    “I understand, and you know I would never waste your time.”
    “I appreciate that.”
    “I just need access to some IPASS records from two days ago,” I said as casually as I could, referring to Illinois’ automatic toll system which can make it easy to track a car’s movement, as long as the driver is registered for the program, which Emil Constentino was.
    “Al, that’s a favor.”
    “Not really. The driver of the car in question has been missing for two days. His wife believes he was driving into the city from Batavia, which means he would’ve passed through at least two toll booths.”
    I heard him sigh, then silence. I’d been friends with Joe Andrews for more than twenty years, been best man at his wedding, a pallbearer at his father’s funeral, so I knew what was coming next.
    “Goddamnit, Al,” another sigh, “what’s the plate number?”
    Half an hour later, I was driving through the tunnel beneath the old Chicago post office when Andrews called me back and confirmed that the Constentino’s ten-year-old Chevy Impala had indeed passed through two eastbound toll booths along I-88.
    “But that’s it, there’s no record of a return trip,” he added.
    I thanked him, promised to check in later that day, then drove to the first address on the list. It turned out to be a small curio shop on Clark, situated in a corner of an eighty-year-old building, just north of the river.
    It had once been a drugstore, complete with a lunch counter and regular customers. The business space next door looked like it had originally been part of a larger