Girl Missing

by Tess Gerritsen

  Mr. Biagi didn’t say a word.

  Kat walked out of the ICU.

  In her haste to leave behind that scene, she took a wrong turn in the hallway. Instead of heading to the elevators, she found herself in a different wing, a part of the hospital she hadn’t seen before. White walls and gleaming linoleum told her this was a new addition, constructed only recently. Behind a glass case on the wall were displayed various mementos of the wing’s opening: Photographs of hospital officials at the ribbon cutting. Shots of a celebrity black-tie dinner. A bronze plaque, engraved with THE GEORGINA QUANTRELL WING. And a newspaper article with the headline: CYGNUS PRESIDENT DEDICATES MULTIMILLION-DOLLAR DRUG REHAB ADDITION. The accompanying photograph showed a sober-faced Adam Quantrell, posing beside the plaque.

  For a long time, Kat stood by that case, studying the photos, the news articles. Drug rehab? A surprising crusade for a man who made his fortune from drugs. Her gaze traveled the length of the case, paused at a teaching display of commonly abused drugs. Mounted on the board was a multicolored variety of capsules. And below it was the label: DISPLAY COURTESY OF CYGNUS PHARMACEUTICALS.

  Something clicked in Kat’s head. Dead junkies. A new drug on the street. Cygnus Pharmaceuticals.

  And a matchbook with Adam Quantrell’s phone number.

  She reached for her cell phone and called Sykes in Homicide.

  He was just leaving for home and did not seem particularly eager to prolong his workday.

  “Let me put it this way, Novak,” he said. “In the grand scheme of things, drug ODs are not high on my list of priorities.”

  “Think about it, Lou. What’s an addict doing with Quantrell’s personal phone number? Why was Quantrell so eager to look at the body? He’s hiding something.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “I think he is.”

  “They were junkies, Novak. They lived on the edge, they fell off. It’s not homicide. It’s not suicide. It’s stupidity. Social Darwinism, survival of the smartest.”

  “Maybe that’s what you think. Maybe that’s what Quantrell thinks. But I’ve still got two dead women.”

  “Forget Quantrell. The man’s into drug rehab, not drug pushing.”

  “Lou, this is a new drug. I spoke to an ER doctor here who says he’s never seen it before. To cook up a brand-new drug, you need a biochemist. And a lab. And a factory. Cygnus has it all.”

  “It’s a legitimate company.”

  “With maybe an illegitimate branch?”

  “Christ, Novak. I’m not going to hassle Quantrell.”

  “I heard you did a favor for him. On the side.”

  There was a pause. “Yeah. So what?”

  “So what were you doing for him out in South Lexington?”

  “Look, you want to hear the details?” Sykes snapped. “Then you talk to him.” He hung up.

  Kat stared at the phone. Well, maybe she had pushed Lou too far on this one. My big mouth, she thought. One of these days it’s going to get me into trouble.

  Slipping her cell phone into her pocket, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Biagi coming out of the ICU. They were leaning on each other, holding each other up, as though grief had sapped all their strength.

  Kat thought of their son Nicos, with the seven tubes in his body. She thought of Jane Doe and Xenia Vargas, both relegated to the approximate level of primordial muck in Sykes’s scale of social Darwinism. Something was killing these people, something that had sunk its evil roots into the Projects.

  Her old neighborhood.

  On her way back to the freeway, she drove up South Lexington. In the last few years, nothing had changed. The seven Project buildings still looked like prison towers, the playground still had a bent basketball hoop, and teenagers still hung out on the corner of Franklin and South Lexington. But the faces were different. It wasn’t just that these were different people. There was a new hardness to their gazes, a wariness, as they watched her drive by. Only then did the thought strike her.

  To them she was an outsider. Someone to be watched, someone to be guarded against. Someone not to be trusted.

  They don’t know I’m one of them. Or I was.

  She continued up South Lexington and took the freeway on-ramp.

  Traffic was still heavy moving north. It was the evening exodus to the suburbs, a daily hemorrhage of white-collar types to Bellemeade, Parris, Clarendon, and Surry Heights. Those who could afford to flee, fled. Even Kat, a city girl born and bred, now called the suburbs home. Just last year, she’d bought a house in Bellemeade. It seemed a logical move, financially speaking, and she’d reached the point in life when she had to make a commitment—any commitment, even if it was only to a three-bedroom cape. Bellemeade was a hybrid neighborhood, close enough to town to make it feel like part of the city, yet far enough away to put it squarely in the safety of the suburbs.

  On impulse, she bypassed the Bellemeade turnoff and stayed on the freeway. It took her half an hour to drive to Surry Heights.

  Along the way, the traffic thinned out, the scenery changed. Cookie-cutter houses gave way to trees and rolling hills, newly green from those proverbial April showers. White fences and horses appeared—a sure harbinger of old money. She took the Surry Heights exit onto Fair Wind Lane.

  Two miles down the road she came to the Quantrell residence. There was no mistaking the place. Two stone pillars flanked the driveway entrance; the name QUANTRELL was spelled out in wrought-iron lettering mounted on one of the pillars. The gate hung open to visitors. Kat drove through and followed the curving driveway to the house.

  There were three cars parked out front, a Jaguar and two Mercedes. She parked her five-year-old Subaru next to the Jag and climbed out. Nice paint job, she thought, eyeing the Jag’s burgundy finish. The interior was spotless, with not a clue to its owner’s personality in sight. No bumper stickers, either, though one that said LET THEM EAT CAKE would have been appropriate.

  She went to the front door and rang the bell. It pealed like a church chime in a cavern.

  The door opened, and a man wearing a butler-type uniform gazed down at her. “Yes?” he said.

  Kat cleared her throat. “I’m Dr. Novak. Medical examiner’s office. I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Adam Quantrell.”

  “Is Mr. Quantrell expecting you?”

  “No. But I’m here on official business.”

  For a moment the man seemed to consider her request. Then he opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  Surprised at how easy that was, she stepped inside. In wonder, she gazed up at a crystal chandelier. It was just a modest little entry hall, she thought. Nothing you wouldn’t find in a typical castle. The floor was gleaming terrazzo, and a massive banister traced a staircase to a second-floor gallery. Paintings—mostly modern, vaguely disturbing, wild blots of color—hung in various places of honor.

  “If you’ll wait here,” said the butler.

  He disappeared through a side door. She heard the distant sound of a woman’s laughter, the strains of classical music. Oh, great. He’s got a party going, she thought. Terrific timing, Novak.

  She turned as she heard footsteps. Adam Quantrell emerged from a side room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He was dressed formally, black tie, ruffled white shirt. He did not look pleased to see her.

  “Dr. Novak,” he said. “Is this urgent? Or can it wait till some other time?”

  “I think it’s urgent.”

  “More questions?” he asked.

  “And another body.”

  She watched for his reaction and was not at all surprised to see his face flinch. After a pause he said, “Whose?”

  “A woman. They found her not too far from where they found the first one. In a stairwell off South Lexington. It looks like another drug OD.”

  He still looked stunned. “Do you … want me to come down and look at her?”

  “Not necessarily. But maybe you’ll know the name. She had her purse with her. The driver’s license said Xenia Vargas. I assume it’s
hers because the photo matched the corpse. Does that name ring a bell?”

  He let out a breath. She wondered if it was a sigh of relief.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t know that name.”

  “What about the name Nicos Biagi?”

  “I don’t know that name, either. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Adam reacted with a snort of disbelief. “You show up at my door and assault me with the names of corpses, just to see how I react. And all because you’re curious?”

  “Who said Nicos Biagi was a corpse?”

  “I don’t know who the hell he is! I just assumed. Everyone else you mention seems to be a corpse!” His voice seemed to echo off the terrazzo floor and bounce around the far reaches of the vast entrance hall. At once he regained his composure, his face settling into an expression of cool unreadability. “So,” he said. “Who is Nicos Biagi? And is he or is he not a corpse?”

  “Nicos happens to be alive—barely,” she said. “He’s a patient at Hancock General. A drug OD. We’re worried about the drug. It seems to be something new, and it’s already killed Jane Doe and Xenia Vargas. It’s left Nicos Biagi critically ill. I wondered if you knew something about it.”

  “Why would I?”

  “A hunch.”

  To her annoyance, he laughed. “I hope this isn’t the way the ME’s office usually conducts business. Because if it is, our criminal justice system is in big trouble.”

  The side door opened again. A woman appeared, looking quizzical. And gorgeous. Her evening dress, shot through with gold thread, seemed to glitter in the chandelier light. Her hair, an equally brilliant gold, fell in ripples to her shoulders. She glanced at Adam’s visitor, a look that Kat recognized at once for what it was—a feminine sizing-up, then a curt dismissal. “Adam?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he said, his gaze still fixed on Kat. “It’s just—business.”

  “Oh.” The woman smiled sweetly. “Pearl just brought out the soup. And we didn’t want to start without you.”

  “Sorry, Isabel. Why don’t you all just go ahead with supper? Dr. Novak and I aren’t finished yet.”

  Again, her gaze shifted to Kat. “We can set another place, if you’d like. For your visitor.”

  There was an awkward silence, as though Adam was hunting for a graceful way to avoid inviting this unwelcome guest.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Kat, and thought she saw a look of relief cross Adam’s face. “I’ll be leaving as soon as we’re done with our … business.”

  Isabel smiled again, as though equally relieved. “Join us when you can, Adam,” she said, and withdrew into the side room.

  Adam and Kat regarded each other for a moment.

  “Let’s talk in the study,” he said, and abruptly turned and opened another door. She followed him inside.

  It was a characteristically masculine space, dark and clubby, with a fireplace and wood paneling, the sort of room in which you smoked pipes and drank cognac. She sat on the leather couch. He didn’t sit at all, but paced in front of the fireplace. The longer she watched him, the more annoyed she felt. It was irrational, but she was insulted that he hadn’t offered her a place at the supper table. She would have turned it down, of course; you didn’t just drop in to a formal supper, and judging from Isabel’s evening gown, this was no potluck they were serving. But at least she would have had the pleasure of turning him down. It was a matter of pride.

  “So what’s the basis for this hunch of yours?” he demanded. “Why do you think I would know anything about it?”

  “Because of that matchbook.”

  “Not much of a reason.”

  “Because this is a new drug, never seen before.”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “And because you’re president of Cygnus Pharmaceuticals. A company known for its R and D in painkillers. A company that just released a new class of opiates.”

  “We also make drugs for athlete’s foot.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Yes?” When he tilted his head, his blond hair caught the glow of the table lamp.

  “Until you saw the body, you thought Jane Doe was someone you might know.”

  At once he fell silent, all trace of mockery gone from his face. He sat down, his gaze avoiding hers.

  “Who did you think she was, Mr. Quantrell?”

  “Someone … close to me.”

  “What’s the secret here? Why can’t you just say who you thought she was?”

  “These are things I don’t wish to discuss. Not with a stranger.”

  “Then can you discuss the drug? It’s something new. A narcotic with a biphasic peak on gas chromatography. Could it be something that leaked out of Cygnus? Something you’re developing?”

  “I wouldn’t want to speculate.”

  Of course he wouldn’t. Because then he’d be vulnerable to all sorts of accusations. The manufacture of lethal drugs. The slaughter of junkies.

  Slowly, he looked up. “You said you had another body in the morgue. A woman.”

  “Xenia Vargas.”

  “Is she … young?”

  “About twenty.”

  “Describe her for me.”

  “You think you might know her?”

  “Please. Just tell me what she looks like.”

  Something about the tone of his voice, the stifled note of anxiety, made her feel sorry for him. “She’s about five foot four, on the thin side. Dark brown hair—”

  “Could it be dyed?”

  Kat paused. “It’s possible, I guess.”

  “What about her eyes? What color?”

  “Hazel.”

  Another silence. Then, with sudden agitation, he rose to his feet. “I think I’d better see her,” he said.

  “You mean—now?”

  “If we could.” He met her gaze. “If you’d be so kind.”

  She, too, stood up and followed him into the main hall. “What about your dinner guests?”

  “They can feed themselves. Would you excuse me a moment while I gracefully duck out?”

  He went through the side door, but this time he left it open. Kat caught a glimpse of a formal dining room and half a dozen guests seated around the table. Some of them glanced curiously in Kat’s direction. She heard Isabel ask, “Should I wait for you, Adam?”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “This is really quite naughty of you, you know.”

  “It can’t be helped. Good night, everyone! You’re free to have a go at my wine cellar, but leave me a few bottles, will you?” He clapped one of the men on the shoulder, waved farewell, and came back into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

  “That’s done,” he said to Kat. “Now. Let’s go.”

  THE MORGUE ELEVATOR SLID OPEN. HERE we go again, she thought.

  The basement seemed calm tonight. The only noise was the morgue attendant’s radio, playing in a side office. Something mean and gritty and tuneless. She and Adam passed the open door, where they could see the attendant sitting with his feet propped up on the desk, his gaze focused on a girlie magazine.

  “Hey, Willie,” said Kat.

  “Hey, Doc,” he said, grinning at her over the cover. “Not much action coming down tonight.”

  “I can tell.”

  “You mean this?” He waved the magazine and laughed. “Man, I get tired of looking at dead chicks. I like mine live and sassy.”

  “We’re going into the cold room, okay?”

  “Need any help?”

  “No. You just stay with your sassy chicks.”

  She and Adam walked on down the hall, beneath the bank of fluorescent lights. The bulb that had been flickering earlier that day was now dead; it left a patch of shadow on the linoleum floor.

  They entered the storage room. She flicked on the wall switch and blinked at the painful blast of light on her retinas. The refrigerated drawers faced them from the
opposite wall.

  She moved to the drawer labeled VARGAS, XENIA, and slid it open. Covered by the shroud, the body seemed shapeless, like a lump of clay still to be molded. She glanced up at Adam in silent inquiry.

  He nodded.

  She removed the shroud.

  The corpse looked like a mannequin, not real at all, but plastic. Adam took one good look at Xenia Vargas, and all the tension seemed to escape his body in a single sigh.

  “You don’t know her?” said Kat.

  “No.” He swallowed. “I’ve never seen her.”

  She replaced the shroud and slid the drawer shut. Then she turned and looked at him. “Okay, Mr. Quantrell, I think it’s time for you to ’fess up. Who, exactly, are you looking for?”

  He paused. “A woman.”

  “I know that. I also know she’s got hazel eyes. And the chances are, she’s either a blonde or a redhead. Now I want to know her name.”

  “Maeve,” he said softly.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. Maeve who?”

  “Quantrell.”

  She frowned. “Wife? Sister?”

  “Daughter. I mean, stepdaughter. She’s twenty-three. And you’re right. She’s blond. Hazel eyes. Five foot five, a hundred fifteen pounds. At least, that’s what she was when I saw her last.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “She’s missing?”

  He shrugged one tuxedoed shoulder. “Missing, hiding. Whatever you want to call it. She drops out of sight whenever she feels like it. Whenever she can’t face up to life. It’s her way of coping.”

  “Coping with what?”

  “Everything. Bad grades. Love affairs. Her mother’s death. Her lousy stepfather.”

  “So you two didn’t get along.”

  “No.” Wearily he raked his fingers through his hair. “I couldn’t handle her. I thought I could shape her up. You know, a firm hand, some good old-fashioned discipline. The way my father raised me. I even got her a job, thinking that all she needed was some responsibility. That at a minimum she could show up on time, do the job right, and pay for her own damn groceries.” He shook his head. “She went to work one day, two hours late, her hair dyed purple. She had a screaming match with her supervisor. Then she walked off the job.” He let out a breath. “She was fired.”