Girl Who Wasn’t There

by Vincent Zandri

  “But let’s not dwell on the past,” Giselle suggests. “Let’s see that suitcase and go from there. And listen to me, closely. I can assure you that between me, the hotel staff, and the village police department, we will do everything in our power to find your daughter. Understood?”

  A teardrop falls down Penny’s cheek.

  She stands, pulls Chloe’s pink overhead compartment-sized case from off the floor, drops it onto the bed.

  “Go for it,” she says.

  It takes all of two minutes to rummage through the clothes and underclothes. But in the end, we find nothing to indicate our daughter has run away with a girl, boy, or the circus. Nothing to indicate she’s into drugs, hard, soft, or prescription based. While the women were going through the case, I could hear someone from the hotel knocking on each door of the floor in their search for Chloe. Naturally, they skipped our room.

  “Listen here folks, let me check in with some of the staff.” Giselle pulls the radio from her belt, calls on a man named Frank, asks him if the crew has uncovered Chloe yet.

  After a beat or two, a tinny voice responds.

  “Negative on that, G.”

  “Percentage of task completion there, Frank?”

  “Closing in on one hundred percent, G. Wish I had better news.”

  The dreaded H word.

  … Hope. Hope is but a dream …

  Go to hell.

  Detective Giselle Fontaine purses her lips, pulls out her cell phone from the interior pocket on her jacket.

  She says, “Before I call Chief Walton to get going on a possible Amber Alert and to file a missing person’s report, can I ask you one last question?”

  My mouth goes dry at the mere mention of an Amber Alert. I nod since I don’t have enough saliva in my mouth to form a word.

  “Was Chloe angry at you for anything? Was she maybe upset over a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Anything like that?”

  Penny shakes her head. “No. Nothing was wrong. She’s just a normal eleven-year-old kid, playing in the beach sand and poof, she’s gone.”

  “But then, she’s not a normal eleven-year-old kid,” Giselle interjects.

  “What are you implying?” Penny asks.

  “What I’m implying is that she’s the child of a man who went to prison for a violent action.”

  My stomach goes tight because the detective is spot on and she knows it, as much as it hurts to hear it.

  “She wasn’t upset about your husband coming home?” Giselle presses. “It can be a traumatic thing for a child to never know what it’s like to live with her father, and suddenly he’s home.”

  “In other words,” I add, “is Chloe afraid of me? You insinuating I might have had something to do with her disappearance?”

  My blood is getting hot and Penny is aware of it.

  “Calm down, Doc,” she cautiously says.

  Giselle looks into my eyes. “Well, gee, that’s not what I’m getting at, Mr. O’Keefe.”

  “Funny,” I say, “because that’s the way I feel.”

  “And, Mrs. O’Keefe,” Giselle goes on, “were you seeing anyone romantically before Mr. O’Keefe came back home? Someone your daughter liked and had gotten used to? Someone whom you cut ties with in order to welcome Mr. O’Keefe back with, ummm, open arms?”

  Penny’s face goes stone still. Like Giselle didn’t just ask her a rapid-fire series of personal questions. More like she stomped on her feet.

  “I assure you, Detective,” Penny utters, “nothing of the sort has occurred.”

  Penny looks at me like she’s asking me if I believe her. What choice do I have but to believe her?

  Giselle nods, then proceeds to speed-dial a number on her cell phone. But instead of completing the call inside the room, she takes the phone with her outside into the corridor. Curiously, that’s when my own phone starts to ring.

  “You have to get that,” Penny insists. “If it’s your parole officer, you can’t just blow him off.”

  Biting my bottom lip, trying not to break the thin vermillion skin any more than I already have.

  “No choice,” I say, stating the obvious.

  Flipping the phone open, I press the little green SEND button and place it to my ear.

  “This is Sidney O’Keefe,” I say.

  CHAPTER 16

  “WHERE YOU BEEN, Sid?” Drew Lochte says from down inside his Albany office. “Been searching high and low for you.”

  I picture the forty-something man seated at his cubicle desk, black loafer-covered feet resting up on the desktop, tie hanging low, sleeves rolled up. It’s late in the day before the weekend starts and I’m one of the last, if not the last call he’s going to make. If I didn’t answer, there’s a good chance he would have no other option but to pay a personal visit to our North Albany apartment first thing Monday morning. Or hell, Saturday morning. Perhaps he’s planning on doing that anyway.

  “Sorry, Drew,” I say, my eyes on Penny, trying my best to keep my voice free of alarm. “I took a ride with the family up north. We were out of cell phone range for a while.”

  I picture Lochte drumming on the desktop with a Bic pen. I picture him not believing a word I say. I’ve done some checking up on the parole officer, and I believe he is a straight-up guy. Not a bully, like so many power-hungry parole officers can be. But I also know Drew Lochte is trained to be skeptical at best, to see entirely through the bullshit at worst.

  “Sidney,” Drew says, “did you forget that if you leave the city, you’re to notify me first?”

  Penny staring back at me like, Get rid of him already.

  “My apologies, Drew,” I say. “I haven’t been close to them in a while. Penny suggested a quick trip and I thought it would be fun. We weren’t exactly thinking about the rules.”

  “So where are you exactly?”

  “Lake Placid.”

  “Lake Placid,” Drew repeats, like he’s having an ah-ha moment. “Nice this time of year. And how’s the job hunting going? Speaking of rules, you’ll recall the rules of your parole as stipulated in the over-the-fucking-top ridiculously lenient deal your lawyer struck with the district attorney. You are to gain employment as soon as humanly possible or at the very least provide me with a list of potential employers you are actively seeking out, or else risk a serious violation of said rules.” He pauses for effect. “So where’s my list, Sid man? It’s been almost a week. I should have a list with a dozen employer titles on it, plus the corresponding days and times of your interviews. I don’t care if you get a job washing dishes at Jack’s Diner on Central Avenue. I just want to see that you’re trying.” He exhales. “Guy with your build and solid guns, you should be able to get a job as a forklift.”

  Me, trying to swallow. Saliva glands shutting down.

  “I promise, Drew, I’ll have something for you next week. Just cut me a little slack. My family hasn’t seen me in forever. I need to spend a little time with them, alone. Away from the city. It’s important to them. Important to me.”

  Another pause. Longer this time. More weighted.

  “I get it,” Drew says, after a while, his voice more sullen, less insistent. Then, after a beat, “How’s your daughter doing? How’s she taking to your being home? No trouble?”

  An electric jolt to my heart. Jesus, is he playing with me? Is my parole officer messing with my head? Does he know something about Chloe’s disappearance and playing dumb?

  My eyes, still locked on Penny’s. I’m not sure that I’ve blinked the entire time I’ve been on the phone with him.

  “She’s … fine,” I lie.

  Another pause that’s as painful as it is long and drawn out. A slight commotion on his end of the connection, like he’s removed his feet from the desk, and sat up straight.

  “Listen, Sid,” he says, his voice low, as if he’s talking to me with his hand cupped over the mouthpiece. “You realize it’s my job to give you a hard time, right?”

  “I guess so,” I say. “I’ve never been parol
ed before. But then again, I’ve never been accused and convicted of murder before either.”

  “I know you didn’t kill that family. That you were just the driver, that you were trying to pay your debt off to a man who would cut your neck from ear to ear and think nothing of it. Or, it’s what I want to believe anyway. But the rules are the rules, and I need this job and I’ll lose it if I don’t do it to the best of my ability.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s why I have to insist that you be truthful with me. No lies, no deceptions and we’ll get along just fine, capice?”

  “Capice, Drew.”

  “Think of me as your new dad. The kind of dad you can come to about anything. I won’t yell at you and I won’t smack you upside the head. I’ll simply listen to what you have to say and then take the best course of action. Sound fair, Sid man? Or what do they call you? Doc?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Sure thing. And yes, you can call me Doc. It’s probably as close as I’ll ever get to being a real doctor.”

  “Now here’s the prescription I’m gonna write up for you, Doc,” Lochte goes on. “I want you to enjoy a nice few days with your family. Get readjusted. Spoil them a little. I know you don’t have a whole lot of money, or maybe you buried a stash before you went away. Whatever … Spoil them with hugs, kisses, and love if you’ve got nothing else. All I ask is that you check in with me as soon as you get back. Then we can get back on the job hunt.” He snickers. “Hey, you gotta put food on the table now, am I right? You’re the man of the house again, Sidney. Be proud. You made it out of the joint. You made it back to something that most cons would give up their left nut for. Hell, both nuts.”

  “Thanks, Drew,” I say. “Goodbye.”

  “Hasta la vista, Doc Sidney,” he says. “I’m out.”

  He hangs up.

  For the first time in what seems forever, I breathe.

  CHAPTER 17

  PENNY AND I head back out into the corridor. Giselle is standing there, her cell phone in her hand.

  “Chief Walton is expecting you.” Shifting her gaze from me to Penny and back again. “I would go with you, but I need to stay here and continue to monitor the situation.”

  “What about Chloe’s things?” Penny inquires. “The things we found on the beach.”

  “I’ve already sent them on to the police station,” Giselle informs. “No worries there.”

  It sounds absurd when she says, No worries.

  “Remember, folks,” the detective goes on, “just because your daughter hasn’t shown up yet doesn’t mean she won’t. Which is why I need to stay put. I need to keep on top of my people.”

  “Where do we go?” I ask.

  “The Lake Placid village precinct is only a five-minute walk from here. Go left outside the main doors of the hotel. Head south on Main Street until you come to the Olympic Training facility. The police building will be on your left. You can’t miss it.”

  Both Penny and I politely thank Giselle. As we begin making our way down the carpeted corridor, she calls out for us. We stop, turn.

  “You really should eat something,” she suggests. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten a thing all darn day. You need your strength.”

  Penny takes a step toward Giselle.

  She says, “Right now my daughter is out there somewhere with nothing to eat. Food is the last thing on my mind.”

  We turn back around, begin our journey to the police.

  Just like Giselle promised, the walk to the police station takes only five minutes. The two-story brick building dates back maybe to the Second World War. Several police cruisers are parked out front. Not sedans, but more rugged 4X4 SUVs painted black and white, and adorned with a decal of a triangular mountain with a snowflake in its center. Lake Placid is a downhill skier’s paradise, after all. The precinct’s front doors are made of glass and wood, and as soon as we enter through them into the vestibule, we’re greeted by a guard sergeant who mans a counter to our left-hand side.

  “Help you?” the older, heavyset man inquires.

  “We’re here to see Chief Walton,” I announce.

  “He’s expecting us,” Penny interjects.

  Instead of using his intercom, the sergeant pushes his chair out, and stands. There’s a pair of bifocal reading glasses hanging off his neck by a leather lanyard. They sway and slap against his barrel chest when he crosses over the precinct floor and into an interior office located all the way in back.

  For a long beat, Penny and I stand stone still by the front counter while the scattering of uniformed officers who occupy the room type away on their old desktop computers, or chat away on the phone. When the beefy guard sergeant comes back out of the rear office, he issues us a wave.

  “The chief will see you now,” he says.

  As instructed, we make our way to the back of the precinct.

  For the chief of police, the office is small and cramped. But that’s more the result of the overall diminutive size of the police headquarters than it is the status of the individual who occupies it. To our right as we walk in is a bulletin board with mug shots tacked to it. Below the mug shots are photos of missing persons. Little kids mostly. Little girls and boys with sad, milk carton faces. I can’t help myself. I picture Chloe’s face pinned to the board. Just the thought of it makes me at once livid, but at the same time, sad and rock-bottom low.

  … Turn the damned imagination off, Doc … Do it now or you won’t make it through the night …

  To the left is an old leather couch that looks like it dates back to the 1932 Lake Placid Olympics. Mounted to the wall directly above it is a flat-screened television, which is presently turned off. A wood desk takes up the majority of the office. Seated behind it is a fifty-something man who’s clean shaven but balding. Judging by the way he’s seated in the old swivel chair, he’s maybe five ten or eleven and carrying more than his share of beer weight. What’s left of his reddish hair is sporting some gray at the temples. Big blue eyes, an average nose streaked with a few broken blood vessels, and a rather pronounced chin complete the face. If I were made to describe his head at gunpoint, I’d say it looks like a big block of granite.

  He stands for a moment, introducing himself simply as Joe Walton, with his right hand outstretched in the direction of the couch. Penny sits, but I choose to remain standing.

  “Please take a load off,” he says, while sitting himself back down. He pulls a pair of reading glasses from out of a plastic case that’s stored in his chest pocket, slips them on. Staring down at an open manila folder, he adds, “Sidney and Penny O’Keefe. Your daughter is Chloe, I’m told. Eleven years old. Student. Good kid. Never been in trouble. Been missing now for, how many hours?”

  “Over six,” I inform.

  He nods, runs his fingers across his nose like it itches.

  “Missing Persons reports usually go out after twenty-four hours, but in the case of a minor we’ve already issued an Amber Alert. As soon as House Detective Fontaine forwarded Chloe’s photo and vitals, it went out across the wires and the internet. Even the electronic signs along Interstate 87 are helping spread the word. The system has worked more than once for us, Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe.”

  “Let’s hope it works again,” Penny says, her hands pressed together in her lap, like she’s praying.

  He says, “I’m not going to bother you for Chloe’s vitals since Giselle already sent those over, too, along with the things you discovered on the beach. But I would like to get some more information from you both before I instruct my people to head out on patrol.”

  “We understand,” I say, glancing at Penny.

  Walton clears his throat, nods as if answering a question he’s silently posed to himself.

  He says, “Has your daughter been acting strange as of late?”

  Once more, Penny and I glance into one another’s eyes. She clears the bullfrog from her throat.

  “It’s like I told Detective Giselle,” she says, her voice sounding like a defeat
ed whisper. “Chloe is a good kid. A normal kid. A happy kid.” Then, throwing her hands up in the air, “Jesus, why aren’t you out there trying to find her?”

  Walton holds up both his hands, palms out.

  “I understand your frustration, Mrs. O’Keefe, I really do. When I was a boy, my little brother, Timmy, went missing for three days. Turned out he was living up in the hayloft of the neighbor’s barn. He ran away because my mother bought me a pair of sneakers and got him nothing. Converse high top Chuck Taylors, if I recall. Black. She couldn’t afford to buy us both a pair at the same time, and while his were still in pretty good shape, mine were held together with duct tape. So you see, Mrs. O’Keefe, kids, as normal as they seem, will sometimes do the damndest things. Especially when puberty is starting to hit. And I imagine that, at eleven years of age, your daughter is riding on the dramatic precipice of young adulthood.”

  Penny nods.

  “Yes,” she says, somewhat shyly. “In some ways, she’s there already.”

  “So perhaps I should rephrase my question,” Walton goes on. “Has there occurred anything in Chloe’s life that’s given her cause for being upset? Any dramatic changes, moves, or shifts? Anything that would cause her to, say, run away, just like my little brother, Timmy?”

  This time, Penny and I do not communicate through eye contact. This time, I simply keep my mouth shut and allow her to do the talking.

  “Yes,” Penny says. “My husband is back after being gone for a very long time.”

  Walton forms a grin. He sits back in his swivel chair, as if he’s happy with the way he’s beginning to pry the truth out of us.

  “And where were you, Mr. O’Keefe?”

  For a change I’m not biting on my bottom lip. I’m nibbling on it. I’m also feeling the burn start at my toes, run all the way up the backs of my legs, up my spine into my head.

  “You know exactly where I’ve been, Chief Walton,” I say. “Prison.”

  The grin becomes a big smile.

  “I just wanted to hear it from you,” he says.