by Dan Mahoney
“Thank you. Now, this is important, but it’s a tough one. Do you remember the luggage she had when she visited?”
“Of course I do. She had two suitcases, the same battered old suitcases she had when she first left Ireland. It was such a shame, her being so pretty and proper and carrying those old suitcases, so we bought her a nice new set of luggage.
“The gray luggage?”
“Why, yes. How do you know?”
“Because I’m in her apartment right now looking at it. How many pieces in the set?”
“Four, all different sizes.”
“One more question. Does Meaghan usually take milk in her coffee and tea?”
“She wouldn’t have it any other way. Very light, usually half a cup of milk whenever she had either.”
“Then I have a little piece of good news for you. Meaghan wasn’t kidnapped. She planned a trip. She cleaned out her refrigerator, turned it off, and threw out any open container of milk she might have had. Then she packed up two of her new suitcases and left of her own accord. I don’t know where she went yet, but I’m getting some ideas.”
“Can you tell me what they are?”
“Not now, Peggy. Maybe tomorrow when I know a little more. I don’t want to build up any false hopes for you.”
“Fair enough. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Mrs. Maher’s few minutes turned into a half hour. She had so many questions about Meaghan’s life in New York and answers to many of the questions McKenna had about the subject of his investigation. He learned that the U.S. had always fascinated Meaghan, and even as a little girl, she had always known she was coming here. She was determined to be an American. When she grew up, she had found Ireland too boring and constrained by tradition. That had hardened her resolve and she was off on her adventure.
According to Mrs. Maher, Meaghan had always been a determined and meticulous planner. She had done well enough in school, but her obstinacy and determination showed up there as well. She absolutely refused to learn a word of the required Gaelic. The ancient language fit nowhere in her plans, so she took the F and concentrated on the many elective speech courses she took. She wanted to lose her brogue and be able to speak like an American, and she succeeded. Her mother said she could perfectly mimic every American accent from Brooklyn to Alabama.
It all made sense to McKenna and accounted for Meaghan’s choice of Montreal as her departure and entry point. She had planned well and knew the system, and McKenna had the scenario: Fly out of New York and there would be all those embarrassing inquiries from those very nosy U.S. Immigration agents when she returned. Cross the loosely guarded and fairly lax border into Canada, fly out of Montreal, and then it’s a different story when she returns there. With her Irish passport, she’s okay. With her British passport, she’s even better and no problem for Canadian Immigration. A fellow citizen of the Empire dropping in for another visit, eh? So good to see you and welcome back.
Two hours later and Meaghan is on a bus at the U.S. border. Since she had a phony green card, McKenna was sure Meaghan had a phony driver’s license as well. Show the license to the bored U.S. Immigration agent, answer a few perfunctory questions with her New York accent, and she’s on her way home, back to the place she loves.
By the time McKenna finally hung up, Chipmunk had finished repacking the hope chest, had emptied the first of the closets in the main room, and was going through her clothes. “You mind doing that, Chip?”
“What’s to mind? It’s mindless. What do you want to do?”
“Go through her photo albums. I know her already, but I want to get right inside her head.”
So while Chipmunk went through the two closets and then Meaghan’s dresser, McKenna went through her life in pictures. He watched her grow up as he followed her, a tough, cute tomboy in a shantytown in Belfast, to Dublin in her teens, and finally to America.
It was in America that Meaghan bloomed. Cute became pretty and she knew it. There were photos of Meaghan at the Empire State Building, on the Staten Island ferry, at the Bronx Zoo, and at Yankee Stadium. In those shots she was enjoying herself as a spectator, but she hadn’t left her tomboy heritage completely behind. There were plenty of action shots: Meaghan skiing, Meaghan in a softball uniform playing shortstop on a ladies’ team in Central Park, Meaghan horseback riding, Meaghan water-skiing, Meaghan snorkeling in a blue lagoon somewhere, and Meaghan in a fencing costume, gracefully striding forward as she applied la touché to her opponent with her foil.
As McKenna closed the last album, he knew that there were two things Meaghan had never lacked in New York. One was clothes and the other was a photographer always ready to step forward and shoot her as the center of attention in any group or scene.
Chipmunk had finished checking the dresser and had moved the dining set aside so he could pull down the Murphy bed. As McKenna would have expected, the bed was neatly made with a homemade embroidered wool bedspread on top. Just like Walsh had said, there was a nightgown under the pillow. While Chipmunk took the bed apart and peeled off the mattress cover, McKenna browsed through Meaghan’s cancelled checks.
Meaghan paid by check only when she had to, so it didn’t take long to go through them. They were mostly rent and utility checks, with an occasional payment to her Victoria’s Secret credit card, always marked by Meaghan PAID IN FULL on the memo line on the front of the check. There were two checks to the East Side Medical Group and five to Dr. Stanley Kramer, DDS. McKenna put one of the Kramer checks in his pocket, then replaced the photo albums and checks in the hope chest and closed it.
Chipmunk had been working hard and not complaining, but McKenna still felt guilty because he was on overtime while Chip was doing the heavy work for free. “Chip, why don’t you take a break and I’ll finish with the bed?” he suggested.
“Nonsense, but glad you’re done snooping. Getting this mattress cover back on is going to be a two-man job.”
It was, and there were a few more two-man jobs after that. Not a sign of Owen’s existence had been found, but McKenna was still sure it had to be there, somewhere. So they moved all the furniture away from the walls and checked the bottom of the sofa, the table, and the dresser. Nothing, so they removed all the covers from the sofa cushions. Owen wasn’t there. In the kitchen, they pulled the refrigerator and the stove out and checked behind and underneath. Still nothing.
It was eleven o’clock when they decided to take a break and think things out. Chipmunk used one of Meaghan’s menus to order in Chinese food. The delivery boy was at the door in minutes. McKenna paid, and they sat at the table, each man silently thinking while they ate.
Then a thought struck McKenna. “Meaghan doesn’t cook,” he said.
“Yeah, so?”
“Chris O’Malley has to know that. Stove looks brand new, and I don’t think the oven’s ever been used.”
“We checked the stove, remember?”
“I know, but that’s where it has to be. She keeps no food in the apartment, so she knows O’Malley never has any reason to go there.”
“So let’s check again,” Chipmunk suggested.
Owen was there, hiding out underneath the broiler pan in the bottom of the stove. McKenna took out the album of photos and gave it to Chipmunk without opening it.
Chipmunk did. “That’s him,” he said and gave the album back to McKenna.
Owen wasn’t just a soldier, he was First Lt. Owen Stafford of the United States Army. The first photo was a posed five-by-seven portrait of him in full uniform with the U.S. flag in the background. Above his left breast pocket were two rows of decorations and above his right was his nametag. He was trying to look dispassionate as he stared at the camera for his official photo, but Owen couldn’t pull it off. He was just too used to smiling.
“Impressive-looking guy, isn’t he,” Chip commented. “He’s got the Silver Star, a Purple Heart, the Desert Storm Campaign Ribbon, the Panama Campaign Ribbon, and a Presidential Unit Citation.”
Only one person in a thousand would recognize those medals, McKenna thought, and I’ve got him standing next to me. Lucky. But Chipmunk’s right, McKenna thought. Owen is impressive and a good-looking man to boot. But there’s something else about him shining through this photo. “Looks like a nice guy, doesn’t he?”
“Must be,” Chipmunk agreed. “A first lieutenant, and he called me sir? Makes him a wonderful guy in my book.”
The next few pages of photos were wallet-sized shots showing Owen and Meaghan seeing the sights in Washington, DC, but there was only one photo in which the two of them appeared together. That one was taken on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Owen had his arm around her waist and was staring at the camera, but for the first time in all the photos McKenna had seen of her, Meaghan wasn’t. She was staring at Owen with the same loving look on her face that O’Malley wore in the shots he shared with her.
“Looks like she’s got a real case for him,” McKenna said.
“Of course she does,” Chipmunk said. “I knew that from the first time I saw them together.”
McKenna took out the first photo of Owen, then replaced the album in its hiding spot in the broiler pan.
“We done here?” Chipmunk asked.
“No, there’s just one more thing I want to do to get an idea of where she went. I want to see what clothes are missing.”
“How we gonna know that?”
“Her photos. There’s enough of them, so if she’s wearing something in them that’s not here, we can assume she took it with her.”
“That’s gonna take us some time to do.”
“I know, but we’re here and we might as well do a good job of it.”
Chipmunk was right. It took another two hours of matching clothes to photos before McKenna was sure that Meaghan hadn’t headed for fun in the sun. Her bathing suits and summer clothes were still there, but missing were her ski jacket, an overcoat, three sweaters, two long-sleeved suits, her cowboy boots, her brown leather gloves, and two scarfs. By the time they were done, Meaghan’s clothes were strewn all over the apartment.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Chipmunk said. “She wanted to go to Florida.”
“But she didn’t. Something made her change her plans and she headed for someplace cold.”
“Maybe Canada?”
“Maybe, but I’m hoping you’ll find out for me.”
“You want me to have Timmy JFK check for her at the Montreal airport?”
“That’s the next step, but I need something else. Could you ask him to call the Defense Department to get Owen’s date of birth and social security number for me?”
“You’d have trouble getting it?” Chipmunk asked.
“I’d get it, but it would take me a while. Timmy could get it much quicker.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him. What else?”
“Nothing, for now. Let’s put these clothes back and try to leave this place like we found it.”
That took another half hour. McKenna was tired and ready to leave, but Chipmunk wasn’t satisfied. “Why don’t we dust and water the plants before we go?” he asked.
“Just in case she’s coming back?”
“Yeah, just in case.”
Eight
It had started off as a filthy day after a long night. After arriving home, McKenna had given Angelita a break and had spent an hour walking Shane around the apartment while the baby exercised his healthy lungs. It had taken an hour to calm Shane down and get him to sleep.
At six o’clock that morning Sean had started in. Angelita had gotten up and attended to him, but he hadn’t stopped screaming for another half hour. Then Janine had come into the bedroom and McKenna had kept her amused and out of Angelita’s hair until breakfast.
When McKenna had been just about ready to go to work, it was Shane again. McKenna had then changed and fed him and had been poorly rewarded for his efforts. Shane was a world-class projectile vomiter and McKenna’s tie had been his target of opportunity. Shane never missed, so McKenna had changed his shirt and tie and left, glad to be out.
Before going to headquarters, McKenna called information. There was a Dr. Kramer who had his office at East 72nd Street and Second Avenue. McKenna didn’t like thinking about it, but if Meaghan was dead, she had probably been dead for two weeks. In that case, her dental records would be a plus in identifying her if she was found. He called the squad office and told Sheeran he would be late, then hailed a cab and headed uptown.
The doctor was in and he had a nice practice going for himself. It was fifteen minutes before Dr. Kramer was able to see him, but the dentist recognized McKenna; after explaining the situation, McKenna was able to talk him out of Meaghan’s latest set of X rays. After leaving the doctor’s office, he walked to Lexington Avenue and took the train to headquarters.
McKenna had just signed in and sat at his desk when Timmy JFK called with Owen’s date of birth and social security number.
“How about the flights outta Montreal?” McKenna asked.
“Nothing yet with the major carriers, but it’ll take me a while to go through all the smaller ones. Why don’t you give me a call this afternoon?”
McKenna took Timmy JFK’s number and thanked him. Then he settled into his next task, one that wouldn’t be described in any report. Because of those laws and court decisions relating to privacy, another piece of useful knowledge that cannot be legally obtained by the police without a subpoena is credit information. Once again, McKenna wasn’t concerned. Fortunately, like the phone companies, banks and credit card companies are in the habit of hiring retired detectives as investigators and supervisors. McKenna called Richie White, a former partner of his who had taken a job at the Eastern District Credit Bureau after he retired. He gave him Owen’s information and the credit card number from the Travel Plans Unlimited receipt and spent a few minutes on hold before White came back on the line.
“You’ve got something there, Brian. The billing customer on that card is Owen Stafford. Card was issued to a Meaghan Maher at the customer’s request.”
“Any recent activity on it?”
“She doesn’t use it much. Last time was February nineteenth. Charged seven hundred and eighty-two dollars at a place called Travel Plans Unlimited in Brooklyn.”
She charged a trip on the day she disappeared? McKenna thought. Looks like I was right on one thing. She took herself a vacation, but why hasn’t she called anyone? Because something bad has happened to her, he concluded. “What can you tell me about Stafford?”
“Good credit rating, pays his bills on time. He’s got Visa, MasterCard, and American Express. Not a big spender, but a little unusual. Looks like he does most of his charging in ladies’ clothes stores.”
“What’s his last charge?”
“More ladies’ clothes. Store called Les Robes d’Antoine in Brussels, Belgium. February twenty-first. Spent the equivalent of four hundred and four dollars.”
So two days after Meaghan charges a big trip on his card, Owen’s in Brussels buying ladies’ clothes. I’m getting close, McKenna thought. “Could you send me his bills for the past year?”
“Gimme your fax number.”
Fifteen minutes later McKenna was examining Owen’s spending habits. Richie was right on both counts. Meaghan had used her card only four times: the two trips, once at Macy’s, and once at a nail salon. And like Richie had said, Owen didn’t spend much on himself. Everything was Meaghan.
Owen knew his girl and he knew what made her happy. There were purchases of ladies’ clothes every month, but there were big ones the previous March and August made in Washington, DC, November in New York, December back in Washington, and the one on February 21st in Brussels. McKenna tried to read some significance into those dates. He figured that Owen had been stationed in the DC area until he had been transferred to Belgium sometime this year.
This isn’t so hard, McKenna thought. Meaghan’s birthday was in March, so that one’s easy. The photos of them both in Washington were taken in sum
mer, so Meaghan probably went down to visit him last August, right before she went to visit her folks. Chipmunk saw them together in November, so he treated her good while he was in town. December has to be Christmas and February 21st is also easy to figure out. Meaghan had planned to go to Florida with O’Malley, but then he had come up with that very serious trip-to-Ireland idea and they had the blowout. It’s Owen she loves, not O’Malley, so she goes to Travel Plans Unlimited and charges some new plane tickets on Owen’s card. By February 21st, she’s with him in Brussels and he’s buying her clothes, as usual. But what happened there and why hasn’t she called anyone?
I sure want to talk to Owen, McKenna concluded. But first I have to wrap this package a little tighter.
Travel Plans Unlimited was located in the rear of a real estate agency in the fashionable Park Slope neighborhood. It had been a short trip over the Brooklyn Bridge to get there, but while driving McKenna couldn’t help wondering why Meaghan had traveled to Brooklyn instead of patronizing one of the hundreds of travel agencies in Manhattan.
As soon as he walked into the tiny travel office, McKenna got his answer. It had to be the friendly service, he decided.
A well-dressed middle-aged woman was sitting at one desk talking on the phone. A name plate on her desk said she was Terry. A casually dressed young man was manning the other desk, talking to a male customer sitting in a chair pulled to the side of his desk. As soon as Terry saw McKenna, she dropped the phone and her eyes went wide. “Will you look at this, Harry?” she said in a slight brogue. “Here I am on an ordinary Friday when who comes walking into my shop but that famous Irish detective, Brian McKenna himself.” Then she bounced out of her chair and stood next to McKenna. “Harry! Why are you just sitting there gaping with your mouth open? Get the camera!”
Harry was up in a flash and into the real estate office. He returned with a 35mm camera a moment later and took three quick shots of McKenna and Terry shaking hands. Then Terry took three of Harry and McKenna. Finally the customer took another three of Harry, Terry, and McKenna standing together. That finished up the film on the roll, so McKenna assumed it was finally over. Harry and the customer sat back down and resumed their business, but Terry wasn’t through with him. “Where’s your family from, Brian?” she asked him.