The Empty Place at the Table

by Jode Jurgensen John Ellsworth

  "So now I have to try to analyze who might be watching me? But why me? I'm not wealthy."

  "Really? The executive producer on Laura doesn't have a large stash somewhere? How about money in the Caymans? You up for that, Melissa? Think hard, now. Where's the money, how much is it, and who knows it's there?"

  "Okay. When Mark was killed, I got a cash settlement. Insurance money. Plus, for the past several years I've received five-hundred-thousand-dollar bonuses from my job."

  "Now you're getting somewhere, Mrs. Sellars. Who knows about the money you've got squirreled away?"

  "My bank? The people with access to my account records?"

  "Which means the bank's entire IT department, accounting department, and an assortment of assistant vice-presidents that all banks keep around. We've got a lot of questions for a lot of people just at your bank. Now, has anyone there, in particular, ever said anything about your money or how much money you have?"

  "Not that I can recall. Someone different always waits on me. And mostly I do the drive-through, but those people change all the time. It's never the same individual in the window."

  "What about inside? Have you taken out a loan where you've met with a loan officer, for example?"

  "No, not that I can think of. But I did put a large chunk of money in Overland Fidelity and Trust."

  "What's that?"

  "They have mutual funds. A finance guy who works on my production staff recommended them. He said even Laura keeps money there, so I thought: why not?"

  "You have a contact there?"

  "Ed Springer. He's my investment adviser, and he's really sharp. But I don't think Ed's who you're looking for. He's very outdoorsy. I can't see him wanting a kid. Especially a kidnapped one."

  "What kinds of things has he said?"

  "Really, he just encourages me to keep saving and investing. He wants me financially independent by the time I'm forty. So I do what he says."

  "All right. Now, you know what? This is your neighborhood, and these are your neighbors. We're going to canvass them with uniformed officers, but real quick I'd like you to go around. Ask them if they've seen anyone or any unusual vehicles in the past few weeks. Vehicles that caught their eye for any reason. Can you do that?"

  "It's still early."

  "By the time you have another coffee, it should be fine. Please handle that for me."

  "Of course I will," I told the detective. "More coffee?"

  "No, but I would like some scrambled eggs if you have any. I can fix them myself."

  "Not as long as I'm here you won't. It would be my pleasure to make breakfast for you and one-Adam-twelve in there." I was referring to the uniformed officer who at that moment was catching a catnap on my family room sofa. The gas log was going, and he had kicked his shoes off and curled up on the purple couch. I had thrown a comforter over him that my grandmother made. Between the warm and the blanket and the sleep deprivation, the officer hadn't lasted five minutes. Which was when I started calling him one-Adam-twelve after the TV cops I used to watch.

  "Scrambled, no bacon or sausage. I'm almost vegetarian."

  I had to stop and smile at her words. "That's like being a little bit pregnant, isn't it?"

  Suddenly it hit me again, roaring back like a midnight freight train: my daughter was missing. I had been up for three nights in the hospital, where I had barely caught even a few winks, and now all night with the police coming and going and calling in and out, and I was exhausted. I was so far gone that I found myself suddenly sitting down on the floor, placing my face in my hands, and weeping. I kicked out my legs and kicked my heels against the floor. "Give her back, bastards!" I screamed. "Give me my baby!"

  AN HOUR LATER, after showering and changing, I was feeling better when I slipped on my parka and headed out the front door. Snow was skittering sideways in the brisk wind. A pale disk of sun tried without success to pierce the gloom of clouds hanging overhead. Another Chicago winter, I thought as I eased down the porch steps onto the sidewalk.

  I decided I would start my canvass next door and work my way out. We lived on five acres and so did most of the others in my neighborhood, so the houses were far enough apart that I had to walk a good football field to get next door. Cutting across the frozen grass of my front yard to get out to the road, I pulled the zipper on my parka all the way up to my chin. I shivered beneath the goose down, but it was more than just the cold. The shiver was about my daughter, a fact I still couldn't fully comprehend through my emotional fog. But it was there: my precious Lisa was gone, and even the cops were running into brick walls. So far that morning there had been nothing but negative reports from all districts and all police agencies. The case was now almost twelve hours old. Another twelve hours and the cops would fold up their tents and go home because the next case would demand their attention and because Lisa’s case was looking futile. Sure, they would keep looking, but the fervor would be nothing like the first twenty-four hours. So it was probably now or never. I found myself wiping stinging tears from my eyes. And they weren't just about the blowing snow and the wind. I was hurting beyond anything I'd ever felt. Even the loss of Mark paled in comparison to my loss of Lisa. It was inconceivable how much it hurt and how frightened I was. So I stepped up onto the porch of my next door neighbor and rang the bell.

  Thelma Lee was the heir of a local pastry manufacturer. She was also a no-nonsense member of the neighborhood who was always on the lookout for unwanted visitors to our streets. In one era she would have been called a snoop. But in today's world, she was a concerned citizen and just then I was so happy she was. She treated the public streets like private ones, belonging to the people who lived along them, and woe to the stranger in the suspicious looking van who drove up her street because Thelma was just as apt to call the police on them as not. If anyone had seen anything, I predicted, it would be Thelma Lee.

  The older woman opened the inside door, saw it was me, and pushed open the storm door.

  "Come in, dear. You must tell me about the police cars at your house. They've been there all night? Is it about that nephew of yours, that Isaac? Is he in trouble? I can't say I've ever had very good feelings about that one. Here, sit down."

  I sat on a white sofa already populated with four tabby cats. I made sure to position myself as far from the herd as possible, as I was deadly allergic to cat dander.

  "I'm not here about Isaac, Thelma. I'm here about Lisa. She was in the hospital, and someone took her. She's been kidnapped."

  "Jesus H. Christ!" the older woman exclaimed. "Excuse my language, excuse me, Lord. What horrible news. Well, how can I help? You want to know have I seen anything suspicious in the neighborhood? I'm sad--well, happy--to report that I have not. Nothing for several weeks now, ever since it turned so cold."

  "No strange man or woman sitting out watching my house?"

  "Nothing like that, dear girl. No, and I would know if there had been someone like that lurking. I would be the first to know, and I would call the police anyway. Of course, I did spend part of last week at my daughter’s.”

  We talked on for several minutes, but then I stood up and excused myself, explaining that I had several neighbors to get to before people left their homes that morning for work. Thelma entirely understood but requested a hug. I hugged my friend and then, with new tears stinging my eyes, stepped back outside into the wind chill. Stuffing my hands into my coat pockets, I made my way out to the road and on to the next neighbor's house. There was no answer at the door, so I went one more house—the Katzenja's re-done Victorian that was the pride the neighborhood, stately and as accurately recreated in the style of the original as possible. Up onto the porch and then ringing the bell while I dabbed my eyes with a damp clump of tissue.

  Henry Katzenja opened the door. "Melissa, come in, neighbor. It's too cold to stand out there to talk."

  I went inside and unzipped my coat. "I can only stay a minute, Mr. Katzenja."

  "Sure, sure, what is it?"

  "M
y daughter is missing, taken from the hospital. I'm here to--"

  "My God, you can't be serious, Melissa?"

  "I'm definitely serious. Someone took my Lisa from the hospital last night. The police have asked me to knock on doors and see whether anyone's seen anything suspicious in our neighborhood."

  "That would be affirmative, for me."

  "What? Affirmative, as in you have seen something suspicious?"

  "Sure. There's been a black SUV parked halfway down to Thelma's every night for a week. I've called the cops, but they say it's a free country. They won't even come by and talk to the driver. I see him out there, parked facing the wrong way. So maybe he was watching your house since his car was pointed that way."

  "Oh, my God! Did you get a license plate by any chance?"

  "I did, let me see if I can find where I put that. Wait here please, Melissa."

  Mr. Katzenja disappeared in the direction of the kitchen--I knew the layout of the front of the house from Christmas Eve drinks the Katzenja's always offered, an open invitation to stop and say hello. He returned minutes later, his face crestfallen.

  "Sorry, I cannot turn it up. But I'll keep looking."

  "Oh, my God, please do, Mr. K. That could be the break we're looking for."

  "I will. And I'll come right over when I find it. Now let me suggest you check with the Washingtons across from me. They might have seen it and written down the license too."

  "Yes, I'll hurry over there right now before Doris goes off to work."

  We said our goodbyes and I crossed the street with a new burst of energy. If only someone wrote down the license, I was thinking. If only--

  I rang the bell on the Washington's friendly old Victorian, which looked like it had been designed and built by the same builder as the Katzenja's place.

  Immediately the door was opened, and Doris was pulling me inside out of the cold.

  "Dear girl, you're going to catch--"

  "Doris, Mr. K says there was a black car down from his house recently. Did you by any chance get the license number?"

  "I did," said the stout, pale-skinned woman. "Wait one minute, please."

  She returned with a piece of notepad paper that said across the top FROM THE DESK OF D. WASHINGTON. Below, in a fine hand, was written KLM-044J. The plate was noted to be an Illinois plate.

  "What's this about, Mel?"

  "Lisa was taken from the hospital last night. The police are looking for anything suspicious."

  "Dear God, what's this world coming to? Was she very sick?"

  "She was. That's what is so terrifying, in addition to the kidnapping. God love her, I'm praying she isn't dying by now." Again the tears burst forth, and I collapsed against Doris Washington, who took me in her arms and began patting my back.

  "There, there, there. Let it out, honey. I know it's horrible."

  "Oh my God!"

  "I know, I know. Now you take this license plate number and hurry back to the police. They'll find Lisa before ten o'clock with this. I'm certain of it."

  "Thank you, Doris. Oh, my God, thank you!"

  Then I was outside, crossing the porch, down the snow-packed steps, and heading into a run for my house.

  Ten minutes later, there was an APB out on the black SUV. Thirty minutes after that, it was reported found. But the news wasn't conclusive. The vehicle had been abandoned behind a 7-Eleven in West Chicago, a very tough part of town. McMann explained to me that it had been towed to the police yard and already the police technicians were dusting for prints and searching every surface before they vacuumed. Then the hair and fiber analysis would begin and comparisons made of hairs from the vehicle to hair from Lisa's brush.

  "Guardedly optimistic," was how Detective McMann told me she was feeling. "Hopeful, but not celebrating. Not yet, Mrs. Sellars."

  "Melissa. Please call me Melissa."

  "Sure, Melissa."

  "So what do we do now?"

  "Wait while the CSI and lab techs do their studies. Then, if we're lucky, we'll know whether Lisa was ever inside that vehicle. It might be our first break. Start praying."

  "You kidding? I've been praying all the way since last night. Not that I'm a believer or anything. But finding the SUV is starting to make me one."

  "All right, then."

  Tears of hopeful relief came again, and I headed for the guest bathroom and new tissues. Then it was time to wait for news from the crime lab. So we sipped coffee at the table without speaking.

  The words had all been said. This was it, the time when we got our break or didn't.

  My hands were shaking so bad it took both to return my cup to the saucer. Detective McMann pretended not to notice.

  She started to say something to me then caught herself. I could read her mind: what good would it do at this point to give solace for the umpteenth time? I was beyond that.

  Now we needed answers.

  And fast.

  6

  The name of the black SUV's registered owner was Grant Baedeker. The title search provided Detective McMann and her partner Jerry O'Reilly the address of Grant Baedeker. At eleven the morning after Lisa's disappearance, Detectives McMann and O'Reilly met for coffee downtown on the Loop; afterward they began driving west on the Eisenhower and got off on First Avenue in Maywood. They weren't far from the Cook County Courthouse; the area was very familiar to them. Baedeker lived west and a bit north of the court, so McMann headed off into the neighborhoods. Every corner was either a liquor store or a neighborhood grocery or a combination of the two. Finally, they came to a Jif-Lube next door to GiGi's Nails. They parked and headed inside.

  There were three bays with lifts inside the small garage, and an office off to the side. They tried the office first, where a matronly woman was sitting on a stool behind a mechanical cash register, filing her nails. She hardly looked up when the two detectives entered; but then they displayed their badges--their stars--, and the woman was all ears.

  "Grant Baedeker," said Kendra McMann. "He work here?"

  "If you call cleaning out the registers and heading for the girlie shows every afternoon working, then I guess he does. Grant owns the place. And four more just like it."

  "Does he drive a black SUV?"

  "He did. It's been sold."

  "To who, if you know?"

  "Lady, I ain't the DMV. Don't them computers in you all's cars tell you who owns what?"

  McMann ignored the comment.

  "Where might we find Mr. Baedeker?"

  "His home's in Maywood, but I don't know where."

  "What times does he come in?"

  "Around four, five, something like that. Don't ask me about his phone number. The mailbox is full, and he don't answer. Not ever."

  McMann turned to her partner. "Jerry?"

  He spread his hands. "I guess we wait. I'm game."

  "I'll leave you here. One of us needs to keep moving. Sharks die if they don't move."

  "So you're leaving me. Nice."

  "I'm senior, so you're staying here."

  Her partner smiled. "No problem, Mac. I'll keep an eye on Ms. Birdsong here so she can't make a quick call to Baedeker and warn him off."

  "Who's Ms. Birdsong?" the cashier asked in a querulous tone.

  "That would be you, Birdie," said O'Reilly. "As in 'a little bird told me.' You're not warning anyone about anything, especially your boss. You and I are glued at the hip. No calls to dear old Grant, you read me?"

  "I do. I wouldn't call him anyway."

  "Sure you wouldn't. If you were my mother, I might believe you. But you're not, and I don't."

  "All right," said McMann, "I'll call in and get updated. I'll let you know where I'm off to."

  "Fair enough," said Jerry O'Reilly. "Talk soon."

  "Roger that."

  Detective McMann sprinted out through the new snow storm to her unmarked Impala. The windshield had frozen over, so she scraped the ice away with her gloved hands then climbed inside. Within seconds she was on the radio to di
spatch for an update.

  There was a new development, probably unrelated. It seemed a second little girl went missing from a second hospital last night, too. Same routine: taken from her room and wheeled right down to the elevators and out of the hospital. Another team had that one.

  Detective McMann signed off and sat back against the seat of the car. She folded her arms and studied the flakes collecting on her windshield.

  Strange. Another kid grabbed. What were the chances of that happening? Had the same gang grabbed both Lisa and the other child? Why would anyone do that? Unless they were selling the girls into sex slavery in Dubai. That was always a possibility, and it was an all-too-common scenario. Some Saudi prince might have placed an order for two female children of a certain hair color and race. You never knew about such things. What often appeared as a mystery on first look quite often turned out to be explained in the most obvious way on the second look. Oil money meant child trafficking. It always had. Not to mention the rest of it. Then there was also electronics money in the Far East. Japan and Hong Kong were horrible, evil places where cute blonde American and Scandinavian kids were sold into an all-too-willing market for pre-adolescent flesh.

  McMann shook her head and then slowly reached out and turned on the windshield wipers. The defrost had melted the collecting snow and ice, and the first sweep of the wiper blades undid all of nature's handiwork from McMann's windshield.

  She cursed and pulled the shifter down into reverse, backing out of the parking slot and heading back onto 7th Avenue.

  Time was running out. Both girls could be airborne and headed out of the country at that very moment. But if they weren't then there was still hope. McMann gunned it and swept across two lanes to get headed back out to the Eisenhower. It was time to return to Schaumburg and get updated by the uniforms who were following-up with a canvass of their own of Melissa Sellars' neighborhood.

  She couldn't get there fast enough as the thoughts of Dubai hotel rooms plagued her mind.