“After I change, and for a few minutes. They’ll chatter like magpies. I’ll enjoy that.”
John laughed. “I’ll let them know.”
Sharon caught his glance over his mother’s head and simply shook her head, nodding toward the hall. She stood. “Martha, I’ll leave you to your son and your friends, probably come back to see you this evening if you’re up to it.”
Martha nodded. John followed Sharon out into the hall.
“The one-minute summary,” Sharon said swiftly. “I think she’ll talk with me, but it’s best if she doesn’t feel like we’re both asking her questions. So for now, you’re the safe zone, I’m the incident. She’s going to sleep a lot the next couple of days. When she’s resting, you and I will talk.”
“She gave you something?”
“Yes. A bit. She gave me what she’s feeling, thinking. Seriously, John, divert her attention from this as much as you can. She needs ninety percent normal with you, and with me, ten percent what happened. It’s going to move slowly because she needs it to, but I think we’ll have all this behind us before the New Year.”
“All right, Sharon. I trust you.”
“I’ll be back tonight. We’ll talk,” she promised.
She headed for the elevator. She would tell John tonight what his mother had said and maybe he’d be able to interpret it, because it did no good to put a wedge between them where he felt like she was withholding information.
Sharon pushed the down button. Martha felt sorry for the person who had done this. Sharon had seen that reaction when an infant was missing and the woman taking the baby was a grieving mother who had lost her own. But to have that kind of reaction toward a young man . . . maybe a homeless person. Martha was hiding the truth so as not to hurt her son—that felt real. It didn’t make sense, but it was true from Martha’s perspective. She spent most of her work time puzzling about all kinds of things. She’d figure this out.
At 10:00 p.m., the hospital guest lounge on the third floor was empty. Sharon settled there with John, passing back and forth a large order of spicy beef with rice, another of garlic chicken with asparagus. “One person. A young man. He knows Martha, knows you. She’s adamant about it not being anything related to your work, nothing you did or didn’t do.”
“Implying it was something from hers?”
“John, she somehow feels a certain identification with this young man. Maybe we’re looking for a homeless person. She dodged the question of where she had been held.”
“She was neat, presentable,” John commented. “That doesn’t say ‘homeless’ to me. She wasn’t outside.”
“I admit I’m reaching here to sort through what she said. She’s worried about the truth hurting you. She refused to tell me why it happened, what the young man wanted.”
“How could the truth hurt me? Someone I know did this?”
“I think someone . . . saw your mother, and she meant something to him—either for who Martha is or what she represents. A young man to your mother could mean someone in his twenties or thirties now. Doesn’t have to be homeless, simply . . . mentally lost? Does that description ring any bells?”
He thought a moment, then shook his head.
“Someone from your old neighborhood perhaps, before you moved out west and your mom moved to the Village? A troubled young man. It would have been an impulse, to have seen her and made her come with him.”
“Seriously, I’m drawing a total blank. I can give you irrational people associated with my work, but none of them would know my mother. The demarcation between my undercover life and my personal life was a solid barrier. When I was a cop in the Chicago ranks, some of my friends would meet my mother when I hosted a holiday gathering, but most of those were the people you’ve met in that video conversation. Mom wasn’t part of my life as a cop.”
“Then we need to think further outside the box. I think it’s clear someone moved her car and returned it to the Village. So it’s someone who could drive, who could blend in well enough not to be noticed. A young man who knew your mom, knew you. I’m going to keep coming back to that statement because it’s the key. When we put his picture up on the board at the end of this, you’re going to say, ‘Of course, that fits.’”
John considered that, but shook his head. “There’s no name or idea coming to mind. I’ll be pondering that question for hours tonight. Did the canvass around the florist turn up anything?”
“Not what I had hoped. We showed your mother’s photo, we pulled work orders checking for her name, and no one remembers assisting your mother Monday evening. If she paid with cash, bought something already made up, a clerk might not remember her. I’ve spoken with the patrol officers who work the area. There were no other crime reports from those blocks in the last week—something that might be random, a crime of opportunity. There’s no homeless man or other transient who’s in that area on a regular basis.”
“So we’ve got the vague facts Mom is willing to say: one person, a young man, and her explanation she won’t say more because she doesn’t want to hurt me. The big mystery is the question of where she was for the two days.”
“Yes.”
John leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Don’t take this wrong, Sharon, but I’d like to go shake my mother right now and yell, ‘Tell me! Please!’” He looked over and saw Sharon’s smile.
“As if you have ever in your life raised your voice to your mother. Martha’s trying to protect you, John. I don’t know from what. But she’s a mother protecting the son she loves.”
“It’s someone I know. It has to be.”
“As good an interpretation as any. Someone not related to your work.”
“Did you ever finish tracking down that question about Eric Holland?”
“An officer stopped by to do a follow-up, then paid a visit to the lady who sits with his mother. She confirmed Eric arrived home Monday around 5:30 p.m. The news was still on. He had multiple sacks of groceries and a cake. The officer talked to two of the three women who stopped by to see June for her birthday and confirms they were having cake and talking with June about people in the photos on the memory wall until around 6:45 p.m. when June began to nod off. Eric said the last time he saw your mother was at the grocery store. He could be lying, but I don’t know why. Neighbors of Eric remember cars coming and going from his place Monday evening, but didn’t mention a car that sounds like your mother’s. It doesn’t seem like your mom changed her mind and went by for a piece of cake.”
“So cross Eric Holland off the list of people from my past.”
“I’m not crossing anyone off the list until we get something that is evidence to work with. But he’s probably low priority right now.”
“I don’t know Bobby Sail or his children,” John mused. “I’ve looked at their DMV photos and their bios. We didn’t cross at school or church years ago. So if this is someone who knows me, they go to the bottom of the list as well.”
“It’s really frustrating,” Sharon agreed. “But we’ve made progress. We know another point on the timeline. We have a possible area where this might have happened around the florist shop. We know we’re looking for a young man. It’s someone who knows both your mom and you. So we create a long list of names and look at where they were Monday evening. And I still want to find a photo of your mother’s car with someone else behind the wheel. I haven’t given up on that.”
“Okay.” John passed over the Chinese carton he held. “I do think you’ve got this well in hand, Sharon, as much as it can be worked. Mom wants to go home tomorrow, so that’s where I’m going to put my focus. I’m tired. But I will start making a list of names. I want answers. I want this thing over with.”
“Ditto.” She pushed to her feet, picked up the dinner cartons. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Two days ago we would have been thrilled to be at this point, John. Remember that in the middle of the night.”
John took his mother back to the Village shortly before noon on Friday, relieved to be escorting her out of the hospital with a clean bill of health. As he helped her out of the car, her friends lined the walkway, wanting to welcome her home. Martha was feeling steady and strong enough to pause and speak with most of those gathered, occasionally laughing, reassuring with a smile and a few words that she was fine and glad to be home. The few unthinking questions about where she had been simply got a friendly wave as Martha walked on.
It felt nice being mostly a background presence to the homecoming. John carried her one bag, offered his arm to help where the walkway was slick, held the door for her. She tired very quickly, but her color was coming back. She wasn’t as frail in her movements today.
“I’d like you to rest for an hour now,” he encouraged as they entered her apartment. He’d brought the flowers from the hospital over earlier, taken the time to do a quick cleanup of the apartment to remove fingerprint dust. He turned the door locks behind them. A security guard would keep reporters away from her door for a few days, and he had switched her phones to an answering service.
“I’m heading for a nap soon,” she said, “but first I want to sit on the couch and enjoy being home. Put on some music, get us ice water to drink, and let’s sit for a few minutes.”
She had something on her mind. It was simple enough to do as she requested. He brought her the drink, sat on the couch beside her, relieved to have her here. “What’s on your mind, Mom?”
“Sharon convinced you not to be asking me questions.”
“Good cop, bad cop.” He grinned. “I get to be the good one this time, not nagging you for answers.”
She chuckled. “Then I like her even more than I do now. But we need to talk.”
He took her hand. “I’d like to listen.”
“I’ve told her what I can about what happened, and that will have to do for now. For your sake—for a few days—let this go. I’m home, unharmed. Let’s enjoy Christmas.”
“I need to know, Mom, if I’m ever going to have peace again.”
“If I promise you this will not be a mystery forever, will you let it go for now?”
He leaned back with a long sigh. “I’m trying to decide if I need a bodyguard outside your door here, a chauffeur for when you go out, if I should move in here with you on a permanent basis. I need you to be safe, Mom. I lost you for two days. Please understand that. I need you to trust me and tell me about what you went through so I can help you. You know I love you. Nothing you could say is going to rock that. I need to know we have the person responsible for this before I’m ever going to breathe easy again.”
She reached to rest her hand against his face. “I know that, John, absolutely know it. And I simply need you to trust me. I’m not being silent for sheer stubbornness—I love you too much to be that callous. But I’ve said all I can for now.” Her hand lowered to her lap and she smiled at him. “You can have my second bedroom for the holidays if you like, and we’ll talk about the rest. I’m not likely to go anywhere without you for now. I’m tired. I want my place, my music, my friends coming over for tea. I want Christmas on my terms.”
He recognized an impasse when it stared him in the face. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “What sounds good to you for lunch?”
“Your grilled cheese sandwiches, maybe some tomato soup, and ice cream if there is any left in the freezer.”
He rose to move into the kitchen. “I’m going to enjoy taking care of you, Mom.”
“You know we’re going to drive each other crazy within a week.”
He laughed as he started pulling items from the refrigerator. The last time he’d lived with his mom, he was seventeen. She was probably right.
John stepped into the commons building and saw Sharon sitting in one of the guest chairs across the lobby. He wasn’t surprised to see her working, jotting down notes. “Thanks for coming.”
She looked up from her notepad, closed the portfolio. “How’s your mom?”
“Peacefully asleep. Annabelle is watching a movie in the living room so someone is there if she wakes. Let’s talk in the library—it’s normally empty this time of night.”
It was a lovely room, full of books and places to sit. The fireplace was closed for the night, but the flames were slowly flickering above a still-glowing bed of coals. John settled on the first couch, feeling a deep sense of relief that the day was about over. “Sorry to drag you out on a weekend.”
Sharon settled on the facing couch. “It’s no problem, John.”
He leaned over to hand her some stapled pages. “My list. Every name I can remember in my entire life here in Chicago. I even went back to grade school when mom was a homeroom teacher’s aide.”
Sharon’s eyebrows lifted as she thumbed quickly through the sheets. “It’s what, five hundred names?”
“Five hundred seventeen. I separated out those I don’t particularly know but I could connect with my mom. That’s the first fifty names. The next two hundred fifty are people I know for certain are acquainted with both of us. The rest are ones I know, but she doesn’t. I tried to stay with ‘young man’ as the screen.”
“I’ll work your list in with mine.”
“I’ll email you the file, but I figured the list was a good excuse to see you.” He smiled when she glanced up, and she smiled back. “So I hear you and Mom are going Christmas shopping Wednesday,” he mentioned.
“I won’t let her get too tired. Mostly browsing, with an excuse to sit and watch people. She wants a small gift for Bobby Sail, something to apologize for him having been caught in our spotlight.”
“He came by to see her. Mom enjoys his company. He seems genuine, but I’m withholding judgment. He’s not someone I would have selected for her. Not that she’s asked my opinion.”
“She might if it comes to be something serious.”
John simply nodded. “I’ve missed you the last twenty-some hours. I had become accustomed to being in the circle of what’s happening.”
“It’s been mostly conversations around the conference table, trying to figure out how to get traction on the guy who did this. You’re welcome to sit in, but I assumed you would elect to be here with Martha for now.”
“Here is where I need to be.”
“Frankly I don’t know how we find him, John. Thursday I thought we had enough to make a list and narrow it down. Now . . . it turns out Martha told me just enough to sound helpful, yet not enough to actually be helpful.”
“Mom can identify who it is and pick his photo out of a picture array.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t beat your head against the wall,” John said. “We’ll figure out another way for her to safely tell us what happened. She’s the real key—the rest of this, the lists of names, are just a scattered hope that we can find something and solve it ourselves.”
“All right.” Sharon set aside the list.
John studied the coals in the fire for a while. Then he glanced back at Sharon to see her relaxed and watching him. He told her the real reason he’d asked her to come by this evening. “I’m thinking of resigning and moving back here.”
“I wondered if you might take that step.”
“Mom wants to stay here, and it’s easy enough for me to find work.” He shrugged. “I have her for another five years, maybe ten. There will be twenty years or more after that of the job, plenty of time to climb the ladder again. I won’t waste what is most precious to me by thinking calls and visits are the same as being here.”
“You don’t need to convince me, John. I hang out with my sister, share a house with her, because it does matter, being with family.”
“Could I ask a favor?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Spend an evening with us, as my guest. Not work.”
“A guy taking me home to meet his mother?” she asked lightly.
“Shades of that,” he agreed with a smile.
“If you’ll do me a f
avor in return.”
“What’s that?”
“You and your mom visit my place for dinner, meet my sister.”
“We’d like that, Sharon.”
“Good. I’ll talk with Martha for dates. I’m always willing to make room for a friend if you’re moving back this way. I enjoy your company, and I like your mother.”
“No interest in more than that?”
“I have no idea. I’d say that’s why we might have the coming year to discover that answer.”
“Thanks.”
She shrugged. “I’m a cop. It’s tough on relationships, you know.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Seriously, I’d marry a cop, but Bryon is taken, so is Jack. A real opportunity hasn’t come up. Dating civilians works fine up until I cancel plans and pull a marathon on a case for the third or fourth time. They don’t believe me when I say the job isn’t more important to me than they are, it just looks that way. Then the question becomes, ‘Why don’t you do something other than missing-persons cases?’ and before long we’ve agreed to go our separate ways with no hard feelings.”
“You’re telling me something with that answer.”
“What’s important to me matters for a reason. I like working missing-persons cases.”
“I can relate. I like being the boss.”
She grinned. “Yeah. I can see how that might appeal. I bet the Chief of Police badge is a rather impressive thing to hold.”
“It has its weight,” John agreed.
“Will you miss it?”
“Enormously. Doesn’t mean I won’t be trading it in for something worth more.”
“It’s a big decision.”
“I lost her. For two days. And it felt like I had lost my life. It was an eye-opening look at what really matters to me. It’s family.”
“You’re lucky to have had that moment while there’s still time to enjoy more years with her.”
“I am.” He studied the fire for a moment, then looked over at her, his expression reflective. “Sharon, I was dating a woman in Cheyenne for a couple of years, not that I told Mom it was that serious. It didn’t work out mostly because I was a cop—the hours involved, the work itself. It reached the point I considered giving up the job so the relationship could have more room, and I found I couldn’t take that step. I’m a cop. It’s what I’m good at, where I can make a difference. We ended up parting on friendly terms, much as you have in your relationships. It was interesting to go through the experience. I’ll make a shift about where I work for family reasons, but I’m better off in a relationship with a cop than a civilian, someone who understands the job.” He gave her a quick smile. “I mention it only because it will save you asking me that question sooner or later.”
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