I took a few wrong turns, but eventually I recognized the unusual outcropping of rocks I’d noticed that morning and pulled onto the shoulder. This stretch of road was winding, and the drop-off in spots steep. It was lucky for me I’d gone off the road to the left, where the terrain was fairly level.
I knew there had to be houses somewhere in the vicinity, but none were visible. What in God’s name had I been doing here anyway? If I’d gotten lost, which seemed the only logical explanation, where had I been headed?
I closed my eyes, listened to the rustle of wind in the dry grass, and tried to remember. The waking and confusion of Sunday morning came easily. I’d been over that ground many times in the past two days. But the hours leading up to that were a blank.
Anger and frustration built inside me. In disgust, I started the car again, ready to leave, and then I heard the whistle of a train in the distance. I held my breath.
I remembered a whistle. I remembered it being dark, hearing the train, and feeling oddly comforted by the sound. It was just a fleeting memory, but I mined it for everything I could. It was like remembering a dream. I was afraid if I let it go, I’d never get it back again. Train, whistle ... headlights. I remembered headlights. Mine or another car’s? And the vague memory of a lemony scent.
But that’s as far as it went.
Had someone run us off the road then left the scene? Had they taken Maureen, or might she still be wandering the hills in a daze? Or had I been traveling this road alone?
I got out of the car and examined the ground. I thought I found the spot where my car had been, though it was hard to tell for sure. No glass or flecks of paint or, thankfully, blood. Once again, I regretted my story to the cops. But I was locked into it now, and maybe it was just as well. I couldn’t imagine the truth would make me any less guilty in their minds.
I drove back into town, stopped at a car wash, then went to the garden center to see if I could find Jesse.
Jesse was not a big guy. He was about my height and on the slender side except for the love handles at his waist. But with his crooked nose and gold front tooth, he looked like someone you didn’t want to mess with.
In his former life, Jesse was a San Francisco public defender, a dyed-in-the-wool soldier for justice. Drugs and alcohol were his downfall. And screwing a prosecutor’s wife. He was fired, and his license was suspended. Although he was finally reinstated, the law had lost interest for him. He moved to Monte Vista, traded in his briefcase for a shovel and a rake, and now owned a nursery. The legal training must have done some good though, because the Latin names for plants roll off his tongue effortlessly.
We met through AA, where Jesse was my sponsor. He had since become a good friend.
He was taking delivery of a shipment of aspen when I got there, so I poked around the potentilla and viburnum until he was finished. I knew next to nothing about plants, but hanging around Jesse had at least made me familiar with a few of the names.
He came to join me the minute he was free. “There’s news?” he asked.
“No, except the cops have their eye on me.”
“That’s not unexpected.”
“I just worry that they aren’t doing enough to find her. I keep thinking of her being frightened and in pain, and I feel so helpless.”
Jesse put a hand on my shoulder. “This might be a good time to come back to meetings, Sam.”
Jesse was a regular; I’d stopped going a couple of years ago. “That’s not my style,” I told him, though we’d had this conversation in the past. “That fellowship and sharing stuff. I’m just not comfortable with it.”
We moved into the shade of an overhang and sat on one of the cement benches he had for sale. Jesse offered me a Reese’s peanut butter cup. They took the place of all his former vices and probably contributed to the roll around his middle.
“No, thanks.”
He unwrapped one for himself. “I guess if you can get through this without taking a drink, maybe you really don’t need AA.”
Elbows on my knees, I dropped my head to my hands and found myself shaking. “Oh God, Jesse, I’m in big trouble.”
For a moment, he leaned back and didn’t say a word. When he spoke, his voice was soft and even. “What did you do, Sam?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I lied to the cops, for one thing.”
“About Maureen?”
I nodded. “Are you still an attorney?”
“I’m a member of the bar, but if you’re in trouble you need someone other than me.”
I pulled a dollar from my wallet and gave it to him. “That makes it official, right?”
He took the dollar and shoved it in his jeans pocket. “What’s the matter, Sam? What’s going on?”
I told him about waking up in a ditch Sunday morning and not knowing how I got there, about discovering Maureen wasn’t home and then telling the cops I’d left her in bed Sunday morning.
I felt the need to talk about what had really happened and to get an objective reaction to it. I’d been so obsessed with my own doubts and fears, I felt like I’d lost my bearings.
“Now I’m stuck with the story I told the cops, and I’m worried that they’ll see it’s a lie. I don’t know what happened or who’s going to come out of the woodwork and tell the cops something that undercuts my whole story.”
Jesse unwrapped another peanut butter cup and popped it into his mouth.
“The cops think I’m involved,” I told him. “Maybe I am. I can’t remember a damned thing.”
“Were you drinking?”
Despite the warmth of the day, I was shivering. I folded my arms across my chest. “That was my initial thought, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, why would I suddenly start drinking again? And not to remember anything ... Even when I used to have blackouts, I’d remember something about what went before.”
“So if it wasn’t booze, what do you think caused you to forget?”
“Amnesia’s a funny thing. It could be physical trauma like a whack on the head. Or emotional trauma. I suppose too that someone could have slipped me a drug.”
“Which would mean that Maureen is most likely in the hands of whoever came after you.”
“But I might have been drinking,” I pointed out. “Could be Maureen and I had a fight, and I went on a bender.”
Jesse raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been getting along?”
“We haven’t not been getting along, but she’s been kind of distant lately, like I’ve disappointed her in some way. She gets short with me, then I get short with her. It escalates for no reason.”
He nodded, as if I’d described familiar territory. I knew Jesse’s wife had left him when he started drinking heavily, but we’d never talked about it in any detail. “She’d have called by now though,” he offered.
“Unless she’s hurt.” Suddenly I felt the need to be totally straight. “There’s more,” I told him.
“More?”
“More that I haven’t told you.” I took a breath. “When I came to Sunday morning, there was blood around my fingernails.”
“If you’d been struggling with your attacker—”
“And I found a shoe, a woman’s shoe, in the trunk of my car.”
He opened his mouth and shut it again before asking, “Maureen’s?”
“I assume so. It’s her size.”
A woman with a toddler came into the nursery and looked around. Jesse watched her until he saw that Carlos, who worked for Jesse, was asking if she needed help.
“What about Saturday?” Jesse asked.
“I was at work. I don’t actually remember that, but Ira says I was there, and I made notes on a couple of charts. It was our anniversary, and Maureen and I were going out to dinner that night. I didn’t remember that either until her friend Sherri asked about our dinner at Pietro’s. Then I remembered making the reservation and asking for a table by the window.”
“Do you remember
what you ate for dinner? What you talked about?”
“I don’t even remember having dinner.”
Jesse stood up and brushed the seat of his pants with his hands. “Come on, it’s almost lunchtime.”
I looked at him, confused.
“We’re going to find out if you made it to the restaurant Saturday evening.” He told Carlos he was leaving then grabbed his car keys from the drawer near the cash register.
“Where are we going?”
“You’re buying me lunch at Pietro’s.”
I was half-afraid to show my face there in case Maureen and I had made a scene Saturday night. But Jesse pointed out it might be better to know that than not.
The restaurant was on the outskirts of Sacramento, a longer distance than either of us typically drove for lunch, and the traffic was heavier than expected. It was close to one o’clock, and the height of the lunch hour, when we arrived.
“Do you have a reservation?” the maitre d’ asked, eyeing Jesse’s cargo pants with disapproval. Sacramento is casual, but we were pushing the limits.
“Afraid not,” I answered.
“Just a moment. Let me see what I can do.” He went off to seat the couple that had been ahead of us.
Jesse stepped behind the podium and flipped the pages in the reservation book.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Seeing if I can find your name.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here it is, Russell. Highlighted in yellow.”
“What does that mean?”
“Danged if I know. Your name is the only one though.”
The maitre d’ returned as Jesse stepped away from the podium. “It will be about forty minutes,” he said, checking his list.
“What does the yellow highlight on a name mean?” Jesse asked.
The maitre d’ pinned us with his narrow gaze. “It means the party was so late we could no longer hold the reservation. We try to accommodate people when we can, but that’s not always possible. I’m afraid we don’t have any no-shows for lunch, however. Now, if you’ll give me your name.”
“Sorry, we don’t have time to wait,” Jesse said. “But thanks.”
The maitre d’ didn’t seem disappointed to see us leave.
We ate at Taco Bell instead.
“Think of the money you’re saving,” Jesse said as we filled our soda cups from the machine.
I nodded glumly. I didn’t have much of an appetite anyway.
“Lunch at Pietro’s would have been nice,” he added, “but the important thing is we learned that you and Maureen never showed up at the restaurant.”
Unfortunately, I’d led Sherri to believe that we had.
“Do you think I hurt her, Jesse? Could I have harmed Maureen and not remember?”
Jesse washed his bite of burrito down with Dr. Pepper. “Could you have? I suppose it’s possible. Do I think that’s what happened? Not a chance.”
I wanted to believe him. But there was simply too much I didn’t understand.
CHAPTER 11
Hannah was washing her hands, her mind still processing the information she’d gleaned about Sam’s earlier arrest for murder, when Carla Adams, one of the uniformed officers, entered the tiny women’s restroom. Carla was attractive in a wholesome, freshly scrubbed way, with thick, honey blond hair she often wore in a single braid down her back. She was younger than Hannah by almost ten years, but Hannah had thought they might find kinship since they were the only two women on the force. Hannah couldn’t have been more wrong. She wasn’t above trying again, however.
Hannah nodded a greeting. “Looks like it’s shaping up to be a warm day.”
“About average for this time of year.” Carla checked her teeth in the mirror.
“Perfect kind of day to curl up in a hammock with a good book. Instead”—Hannah rolled her eyes—“I’m going to be talking to people who knew Maureen Russell.”
Silence.
Hannah realized Carla was close to Maureen’s age. Maybe she had some insights that Hannah didn’t. “What do you think happened?” Hannah asked. “You think the husband was involved in her disappearance?”
A shrug. “I’m not working that case.”
“I know, I just thought—”
Carla addressed Hannah’s image in the mirror. “You can cut the chummy stuff, Detective. Just because we’re both women doesn’t mean we’re going to be friends.”
Hannah blinked. “No, I guess not.”
She finished drying her hands and left without another word. Well, Hannah thought, I guess that cleared things up.
In the interest of time, she and Dallas had divvied up the list of people they wanted to interview. Hannah was glad they were going their separate ways for the day. Dallas wasn’t a bad sort really, and he had a solid reputation for clearing cases, but they had very different styles.
Carla. Dallas. Was there anyone in Monte Vista Hannah felt comfortable with? Yes, she reminded herself, there were many. Neighbors, shopkeepers, one of the women at the gym, her dentist of all people, but Hannah hadn’t reached the point where she felt like a member of the community in any meaningful sense. She wondered again about the wisdom of her move to Monte Vista.
She looked at the list of names in front of her. First up was Ira Kincaid, Sam’s medical partner. Hannah smiled. For once, a doctor’s visit she didn’t have to dread.
She was shown into Dr. Kincaid’s empty office by a pleasantly plump, fifty-something nurse named Debbie, who expressed sympathy and concern for Sam.
“A good man and a good doctor,” she said, stopping just inside the door. “He’s already had more than his share of trouble, if you ask me.”
“You’re referring to his first wife, Lisa?”
Debbie nodded. She shifted the chart she was holding from one arm to the other. “I was working for the senior Dr. Russell then, worked for him for years. It just about broke his heart what Sam went through—first losing his wife, then to be accused of being the one that did it.” Her tone made it clear her sympathy for Sam was matched by her inability to understand how anyone could think he’d been culpable. “I’ve known Sam since he was a boy.”
“Did you know Lisa?” Hannah asked.
“I’d met her. She and Sam came home to visit every summer. They were a cute couple, affectionate and playful. And very much in love. Anyone who’d seen them together would know that Sam would never hurt her.”
“What about Maureen? Do you know her too?”
The nurse nodded. “She worked here. That’s how she and Sam met.”
Hannah leaned against the back of the jade green visitor’s chair. “She’s a nurse?”
“No, she scheduled appointments, did some of the filing, filled in as needed. We’re a small office, so there’s a lot of overlap.”
“How long did she work here?”
“A year maybe. She did a fine job, but it was clear she wasn’t interested in making a career of the position. In fact, I suspected she had an eye on Sam almost from the start. I used to tease him about it, but it took him a while to see it for himself.”
“Did she continue working here after they were married?”
Debbie shook her head. “No, she quit once they were engaged. The poor man must be worried sick. Do you have any ideas about where she might be?”
“I’m afraid not,” Hannah told her. “That’s part of the reason I want to talk to Dr. Kincaid. We’re hoping to find someone who might point us in the right direction.”
“Time was, I never worried about predators and serial killers finding their way to Monte Vista,” Debbie said. “Not anymore. I lock up tight every night.” She headed for the door. “I’ll tell Dr. Kincaid you’re here.”
Alone in the office, Hannah couldn’t quell the familiar sense of dread. It had been in a similar office that she’d first heard the words suspicious lump and then, later, cancer. She pushed the memory from her mind and took a seat.
Dr. Kincaid’s office was tidy and neat: wide
desk, papers in a single stack on the left, telephone and notepad on the right. Behind the desk was a shelf of medical texts and a plastic model of the human ear. Diplomas hung on another wall. Ira Kincaid was a graduate of the UC Davis School of Medicine and of several specialized post-degree institutes. Hannah looked for family photos and found none. The only photograph she saw was of a man she assumed was Dr. Kincaid himself, standing in front of an expensive silver sports car. He was a good-looking man, with dark hair and a winsome smile. The kind of man she’d gravitate to in a bar because she knew she’d never fall for him. Conventionally handsome didn’t appeal to her.
Ira Kincaid burst into the room a few minutes later. He wasn’t as tall as she expected from the photo, and his face was a bit fleshier. He looked harried and tired though the day had barely begun.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about Maureen Russell’s disappearance.”
Kincaid’s face clouded. “Any leads?”
“Not yet. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“In what way?”
“How well do you know Mrs. Russell?” Hannah asked.
He shrugged. “I see her and Sam socially, though not often. I wouldn’t say I know her well.”
“But she worked for you at one time, didn’t she?”
He nodded, checking his watch. “She worked in the front office.”
There’d been a time when Hannah found doctors intimidating. Not anymore. And she resented the fact that Dr. Kincaid, however unconsciously, conveyed the impression that his time was more valuable than hers.
She sat back in her chair. “Does that mean you didn’t have a lot of contact with her?”
“I’m with patients all day,” he explained. “There isn’t a lot of time for small talk.” Then he softened. “Sorry to sound so brusque. I guess this whole thing has me on edge. I feel awful for Sam.”
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