If You Were Here

by Alafair Burke

  Maybe Klein realized it was more than a tad creepy to be fantasizing about a missing woman, because that was all he had to say about Susan.

  The documents on Scanlin’s desk were copies of any and all reported incidents within a block of Susan’s building in the three weeks preceding her disappearance. It was the kind of step he should have taken at the time, but he couldn’t swear that he had. Neighborhood canvass, yes. A search for incidents involving her or her apartment, yes. But a three-week record search? Maybe not. Neighbors occasionally saw male guests coming and going at Susan’s apartment. Maybe one of them had gotten a parking ticket or had witnessed a neighborhood altercation.

  As Scanlin flipped through the pages, he realized why he may have skipped the step ten years earlier. In densely packed Manhattan, a whole lot of podunk idiocy went down in a three-week period. A shoving match at Taco Bell when two customers simultaneously reached for the same root beer spigot. A couple of graffiti cleanups, courtesy of AmeriCorps, because the complainants had uttered the magic phrase “gang symbols.” One week must have seen particularly good weather because reports of ranting homeless people skyrocketed. A whole slew of noise complaints but remarkably few parking infractions. Were meter maids slacking, or had people figured out that even sky-high garage rates were better than the city’s $265 parking tickets?

  Scanlin flipped back to two noise complaints that had originated from Susan’s apartment building. They were both called in by the same tenant—Vera Hadley, apartment 402. Same floor as Susan, who was in 406. The first complaint was about a loud stereo from the apartment downstairs at 10:40 P.M. Twenty minutes later, Hadley called back to say that the music had stopped, “no thanks to you people.” The second complaint came in two days before Susan was last seen at the gym. According to Hadley, a man and a woman were screaming inside apartment 404. For reasons that weren’t clear, the call was logged in as possible DV—domestic violence—triggering a response from patrol officers. When police arrived, the hallway was quiet, no one answered the door at 404, and Hadley had no further information to offer. Call closed.

  Scanlin shifted his attention to a separate pile of documents: summaries from the neighborhood canvass conducted after Susan was reported missing. No response at 404 over the course of four different days, at four different times. The tenant on the lease was a man named Paul Roca. According to the mailman, Roca had left “last week,” and his mail was being held for a month.

  If the blockhead patrol officer talking to the mailman had thought to ask whether Roca had left before or after the next-door neighbor had disappeared, he hadn’t thought to make a note of it. A stupid mistake. And yet Scanlin had let it slide.

  He did a quick search for Paul Roca. Still at the same address. Arrested six years earlier for hitting a girlfriend. The charges had been dismissed without prosecution but were enough to pique Scanlin’s curiosity.

  Mr. Roca was worth a visit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  McKenna’s love life had never been noteworthy until she met Patrick. Two college boyfriends. A shack-up for the last two years of law school, more to save rent than as an audition for marriage. She was starting to get into a relationship with Jason Eberly, aka Nature Boy, when Patrick came around and ruined her for anyone else. Until she met him, breaking up meant exactly that. No polite holiday cards. No phone number stored in the cell. No staying friends. She and Patrick kept going back to each other until they finally got it right.

  When she called Jason that morning, it was the first time she had spoken to him in over a decade. She used her maiden name, and even then, there was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. Too composed to ask, “Who?,” Jason obviously needed a moment to place the name. There was another long pause when she asked to see him. “McKenna, I’m, um—I’m very flattered, but I’m married. Two kids. I don’t know how my wife would feel about—”

  She resisted the urge to blurt out, “In your dreams!” She was the one who’d broken it off. “Oh, I should have explained. It’s about a group called People for the Preservation of the Planet—for a story I’m working on. I work at New York City magazine now.”

  “Given that you called me at the firm, you probably know I’m not at the epicenter of the conservation movement anymore. I sold out to the man.”

  “Really, I just want to pick your brain. Fifteen minutes. You can bill me if you want.”

  From the looks of his office, she was thankful he hadn’t taken up her offer of payment. His sleek glass desk was the size of a queen bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unobscured view of Central Park. He greeted her with a quick hug, more a pat on the back than an embrace. “You look great, McKenna. Getting out of the hellhole that is legal practice must be the secret to the fountain of youth.”

  “The law thing seems to have suited you well.” She was telling the truth. Where he’d been a bit shy and goofy-looking as a younger man, he now appeared confident and comfortable in his own skin.

  “You’re interested in the P3s?”

  “Is that what they call themselves?” she asked.

  “Guess it’s supposed to sound more hard-core, reminiscent of a gang name like the 18th Streeters. They’re an offshoot of the Environmental Liberation Front, or ELF. Even ELF is considered an ecoterrorism group, but the rumor is that P3 was formed by a couple of guys who found ELF’s practices a bit too . . . tame.”

  She couldn’t imagine how Susan could be connected to such a group. “How big are they?”

  “I don’t know a lot about them,” he said. “The groups I associated with stayed away from ELF. And we were just beginning to hear whispers about a more radical offshoot. These days, the only time I give groups like that any thought is if they’re causing problems for my clients.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Protesting a nuclear power plant, trespassing to collect water samples they hope will validate some conspiracy theory about toxins. But some of these groups go off the deep end. Bomb threats. Chaining themselves to trees scheduled for a chainsaw. Burning down new construction. Breaking animals out of research laboratories.”

  “Are they national or located in a certain region?”

  “Like I said, I’m no expert. Are you focusing specifically on the P3s, or is your article about ecoterrorism in general?”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears—an action that Susan once called her “tell” when trying to teach her poker. “Ecoterrorism in general, but I’ve found that focusing on one example, then placing it in a broader context, can be really effective.”

  “Ah, right, like your article on Judge Knight. Excellent job, by the way. Well, if the People for the Preservation of the Planet are going to be your next Big Pig, I think I’ve got the right contact for you. I had to hammer out a document subpoena with an FBI agent last year when one of our cosmetic clients was targeted by activists for testing mascara on rabbits.”

  McKenna knew that her face revealed her disgust.

  “Never gave any thought to where your makeup comes from, huh? Anyway, the agent knew this ecoterrorism stuff backward and forward. I could give her a call and grease the wheels. Maybe you can get a sit-down.”

  He dialed a number and put his phone on speaker. Four rings. “You’ve reached Special Agent Jamie Mercado.”

  At the beep, he picked up the handset. “This is Jason Eberly. We worked on the . . .” He said the first half of the name of a well-known cosmetic company, then smiled at McKenna. “That matter involving the rabbit research last year. I have a friend here—McKenna Jordan with New York City magazine. She’s been researching a group called People for the Preservation of the Planet. She was hoping to get some background information, and I thought of you.” He left his number and asked for a return call.

  McKenna was thanking him for his time when his phone rang. “Well, that was quick,” he said, looking at the caller identification sc
reen. “This is Jason. Thanks for calling me back so quickly, Agent Mercado. I’ve got McKenna right here. I’m going to put you on speaker, if that’s okay.”

  “Ms. Jordan, this is Jamie Mercado with the FBI. I’m going to need you to come into the field office to see me. We’re at 26 Federal Plaza. You can check in on the twenty-third floor.”

  McKenna could tell by the tone of the agent’s voice that she was not offering a friendly sit-down for assistance with an article.

  “I appreciate the offer, Agent Mercado, but would tomorrow work for an appointment? I want to make sure I’m thoroughly prepared so I can make the best use of your time.”

  “Am I correct that you have been investigating the People for the Preservation of the Planet? Known as the P3s?”

  “I wouldn’t call it investigating. I’ve been researching an article.”

  “And how exactly did you end up focusing on that group?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I can play back Jason’s message if necessary. He said you were interested specifically in the P3s.”

  “Is there something wrong, Agent?”

  “Like I said, Ms. Jordan, I’m going to need you to meet me at the field office. And just to be clear, I can get a grand jury subpoena if one is required. There is no privilege that protects journalists from testifying.”

  McKenna couldn’t imagine what this FBI agent thought she could possibly offer. It looked like she would find out soon enough. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As Scanlin approached apartment 404, he heard the repetitive thump-thump-thump of generic dance music. He rapped the base of his fist against the front door to the beat, then heard the volume drop. A voice behind the door yelled, “Wrong apartment, man.”

  “Police. Just a couple quick questions, Mr. Roca.”

  Roca was tying his black silk robe when he opened the door. Scanlin was overpowered by the oaky smell of cologne.

  “Sorry,” Roca offered as he turned to primp his hair in a full-length mirror just inside the entrance. “Running late for a date. The smell fades fast. I swear.”

  Roca didn’t seem interested, but Scanlin flashed his badge out of habit. A quick look around the studio apartment revealed more tasteful choices than Scanlin would have expected, given the first impression. Natural wood floors. White walls. Neutral furniture. What Melissa would have called “pops” of color from matching pillows and accessories. Had to be either a girlfriend’s or a decorator’s touch.

  “You sure you’re at the right place?” Roca asked. “Can’t think of anything police would need here.”

  “It’s an old case. Taking a new look. You remember Susan Hauptmann?”

  Roca shook his head immediately, then paused as the name sank in. “Oh yeah. That’s the girl from next door. What happened with that?”

  Scanlin shrugged. “That’s why I’m here. We never talked to you back then.”

  Roca laughed nervously. “You’re kidding me, right? That was, like, eight years ago.”

  “Ten.”

  “Talk about taking your time.” Roca walked to a double-wide closet and began flipping through a row of neatly hung dress shirts. “What do you need to know?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “No. I mean, by sight, yeah. Exchanged pleasantries in the hallway, that kind of thing. But I didn’t even know her name until after everyone was looking for her.”

  “You were out of town when that happened.”

  Roca squinted, searching his memory. “That’s right. Got sent to L.A. on a client project for over a month. When I got back, the posters were still up. That kind of thing.”

  “Susan was a pretty girl,” Scanlin said. “Really pretty. Liked to date, from what I heard.”

  “Yeah, I’d see her come and go with guys. Girls, too. You know. Social, like that.”

  “How about you? She never came or went with you?”

  “This has to be a joke. Seriously, is someone punking me?”

  Scanlin took out his badge again so Roca could get a better look. “No joke. Just crossing all the T’s. Making sure we didn’t miss anything. Turns out one of your neighbors heard you arguing in here with a woman two nights before Susan disappeared. Sounded to her like domestic violence. Lo and behold, after Susan disappears, you up and leave for a month. Then there’s that pesky arrest you had for assaulting a woman a few years ago.”

  “That girl was crazy. She found lipstick on some cigarette butts in my garbage and started trashing the place. I was trying to calm her down, and she called 911 on me. You can’t think—”

  “I’m just trying to make sure the lady you were fighting with two nights before your neighbor disappeared wasn’t Susan Hauptmann. So why don’t you give me a name, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “It was ten years ago. I have no fucking clue.”

  “So think, Roca. And I’ll make it easy for you. It was November twenty-seventh, on Thanksgiving.”

  “Dammit. Fine, okay. Um, wait. I was gone by then. Figured I was starting the L.A. gig December first, I might as well make it down to Santa Fe to see my folks for Turkey Day. I left the day before. Hold up. Who called the police about this supposed argument at my place?”

  Scanlin didn’t respond.

  “Was it that crazy bird in 402? Had to be. Now she’s nearly deaf, but yeah, she was still calling the cops constantly back then. She was always getting the apartments mixed up. Apparently directional hearing wasn’t a real strength.”

  Scanlin gave closer thought to the layout of the small complex. Four apartments on one floor. Five floors total. Two voices fighting inside an apartment. The echo of the stairway running floor to ceiling through the center of the building like a fire pole. Thanking the man for his time, Scanlin left Roca to his primping and crossed the hallway to apartment 402.

  Her neighbor had been right: Vera Hadley was nearly deaf. She was also a hoarder. What probably began as small stacks of magazines, newspapers, collectibles, videotapes, out-of-season clothing—just waiting for the right moment to be sorted through—had grown into layers of padding throughout the apartment. From what Scanlin could see, the poor woman had enough free space to navigate from the entrance, to one empty spot on her sofa, to the kitchen, and—God willing—to a bathroom.

  They’d been making progress since Scanlin had given up any semblance of speaking in a normal voice and begun screaming into her hearing aid. Yes, she remembered Susan Hauptmann from down the hall (followed by a saddened tsk and a shake of the head). Yes, she remembered frequently calling the police over the years. Yes, she supposed it was possible that if an argument had erupted in that “nice woman’s” apartment, she might have attributed it to the “carouser” across the hall.

  When he gave her the date of the noise complaint and asked what she recalled about the incident, he expected either a blank stare or a long recitation of every dispute she’d ever overheard. What he did not expect was the woman to stand up from her cubbyhole on the couch and say, “Let me get my notes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Too familiar. Recast.” McKenna remembered her editor’s comment, red-penciled in the margin of the manuscript for Unreasonable Doubt. The note was in response to McKenna’s depiction of an FBI agent who appeared at the local police precinct to exercise federal jurisdiction over the investigation.

  But McKenna had met a few FBI agents in her time at the district attorney’s office, usually when the feds were cherry-picking her best drug cases, and they’d all been straitlaced, clean-cut, and rigid. They had deep voices, didn’t laugh, and favored midpriced suits from places like JoS. A. Bank. Just because it was a stereotype didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

  But Jamie Mercado didn’t fit the mold. She was petite, with long, dark, wavy hair and a full face of makeup, complete with cherry-red lip
stick. Like agents McKenna had worked with in the past, she wanted answers, but instead of resorting to legalese and bureaucratic officiousness, Mercado leaned across the table toward McKenna, raising her voice in obvious anger. These were moves McKenna associated more with the NYPD than the FBI, and she had experienced them only from the other side of one-way glass.

  “For a full-time reporter with a reputable magazine, you don’t seem to know much about a topic you’re supposedly investigating. Not the name of a single person associated with the group. No information about the organizational structure or geographic focus. Not the details of even one of their suspected anti-industry missions.”

  “I told you,” McKenna said, “I just started looking into it.”

  She knew that any false statement to a federal agent—even outside a courtroom, whether she was under oath or not—was a felony. She was not required to offer information, and she could refuse to answer, but she had to ensure that every utterance from her mouth was true—at least technically.

  “Yes, you’ve said that so many times, you’re beginning to sound like a windup doll. So, fine. I went to college. I remember what it’s like to write a paper. You think you have an idea, so you dig around a bit to see if you’re interested, if there’s enough material to merit a deeper search.”

  McKenna nodded in agreement. No falsity there.