“I see that, Olga, and I’m sorry for it, but remember, even without that drawing, the World got the story completely wrong. At least we printed the truth.”
“Yes, and now the truth has come out about the car rental, too. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. This means Ellen was alive and well enough to rent a car two days ago.”
“Yes, but one has to wonder what kept her in the area and away from her family throughout the holidays.”
“I know, I know. There has to be an explanation. There just has to be. It must have something to do with that taxi driver. Maybe he was a crazed man, stalking my daughter.”
“I understand your impulse to blame the cabbie, but remember the book list you showed me? One of the titles on it suggested Ellen was planning to disappear.”
Olga was silent. Had she forgotten about the book list?
“Must you always upset me?” she demanded at last. “I’m trying so hard to focus on the good news that my daughter is alive, and now you try to tell me she wanted to run away.”
Olga hung up without another word.
After telling Tom what had ensued, Liz phoned the United Nations in New York. The central office receptionist could not confirm that Nadia had ever worked for them. “That doesn’t mean much,” she added, “since literally thousands of individuals do work for people who are on the official UN payroll. They may be translators, couriers, or personal assistants, but if they are paid by the UN employee instead of directly by the UN, we would have no record of them here.”
“Another dead end,” Liz said to Tom after hanging up the phone.
“Well, at least I have some good news. I found the Charlotte’s Web wallpaper. Wait a minute while I get the sample book.”
The big book held an eighteen- by twenty-inch sample sheet of the wallpaper. With its pink pastel tone and Garth Williams line drawings of Wilbur and a spider’s web that read, “SOME PIG!” the paper introduced a much-needed moment of pleasure to the tension-packed morning.
“It’s perfect! Veronica will love it.”
“Since it appears Erik will be welcoming Veronica home after all, I’d better get going on picking up that wallpaper,” Tom said. “Then I’ll try to reach him to set up some time to hang it over the weekend.”
Before he could leave, Liz wrapped her arms around Tom. This time, she was the last to release the embrace. After Tom left, she slipped out of her robe, dressed for work, fed Prudence, and drove straight to South Boston and the Van Wormer Piano Workshop.
Located in the basement of an architecturally pleasing, three-story brick row house, the workshop was accessible through an arched front entrance underneath and shaded by the first floor’s front steps. A small sign with a keyboard motif identified the premises and drew Liz’s attention while she waited for the proprietor to open the door. The nonagenarian piano man kept the door chained so it would open only about two inches until Liz introduced herself and showed him her I.D.
“Old habits die hard,” he said in a German, or perhaps Dutch, accent. “This used to be a much more dangerous neighborhood.”
“I tried to phone to make an appointment but your message machine has been filled.”
“I forgot all about it! I always left the task of answering those messages to my assistant.”
“You speak in the past tense. Is he no longer with you?”
“I’m not certain. Ever since last Tuesday, he has not been in.”
“Was it an unplanned absence? Or might he have taken some time off for the holidays?”
“Oh, yes, it is unplanned, indeed. You see Al lives with me, in his own small unit on the third floor. Surely, he is not in some trouble?”
“First, let’s be sure we are talking about the same person. I’m inquiring about Ali Abdulhazar, a man who would be just short of forty years old this year.”
“That is my assistant’s legal name, but he has called himself Al Hazard for many years now. He came to me as an apprentice many years ago, to learn how to tune pianos. Now he carries the lion’s share of my business. I don’t know what to tell my customers about when he will return. This is so terribly unlike him.”
“Do you have any reason to think he’s visiting family, in trouble, or perhaps run off with a woman?”
“None, except that he did not tell me he’d be away. His family returned to the Middle East before he reached age twenty, and he’s hardly mentioned them since. It did occur to me that perhaps he’d received a message from them, calling him home to attend to an illness or, God forbid, a funeral. Not that they’d ever given him much in the way of family support. I took the liberty of looking in his room, but I didn’t find any letter.”
“Did you try his telephone answering machine?”
“He doesn’t have a telephone upstairs. He always used the one in the workshop. But, of course, I never checked that! How stupid of me.”
“Perhaps it holds the answer. Might we check it together?”
“That would be helpful. I’m terrible at all this technology. But first I must know why it is you are looking for him.”
Liz might have said she was an old friend or offered up some other tall tale, but she opted to tell the truth. It seemed to give Van Wormer pause, until Liz added, “If you read today’s newspapers, I think you might find you’d rather have me than my competitor look into the connection between Al and Ellen. I promise to tell the whole story and not to rake up dirt on your assistant just for the sake of it. Most likely, his absence is unconnected, anyway.”
Van Wormer led Liz to the phone machine. The tape of recorded messages was mostly filled with several concerned—and a few angry—inquiries about upcoming and then missed piano tuning appointments. Only one of them offered anything different, and it was from a male caller with a Middle Eastern accent, suggesting that Al meet him “in the usual place” on December 19. The day Ali went missing and the day after Ellen left home.
Another dead end.
Liz asked Van Wormer if he would like her to run a check on Ali, using his Social Security number, only causing Van Wormer to draw the line on helping her any further. “You may mean well, Miss Higgins, but unless and until my employee is gone for a far longer period of time, I am not willing to share his private information with you.”
“Of course, I understand,” Liz said. She knew it was best to mask her frustration here. If she remained pleasant and helpful, it maximized the chances that Van Wormer would turn to her later. “I hope Al returns soon. If he does, I hope you will let me know. If he doesn’t, perhaps you might turn to me for help. I know how upsetting and expensive it would be to use the services of a private investigator. I have free access to some investigative databases at the Banner.”
Handing the keyboard expert her business card, Liz made her exit and hurried to the newsroom, where it fast became clear that Samir Hasan’s Social Security number was a fake.
And that was no surprise.
Chapter 22
Liz’s newsroom stature rose substantially after she topped the World’s incomplete and inaccurate reports about Veronica’s bedroom and the taxi driver’s blood. Not only did she garner numerous lead stories as 2000 came to a close and 2001 began, but she gained a demanding workload, too. Like well-placed reporters in all of the local media, she found herself absorbed in the case of a cross-dressing dermatologist from a well-heeled suburb who slaughtered his wife, and then in a mystery surrounding a woman who was killed in a Cape Cod beach house.
Liz did tell her city editor about Nadia’s missive, but he had her follow up on Samir Hasan’s Social Security information instead of pushing for coverage of the purloined letter. The Social Security search only proved Samir Hasan was paid for three years under that name by the cab company Jake headed. The Social Security Administration also had fallen for the fake address, and there was no information about Hasan holding any other jobs. A follow-up on the short-wave radio license also led nowhere. False identification had been used successfully here, too.
&
nbsp; Hasan’s genetic identity was easier to pin down when, eleven weeks to the day after Kinnaird submitted the cigarette butts and spots of blood on the tissue and on the poinsettia for testing, DNA results proved the cabbie had been injured in the Johansson kitchen. Liz got the scoop on this, since police DNA testing did not come back until four weeks later. Still, beyond the DNA results, the cabbie’s trail was cold.
Since he had no knowledge that Liz had read Nadia’s letter, Erik Johansson had no notion of how much Liz now questioned his role in Ellen’s disappearance. Grateful for Liz’s part in exonerating him of the child abuse charge, and for making it possible to welcome Veronica home to a beautifully wallpapered room, Erik kept in touch with Liz as winter wound its way into springtime. He shared with her Veronica’s belief that Ellen was wearing her Christmas sweater with a reindeer pattern knitted into it when she went missing. Although Veronica said her mother had not been wearing her “Rudolph sweater” when she drove Veronica to school that day, the sweater was nowhere to be found in the Johansson house and it seemed likely Ellen donned it sometime before she disappeared.
Erik also showed Liz more incoming mail—all postcards—from Nadia. None of them had a word to say about the secret the pen pals had shared in New York. Nor did they indicate when Nadia expected to return to her home in Jerusalem.
In addition, Erik let Liz know he phoned Nadia’s Jerusalem home twice a week, every week. Liz had been doing the same thing. There was no answering machine, so the phone just rang and rang each time either of them called. In February, while Veronica spent her school vacation with Olga, Erik made an unproductive trip to Nadia’s Jerusalem address, only to have neighbors tell him they had no idea when she would return. They insisted they had no information to share about relatives or friends of Nadia.
Unwilling to trust Erik on this, Liz prevailed on the Banner’s travel editor, Susan Damon, to visit Nadia’s address while she was on assignment there in May. Susan, too, found Nadia’s neighbors less than helpful.
Once a month, Liz penned a letter to Nadia, expressing her concern for Ellen and her hope that Nadia would contact her at the first opportunity. She also phoned Jan Van Wormer on the eighteenth of every month, the anniversary of Ellen’s disappearance. But there was never news of the man who called himself Al Hazard. Spring came and went as Liz, working with Erik, systematically contacted United Nations personnel who they thought might require the services of a translator with skills in English and Arabic. Not one of them knew a thing about Nadia.
Still, the pen pal’s postcards kept coming. Most were sent from airports and bore messages indicating Nadia was about to leave for another destination. This had been true throughout the pen pals’ correspondence, Erik said, recalling how his wife had envied the international life her correspondent enjoyed.
Veronica’s June 11 birthday came and went with no word from Ellen. However, that day there was a phone call made to the Johansson home from Ellen’s cell phone. The caller—was it Ellen?—said nothing. Investigation of the cell-phone records indicated no roaming charges for the call, which must have been placed from a location tantalizingly close to home. At the urging of the police, Erik continued to keep the cell phone in service, in case another call came through.
For her birthday gift to Veronica, Olga had Veronica’s birthstone attached to Ellen’s wedding ring circlet to make a unique pendant. “I know people think Erik did something to drive Ellen away, but I’m sure he didn’t. That marriage was rock solid,” Olga told Liz, “so I’m celebrating it and Veronica’s birthday with that pendant.”
On June 18—the six-month anniversary of Ellen’s disappearance—Liz wrote a recap of the mystery for the Banner and included Olga’s heartwarming vote of confidence in her son-in-law to balance the many unanswered questions that led many to think ill of him. Nevertheless, Erik was uncomfortable with the article and dropped his contact with Liz after it ran. The anniversary article also drew criticism from Lucy Gray, who phoned Liz in a pique when it was published.
“I didn’t betray your trust . . . ” Liz began, in response to the librarian’s angry tone.
“You couldn’t have!” Lucy said. “I never gave you access to the information.”
“Well, not directly. But you did e-mail me the title of the list, if not the password.”
“What e-mail? What password?”
“You didn’t send all those e-mails with the word ‘Blister’?”
“No, I didn’t! I debated about letting you know but I just couldn’t.”
“Then, it must have been someone else. But who was it? I didn’t talk with anyone else at the library.”
Liz explained how Olga had retrieved the information. Could it have been the most unlikely person the two could imagine: Monica Phillips? In any case, Lucy seemed to relax knowing someone else had done the deed she had debated about perpetrating.
“So, you know about Ellen’s reading choices then?” Lucy asked.
“How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found,” Liz said, naming the memorable title.
“Not that one! That’s a children’s book.”
“With a title like that?”
“Yes. You can tell by the call number indicating the juvenile category. She probably took it out to read to Veronica along with the other children’s title on the list. No, it was the title about child abuse that concerned me.”
“I don’t remember anything about that on the list.”
“The circulation list does not provide subtitles. Perhaps that’s why you didn’t see Silent Knights as significant.”
“Is it a book about child abuse? Did Ellen ever let on to you any fears that Erik might abuse Veronica?”
“Erik! No. The book Ellen was reading was more along the self-help lines. That book’s full title is, Silent Knights: Finding the Courage to Admit Aberrant Impulses. It addresses how to overcome the impulse to behave abusively. When I told you the reading list made me doubt how well I knew Ellen, this is what I was talking about. I have to wonder if Ellen herself had a problem.”
“That’s why you were reluctant to share the information.”
“That, and my profound belief in the right to readers’ privacy. Suppose Ellen was only trying to get further support on a problem she had thus far been able to control? If the reading list were known, she might be vilified despite doing a good job of maintaining self control.”
“You have a point there.”
“I have to wonder, Liz, if Ellen fled in order to prevent herself from hurting Veronica.”
It was an avenue no one had explored thus far, but why would a New York taxi driver be traveling that route with Ellen? Was it just a fluke that he had entered her life at that moment? Or was he some kind of stalker? There seemed no way to find out.
After Dick Manning outdid Liz by scooping a few early summer news items, Liz found herself back on the community news beat, for the most part. She was also asked to cover some home and garden items for vacationing columnists. While she sometimes ran into Cormac Kinnaird when covering breaking news, as her hard news assignments dropped off they did not cross paths. But she and Tom discovered a passion for picnicking, and when it was possible, she took Tom along on some of her garden-related assignments, where they spread out his Mexican blanket with the greatest of pleasure.
In August, another call was made from Ellen’s cell phone, this time to the World’s Nancy Knight. The reporter made much of her scoop, even though the message was another blank one. A psychiatrist consulted by Knight told the reporter, “It’s evident this model mother cannot entirely separate from her child.” While Newton police duly discovered the phone call had been placed somewhere where roaming charges did not apply, the new contact seemed destined to underline Ellen’s absence as voluntary, even if it was uncertain who had made the call.
Then in September 2001, everything changed. Everything.
On the second of the month, Liz returned to Gravesend Street to find in her mailbox the long-awaited lett
er from Nadia. Tearing it open, she stood in her tiny driveway, oblivious to the sounds of passing traffic and of Prudence meowing inside a window. Posted from Jerusalem, the letter read:
Dear Liz Higgins,
Forgive me for my delay in contacting you, which is made all the more dreadful by the fact, which I have just learned from your letters, that my dear friend Ellen is missing. I’m afraid my work keeps me world hopping, and my stays in each destination are too short to make the forwarding of letters practicable.
Ellen did share some confidences with me when we met in New York City. I swore I would hold them secret for all my life, and I find it difficult to reconcile this promise to her with the needs of this investigation into her whereabouts. This is, in part, because she may, as is suggested in the news clippings you sent me, have decided to leave her home by choice.
Still, I remember Ellen spoke highly of you. Thus am I willing to meet with you and discuss the matter further. Unfortunately, I depart again tomorrow morning for more travels. Would it be impossible for you to meet with me in Singapore? It is a long way to go to meet a woman who might disappoint you once you get there. I make no promises about how much I will confide, and even if I trust you wholly, the information I have to share is limited. Still, I must pass through Singapore three times during the next two months. The first time, I will be staying at the Fullerton hotel on the nights of 6–9 September. Please don’t send Erik in your place, or let him know we are communicating. I will explain why, if and when I see you.
Yours sincerely,
Nadia
Without much hope of receiving an answer, Liz phoned Nadia’s Jerusalem number again. It rang and rang and rang, with the strange double-ring pattern that is common outside the United States.
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