by Dete Meserve
I hear it again, heavier this time.
From the second floor there isn’t a good view of the side yard, so I rush to my office in the next room and wake up the computer screen, clicking on the security icon to view the camera feeds outside and inside the house.
Ten views of our house pop up on the screen, but there is nothing—and no one—moving on any of them. The camera in the side yard shows bare dirt and a couple of bags of potting soil. I exhale sharply. Probably a possum. This side of LA, they’re big and fat, feasting on all the citrus that falls from our trees and the expensive leftovers in our trash cans.
Then on the camera that surveys the front steps and yard, I glimpse someone in dark pants zipping across the frame. The action happens so fast I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman or child. I’m not even entirely sure I saw it.
I run to my bedroom window and slowly pull back the corner of the curtains a fraction of an inch. From the high vantage point on the second floor, I have a full view of the front yard and street. Completely empty. I stand there for a long moment, watching for signs of movement, afraid to make any sound that might alert anyone below to my presence at the window. Suddenly a man darts out from behind the sprawling oak tree, exits the yard, and sprints down the sidewalk. One of the young partyers trying to rejoin the group?
I return to the computer to play back what the cameras saw over the last five minutes and see that “Record” is not checked. Had Zack unchecked the box so that the system wouldn’t capture anything?
We had installed the security system two weeks ago after coming home and finding Zack passed out in the backyard. Eventually, we got him to confess that he and two friends had regularly got together at our house after school—while Ben and I were still at work—to drink and smoke pot.
That explained the grades that had plummeted from always-on-the-dean’s-list to Cs and Ds, why tens and twenties had been missing from my purse, and why liquor bottles disappeared from the cabinet in my office.
Zack swore it wouldn’t happen again, but two days after that solemn promise, a neighbor informed us that his group of friends had expanded to five or six, and several of them were drunk and diving in our pool.
Our home-security firm offered us a package of ten cameras with microphones installed throughout the property, which we could also monitor from our phones or laptops. The system recorded round-the-clock so we could play back the feed from any camera anytime, and I regularly logged in from work to check on Zack after school.
Curious to see what the cameras had captured, I click on the data archive and discover the entire file has been deleted. FILE EMPTY.
After years working with data at the Carnegie Institute of Technology, I know my way around recovering erased or missing digital data. I get to work on the one-terabyte digital video recorder, running several utilities to recover the lost data. Nothing works.
I try one more utility, and after a few minutes, it turns up a seventeen-second segment. I click on it. The clip is from the camera perched near the ceiling in the foyer and shows an image of the front door from the inside. The time stamp reads 11:30 a.m. Tuesday. Yesterday.
I watch as Ben approaches the front door and opens it. A blonde woman dressed in a stylish dark suit stands on the doorstep. “Simone,” Ben says, then they embrace. The clip shuts off.
Ben had never mentioned anyone named Simone. And what was she doing at our house at 11:30 on a weekday morning?
I watch the clip several times, locking in on details. The way she hugs him seems to start collegial enough, but the hug apparently went on past the end of the clip. Had it morphed into something else? The audio is faint, so it’s impossible to read if Ben is saying her name with any particular feeling. He doesn’t seem surprised, though. It looks as if he had been expecting her.
I’m not one of those women who worries that her husband is cheating. His restaurant business has him surrounded by beautiful, young women every day, so it didn’t take me long to figure out that Ben’s fidelity is something completely out of my control.
Still, I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I watch this clip for the fourth time.
Is Ben having an affair? Is that why he isn’t home?
A few minutes later, I try Will’s cell again, and this time he answers on the third ring. “Sarah, everything okay?” I hear people talking in the background as if he’s at a party. At 4:30 in the morning.
“Have you seen Ben?” I say, trying to steady my voice.
“He’s not home?”
“No. Not answering his phone, either. Or text.”
“He didn’t come into the restaurant—worked from home all day today . . . well, yesterday. Called me about nine yesterday morning and said he had to prep for the trial.”
I’m confused. Ben had filed a lawsuit against his Aurora partners and was set to testify in January. “Isn’t the trial scheduled for after Christmas?”
“We just found out his legal team was able to get it moved up. Ben goes on the stand next week, so he’s supposed to be meeting nonstop with lawyers the rest of this week.”
The new trial date catches me by surprise. “You think he could be meeting with the lawyers now?”
The noise around him quiets. It sounds like he’s gone into another room. “Not this late. But, just in case, I can call the lead attorney to find out.”
I grip the phone. “I know that Ben had a meeting with someone named Simone here at the house yesterday. Is she part of the legal team?”
“I know everyone on Ben’s legal team and there isn’t—” His voice shakes a little as he realizes what I might be asking. “It’s late and my memory’s not so hot. Ben works with a lot of people and I can’t keep track of all of them. Let me check in with the attorney and see what’s going on.”
He hangs up, leaving me sitting in the dark.
The silence in the room is deafening as next week’s trial date sinks in.
A few months ago, Ben had filed suit against his Aurora partners claiming they stole millions in profits from the restaurant he started, which had quickly ascended to LA’s top ten—lauded by critics for its modern American cuisine with a multicultural flair, its top-shelf American whiskey selection, and lavish VIP booths that often cater to a celebrity crowd, some of whom are so famous they are only known by their first names. With the trial date being moved up, I’m sure he’ll be in long meetings with his lawyers. But at this hour?
I rise and head to Zack’s room. His lanky frame is sprawled across his bed, face down, his feet dangling off the edge. At fourteen, he’s already taller than I am, taking after Ben’s side of the family. He’s still dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and is sleeping on top of the rumpled comforter.
“Zack, did you talk to your dad—did you see your dad—anytime yesterday?”
He doesn’t move. “Can you ask me in the morning?”
“This is important or I wouldn’t be asking you. When did you see him?”
His eyes flutter open now, but his body remains inert. “After school. We hung out for a little bit, then he said he had to take off.”
“He didn’t say where?”
“No. Why would he?”
“Did you do the Christmas tree with him?”
“Mom, why do you ask stuff like that?”
I sigh. “I’m just trying to figure out what happened yesterday.”
“He did the tree while I was at school. I guess. I don’t know.” His tone is rude, as though I’d asked him to calculate the foci of a hyperbola while he’s sleeping.
“Did you . . . did you do anything to the computer in my office? The cameras aren’t recording.”
His brown eyes spring open. “No, Mom. Why are you asking me that?”
“Zack—”
“No, it doesn’t matter what I say. You’re never going to trust me.”
“I’m just trying to understand why the cameras aren’t recording and the drive has been erased.”
He buries his head in his
pillow. “How would I know? You think I would break into your computer to do that?”
My cell phone rings. It’s Will, so I grab it before it finishes the first ring.
“Stuart doesn’t like the sound of what’s going on, so he’d like to meet with you this morning, around nine.”
“Stuart?”
“The lead attorney on Ben’s case.”
Ben rarely talked about his legal team, so I’m not surprised I don’t know any of the players.
“And we’ve called the police.”
“He’s only been missing a few hours, I thought police—”
“A guy in Ben’s position disappears just days before a high-profile trial? They’ll probably be at your house before we even hang up.”
CHAPTER TWO
DAY ONE
Detective James Dawson from the Los Angeles Police Department’s Missing Persons Unit appears on my doorstep three hours later. His wavy reddish-brown hair is carefully clipped to department standards, and he has the lean, strong build and posture of someone who works out religiously.
“Dr. Mayfield?” he says, shaking my hand with a firm grip that jams my wedding ring into my palm.
“Call me Sarah,” I say, letting him in.
He heads straight for the living room even though I had hoped we could sit in the kitchen where it’s warmer. He looks around the room and seems to be seeing what I see. A perfect Christmas tree nestled in the corner, a wood-burning fireplace, and classic slate-gray furniture accented with rich walnut that my designer friend, Annette, had selected.
“Nice tree,” he says casually, his eyes examining every ornament, every detail. “You do this?”
I pull my hair into a low ponytail. “No. My husband’s creation.”
He settles himself on the couch but doesn’t take his eyes off the tree. “Look, Sarah, most—over seventy percent—of the missing adults we investigate come back within seventy-two hours. How long has it been since you saw your husband?”
“My son was with him yesterday afternoon. But his car is missing, and he doesn’t answer his phone.”
He writes in his notebook. “And when did you last see your husband?”
“Four days ago, actually. I left for DC to make a presentation at NASA Headquarters.”
“You work for NASA?”
“I’m an astronomer at the Carnegie Institute of Technology. CIT. Working on a space telescope for NASA.”
He smiles, clearly surprised. “What were you in DC for?”
“We’ve discovered an asteroid that has been hiding undetected in Earth’s orbit for thousands of years.”
The news doesn’t register. I’ve just shared information about one of the most profound recent discoveries in our solar system, and he acts as though I just told him about my favorite laundry detergent.
“Is anything missing or out of place? Broken?”
I wonder if I should tell him about the gun. If I do, I have the feeling—right or wrong—that he’d take it away as some kind of evidence. But if Ben bought a gun and hid it in my nightstand, he must have had a reason to think we needed it. Even though I have no idea why—or for that matter, how to use it—I decide to keep quiet about it for now.
“Nothing is missing, as far as I can tell.”
“I understand your husband was set to testify in a trial on Monday? What’s that about?”
“Ben had filed a lawsuit against his partners claiming they stole millions from the restaurant he owns with them.”
“Aurora, right? Your husband owns it with actor Michael Hayden?”
“Yes, and two other partners.”
He holds up a photo on his iPad. “This your husband?” It’s a photo of Ben on the red carpet at the grand opening for Aurora. He looks especially attractive here, with a two-day beard and his hair perfectly mussed to look like he barely did anything, even if it took twenty minutes to achieve.
I nod.
“He looks familiar. Have I seen him in the movies?”
I’m not surprised he asks that. My husband is handsome, even by Hollywood standards. The years have improved his looks, and now his thick brown hair and blue eyes have many likening him to an older version of Chris Hemsworth.
“He’s not an actor.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the photo. “Do you think it’s possible he spent the night with . . . with a friend or—”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “Are you asking if he’s having an affair? That’s the obvious question, right? Someone who looks like he does. Married to a scientist wife. That’s clearly what’s going on here. It certainly couldn’t be connected to the upcoming trial where he’s testifying against some very powerful men about millions—”
He squares his shoulders. “We’ve got to cover all the bases here, Sarah. And to do that, some of my questions are going to be uncomfortable. Did you hear from him during your trip?”
“No.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Not really. The NASA presentations are especially intense . . . there’s not much time for anything else . . .”
His eyes take me in. I think he sees my delicate features—high cheekbones, light-brown hair, and fair skin—and assumes my work is lightweight enough that I should be able to call my husband a few times daily while I’m in DC. He can’t imagine that I was the one making the NASA presentation or that I’m the person directing the work of the three-hundred-fifty-million-dollar space telescope that spotted the Trojan asteroid.
“He didn’t leave a note or anything?”
“Nothing.”
“So you came home last night at . . . ?”
I rub my neck. “One. Or around that time. I had a late flight from DC.”
He’s silent as he writes a few things in his notebook. “I see security cameras everywhere. We’re going to assume he’ll return, but if he doesn’t, can you give us access to the footage?”
“We just got the system. I checked it early this morning and apparently didn’t set it up to record correctly.”
He shakes his head. Writes something down. “Depending on what happens, we may want whatever you got.”
Zack comes scrambling down the stairs then, slinging a backpack over his shoulder. He skids to a stop when he sees Detective Dawson.
“This is my son, Zack,” I say. “Dad still hasn’t come home.”
His face falls. It’s clear he thought I’d been overreacting last night.
“When did you last see your dad?” James asks.
“Yesterday. Afternoon.”
“What time?”
Zack makes eye contact with him. “He was here when I got home from school. Around three thirty? He took off later. Around five thirty, I think.”
“Did he say where he was headed?”
Zack looks troubled. “I don’t remember, exactly. Maybe he was going to work?”
“I talked with his assistant,” I say. “And he said Ben didn’t come into the office all day. He worked from home.”
Zack glances at his phone. “I’m going to be late for the bus. Should I go?”
“You can be late to school,” James answers. “Have a seat.”
The color drains from Zack’s face, and he slowly drops his backpack to the floor. He enters the living room and sits beside me. I place my hand on his shoulder and feel the tension beneath my fingertips.
“What did your dad talk to you about?” James asks.
“Just, you know, guy stuff.”
“Did he seem nervous about anything? Anything seem wrong?”
Zack shakes his head, his thickly lashed brown eyes trying to eke out the meaning behind the question. “No. Nothing.”
“And he left in his car?”
“I guess so, but I didn’t see. I mean, how else would he leave?”
James writes in his notebook. “And what did you do after he left?”
He shrugs. “Homework.”
“And after that?”
“I went to karate class.”
Zack looks at me before he answers. Except for his twice-a-week karate practice, Zack is grounded. After class, he’s supposed to come straight home.
“Around nine.”
“And no sign of your dad when you came home?”
Zack shakes his head.
“Did your dad say anything to you before he left?”
Zack thinks about this for a moment. “Yeah, it was kind of strange. He told me to keep the doors locked and set the alarm.”
“Does he always tell you to do that?”
Zack looks at me again. “No. Never.”
Despite its reputation as the place where O. J. Simpson lived and where his ex-wife was murdered, our Brentwood neighborhood otherwise is known as one of the safest in LA. Its wide streets lined with expensive cars and sprawling Spanish mansions make it one of the most sought-after places to live—it’s not somewhere where you keep your doors locked and set the alarm while you’re home.
Ben’s instructions to Zack put me on edge. Were we in danger?
The detective doesn’t seem fazed, however, because at that moment our home, with its coffered ceilings, towering Christmas tree, and living room with a view of the sparking pool, looks like a peaceful, safe haven. He doesn’t seem overly concerned about the person I saw on the security cameras running through the front yard early this morning, either. “I’ll take a look around before I go.”
After the detective leaves, I switch on the alarm then head to the kitchen, where Zack is finishing a bagel and scrolling through his phone.
“I think you should stay home. Just for today,” I tell him, although I’m not sure how long it will be before I feel safe again.
His voice is low, but not as deep as Ben’s. “I have to turn in my history paper, and I have a big test in algebra.”
“I’ll call the school and let them know . . . what’s happening,” I say gently. “You can email your paper, and I’m sure they’ll let you take the test another day.”