by Simon Wood
“Lost some of its urgency? You mean it’s relegated to second-division status.”
But Holman already had his hands up in surrender. “Yes, the cold, honest truth of the matter is that your wife’s case isn’t as important as it was yesterday. I have a missing person, but I also have a murdered woman. Now, honestly, which do you think is going to be at the top of my list of priorities?”
Terry didn’t respond.
“But it doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do anything about your wife.”
“So you’re sure it’s Alicia Hyams?”
“Yes. Mr. Hyams, her husband, made a formal identification early this morning.”
Poor bastard, Terry thought. He knew exactly how the man was feeling. Of course, he’d been taken to the brink, but Alicia Hyams’s husband had been pushed over it.
“What happens with Sarah?”
“This afternoon I will be holding a press conference with Mr. Hyams and we’ll make an appeal for witnesses to come forward. I spoke to the media about doing a similar appeal for your wife, but I need your approval.”
“There’s nothing to approve,” Terry said. “When?”
“Monday at eleven. I want to put the weekend between your wife’s case and Alicia Hyams’s. I don’t want anyone getting confused.”
“Do you think it will help?”
“I’m hoping so. We need something to kick-start the investigation. This could be the tonic we’ve been looking for.” Holman checked his watch. “I’d better be going.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Holman gulped the remainder of his coffee. Terry didn’t know how the man did it. The brew was far too hot for him to sip, let alone gulp.
Holman got up to leave. Terry followed him to the door. Although twenty years Terry’s senior, Holman carried himself with the confidence of a man who could handle all situations. Terry couldn’t help admiring him. He darted around Holman to open the door for him.
“I want to say thanks, Sheriff,” Terry said, offering his hand. “You don’t have an easy task, and people like me don’t make it any easier.”
Holman took Terry’s hand and crushed it. “You’re just trying to do your best for your wife. It’s totally understandable.”
“Well, I’ll speak to you Monday.”
Letting himself out, Holman agreed and pushed the screen door to one side. He went to let it go, but stopped.
“And Mr. Sheffield, no more flyers.”
“Okay. Do you want me to take them down?”
The sheriff shook his head. “No need.”
Terry imagined that Holman had sent his deputies out to remove them already. “Why?”
“How many calls have you received because of them?”
“None so far.”
“And you won’t.”
“It’s been less than a day. Give it a chance.”
“Trust me, Mr. Sheffield, flyers like yours rarely have an impact.”
The instant Terry closed the door, the phone rang. Knowing his luck, it was probably someone responding to one of his flyers. Picking up the phone, he watched Holman drive away.
“Hello,” Terry answered.
“Oh, you don’t sound like Sarah,” the caller said, sounding surprised.
“I’m not.”
The caller was male, but he didn’t sound like Terry’s mystery caller. This guy didn’t have the malevolent streak the mystery caller possessed.
“Goddamn it, have I dialed the wrong number again?”
Who is this clown? Terry thought.
“I’m always dialing wrong numbers. I should use speed dial, but I can never work the damn thing out, and no one ever has the time to do it for me.”
This definitely wasn’t Terry’s mystery caller.
“You wanted to speak to Sarah Sheffield?” Terry asked, interrupting the caller’s speech on his technical ineptitude.
“No, Sarah Morton. I have dialed the wrong number. Dammit. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a nice day.”
“No, you haven’t,” Terry said before the caller hung up. “Sarah’s my wife.”
“Married? She’s not married.” The caller paused. Somewhere the penny dropped. “Oh, yeah. She eloped some months ago with some English guy.”
“I know. I am some English guy.”
“Of course you are.” He laughed at his foolishness. “Put her on the phone?”
“She’s not here.”
“Tell her I called, then.”
“You don’t understand. She’s missing.”
That stumped him. And it shut him up, which was a blessing in itself. Terry had only been on the phone for a couple of minutes, but the caller already had his head buzzing.
“How long?”
“Don’t know. A week maybe,” Terry said. “Who is this?”
“I’m Marcus Beasley, Sarah’s editor.”
Finally, someone who knew Sarah. He hoped his luck was changing.
“When was the last time you spoke to Sarah, Mr. Beasley?”
“Marcus, please. And it would have been over a week ago. That was why I was calling. She’s got a deadline to meet, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her. And unlike in the movies, we don’t hold the front page for the star reporter.”
“Marcus, she’s been missing for over a week. Her car’s gone. So are some of her clothes. I don’t think she’s holding out on you.”
“Oh,” Marcus squeaked, suitably silenced.
“I think she’s in trouble. Do you have any idea where she could be?”
“I don’t. Sorry, what’s your name?”
“Terry Sheffield.”
“She still uses Sarah Morton.”
Terry understood from a continuity standpoint that it made sense for Sarah to stick to her maiden name when it came to her work, but he couldn’t help wonder if it was sign of her limited commitment to their marriage. “I know.”
“Not important anyway.”
“Not really.”
“Sorry, Terry, I don’t know where she could be. She never says. She always plays her cards close to her vest, if you know what I mean.”
He didn’t really. Sarah seemed to be so open, but he’d only known the vacation Sarah, not the day-to-day Sarah. It made him wonder what he really knew about her. The more he learned about her, the more he felt he’d fallen for the wrong version of her. Maybe she was a driven, uncaring person. He sagged and sat on the floor with his back against the front door.
“Do you know what she was working on?” Terry asked.
“A couple of things.”
“Anything dangerous?”
“Dangerous? This is California Now, not the Washington Post.”
“How about…”
“I’m gonna have to put you on hold a moment, Terry. I’ve got another call. It might be Sarah.”
It was a nice thought, but Beasley wasn’t fooling anyone.
“I’ll be back in a second, but I might cut you off. I don’t always get this right.”
What a muppet, Terry thought and smiled.
“Here goes.”
There was a click then music. Terry was on hold. But just as quickly, Beasley was back.
“Terry, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Good, I didn’t screw it up. Look, I need to take this call, but why don’t you come into the office Monday. Say around seven p.m. Sound good?”
“Sounds great.”
“Good. Do you know where we are?”
“No.”
Beasley offloaded Terry onto a receptionist who gave him a San Francisco address. The address meant nothing to Terry, but the receptionist assured him it was a popular locale and whizzed off a staccato list of directions. He hung up happy to have a starting point at last but disappointed that he would have to wait.
Terry shook off his disappointment and drove to Genavax. He stopped in at Jenny Kuo’s office to explain that he would be taking a second mental health day because of Holman’s planned press conferen
ce. Jenny was just as understanding as he expected. He repeated the exercise with Pamela Dawson. She was more than accommodating and just as saccharin as she had been on the phone earlier. He smiled, making his excuses and escaping before her verbal molasses could bog him down.
He was determined to talk to Kyle Hemple, but this wasn’t the time. He left and went in search of a cell phone. He needed something that would work as a pocket guide to operating in America. He bought the latest smartphone and went for a late lunch. While he ate, he familiarized himself with his phone and downloaded various apps he thought he might need. By the time he was connected to the world, it was late afternoon. He drove back to Genavax and waited for Kyle to leave for the day.
Kyle was one of the first to leave Genavax. Terry unpeeled himself from the Ford Focus. The Central Valley’s heat had turned the Ford into a greenhouse. Even with the windows down, there was no relief. As he slipped from the car, his T-shirt clung to his back. Terry jogged over to Kyle as he stood by his Toyota Land Cruiser.
“Kyle, wait up.”
Kyle craned his neck and grinned when he spotted Terry. “Dude. I didn’t think you were in today.”
“I wasn’t. Can we talk?”
“What about?” Suspicion fluttered behind Kyle’s eyes.
“Not here. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Sorry, man. I don’t have the time.”
“I only need a few minutes. C’mon, Kyle. I won’t keep you long, I promise.”
Kyle came close and kept his voice hushed. “I don’t have the time to talk about what you want to talk about.”
What the hell was going on at Genavax? Kyle’s fear wasn’t a good sign, especially when there was a possible connection to Sarah and her disappearance. “Kyle, you don’t know what I want to talk about.”
“I’m sorry, Terry.” Kyle brushed past him, jamming his car key into the sun-bleached Toyota’s door. “No.”
Terry snatched Kyle’s arm as he went to dive into the Land Cruiser. His gaze bore into the aging surfer’s eyes. “Kyle, if you know what’s happened to my wife, you can’t remain quiet about it.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Kyle, please.”
Kyle shook his head. “I’m making a big mistake talking to you, but follow me.”
Terry followed Kyle’s SUV. He expected to drive into town and find a bar or restaurant, but Kyle joined the freeway and exited at some nowhere rural county road. They followed the highway for five miles, flanked by open fields. Kyle made a right onto a gravel road leading to an abandoned airstrip. They parked on the worn and barely legible numbers at the end of the runway.
He couldn’t have found a quieter place, Terry thought, getting out of the Focus. “Is this really necessary?”
“You wanted to talk, didn’t you?”
Kyle stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked on the dashed line running down the center of the runway. The tarmac was pitted and missing in places. Wild grasses grew in clumps in the cracks. Terry fell in next to Kyle.
“I used to skydive here,” Kyle said. “That was years ago. I don’t do it anymore. When the dive club left, the airport closed. But I still like to come here when I want to think.”
There was a touch of the Zen master about Kyle that Terry wouldn’t have credited him with possessing.
“Kyle, what is it you’re not telling me? And what does it have to do with Sarah?”
“I told you about the bust up between Pamela and your wife, yeah?”
“That was as far as you got. You didn’t say the reason.”
“Sarah had done a little digging into Genavax’s performance.”
“Into its finances, I know. I told her to do that. I’ve been bitten by biotech startups who have nothing but a couple of months of rent in the bank and very little else.”
“From what I gather, she went further than that. I think she found a few wrinkles where there shouldn’t have been any.”
“What wrinkles?”
“Irregularities.”
“Spit it out, Kyle.”
“Jesus, man.” He flashed Terry his best whipped-puppy look.
Terry softened. “Just tell me, Kyle. Please. It could be important.”
“She alluded that some of Genavax’s breakthroughs came as a bit of a surprise. Results had been better than expected and Genavax was on the fast track to success.”
“What was her point?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did she think it was because of falsified data or industrial espionage? What?”
“Dude, I don’t know.” Kyle’s stride quickened. “I’m just telling you what she said. I don’t know what she meant. I just know it pissed off Pam.”
“But you work at Genavax. You must know something.”
“I don’t. I keep my head down and do my work. Personally, I don’t care what Genavax gets up to as long as its checks don’t bounce.”
“Where did Sarah get her info?”
“Don’t know.”
Kyle’s speed outpaced Terry’s. Terry hooked one of his arms to slow him down. Kyle wasn’t getting off that easily. “You do know something.”
Kyle spun around, pivoting in Terry’s grasp. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the code I use. I know nothing. Get it?”
Terry knew Kyle was lying. He knew more than he was letting on, but it wasn’t the time to press him any further. If he treated the situation right, he might get Kyle to break his silence.
“I get it.”
“You push too hard. You’re as bad as your wife. Dude, when we’re back at Genavax and you see me, don’t talk to me. Got that?”
“Did someone talk to you after we had lunch?”
Kyle tugged on his arm in Terry’s grip.
“Did someone threaten you?”
Kyle glared instead of answering him, but it was all the answer Terry needed. There was something very wrong at Genavax.
Terry nodded and released Kyle’s arm.
Kyle turned and stormed off back to his Toyota. Terry watched him, giving the man his space.
Terry waited until the only evidence of Kyle’s presence was the dust kicked up from his tires before trudging back to the Focus. On the drive home, he listened to the drone of the car engine, not thinking about Kyle, Sarah, or the cloud that blighted his life. He put his brain into stasis and left it there. Autopilot got him to Sutter Drive.
Turning onto his street, he spotted an unfamiliar car pulling into his driveway. He didn’t know anyone with an old model Honda Accord. Out of instinct, he thumbed the garage door remote.
As the door retracted, Terry’s visitor blew out of the driveway, reversing at high speed, and straight at Terry. They both slammed on their brakes and the Accord came treacherously close to front-ending Terry. The Honda driver snatched a forward gear and roared off.
Terry tried to seize a glance of the driver, but the Honda sped off into the distance too rapidly for him to see anything. Terry didn’t give chase. A numbing chill had swept over him. The replacement battery for the garage door opener was still in its packaging by his foot, thrown there by the force of his braking. He hadn’t opened the garage door—the Accord driver had.
CHAPTER TEN
“Thank you for attending the press conference this morning,” Holman said to the assembled media representatives.
The group consisted of two dozen reporters from the local television affiliates, their technicians, and a handful of local newspaper journalists. The building wasn’t large enough to hold them all, so Holman held the press conference in the parking lot, using the side of the building as a backdrop.
Terry sat on Holman’s left, behind two picnic tables squeezed together. A Santa Rita County Sheriff’s Department flag was draped over the edge of the tables to hide their legs and feet from view. Two blowups of Sarah’s face hung on the wall behind Terry and Holman. The photographs helped hide the municipal building’s weathered stucco. Fingers laced, Terry stared at the picnic
table’s surface, examining its grain and avoiding the media vultures with microphones and tape recorders outstretched.
“Your support is greatly appreciated.” Holman glanced at his notes. “Sarah Sheffield has been missing for a minimum of eleven days. It has been hard to ascertain the exact date she disappeared due to the lack of corroborative sightings. However, signs are that she left her home of her own accord. A bag was packed and the car was taken—a 2009 white-and-gray Subaru Outback, license number 6NHS374. There is no sign of a robbery or the use of force. However, the amount of clothing taken suggests that Mrs. Sheffield didn’t intend to be away for such a significant length of time. Also, there has been no active use of her credit cards. Mrs. Sheffield is a journalist and writes under her maiden name, Sarah Morton. So we are appealing to anyone who might have seen Sarah”—Holman held up an eight-by-ten photo of her—“to call our special hotline, 1-800-HELP-NOW. Now, I would like to give Mrs. Sheffield’s husband, Terry Sheffield, a minute to make an appeal.”
Terry looked up from the table and stared into the expectant faces. He tried to speak, but his throat seized. He coughed and apologized. “Thanks, Sheriff Holman, and thanks to everyone for coming.”
He took a moment to make eye contact with those assembled. A pretty Asian American reporter smiled, as if to will him on with his difficult task. He didn’t want to smile back with the cameras filming. This wasn’t the time to be smiling.
Terry didn’t have a set speech, but Holman had told him not to worry about what he said. He was there as window dressing, no more than an investigative prop to garner pity from the public. Holman called it his “abandoned puppy tactic.”
“If anyone has seen Sarah, or even thinks they’ve seen her, please call the sheriff’s 1-800 number. You have a picture of her, please use it. Get her face out there. I’ve come to this country to start a new life with my wife, to live the American dream—please help me do that.” Terry shifted in his seat. “And Sarah, if you’re watching, please call. Even if it’s just to tell me that you’re okay. Just call, please. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Holman patted Terry on the shoulder. He forced a thin smile and nodded approvingly.
“Thanks, Mr. Sheffield,” Holman said before addressing the media. “I will accept a few questions.”