EQMM, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He nodded, motioning me to a chair. “Melanie left home about ten months ago and we haven't heard from her since. Judith has been frantic.” Then, in case I didn't remember, he added, “Judith is her mother, my former wife."

  "How old is Melanie now?"

  "She just turned twenty-three."

  "Old enough to be on her own,” I pointed out.

  "Parents don't stop caring about their children once they become adults. At times I've been too strict with her, but it's always been for her own good."

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "I know where she'll be this Saturday, July seventh.” He turned on a television set in the office wall. “I copied this off the Internet, from one of those things like YouTube where people can post their own videos."

  I saw an attractive red-haired girl seated at a piano. She sang a brief song inviting everyone to her wedding at 7:07 p.m. on 7/7/07. It was to take place on Governors Island in New York harbor and free ferry service would be available.

  "That's Melanie?” I asked

  "That's her."

  "Who's she marrying?"

  "No one, if you can stop her. Judith and I will be in New York Saturday and we must see her before she goes through with this foolishness."

  "Do you have her address?"

  Borden shook his head. “Probably in New York somewhere. You should be able to find her before Saturday."

  "It's a big city,” I reminded him. “Can you give me a copy of that video?"

  "I made an extra disc for you."

  I quoted my daily rate, plus a bonus if I located her before the wedding. He didn't argue, and wrote me a check for my retainer. “Tell me one thing. How did you find out about this clip on the Internet?"

  "One of Melanie's old college chums spotted it and thought it looked like her. We confirmed it, of course. There's no doubt."

  I thought about it. “If she hasn't sent you her address, can I assume her departure was not amicable?"

  "Probably not. She graduated from college a year ago and stayed with me over the summer."

  "Why not with her mother?"

  "Judith remarried a couple of years back and moved to Cleveland. Melanie doesn't get along with her new stepfather. She preferred to stay with me, but after the freedom of her college years that didn't last long. We had a bit of a row toward the end of summer and she took off for New York."

  "What was the row about?"

  "She was dating some creep who was dealing drugs. I demanded she break it off before she ended up in jail with him. The next morning she packed her bags and took off in her car. I thought she might turn up at Judith's, but she never did."

  "Had she been working during the summer?"

  "Not really. She was helping out at a drug-rehab center and that's where she met the guy. Randy Collier is his name."

  "Think he's the one she's marrying Saturday?"

  "I've no idea. Far as I know he's still around town."

  "Give me the address of this rehab center. I might as well start by talking to him."

  The drug-rehab program operated out of a former public library branch in the northeast part of the city, a neighborhood with a high crime rate and little hope for the future. Perhaps it wasn't the best place for an attractive young red-haired woman just out of college to seek summer employment. I parked in a potholed lot behind the building and went around to the front door. A black woman with cornrows was just finishing a telephone conversation which she cut short when she saw me.

  "What can I do for you?” she asked with some hesitation.

  "I'm looking for Randy Collier. Is he around?"

  "You police?” she asked, and I realized why she'd been hesitant. Middle-aged men in suits weren't their usual clientele, even if the suit was a bit on the shabby side.

  "Private,” I told her and showed my ID. “I'm not here to arrest him, just to talk."

  "I don't know if he's around. I'll check.” She went off somewhere and returned in a few minutes. “He'll come out."

  I wouldn't have been surprised if Randy Collier had been black, but he turned out to be a muscular white man wearing a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt. “What's up?” he asked me. I figured him to be well into his thirties.

  "You Randy Collier?"

  "Last time I looked."

  "I'm trying to locate Melanie Borden. I guess you know her."

  "I knew her last summer when she worked here. She's long gone, one of last year's butterflies."

  "Her father wants to find her. He said you were dating her."

  "Is that what the old man called it?” he asked with a snicker. “Yeah, we hooked up for a while, but then she went away."

  "Where to?"

  "New York. I guess she had a friend living there, her old college roommate. She wants to be an actress and she figured her old man couldn't track her down in a big city."

  I thought about that, wondering why she was suddenly advertising her presence on the Internet. “Do you know her address?"

  He shook his head. “Sent me a postcard at Christmas, but no return address."

  "Did her father ever try to contact you?"

  "He called once, but I told him I didn't know a thing."

  "You still got the postcard?"

  "No, I tossed it away."

  "What was the picture on it?"

  "Statue of Liberty, big deal, huh?"

  "What about her roommate's name? Did she ever mention it?"

  "Truman, like the old President. Liza Truman, I think."

  I thanked him and went back to the office. With Mike away and me off to New York for a few days, I needed someone to cover the office. I called Stacy, our part-time secretary, and asked her to come in Thursday and Friday, after the holiday. Then I played the disc Sam Borden had given me on our office computer. I watched it three or four times. The room could have been anywhere. There was a window visible in the background, and I could see the building across the street, a big red structure with arched windows. I wondered how many days it would take me to find it. I printed out her picture from the disc and put it in my file folder.

  On Wednesday morning I filled my gas tank and set out on the six-hour drive to Manhattan. It was easier than flying, especially since I wanted to bring my gun along.

  * * * *

  The city was hot and crowded with tourists for the Fourth of July celebration, with rain predicted later. I'd booked a room in lower Manhattan because I suspected Melanie Borden was staying down there somewhere, possibly in Greenwich Village but more likely even further south in SoHo or TriBeCa. After driving around aimlessly for a time searching for that red building with the arched windows, I finally parked the car and checked into my hotel. I had an unsatisfactory meal and a couple of beers, then returned to my room. The first thing to try was the phone book. There was an M. Borden in Greenwich Village, but when I called the number it wasn't Melanie. That didn't surprise me. If she'd cut off all contact with her parents she wasn't likely to have a phone listed under her own name. Chances were, she was using a newly purchased cell phone. Outside, the rain had started and I decided to watch the fireworks on the room TV and get an early start in the morning.

  There was nothing I could do on Thursday but try to find that red building. I started in the southeast part of Manhattan, and stopped in a neighborhood cafe to show the female bartender the picture of it I'd printed from the disc, with Melanie's face covered. “Can you help me? I'm looking for this building,” I said, indicating the one seen out the window.

  She looked me over and then shifted her attention to the printout. “I'm not sure, but I think it's one of those cast-iron buildings in SoHo, maybe along Broadway."

  I sauntered over to Broadway. The rain had ended hours earlier and it was turning into a pleasant day. This time I asked a traffic cop and he identified the building at once. I followed his directions and found it, a big old loft that had been made over into apartments. I crossed the street to the building opposite and went in. There was a mailbox for a
B. Melanie in 405, and when I spotted that I stopped looking further. I rang the buzzer and waited, but nothing happened. She was probably working somewhere or else away preparing for the wedding.

  A young woman entered the lobby as I was leaving, carrying a bag with a loaf of French bread sticking out the top. “Pardon me,” I said politely, trying not to frighten her. “I'm looking for Miss Melanie in four-oh-five. Do you know her?"

  "No. I've seen her once or twice in the elevator."

  "A redhead, isn't she?"

  The woman shook her head. “A brunette if she's the one I'm thinking of."

  I took out the picture I'd printed from the computer disc. “Would this be her?"

  "Hair's the wrong color. I don't think so."

  "Forget the hair and look at the face."

  But I'd become too insistent. “You a cop or something?"

  "A friend of the family. They asked me to look her up while I was in the city."

  She shrugged. “Sorry I can't help you."

  I left the building wondering what I'd do next. I remembered Melanie's college roommate and checked my notebook for her name. Liza Truman, like the President. Back to checking the phone book again. For all I knew, they might be sharing an apartment. There was one L. Truman in the book, at a Broadway address that sounded familiar.

  Then I realized it was the building I'd visited not ten minutes ago.

  Melanie Borden was living in the same building as her old college roommate.

  * * * *

  I'd promised to phone a report to Sam Borden early that evening, before he and his ex-wife flew down here the following day. “I think I've located her,” I told him. “I haven't seen her yet, but I have a lower Broadway address for a B. Melanie, in the same building as her former college roommate, Liza Truman. I'm sure it's her, but I'll check it out first thing in the morning."

  "Is she living with someone?"

  "I'll know that by the time you arrive."

  "All right,” Sam Borden said. “I've reserved separate rooms for Judith and me at the Hilton. My flight lands at JFK just fifteen minutes ahead of hers so we'll take a cab in together. We should be there by two."

  "If I can't meet you there, I'll leave you a message,” I promised.

  I was up early with the first rays of summer sun and headed downtown, hoping to catch Melanie. There was no answer when I buzzed her apartment at 8:35, but I was ready for that. This time I found Liza Truman's apartment and tried that one. “Yes?” a voice answered over the squeaky intercom.

  "I'm looking for Melanie Borden,” I said. “She doesn't answer her buzzer."

  "I don't know any Melanie,” the voice responded.

  "Sure, you do. She was your college roommate."

  "Go away or I'll call the police."

  "I am the police,” I told her. “I'm coming up."

  The entry door buzzed and I was so pleased my bluff had worked that I didn't worry about her calling the cops on me. Her room was right down the hall from Melanie's, number 409, and she was standing in the doorway in a bathrobe, waiting for me. It was the girl with the loaf of French bread that I'd questioned yesterday.

  "You're no cop!” she almost shouted when she recognized me. Now that I had time to study her I saw that she must be Melanie's age, with thick black hair, fashionable oval glasses, and a trim figure.

  "Private,” I explained, holding up my ID. “Melanie doesn't answer her buzzer. You must know where she is."

  "Get out of here! Did her father send you?"

  "That's right."

  "I told her not to put that video on the Internet. Sometimes I think she wants to be found."

  "Can you get her to open her door for me? Her parents are arriving later today."

  She hesitated and then agreed, with obvious reluctance. I followed her down the hall to 405 and waited while she knocked on the door. “Melanie, it's me. Open up!"

  There was nothing but silence. She rapped again, but there was still no answer. “I've got a key,” Liza told me. “At college she was always losing things so she gave me a spare to her apartment."

  She unlocked the door and we stepped inside. A man lay on his back in the center of the room. He wore only brief swimming trunks and his entire body was painted blue, except for the bullet hole in his chest. He was dead.

  * * * *

  I started to ask Liza Truman who the dead man was, but she'd run to the kitchen sink to throw up her breakfast.

  I waited for a moment and then followed her into the kitchen. “Are you all right?"

  "My God! This is terrible!"

  "Do you know him?"

  "I ... I don't know. With that paint all over him I can't be sure."

  "We'll have to call the police."

  "Shouldn't we wait for Melanie?"

  "If she knows about the murder she might be in danger,” I replied, not bothering to add that if she knew about the murder she might be the killer. “Did you hear anything that sounded like a shot?"

  "I don't think so, but I always shower in the morning and I have the radio on. I might not have heard it."

  "What about the people in the next apartment, between you two?"

  "They're in Europe for two weeks. A lot of people take their vacations over the Fourth."

  I looked around for the phone but couldn't find it. Then I remembered Melanie wasn't in the book. “What about you? Are you supposed to be at work?"

  "It's just a waitressing job. I took off today and tomorrow.” She paused, then added, “Melanie and I both want to act. That's why we came to New York."

  "Any luck yet?” My eyes were scanning the apartment's surfaces for a cell phone.

  "I had a small part off-Broadway. It didn't pay much, but at least I've got something for my resume. Melanie wanted to try performance happenings.” We'd returned to the living room but she carefully averted her gaze from the body on the floor.

  I thought of something else. “She had a boyfriend back home, name of Randy Collier. Did he ever come to see her?"

  She shook her head. “She wanted to start a new life in New York."

  "Does she have a cell phone? I want to call the police."

  "Sure. That's the only phone she has."

  "I don't see one anywhere."

  "I'll get mine and ring her number."

  She retreated to her room. When she hadn't returned in a full minute I left the door ajar and went after her. She was just finishing a call. “...Okay, I'll talk to you later."

  "Who'd you call?” I asked.

  "Some guys upstairs who knew her, but she's not there. I'll try Melanie's number now."

  She pressed the speed-dial number as we walked back to the missing girl's apartment but there was no hidden phone ringing.

  "She must have it with her,” I said.

  "Wherever it is, she's not answering. I'm calling the police."

  I couldn't argue with that, not with a blue man on the floor at my feet. In five minutes the first police car arrived, followed by detectives and the crime-scene investigators. I was suitably impressed.

  The detective in charge was named Phillips, and after he'd listened to our story and checked my ID his first question was, “Did you know the dead man, Miss Truman?"

  "I'm not sure. She had a few friends who dropped in from time to time. He might have been one of them. It's hard to say."

  He turned to me. “You say the missing woman posted a video clip on the Internet saying she was getting married?"

  "That's right. At 7:07 p.m. tomorrow, 7/7/07. She must have a thing about sevens."

  "There are lots of weddings tomorrow,” Phillips confirmed. “I've got a cousin getting married.” He glanced around the room. “Does she have a cell phone?"

  "We think she took it with her,” I told him. “Her parents are flying in this afternoon. I'll meet them at their hotel around two."

  He glanced at his watch. “I'd like you to bring them down here. The body will be gone by then and I want them to go over her clothing, to
see if it's all hers. There's no obviously male clothing in the closets, but this guy didn't come in off the streets in bathing trunks."

  "I'll be back a little after two,” I agreed.

  "Meanwhile we'll be questioning everyone in the building. Someone's got to know him."

  * * * *

  I took a taxi uptown and was in the Hilton lobby when Sam Borden arrived, accompanied by a tall, languid woman who'd seen better days. “This is Judith,” he announced. “My former wife and Melanie's mother.” He added, “Judith Hotchkiss now."

  "Al Darlan,” I said, shaking her hand.

  "Where is Melanie?” she asked at once. “Is she all right?"

  Two questions I couldn't answer! “I've located her apartment and her college roommate, Liza Truman. But there's been an unfortunate complication. A man was found dead in her apartment."

  "What?” Borden's voice was a savage growl. “What are you trying to tell us, Darlan?"

  "A man is dead and your daughter is missing. That's all we know. He was murdered, shot in the chest."

  "Are you saying Melanie might have shot him?” Judith Hotchkiss asked.

  "We don't know anything at this point, not even the victim's name. But Detective Phillips has asked me to bring you down to her apartment, to look over its contents. Could you do that?"

  "Anything that'll help find Melanie,” her mother said.

  They checked their bags at the desk and followed me out to the cab stand. I explained that the police were trying to determine if the dead man had been living with her.

  Borden asked, “Was it the man she was going to marry tonight?"

  "We don't know that. We won't know till we find your daughter."

  The taxi deposited us at the Broadway address. Only one police car remained in front. I held the outside door open for Borden and his ex-wife. The inner door had been propped open, probably from when they removed the body, and the parents walked through it to the elevator without glancing right or left.

  "Is the body still there?” Judith Hotchkiss asked as her ex-husband pressed the fourth-floor button.

  "No, it'll be gone by now,” I told her.

  Detective Phillips was waiting at the door while one of his men took a few final pictures inside. I introduced Borden and his ex-wife. “We have an alert out for your daughter,” he said. “I understand she was to be married tomorrow evening?"