“Oh, shut up.”
Fran tore off a chunk of bread. Silver bracelets jangled with every movement. “I wonder if the manager doesn’t have a point. What if it…” Hand palm up, she mimicked his up-and-down motion.
“The horse is house-trained.” Ginger, small enough to stand under the table where her owners sat, was waiting patiently.
“I didn’t know you could do that with a horse.”
“I didn’t either.”
“What’s the difference between a horse and a pony?”
“God knows.”
“A horse to lead the blind,” Fran said in that flat voice of utter disbelief people use for the preposterous. She smeared butter on the bread. “Just what kind of con do you think these people are running?”
Yeah, Susan was wondering that, too.
Fran stuffed a chunk of bread in her mouth and studied Susan while she chewed. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. It’s great to see you, too.”
“Did you make an appointment with your doctor?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not sleeping well, that’s all.”
“It’s not all, you’re tired all the time and—”
The waiter sauntered up and rattled off specials. Susan ordered fettuccini and Fran asked for catfish. When the waiter left, Fran went on right where she left off: “—you droop around all the time. Go see the doctor. You might be anemic.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I don’t know.” Susan moved around cutlery. “I have these weird dreams.”
“Really?” Fran leaned closer. “What kind of weird? Erotic?”
“More like a sense of dread. I hear gunfire and I’m running around trying to prevent somebody from getting killed.”
“Who?”
The waiter returned with Fran’s wine. “Who?” Fran repeated when he left.
“I don’t know, but it’s vital that I prevent it.”
Fran sat back, a fascinated look on her face. “You’re having a premonition.”
“Oh Lord, I hope not. That would probably mean Ida is going to shoot someone.”
“I hope it’s not you. Then I’d have absolutely nothing to do. The travel business is in the toilet. Nobody goes anywhere anymore. Airlines can’t be counted on. Panic about smuggled weapons. Long lines while you’re groped to make sure you don’t have anything lethal. And everybody looks askance at everybody else, because who knows who has evil lurking in his heart. Don’t you just love that word ‘askance’?”
“It’s always been one of my favorites.”
The little horse was well behaved, better than the small child sitting with her just-about-had-it-looking mother. Patrons noticed the animal, were astonished, then sat down and ordered food.
As they lingered over coffee, inertia set in. Susan found it hard to force her spine to pull her upright. When Fran said maybe they should leave because the waiter was giving them dirty looks, Susan got herself to her feet.
Turning into her driveway, the headlights swept over a small form huddled on her back steps. She rolled into the garage, cut the motor, and went toward the house.
“Jen? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“I didn’t know you’d be so late. I brought you some dinner.” Jen put an arm around the bowl on the step beside her.
“Oh, Jen, I’m so sorry. Did we have a date? I’ve been a little forgetful lately.”
“No. I just thought I’d bring you something.” Bringing something, because of Susan’s lousy cooking, was the excuse Jen used to come by and hang a bit. She hadn’t done that in a while, and Susan thought Jen was adjusting to her parents’ divorce, her mom’s new husband, and didn’t need to clutch so tightly to Susan’s offered hand of friendship.
Jen rose so slowly she might have frozen in a sitting position and was, muscle by muscle, joint by joint, ungluing herself.
“You all right, Jen?”
The harsh overhead light made the girl look almost frightened by the question. She nodded.
“Do you need some help with anything?” Sitting forlorn on Susan’s back steps, she looked shaky, as if an inner storm was putting her in turmoil.
“What’s the matter, Jen? Are you in trouble? Sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“Unhappy? Is somebody hurting you? Your mother’s…” An icy thought touched her mind. “Your new stepfather, how do you like him?”
“He’s okay. I gotta go.” She thrust the bowl at Susan.
Susan tucked it under one arm. “Well, is it all right if I walk with you?’
Jen shrugged. “I guess.”
During the block-and-a-half walk, Susan felt as if she was mindlessly chattering with her questions of how was summer school, had Jen made any new friends, did she like her teachers. Jen responded with grunts or one-syllable answers.
“I’m going to have this for dinner tomorrow.” Susan patted the bowl. “Will you come and share it with me?”
Jen shrugged. “Maybe.” She darted off to her house.
Worried, Susan watched Jen trudge up the steps, slouch across the porch, go inside, and close the door behind her.
7
A couple beers with the guys meant Mitch didn’t get home early like he promised, but he stopped at See’s and bought the dark chocolate–covered walnuts that Cary liked. He was sorry about last night. He shouldn’t have hit her. She just got him so mad that sometimes he lost it. They needed a baby. That would keep her busy. She couldn’t be reading all the time and traipsing off to the library, or going to that Sylvia’s place. As he rolled into his driveway he hit the opener and the door rattled up on an empty garage. What the hell? Where was her car? She should have been home hours ago.
He pulled in, hit the remote to close the garage door, and went in the house. “Cary!” No food on the table, no smell of cooking. What the fuck?
A man worked all day, he should have a meal ready when he got home. Yanking open the refrigerator, he shoved stuff around until he found the last beer, pulled it out and popped the tab. He took a long swallow. He’d told her to pick up a couple six-packs. She was always doing shit like this and making him lose his temper.
“Cary!” He stomped up the stairs. Probably flaked out with one of her damn headaches. If she was asleep, he’d show her what happened to wives who didn’t give a thought to their husband, tired after working the job and needing something to eat and a little peace and quiet when he got home.
The bedroom was empty. Spare room, too. It was going to make a great nursery. Where the hell was she? Car broke down? Ran out of gas? Visiting that bitch Arlette? Or forgetting everything and reading at the library. Always reading. You’d think she was going to school or something, the way she was always reading. He slammed open the bathroom door. Two long cracks ran down the center from when she’d tried to lock herself in and he’d smashed it with his fist. Need to get that fixed.
She’s run. The thought hit him like a live wire. He shoved open the closet door in the bedroom and pawed through the hanging clothes. It didn’t look like anything was gone, but she might have bought something new, or that bitch Arlette might have given her something. He went through her dresser. Panties, bras, socks. How the fuck could he be sure? It wasn’t like he counted this stuff.
Suitcases! He went back to the spare room and yanked open the closet door. There they were, all the suitcases, on the floor just where they were kept. She wouldn’t leave him. When she’d tried that trick before, he’d gone after her and brought her home where she belonged. Got herself all the way to San Diego. By God, she’d better not try it again. No matter where she went, he’d track her down. Wife of a law enforcement officer? Any police department in the country would help. “So you better not be stupid, baby. If you’ve taken off, you won’t get far. And the farther I have to go to bring you back, the more it’s going to cost you.”
He hauled in a long breath. Maybe she got held up so
mewhere. What the hell did she say she was doing today? Picking up groceries? Yeah, that was probably it, she got held up at the grocery store. Stupid people, never thinking about anybody but themselves. Never thinking that when a man worked all day and came home hungry, he ought to find dinner on the table. Not this damn empty house!
He pounded his fist on the kitchen table.
Okay, he wasn’t making anything better by getting so riled. Just take it easy and she’d be home any minute. Then he’d tell her how disappointed in her he was, how she should have had his dinner ready. Leaning both hands on the table, he sucked in another breath, then straightened and took a bottle of wine from the shelf. He uncorked it, poured a glass and went into the living room. He sipped. Yeah, just the thing. He’d sit here on the living room couch, have a glass of wine, relax, wait for her to get home.
Two hours later she still wasn’t home. He found Arlette’s number in her address book.
The bitch herself answered.
“It’s Mitch,” he said. “Let me talk to Cary.”
“Good evening to you, too, Mitch. I hope you’re enjoying this beautiful evening.”
“Cut the crap. Let me talk to her.”
“Who?”
He took a hard hold on his temper. Arlette always set him off, the stupid bitch. She knew it, too, did it deliberately. “I need to talk to her.”
“Are you referring to Cary?”
“No other reason I’d call you.”
“She isn’t here. Why would you think she would be?”
He clenched a fist, swallowing all the words he wanted to yell. “Where is she?”
“What do you mean, where is she? What have you done to her? You sick bastard, if you’ve hurt her—”
He hung up before he ended up ripping out the phone, and flopped on the couch. Fumbling for the remote, he clicked on the television. When his glass was empty he opened another bottle of wine, and saw there was only one left. Couldn’t even keep wine on the shelf. He had to do everything, earn all the money, make all the decisions, do all the work. What did she do? Nothing. Read all the time. Couldn’t even buy a bottle of wine so he could have a relaxing drink when he got home. Well, he had ways of showing her he wasn’t pleased. When she got back, he’d show her a few.
Like some clown in a sitcom, he turned his wrist to look at his watch and spilled wine on his pants. Goddamn it! Brushing at the wet spot, he grabbed her address book again, looking for her sister’s number. What was it, an eight-hour drive to San Diego?
The sister’s ten-year-old son answered. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”
“Good.”
“I need to talk to your Aunt Cary. Put her on, will you?”
“Aunt Cary? Is she coming to see us? Cool. She’s fun.”
In the background, he heart Sybil’s voice calling, “Who is it, Bobby?”
“Uncle Mitch, he—”
Apparently Sybil snatched the phone from Bobby, because the next voice he heard was hers. “Mitch, what’s wrong?”
“Put Cary on.”
“She’s not here. What’s wrong? What happened?”
He told Sybil to have Cary call him when she heard from her and hung up. She had other friends. He should call and—
Bank.
Should have done this first. He went through all the shit of press here for this and press the fuck there for that and finally got the checking account balance. It matched the numbers in the checkbook. He had to do all the same nonsense for the savings account, expecting it to be seriously depleted. When he heard the figure, he rubbed the back of his neck. She didn’t take any money. How far could she run with no money?
Idiot programs came and went on the television set, the news came and went. At midnight he thought he should do something. Stumbling on the stairs, he went up to the bathroom, took a swig of mouthwash and swished it around, spat it out. He tucked in his shirt, grabbed a jacket, and drove to the department.
“Hey, Mitch,” Waters said, “you just come from a long party? You look like shit.”
Mitch ignored the cretin and went in to the lieutenant.
“Evening, Mitch.” Lieutenant Vargas leaned back in his swivel chair and tossed his pen on the cluttered desk. “Something I can do for you?”
“Talk to you for a minute?” Vargas always told the men they could come to him any time about anything, but he was an impatient kind of guy and didn’t really like it when they took him up on it.
“Sure. Have a seat. Got a problem?”
“Yeah.” Mitch parked his rear in a chair in front of the desk and rubbed an index finger over his jaw. Now that he was here, he didn’t know how to get started. Gave him some idea of how it was to be on the other side of the desk. He didn’t like it.
The lieutenant looked at him, waiting.
“It’s Cary.”
“What about her?”
“Something’s wrong.”
“You got a marital problem, take it up with a counselor or your priest.”
“No, it’s…” Mitch wished his head wasn’t throbbing so much. He couldn’t think straight. “She’s missing.”
Vargas let the chair tilt level. “Explain missing. You guys have a fight?”
“Nothing like that.” Mitch took in a breath and spilled it. “She didn’t come home tonight.”
“You been drinking, Mitch?”
“Couple of beers is all.”
“Uh-huh. Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know. I expected her to be home when I got off work and she wasn’t. So I figured she’d be there any minute, you know? But she wasn’t, and I waited, thinking maybe car trouble or something and she’d call.”
“You make a few calls, try to find her?”
“Called friends. Checked hospitals to see if an accident…” Mitch put his palms on the tops of his legs and rubbed up and down. “I gotta tell you, I’m worried.”
“Could she have gone to visit a relative, a friend?”
“Not without telling me.”
Vargas crossed his arms and looked at him, like the son of a bitch was doubting what he said. “Level with me, Mitch. You and Cary get into it and she took off?”
“Naw, nothing like that.” Mitch didn’t bother to mention she’d made him lose his temper last night and, before he realized what was happening, he popped her one. “She would call, Lieutenant.”
Vargas studied him like he would a suspect he thought was lying, then yelled, “Manny!”
Sergeant Manfred stuck his head in the door. “You wanted me, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah. Mitch’s wife is missing. Get started on it.”
Manny looked at Mitch, then jerked his head toward the hallway and walked off. Mitch followed. Having to tell his coworkers his wife was gone. How did that look? Like he was some wimp who couldn’t even keep track of his own wife.
Manny went behind his desk and sat down. Mitch hooked a foot around the chair leg and dragged it closer.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Manny said.
“I’m worried sick, Manny.” Mitch told him he expected Cary to be home at five.
Manny looked at his watch. “It’s been seven hours. Why’d you wait so long? You guys have a fight?”
“No.”
“Come on, Mitch, this is me. If she got mad and walked out, you need to tell me.” Manny sat back, hands behind his head.
Mitch said nothing.
“Okay, I’m going to need it all. Start with her full name.”
Cary Secunda Black. Five-three, blond, and blue. Last seen 6 A.M. Wearing old, white terry cloth bathrobe. Recent pictures. Make, model, and color of car. License plate number.
“Relatives?”
“Just the one sister in San Diego. I called her. Cary isn’t there.”
“I’ll get this started,” Manny said.
“Thanks.” Mitch drove home and got to work on the last bottle of wine.
At three A.M. he stumbled up to bed. The whole place reeked of her perfu
me, the blankets, the pillows. Hell, the air in the room.
* * *
Raging thirst and a pounding head woke him. He’d forgotten to close the curtains and the sun streamed in, pooling on the carpet and catching dust motes dancing in the air. Cary ought to clean this place better. Stupid bitch can’t do anything right.
Cary!
He rolled over and sat up too fast. Made his head swim. The sheets and blankets were tangled, the other side of the bed was empty.
Head pounding like a jackhammer, he found aspirin in the medicine cabinet, threw two into his mouth, and cupped his hand under the faucet for water to wash them down. He showered, shaved, got dressed, and drove to work.
It wasn’t until the end of his shift that Manny contacted him to say no progress so far, but they would find her.
8
Ida ducked into the locker room to check her appearance in the mirror. Uniform pressed, shoes shined, belt, cuffs, extra clips, baton, gun. Hooking her thumbs over the belt, she gave it a tug of adjustment, brushed her hair, shook it loose, and concentrated on getting her breathing under control. For the second time in two days she was told to haul ass into the chief’s office. Life can turn on you in the blink of an eye. Two weeks ago she’d been on top of the world, sitting on a cloud with a rosy glow. Now the cloud was a black thunderhead.
She’d messed up good. Almost got Osey killed. Damn it, how could she? Six months into a new job and she was making a mangle of everything. Her father always told her she’d never amount to anything. Well, Dad, right again. She could be flippant all she liked, but the bottom line was, she loved this job. She even loved this town and she wanted to do good on her first job as a cop. How likely was it she’d find a job with another department after getting fired from this one? Maybe she ought to take off running before she got the boot.
Okay now, let’s not get any stupider. So I made a mistake. Two, actually. Okay, two. Two tiny mistakes won’t get me axed, will it? Her mind, that mind that stood her in good stead when it came to tests but had some defects when it came to making judgment calls, pointed out that these mistakes weren’t tiny. Both could have been fatal.
Edge of Midnight Page 5