The fog was depressing. Neon lights bled colors onto slick pavements. He watched for Cary wherever he went. His eyes automatically searched every face on the street. He called her former boss to ask if he’d heard from her, went back again and again to the library where she’d spent so much time.
He’d spot a blonde with long hair, curved mouth, and hurry up behind her only to see a stranger. Anywhere he went, he was always looking, always searching. At work, the guys eyed him, making sure he wasn’t cracking up. When he wasn’t on the job, he spent hours going through her books again, looking for a trace, a clue, a small arrow that pointed at somewhere she might go. Like any addict, she had stashed a hidden supply, under the bed, in closets, behind shoe boxes, in the suitcases. He would move a stack of towels and there’d be books. He even found the damn things behind the cereal boxes.
He went through every freakin’ one more than once, hoping for a note in the margin, an underlined word, a receipt used as a bookmark. The hours spent looking got him nothing. A whole bunch were psychology books of one kind or another. Psycho-shit. If only they’d had a baby. That would have kept her from trotting off to the library all the time. He’d been suspicious of all those hours she’d spent there. Reading, she claimed. He’d followed her a few times, watched to see who went in behind her, who she talked to, who came out after her.
People had habits. If Tuesday was library day, they went on Tuesday. He ran a few license plates, but no likely males swam across his radar. Plenty of elderly or homeless. Not good candidates for running off with his wife. No matter how hard he worked at it, he couldn’t find squat to tie anyone to Cary. Still, with all the fucking books she lugged home, why did she have to go to the library to read?
“The ones I’m reading can’t be checked out,” she told him when he complained about it.
“What ones?”
“Expensive art books.”
Sounded like a stupid lie to him, but he’d gone in one time and asked to check out one and was told those didn’t circulate. He tried to stop her buying any, explaining they couldn’t afford it, but nothing did any good. She always had to have more.
He noticed the plants on the desk looked dry and wilted. Dying. Like Cary? Alone and dying? Or dead, rotting, and covered with maggots. His Cary with the soft blue eyes and compliant nature. Maybe he should water the plants, maybe that would prolong their lives, maybe they’d survive until she came home to take care of them.
* * *
Saturday had Mitch cursing under his breath and fuming with impatience through his shift. Why did he keep turning up on the job? Plodding through shit as though it made a damn bit of difference to Berkeley, or California, or the fucking world, if Mitchell Black turned up for work every day. When the light turned green, he tromped the accelerator and peeled away like better luck awaited him today.
Just as he’d been doing every day after shift since that broad approached him in Albertson’s, he drove to the El Cerrito Plaza with a six-pack on the passenger seat, parked where he could watch the entrance, and waited. He popped a tab and took a long swallow. Should have gotten her last name and address, wouldn’t be wasting time.
Cary ran off with some man. It was the only thing that made sense. Women talked with their friends. They probably giggled about him, Mitch the sucker, who didn’t know what was going on under his own nose. Last night he’d dreamed about her. Her perfume drifted over to tickle his nose. When he reached for her, the dream turned dark, the perfume heavy and thick, choking, vile. He put his hands on her, but instead of his soft, eager-to-please wife, he touched something putrid and slimy, hair matted with mud from the grave. He’d make her pay for what she was doing to him. Sleepless nights, falling behind on the job, the guys looking at him with sympathy but not getting too close, like what he had might rub off.
Reassuringly, he patted the Glock on his hip. When the time came, it would be there for him. Maybe he couldn’t count on his wife, but, by God, he could always count on the Glock. People went in and out of Albertson’s, but no sign of the broad he was looking for. He’d taken to sleeping with the television on, trying to ward off dreams of a bloated, stinking Cary in bed with him. Real horrors he’d actually been involved with at work folded down over the dreams, and he’d see Cary’s face on a rotting corpse hauled from some stinking basement. Empty eye sockets would wink at him, skeletal fingers would reach for him. He’d rear up from sleep, heart pounding, dripping sweat, and hear some asshole on TV whining about his miserable life.
Made him wonder if he was losing it, if he’d had too much of the job and maybe should take some vacation time, maybe go somewhere … There! Wilma—Wanda—Velma! Yeah! Getting out of a green Lexus and stuffing keys in her purse. Jeans stretched over a broad butt, gray sweatshirt, New Balance running shoes. She hitched the purse strap higher on her shoulder and went inside the store. He waited.
And waited. Jesus, what was she doing in there? Buying food for an army? When she finally came out, she pushed a cart piled with grocery bags. No wonder it took her so long. She loaded the bags in the trunk. When she pulled out, he followed her, up the hills and along Arlington Avenue. Just past the huge rock in somebody’s front yard, she took a right onto Rifle Range Road and signaled a left into the driveway of a two-story stucco, new and expensive. She hit a remote that opened the garage door. He parked on the opposite side of the street and jogged across. She’d popped the trunk and was bending over to retrieve grocery bags when he walked in the garage. She whirled.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Mitch Black. You spoke to me a week or so ago. At Albertson’s. About Cary. My wife.”
“Oh, Mr. Black.”
Officer, but he didn’t throw that in.
She patted her chest, like he’d scared her heart into pumping. “Yes, of course, I remember. Is there any word?”
“No, not yet.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Let me help you with these.” He started gathering up bags.
“Oh, well—that’s not really—oh, thank you.”
Arms loaded with grocery bags, he stood at her heels while she fumbled with the key, and stuck like glue as she headed through a sun porch, or some such room, and into the kitchen. All white and shiny modern, with stainless steel stove and refrigerator. This was some house. Probably worth upwards of a million and a half. “I know you’ve probably got things to do, but would you have time to go for a drink?” When he saw her tensing, he quickly added “or coffee, or something.” He did the defeated, crushed, poor husband in agony, worried about his missing wife. “If you’re too busy, I understand. I just wanted to ask you about her.”
He plopped bags on the counter. The kitchen was huge with a stone fireplace taking up one wall. Another wall, almost all window, looked out on Wildcat Canyon. Messy housekeeper. Bag of disposable diapers on a chair, table littered with tiny, folded garments. Dishes in the sink, sticky stuff all over the floor. Sour smell, like she hadn’t emptied the garbage in a while. He started rifling through groceries, pulling out perishable items, as an excuse to see what she bought. Nothing that told him anything, except she was one of those health nuts with organic this and tofu that.
“I already told the police everything I know. Nothing, really. We just had coffee once after exercising, you know? Cary and Arlette and me.”
Mitch nodded and kept his face blank with effort. Cary never told him she sneaked off to have coffee with a group of ditzy broads. Why not? Because she had something to hide, that’s why not.
“It would mean a lot to me.” He put a hopeful look on his face.
“Well, I suppose, but—”
“That day you saw her. If you could just tell me what she said.”
He could see Velma looking him over, trying to make up her mind. He didn’t push it. Pushing would make her skittish and she’d show him the door. He simply stood there. If he had a hat, it’d be in his hand.
“Well…” She drew out the word, and he knew he had h
er. The old Black charm, worked every time. “I could make some coffee. But it can’t be long. My neighbor watches the baby while I do the shopping. We trade off. It’s a lot quicker and faster if you aren’t dealing with a fussy little one. And you wouldn’t believe the equipment you have to carry around. Diaper bag and extra pacifier, in case one gets lost, and diaper wipes, and plastic bags for dirty diapers, and…”
Jesus, that’s more than he needed to know. “We were trying for a baby.” He put a hint of sorrow in his voice.
She gave him a look of sympathy. “You’ll have to excuse the place. I didn’t know I’d have company.” She took the items he handed her and shoved them in the refrigerator.
Divorced, he’d bet. She had the harried look of single parent.
“With the baby, I never seem to get on top of it.” She hustled around picking up baby clothes and tossing them in the basket under the table.
“Are you a real coffee drinker? I mean, some people grind the beans fresh and only use Peet’s and—”
He smiled. “Don’t you watch television? I’m a cop. We drink roofing tar.”
She smiled back and rummaged through cans and jars for coffee filters. If she had stuff organized, she wouldn’t have to move everything to find what she wanted.
“Let me help you with that.” He spooned in grounds and poured water in the top of the coffee maker. “What did Cary talk about?”
“Oh, just—you know, what we all talk about. What we had to do that day. Pick up prescriptions at the pharmacy, do the laundry, that kind of stuff. I always talked about the baby. And made them look at the latest pictures.” She slid a box of crackers onto a cabinet shelf. “We just talked, you know? Nothing really.”
“Other stuff, too, right? Women always do.” He dredged up another smile. “Troubles, hopes. Ambitions.”
Velma got out two cups. “Actually, I didn’t know her that well. She was reading some book—”
“Yeah. She was a great reader, always had a book in her hands.”
“A book about Kansas, I think.”
“Kansas,” he said, too sharp. She shot a look at him like he was a cat about to pounce and she was the mouse. “What was the name of the book?” He softened his tone and added that sad note.
“Oh, I don’t remember, but she said she’d never been there before.”
“Was she planning to go?”
“Well, not that I recall, she just had this stack of books Arlette said had belonged to Kelby and they were all about Kansas, and then somebody else said all she knew about Kansas was that it was flat. And Arlette said it went on forever if you were driving across it.” Velma got up to get the pot and fill his cup. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black.” He sipped. Lousy coffee. He’d have to pace himself, drinking this shit could put him off coffee completely. “What’s the name of her friend in Kansas?”
“Friend?” She looked sideways at the door, like she was maybe thinking it hadn’t been such a good idea to invite him in. Stupid bitch. Women who invited strange males into their homes deserved what they got. Not that he would hurt her, but he felt like squeezing her pudgy neck.
“Yeah. I know she had one, but—” Mitch rubbed his forehead, like he was tired, and God knew that was true, not sleeping and having nightmares of Cary rotting in bed beside him. “I’ve been forgetful. Worry has me not thinking real sharp.”
Velma nodded sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, she didn’t mention any friend.”
“What about Kelby?” Tell me about this son of a bitch who went to Kansas.
“Oh, well, I promised not to talk about that.”
Is that right. What if I slap you a time or two, would you talk then? “I understand. I wouldn’t want you to betray a confidence, but I’m really worried about Cary. Anything you can tell me that might help find her—”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
What did she have to cry about. He was the one with a missing wife. “Where in Kansas did Kelby go?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at her.
“Really, I don’t.”
He thanked her for the coffee and fished a card from his wallet. “If you think of anything she said, anything at all, please call me.”
She took the card and studied it like it came from a tarot deck. “Of course. I’m really so sorry, but there isn’t anything I can tell you. I wish I could help, but she was just reading, you know, and…” A spark of intelligence came over her face.
“What? You remembered something.”
“Well no, not really. I mean, nothing that could help, or anything, it’s just—”
That slap or two was looking better and better. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. I just remembered that Kelby said the town was ‘on the caw’ and the house was in the middle of a cornfield.”
“What is a ‘caw’?”
Velma shook her head. “I have no idea.”
Mitch figured he’d gotten about all this stupid cow could tell him, and he needed to get out of here and away from her lousy coffee before he smacked her stupid face. He gave her a thin smile and thanks for the coffee.
Velma threw him another one of those stupid sheep looks. “Arlette might know. Kelby was really her friend.”
* * *
At home Mitch opened windows. The place smelled like nobody lived there. The dirty dishes in the sink didn’t help either. What the fuck was a caw? He pulled out the dictionary from the bookshelf in the living room and looked up “caw.” The harsh strident cry of a crow or raven. What? Only the one definition. A code of some kind?
He tossed the book and yanked open the refrigerator door, snatched a beer and popped the tab. After a long swallow to wash away the taste of the vile coffee, he started throwing stuff from the refrigerator into the trash. Cheese with green mold, eggs past the pull date, bread that was hard, leftovers he couldn’t identify. When he was done, he started on the cabinet shelves. He’d never paid much attention to what was on them. Cary did the shopping and put things away. If he needed anything, he just asked and she got it. Now he took down brown sugar and packages of spaghetti, boxes of cereal, boxes of crackers, a bag of flour.
The bag tore and flour scattered all over the floor. “God damn it!” He was headed for the garage and the broom when he noticed the small package that had spilled out with the flour. He picked it up. Birth control pills. Only two left. The bitch! She lied! All that time trying for a baby and her crying and saying how she wanted to be pregnant. He smashed a fist against a cabinet door. It splintered.
He stomped into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. She lied about wanting a baby. What else did she lie about? Saying she was going to Sylvia’s to exercise, lose weight. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. And the whole time she was having coffee with these broads. Lying and sneaking around. Meeting this Kelby. Kissing him. Sleeping with him. Going to Kansas.
He jumped up, retrieved his coat, and drove to the marina. In the bar at Hs Lordship’s, he sat at a table by the window, sipped bourbon, and watched waves in the bay slap up against the rocks. He thought how the sound was the same as a palm striking a cheek. When they were first married, she liked to come out here. One time they’d come so he could apologize properly for hitting her. He’d given her roses and a black lacy thing, teddy or something.
One time he’d pushed her and she’d fallen down the stairs. Broke her wrist. She took off. He couldn’t let her leave then and he wouldn’t let her do it now. She belonged to him. He’d find out what caw meant, and he’d track her down. Tossing off the rest of the bourbon, he ordered another. How could she do this to him? Make him think she’d been abducted and murdered, or worse. Make him sob like a baby, mess up on the job. Waves rushed in to smash against the rocks, sending up a spume of spray, then receding, only to rush in again.
After another drink, he drove home and sprawled on the bed in the dark. Pictures drifted through his mind. Cary, smiling, radiant, in white lace at their
wedding, smiling, confident and happy when they bought the house. Blank and shocked the first time he’d hit her. He couldn’t remember why he’d lost his temper, she just would do stuff that pushed his buttons. Why wouldn’t she learn not to do that? He shouldn’t have hit her. He knew that. He was sorry. Didn’t he tell her how sorry he was?
Sneaking behind his back. Telling him she was exercising and crawling into bed with somebody else. Laughing at him. All those months, he thought they were trying for a baby and she was using pills. Reading books, planning on running away. Making him think she was dead. Letting him sit in this empty house and look at her dead plants and smell her perfume on the clothes in the closet.
He took off his gun and put it on the lamp table. Countrywide bulletins had gone out on her. Calls had been made to hospitals, service stations. Triple A put a flag on her card. Highway patrols were alerted. He’d nudged traffic division himself. Airlines checked, car rental agencies contacted, credit card traces run. Bank records looked into. No trace of her. She had no money. Money in checking and savings hadn’t been touched. Somebody had to pay for essentials like food and shelter. Some man was picking up the bills. Even if she had gotten too skinny, she was still pretty enough to look slant-eyed at a man and let him know she was hot. They were laughing at him while they lived it up.
Kansas. Halfway across the country from California, the last place that clown Mitch Black would think of looking. A town on the caw. He sat on the side of the bed. Their bed, where they made love and she told him how great it was, where they slept, side by side, where they tried for a baby. He pounded the mattress with his fist. Where she lied! Saying how much she wanted his baby and all the while taking the damn pills.
He picked up the Glock from the bedside table. Familiar and perfect in his hand. She was missing, maybe kidnapped, maybe murdered by some psycho like that creep who picked up Lily Farmer. You couldn’t kill a dead woman. Find her, kill her, get rid of the body. The distraught husband couldn’t be blamed. He was home grieving over her disappearance. Like two lovebirds, they were, he loved her so much. He’d kill the man, too. The son of a bitch she went away with.
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