by Joy Fielding
“Judy, for God’s sake,” her husband interrupted.
“Let’s try to think positive thoughts,” John advised, although positive thoughts wouldn’t do Liana Martin any good if, in fact, some lunatic had grabbed her. He made a mental note to ask everyone he interviewed tonight if they’d noticed any strangers in the area in the last few weeks, and he’d tell his officers to do the same. “In the meantime,” he said, coming around the desk, “you go home, and try to stay calm. I’ll call you after I’ve checked around a bit. Here’s my cell number. Phone me right away if you think of anything else. Don’t worry about what time it is.”
“What if she’s hurt? What if she’s lying on the side of a road somewhere?”
“We’ll organize a search party in the morning,” John told Judy Martin, knowing that if her daughter was, in fact, lying on the side of the road anywhere in the area, the odds were good she wouldn’t be there for long. There was a good reason they called it Alligator Alley.
He ushered Howard and Judy Martin out of his office, promising again to call them as soon as he’d checked things out. “We’ll find her,” he promised, as another troubling image seized his brain. He recalled another woman who’d sat in his office approximately one month ago, hands twisting in her lap, eyes brimming with tears, as she told essentially the same story. He’d dismissed her concerns—the woman was from nearby Hendry County, and therefore technically not his problem, and she’d admitted her daughter was a habitual runaway and drug addict who often turned tricks to support her habit. He hadn’t given the girl’s disappearance much thought, but as he watched Liana Martin’s distraught parents get into their car and drive off, he couldn’t help but wonder if the two disappearances were somehow connected. “You’ve been watching too much television,” he scoffed, trying not to picture his own daughter, Amber, her skinny body lying twisted in a ditch by the side of the road, her neck broken by some lunatic’s monstrous hands.
Then he walked purposefully from the room.
FOUR
Torrance wasn’t so much a town as a series of isolated streets that had multiplied and merged over the years, a loose conglomeration of farms and orchards and swampland, whose four thousand, mostly white, Christian inhabitants encompassed all socioeconomic levels, from the scandalously rich to the heartbreakingly poor. It was located about an hour’s drive west of Fort Lauderdale, just past the junction between Highway 27 and that strip of I-75 known as Alligator Alley. Its small downtown core consisted of several banks, a post office, a pharmacy, a few restaurants, a store that sold hunting and fishing equipment, a pawnshop, a women’s clothing store, an insurance agency, and a legal firm whose slogan, hand-painted across the front window in frosted silver letters, promised its all-purpose legal team—a father, his son, and their much put-upon assistant—were HAPPY TO SERVE, WILLING TO SUE, HOPING TO SETTLE. The rest of the town circled this main drag like a series of expanding ripples. Nearby was the Merchant Mall, with its grocery store, movie theater, tattoo parlor, and clothing stores full of all things denim. Down the way was a McDonald’s, an Arby’s, and a KFC. There was also Chester’s.
Chester’s was one of those places common to every small town in America. Located about a quarter of a mile from the main strip, it was relatively unassuming on the outside, its simple wood exterior painted a quiet shade of gray and trimmed in white. Inside it was big and dark and noisy, the noise accentuated by the high, wood-beamed ceilings and dark-stained wooden floors, as well as by the constant clamor coming from the pool tables in the back room. Waitresses in skimpy, pink shorts and provocative, white T-shirts with CHESTER’S stretched in hot-pink letters across their breasts weaved their way from the large, neon-lit bar at the front through the polished wood booths and tables in the middle to the game room at the back, with trays of beer in their hands and frozen smiles on their faces. Chester’s, named for its creator, a wily, white-haired septuagenarian who cooked up the best hamburgers in town, was always packed. It seemed everyone in town frequented Chester’s, although Chester, himself, had become increasingly reclusive over the years and now preferred to stay holed up in the kitchen, having largely turned over the day-to-day management of his establishment to Cal Hamilton. The verdict on Cal Hamilton among the local citizenry was decidedly mixed. Some people—mostly men—found him a swaggering bore; others—mostly women—found him self-confident and sexy. The latter likely hadn’t seen the bruises covering his pretty wife’s face and arms, although there were always women who were attracted to the so-called bad boys, who failed to recognize them for the often dangerous bullies they were, and who convinced themselves they were different, that they could transform the bad boy into a good man.
John Weber pushed his way through the heavy, outside double doors and squinted into the darkness for a familiar face. Torrance was full of all kinds of people. What was one person’s idea of heaven was another’s idea of hell, which made Torrance just like every other city—big or small—in America. Or the world, for that matter, John Weber thought.
Hell is other people, he remembered his wife telling him once, although he couldn’t recall the occasion. He’d made the mistake of repeating this sentiment during a strained conversation with Amber’s drama teacher, Gordon Lipsman, at a parent-teacher meeting last fall, and the man had nodded his big, condescending head and said he was très impressed that the local sheriff could quote Jean-Paul Sartre. The man had then expounded on “the existentialist doctrine” for the better part of half an hour. Luckily he’d been pulled away by another parent just as John had been weighing the consequences of pulling out his gun and shooting the pompous ass between his disconcertingly crossed eyes.
“Looking for someone, Sheriff, or can I show you to a table?”
John turned toward the familiar voice, his hands making fists at his sides as he absorbed Cal Hamilton’s insolently handsome face. It was the kind of face—dark, brooding eyes as hard as pebbles, in sharp contrast to soft, wavy blond hair; a small pug nose; full round cheeks; large, snarling lips covering a mouthful of surprisingly tiny teeth, like niblets of corn—that John Weber always wanted to punch, although the muscles bulging beneath and below the upturned short sleeves of Cal’s black T-shirt warned him to keep things nice and friendly. Cal was rumored to have put more than one man in the hospital during his days as a bouncer in a Miami nightclub, although he had no arrest record or outstanding warrants against him. At least none that John had been able to locate. “I was wondering if you’d seen Liana Martin in the last several days,” John said.
“Liana Martin?” Cal’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name.
John pulled Liana’s picture out of his shirt pocket. He found it interesting that you could actually see the effort it took some people to think. Some, like Cal Hamilton, narrowed their eyes. Others scrinched their brows and pushed their lips into a lemon-sucking pout. Sometimes they tapped the tip of their nose. Sometimes they did all these things, in sequence or all at once. “Apparently, Chester’s is one of her favorite haunts.”
“Really? Well, let’s have a look.” Cal took the picture, carried it over to the large bar area, and examined it under the red and gold neon lights. “Oh, sure. I recognize her. She comes in all the time with her friends.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Cal shook his head. A wave of blond hair fell across his wide forehead. “Weekend, I guess.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Probably Saturday,” Cal said, after another narrowing of his eyes. “Why? Is she in some kind of trouble?”
John thought he detected a note of hopeful anticipation in Cal’s voice, as if the notion of a young girl in trouble appealed to his baser instincts. He decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. “Nobody’s seen her since yesterday afternoon.”
Cal shrugged his indifference. “You know kids,” he scoffed, returning the picture to John’s waiting palm. “She’s probably shacking up with her boyfriend.”
“H
er boyfriend doesn’t know where she is.”
Cal lowered his chin and raised his eyes, which John took to indicate skepticism. “Well, I don’t think I’d worry too much about her. My guess is she’ll be back in a couple of days. Mark my words.”
John almost laughed. Did people really say things like Mark my words anymore? “I hope you’re right.”
“You check with her friends?”
An involuntary sigh escaped John’s lips. He and several deputies had spent the last two hours talking with most of Liana Martin’s friends. The answers to his questions were the same in every house they’d visited. No one had seen the girl since yesterday afternoon. No one had any idea where she might be. Everyone was worried. It wasn’t like Liana to take off without telling anyone, they all agreed.
“Why don’t you let me treat you to a beer, Sheriff?” Cal was offering now. “You look like you could use a cold one.”
John was about to decline the offer, then thought better of it. Cal was right. A nice, cold beer was exactly what he needed, and technically, he was no longer on duty. Officially, his day had ended when he’d left his office, and everything he’d done since then, the driving through the widely scattered residential streets and side roads of Torrance, the interviews with Liana’s friends and neighbors, had been on his own time. He’d called home once, but Pauline had refused to pick up the phone—the wonders of caller ID—and when he’d finally reached Amber on her cell, she’d told him her mother was watching a movie on TV and had given strict instructions she was not to be disturbed. He asked his daughter whether she’d had dinner, and she said she wasn’t hungry. John decided to order a couple of hamburgers to take home just in case he could persuade Amber to join him, although he knew in his heart it was a lost cause. Hell, that was probably the main reason he’d put on so much weight in the last few years. The less his daughter ate, the more he felt compelled to ingest, as if he were eating for two. The gaunter his daughter’s cheeks became, the fuller his got; the flatter her stomach, the rounder his own. If she didn’t start eating soon, he was liable to explode. “I’ll have a Bud Light,” he told Cal. “And give me a couple burgers to go. Make that bacon cheeseburgers,” he amended.
“Have a seat.” Cal waved toward a recently emptied booth to the left of the bar. “A Bud Light for the sheriff,” he instructed a red-haired waitress as she wiggled past. “I’ll give your order to Chester.”
John tucked Liana’s picture back into his shirt pocket as he watched Cal strut toward the kitchen, his thumbs thrust into the side pockets of his black denim jeans. Something about the studied swagger of his hips—as if he knew he was being watched—rubbed John the wrong way. Cal and his wife had moved to Torrance two years ago, which was unusual, to say the least, considering that neither had family in the area, and neither had a job when they arrived. Why would any young couple move to an isolated community like Torrance unless they were running away from something, or hiding from someone? John had briefly considered the possibility they were in the witness protection program, but ultimately decided this was unlikely. People in the witness protection program usually did their best to maintain a low profile. And although Cal’s wife, Fiona, was rarely seen out in public, unless glued to her husband’s side, Cal, himself, was anything but shy. Indeed, most of the rumors regarding Cal Hamilton’s wild past could usually be traced directly back to one source: Cal Hamilton.
Unless, of course, he was lying.
“Hi, there, Sheriff,” a voice cooed, as long, bright red fingernails deposited a tall glass of cold beer on the table in front of him. “I understand you’ve had a rough day.”
John immediately pulled the picture of Liana Martin out of his breast pocket, handed it to the waitress with the preternaturally red hair. “Have you seen this girl in here recently?”
The waitress leaned over to get a better look. Her breasts, with their carefully displayed cleavage, brushed against the side of his cheek. He felt an unexpected stirring below his belt and almost knocked over his drink. “Careful with that beer there, honey,” the waitress said, and John winced at this easy familiarity from a girl young enough to be his daughter. “Yeah, I’ve seen her. But not for a few days. Why? Something happen to her?”
“She’s missing,” John told her, as he’d told her boss just moments before. “Can you do me a favor? Show this picture to the other waitresses, ask if anybody’s seen her around lately.”
“Sure thing.” The waitress took the picture and disappeared into the general throng.
A few minutes later, he saw her showing Liana’s photograph to the bartender and watched as the young man shook his head no. “This ain’t going to be easy,” John muttered into his beer. As promised, the drink was nice and cold. A man of his word, he thought, watching Cal chat up a pretty, young woman standing at the bar. Cal’s hand rested provocatively on the woman’s substantial derriere, and despite the wedding band on the appropriate finger of her left hand, John noticed the woman made no attempt to brush Cal’s hand away. While John had never considered himself a prude and was certainly no poster boy for fidelity, he disliked the casual way Cal Hamilton flaunted his prowess with women. It was one thing to be unfaithful. It was another thing to trumpet your indiscretions, to wave your infidelities in other people’s faces.
John took a long sip of his beer. He’d never understood women. His mother had been a study in contradictions, quiet and withdrawn one minute, loud and boisterous the next. Bipolar, they called it today, although when he was growing up, they just called it crazy. Certainly his father had lost patience early on with her erratic mood swings and unpredictable behavior. He buried himself in his work, and when she died of breast cancer in her early forties, everyone said it was a blessing in disguise. But John still missed his mother’s wonderful sense of humor and biting wit. His father had remarried within a year of his mother’s death, this time to a woman with no sense of humor whatsoever, at least not one that John had ever been able to detect. But she seemed to make his father happy. Another of life’s mysteries. John took a prolonged sip of his beer, emptied half the glass. It seemed he didn’t understand men very well either. Maybe he was in the wrong line of work.
“Nobody’s seen her,” the waitress said when she returned to John’s table about ten minutes later. “I even asked some of the customers,” she added, shaking her head, as if to say, No luck there either.
“Thanks.” John finished the last of his beer, returned the tall, empty glass to the waitress’s tray. She promptly replaced it with a full one.
“They’re on the house,” she told him before he could object.
What the hell, he thought. Why not? Two beers simply meant he’d have to sit here a little longer before he got back behind the wheel of his cruiser. He checked his watch. It was already after nine o’clock. He could probably stay and nurse this beer for another half hour at least, and then he’d check in again with the Martins—he’d already dropped over to their house to give them an update after talking to Liana’s friends—before heading home. With any luck, Pauline would be asleep. The thought of having to make idle conversation, or worse, of having to make love to his wife, was simply too depressing.
He picked up the second glass of beer, raised it to his lips. When had the thought of making love become depressing? When had sex ceased to be a release and become yet another chore, another burden to bear? It hadn’t always been that way. There was a time, and not all that long ago, when just the thought of sex was enough to get him through the day. That he didn’t love his wife, had never loved her, had never really loved anyone, for that matter, was irrelevant. He’d never been one to confuse sex with love. And for a long time, sex with Pauline had been enough to sustain him. When had it stopped being enough?
He was still relatively young. The waitress tonight had proved he was still capable of being easily, even indiscriminately, aroused. So what was his problem? Why did he find it so difficult to get, let alone sustain, an erection where his wife was concern
ed?
He knew he couldn’t pin all the blame on Pauline. When she’d first sensed his eye wandering and his interest waning, she’d done her best to spice things up. She’d bought some sexy lingerie and sprinkled scented candles around their bed and bath, suggested they try new positions, even hinted he bring his handcuffs into the bedroom. These things worked for a while, and then they didn’t.
He doubted Pauline was any happier than he was at what had happened to their sex life, but at least she could pretend. He wished he could fake arousal and orgasm, but it was much more difficult for a man than a woman. Fantasies would take you only so far, and you couldn’t bully a limp dick into action. Pauline had it much easier. Hell, all she had to do was lie there.
“Excuse me, Sheriff Weber?”
The cold glass of beer almost slipped through John’s fingers.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
John turned toward the little-girl whisper, saw Kerri Franklin’s daughter, Delilah, looking down at him, earnest brown eyes as big as saucers. He twisted around in his seat to see if her mother was behind her. She wasn’t. “Delilah,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “How are you?”
“Okay.” She stood on her toes, peered through the dark room. “You haven’t seen my mother, have you?”
“Your mother? No. Why? Is she here?” John pulled in his stomach, looked toward the back room.
“No. That’s the problem. I don’t know where she is. She went out late this afternoon to refill a prescription for Grandma Rose’s heart medication, and she didn’t come home. Grandma Rose is starting to get a little antsy, so I said I’d go look for her. You haven’t seen her?” Alarm bells began clanging inside John’s head. First the runaway from Hendry County, then Liana Martin, and now Kerri Franklin?
No, he told himself, offering Delilah his most reassuring smile. The runaway from Hendry County was just that—a runaway. As was, in all probability, Liana Martin. As for Kerri Franklin, she had a contentious relationship with her mother at the best of times, and the woman’s heart condition had been stable for years. Kerri had probably run into a friend at the drugstore and, not feeling any great urgency to return home, gone for a cup of coffee. Coffee had stretched into dinner, and maybe even a movie. She’d resurface when she was ready. As would Liana Martin and that other girl. What was her name?