Sylvia blew her nose. “I guess you’re right. It was like a game with her. She saw Reed and decided she had to have him. He was handsome, smart. But not smart enough to realize he was just a rung on the ladder. She was clever, though, I’ll give her that. Right before she died she said…” Sylvia stopped. “I shouldn’t be saying all this. I’m being so unprofessional.”
Maggie shook her head. “No, no. You’re being honest, and that is so refreshing. Isn’t it, honey?”
She looked at Constantine, who nodded vigorously. “Very refreshing.”
“Get it all out, Sylvia,” Maggie said. “It’s all part of the healing process.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely.”
Sylvia perked up, sadness turning into delight over the chance to have an audience.
“Okay, well…” She adjusted her top. “Mia told me she had a big payday coming.”
“A payday?” Constantine asked.
Sylvia shrugged. “Something to do with a guy who worked for a fancy pharmaceutical—the same pharmaceutical Mia was working with on an IPO, as a matter of fact.”
“Interesting,” Maggie said as casually as she could.
“That’s what I thought. Then the romance with Mr. Pharmaceutical went south. No surprise considering the guy was a total creep. Always flexing his muscles, getting in your space. I got the feeling he liked to push women around.” She ran a finger underneath each eye then checked it for mascara runoff. “Maybe that’s why Mia dumped him. His bank account measured up, but maybe the rest of him didn’t. And I’m not just talking about his personality.” She caught Constantine’s eye and gave him a wink.
Constantine opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.
“When did she and her, um, gentleman friend break up?” Maggie asked.
Sylvia thought for a moment. “A few weeks ago? Maybe longer? But losing the boyfriend didn’t seem to mean losing out. She’d come in with something new to show off nearly every day. Jewelry. Handbags. Clothing. Expensive brands, too. Someone was showering her with gifts, and it wasn’t my Reed. She’d dropped Reed as soon as she realized his idea of a getaway was camping in a Winnebago, not cruising in the Bahamas. ’Course, I didn’t take him back. Once burned, twice shy, I always say.”
“Definitely,” Maggie said. She turned toward Constantine, then back to Sylvia. “Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time. And we’re running late for another appointment.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to talk your ear off.” Sylvia picked up the handset one again. “I’ll buzz Ms. McAffee right now.”
“That’s okay,” Constantine said. “We really do have to go.” He selected a business card from the assembly line of holders on the counter. “We’ll call her when we’re back from Barcelona. We’re just dashing over for a quick holiday.”
Sylvia smiled warmly and sing-songed, “Have a nice day!” as Constantine held the door for Maggie.
They stepped from the air-conditioned oasis of Capital Ideas into the sweltering heat of early evening.
“Nicely done, Meryl Streep,” Constantine said as they walked toward the car. “I especially liked the bit about your philandering boyfriend.”
“What can I say? I was inspired by your performance as the FBI agent. Besides, I figured she’d be more willing to talk if she thought we had something in common.”
“Well, I did pave the way with my implication that she was jealous. Sounds like Mia the star financial planner was good at making enemies.”
“And good at advancing her own self-interests,” Maggie said. “Did you catch the part about her pharmaceutical boyfriend?”
Constantine unlocked the car and they climbed in. “Think it’s your pal Miles?”
Maggie pulled off her hat. “The guy works for the same pharmaceutical Capital Ideas was handling the IPO for, and he’s a meathead who likes to push women around. Sounds like a fair guess.”
“He sounds like the charmer you described.”
Maggie felt an involuntary shiver snake up her spine. “He’s worse than I described.”
“Meaning?”
Maggie hugged her legs but said nothing.
“Mags?”
She shrugged and looked out the window. “Nothing. He’s just bad news.”
Constantine inserted the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it. He twisted his body to look at her full on. He waited.
Maggie sighed in resignation.
“Okay, I had a problem with Miles.”
Constantine frowned. “What kind of problem?”
“It’s no big deal,” she said. She cleared her throat. “Miles just tried to…”
Maggie swallowed the lump that was growing like a cancer in her throat. She would not get emotional. She wouldn’t.
Constantine reached over and touched her shoulder. “Mags?”
Maggie shook her head, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. She slapped them away. It was weak. Ridiculous. “He tried to…he almost attacked me,” she finally said.
Constantine squeezed her shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I didn’t tell you because nothing happened. Ethan came by and stopped him. Or prevented him from starting. Whatever.”
Constantine withdrew his hand from her shoulder and placed it back on the steering wheel. “Ethan?”
Maggie nodded. “He made Miles go away. Not that I couldn’t have done it myself. Anyway, nothing happened, so I didn’t mention it. I didn’t want to worry you.”
Constantine turned the key. The car coughed to life. “I thought we told each other everything. I’m your best friend. Or has that title gone to someone else?”
She clenched her teeth. “Of course not.” She could feel her frustration rising right along with her guilt. Why did Constantine have to make such a big deal out of Ethan? Why hadn’t she told Constantine what had happened? There was plenty of blame to go around. None of it helped. None of it made her feel better. She inhaled deeply, tried to find her calm. “I’m sorry, Gus. I should have told you. I just…” She stopped, the words slipping away. “Everything has been so confusing lately. And complicated. And weird.”
Constantine looked over at her. His face softened. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Especially weird.” He looked out the window. “I’m sorry, too. We seem to be saying that a lot lately.”
He put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot. They rode in silence for several moments, then Constantine asked: “Could Miles have had something to do with Mia’s death?”
“Miles is a jerk, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“It might if the circumstances were right. Mia is handling his daddy’s IPO. What if Mr. Macho wanted to flex his importance, show her what a big man he is at work and told her too much?”
Maggie nodded slowly. “Maybe the pillow talk gets too heavy, Miles spills the beans about something at work, then decides to kill Mia so she can’t talk.”
“Or maybe Mia tries to play Miles as well as the market and uses what she knows to her advantage.”
“Blackmail?” Maggie asked.
“The ultimate retirement plan. You heard the receptionist. No boyfriend, but the jewelry, handbags and clothes kept right on coming.”
“So what’s the secret?” Maggie asked. “What’s so big, so bad, it’s worth killing for?”
Constantine exhaled loudly. “That’s the sixty-four-dollar question. The only way to find out is to find the previous owner of your phone. Or figure out how all the victims are connected. I mean, we know Elsa and Carson knew each other and that Mia Rennick was connected to Rx and Miles. And we’re pretty sure Rx and Miles were up to something naughty. Are the others connected to Rx, Miles or Mia? That’s what I want to know.”
“So far, the search for the
previous owner has net us a big fat zero. And I don’t know how far we’re getting trying to connect the victims. Nothing’s clear yet.”
Constantine raised an eyebrow. “The good news is we’re not done trying.”
Chapter 34
New Horizons Recovery & Shelter was a half-mile away from Capital Ideas. Housed in a converted Lutheran church, the exterior still had an ecclesiastical quality. Neat brick face. Gothic arch windows. Sky-kissing steeple. But the shelter looked uncomfortable, as if it were wearing a costume. As if hope and salvation were merely dress-up ideas.
Maggie and Constantine pulled open a heavy wooden door carved with scenes from the Old Testament and strode into a large room pebbled with round tables. Men, women and children huddled over plastic trays, mechanically shoveling colorless food into their unsmiling mouths.
A girl of about five or six stared at them intently, her arm protectively encircling a filthy stuffed pig. She kissed her pig, burying her face in the matted pink fur, then peeked at Maggie over the pig’s ears. Maggie doffed her hat, lowered her sunglasses and gave her a small wave. The girl gave a sidelong glance at her mother. Satisfied that her mother was too occupied with a slice of margarine-coated white bread to notice, she waved quickly before hiding behind the pig’s ears and cramming one of its worn feet into her mouth.
“Hello?”
Maggie jumped at the voice at her shoulder. She turned to a see a small older woman looking at her. “Can I help you?”
Maggie replaced her hat and smiled. “I’m Maggie and this is my friend, Constantine.”
“I’m Joyce.” The woman wiped her hand on the front of her apron and extended it. “Are you here to volunteer? New volunteers usually start on Wednesdays since that’s typically our slowest day and I have more time to train them. Although we don’t have many slow days anymore, so I guess one day’s as good as another.” She looked at them expectantly, her large eyes brown and watery like silt-bottom ponds stirred by a storm. When she blinked, they disappeared into the white landscape of her age-worn skin.
“Actually, we’re not here to volunteer—at least not today,” Constantine said. “We’re hoping you can give us some information.”
Joyce furrowed a brow already plowed low by time and worry. “What kind of information?”
“We understand Carson Parks used to work here?” Maggie asked.
The woman’s eyes softened. “Oh, Carson. What a wonderful, wonderful young man. Yes, he worked here for several years, as a matter of fact. Unfortunately…” Her voice trailed off.
“We understand he passed away,” Maggie said gently. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Joyce sniffed. “You know, it still doesn’t seem real. One day, we’re working together. The next day, he’s gone. Seems like that’s been happening a lot these days.”
“What do you mean?” Maggie asked.
Her hands fluttered. She clasped them together as if trying to corral them. “Oh, I’m just being silly. It just seems like some of my favorite people aren’t around anymore.”
“Like who?” Maggie prompted.
Joyce’s hands took flight again. She stuffed them in her pockets. “Like I said, I’m just being silly.” When neither Maggie nor Constantine said anything, she sighed. “But it’s not just me. Carson noticed, too. People have been disappearing.”
“But isn’t there a lot of turnover here?” Constantine asked. “I would imagine your population is pretty…well, transient…for lack of a better word. Wouldn’t it be typical for people to move on?”
“You’d be surprised,” Joy said. “For temporary housing, it’s permanent for a lot of folks. We’ve had people stay with us for years. Believe it or not, this is the only home some kids have ever known.”
Maggie felt her cheeks flush with the unexpected shame over having enough. Enough food. Enough shelter. Enough of everything she needed. She cleared her throat. “But you noticed some residents disappearing?”
Joyce nodded. “Yes. I’m not talking about ‘moving on.’ I’m talking about outright vanishing. They’d go out for a smoke and just never come back. At first I thought they were going to other shelters or maybe getting lucky finding a job. When Gladys disappeared, I knew something was wrong.”
Maggie and Constantine waited for Joyce to fill the empty air.
“Gladys is—was—this sweet little old gal who couldn’t quite get the hang of life. Carson would help her with her medication and connect her with social services. She’d be fine for a while, live out on her own. Then she’d decide that avoiding wheat or drinking dandelion tea would accomplish the same thing as her medication, and she’d wander away. A few days later, she’d be back, confused and lost.” Joyce closed her eyes. “Then one day, she tells me she’s going to go for a walk and boom! She’s gone. A week went by, then two. It gave me a bad feeling. I knew she’d never leave without her treasures.”
“Treasures?” Constantine asked.
Joyce twisted the corner of her apron.
“An old Tupperware box that held everything she owned: a pair of red shoes, a few photographs, a pretty cut-glass candy dish. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to her. She looked after it like it was her baby. I called the other shelters, the police, the hospitals—you know, thinking she was hurt or something. No one had seen her. Then I started walking the streets to see if I could find her myself.” Joyce shook her head. “She was gone. Gone-gone. It was like she’d never existed.”
“When was this?” Constantine asked.
Joyce thought a moment. “A few months ago, more or less.”
“And she wasn’t the only one who disappeared?” Maggie asked.
“Like I said, at first I didn’t think much of it. I guess part of me hoped our regulars had found better lives. But after Gladys, I knew. Something or someone was making them vanish. I know that sounds crazy. But it was just a feeling. Over and over, they’d just disappear. The police weren’t interested. No one seemed to care. Well, not nobody. Me and Carson, we cared.”
“Did a man named Al ever come here?” Maggie asked. “Tall? Brown hair? Wears a necklace made of Barbie-doll heads.”
Joyce nodded. “Just a couple of nights ago. He’s not a regular by any means, but he’ll wander in if he can’t get enough to eat on the street.”
“Did he stay the night?” Maggie asked.
“He said he was going to. He picked out a cot and everything.” Joyce walked toward a curtain that separated the dining hall from the dormitory and parted the lank fabric. “Right over there, in the corner. He always wants his back against the wall. Lots of them do.”
Maggie poked her head through the curtain’s opening. The room, floored with worn vinyl, was a city all its own. Neat avenues of beds intersected alleys of sleeping bags. Coat racks scraped an interior sky painted with high-gloss enamel. Here, Collinsburg’s invisible men, women and children, shoved between society’s psychic cracks and mental blind spots, found shelter and refuge.
The evening was early, but many of the beds were already occupied, its residents cocooned inside the memory-blunting embrace of sleep. Some fit the mold of what Maggie envisioned when she heard the word “homeless.” Most looked like faded, hollowed-out versions of the people she knew.
“We pretty much run at capacity 24/7 now,” Joyce said. “Poverty has become an epidemic.”
Maggie looked at her shoes, then back at the sea of cots. She stepped back and let the curtain fall. She turned toward Joyce. “Is it strange that Al didn’t stay the night?”
“A little. He went out for his ‘constitutional,’ as he called it, and didn’t come back.” She frowned. “I didn’t think much of it ’til just now since he’s not a regular.”
“He’ll probably be back tonight,” Maggie assured her. “Did you and Carson ever talk about the homeless disappearing from the streets?”
“Yeah, like I
said, we both noticed. We both tried talking to the police, social services. Neither of us could get any traction. Most people only care about the homeless when they’re in the way. Then he started talking to that newspaper woman.”
Maggie pulled her phone out of her pocket. She scrolled to Elsa Henderson’s obituary photograph, which she’d saved to her phone’s gallery, and handed her mobile to Joyce. “Her?”
Joyce squinted at the picture. “I think so. I only saw her once, waiting in front of the shelter. He told me they were working on an article about what was happening. He hoped it would make a difference.” She looked over at the curtain, now obscuring all who lay behind it. “But how do you make people care when the invisible vanishes?”
Chapter 35
Maggie and Constantine emerged from the shelter and stood blinking against the sun’s glare.
“Well, that was interesting,” Constantine said. “Completely depressing, but interesting. Now we know Carson and Elsa were working on a newspaper article about disappearing homeless people, and your pal Al might be one of those disappearing people. But what does that have to do with Mia and Miles and Ghana necrosis—and perhaps more importantly, you and your phone?”
“I’m not sure, but I say we go back to The Post and see if Al’s there. If he is, maybe he’ll have more to tell us about his disappearing friends and where he’s been hiding himself.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Constantine nosed the Datsun through the crowded streets of downtown Collinsburg, then pulled into the same parking lot Maggie had used when she’d visited The Post. They got out of the car and gazed across the lot at the hulking monolith. The light, soft and diffused as it filtered through the perma-smog, had turned The Post’s exterior into a rust color that reminded Maggie of dried blood.
“Where does Mr. Tinfoil live?” Constantine asked, jabbing down the locks and shutting his door.
“Just look for a guy with a Walkman and an appetite for doll hair.”
As they approached The Post, Maggie peered into an adjacent alleyway furnished with garbage cans and broken pallets. She motioned Constantine to join her, and they made their way down the alley.
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