She's Not Coming Home

by Philip Cox

  ‘Yes, he did. I’ve thought that, as well. He said he was on his way home after finishing his shift. He seems to be taking a personal interest in my case.’

  Larry shrugged. ‘Anyway, good luck, buddy. See you Monday.’

  ‘See you.’

  Matt stopped momentarily at his bank’s ATM and withdrew some cash. Then went to the car. He called Avis and got confirmation that he could return the car to a New York office. They gave him the address as 220 West 31st Street. He typed the zip code into the GPS and set off.

  He turned into State Street and the first set of lights, just past the bank, he got a red. While waiting he happened to glance in his fender mirror. He had a good view of the main door to his bank, and saw Larry Mason exit the building and hurry round the corner. Larry’s cigarette breaks get earlier and earlier, he thought.

  The light turned green, but such was the level of traffic he only moved a few yards before the light turned red and Matt had to stop again. He started to think about what Larry had said about Lieutenant Weber. He was right.

  Matt did seem to be getting the personal service.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The GPS took Matt immediately onto the Interstate route 90, then at Sturbridge, a few miles from the state line into Connecticut, he joined the I-84. He had a half hour break just outside Hartford to fill up with gas, get something to eat and take a comfort break, then set off again in a south westerly direction. Fifty or so miles later, he merged onto the I-684, past the direction signs for New York City. He was eventually driving down the elevated Henry Hudson Parkway, the Hudson River to his right, the Riverside Park to his left.

  He turned left off the 9A onto West 42nd Street just before the Javits Center. ‘Great,’ he said out loud as he joined a line of traffic headed for Times Square. He was following the GPS blindly; surely he could have turned down a quieter street, such as Tenth or Ninth Avenues? Too late now.

  At Times Square, he turned right into Seventh Avenue; right again at 31st Street. On his left, opposite Penn Plaza and the rear of Madison Square Garden and sandwiched between the Capuchin Monastery of the Church of St John and an anonymous grey building was a six floor Park N’ Lock garage. A small Avis office was next to the garage, and there was a sign at the entrance to the parking garage that Avis returns should proceed to the second floor.

  On the second floor there was a small booth dedicated to Avis. Matt parked the car, and a young man in a uniform with a discrete red and white badge sauntered over. He and Matt checked the Hyundai for any scratches or bumps, of which there were none, and Matt counter-signed the paperwork. The young man advised him he had had the car one day longer than the original rental agreement, so the additional day’s charge would be taken from his credit card. Matt acknowledged this, handed over the keys and took the payment slip. Then took the elevator down to street level.

  As he got onto 31st Street, he looked around. There was some building work being carried out on Madison Square Garden, so the sidewalk that side of the street was blocked off. There was the loud noise of traffic and construction work. A large truck filled with spoil pulled out onto the street and headed west.

  Matt checked his watch: it was now three o’clock. No way could he get over to Brooklyn, pick up his car, and drive back to Boston tonight. Fortunately, Nathan was with his parents.

  He decided to go pick up the car, then find somewhere to stay, probably in Brooklyn, and then make the journey back to Boston in the morning. He knew he was not far from Penn Station, so he could catch a subway to Brooklyn from there.

  At Penn Station, he paid $10 for a MetroCard, and checked a subway map on a wall. From here he could catch a 2 or 3 train over to Brooklyn. He was about to insert his card into the turnstile, when he had another thought. He could easily leave the car at the police pound another day; after all, he had told Weber he was going to pick it up on Saturday. If he picked it up now, he may have to pay for another day’s parking himself.

  To avoid the noise from the street, he stepped into a Café 31 across the street and bought a coffee and pastry. While he ate and drank, he called a central Holiday Inn number and made a booking for that night at a hotel in Union Street, Brooklyn. He had no idea how far away from the pound this was, but he remembered seeing a Union Street station when he was consulting the map last night.

  Now three thirty. He decided to make a brief detour. He finished his coffee, then walked east along 34th Street to Herald Square.

  At Herald Square, on the corner of 34th and Broadway, sits Macy’s department store. One of Ruth’s all time favourite movies was Miracle on 34th Street – the 1947 version with Edmund Gwenn – and every Christmas she, Matt and Nathan would sit together to watch it. Last Christmas was no exception.

  Matt stepped over to the small piece of sidewalk which separated Broadway from Avenue of the Americas. In this V-shaped section were two metal seats. One was fully occupied, one was empty. He sat on the empty one and looked up at Macy’s storefront.

  And thought of Ruth, and their times snuggled together watching the movie.

  Then suddenly, amongst the noise and bustle and traffic and people rushing past, Matt began to cry.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It was getting dark, and colder. Matt wiped his face and blew his nose. Looked around; none of the passers-by rushing past had taken a blind bit of notice of him. He checked the time: almost four. Time, he thought, to find this hotel.

  He walked back along 34th Street and into the 34th Street-Penn Station subway station. Five minutes later, he was riding on a 3 train through Lower Manhattan towards Brooklyn. His plan was to alight at Atlantic Avenue station, where he would change to the R line for Union Street. However, he checked a street map at Atlantic Avenue and learned that the hotel was only a few blocks down Fourth Avenue. It was now dark, bitterly cold and with the hint of snow in the air, but Matt had spent most of the last forty-eight hours driving, and he felt he needed a brisk walk.

  He arrived at the hotel around 5:15; checking in, he received a strange look from the receptionist when she saw he had no luggage.

  ‘Short notice stay,’ he muttered to explain.

  She smiled to acknowledge this, and handed him his key card. He noticed there was a Duane Reade store across from the hotel, so ran across the street and purchased shower gel, some disposable razors, toothpaste and a toothbrush. Once he got to his room, he took a shower and lay on the bed in his towel. He turned on the television, and muted the volume while he rang his parents. His father answered.

  ‘Hold on, son; I’ll just get your mother.’

  Matt laughed and shook his head as he waited for his mother. She could hear her in the background calling Nathan.

  ‘Hello Matt; Nathan’s in the bathroom. Where are you?’

  ‘New York.’

  ‘New York? I thought you were going to do that Saturday?’

  ‘I was, but I was able to get the rest of the week off work. Personal reasons.’

  ‘So are you staying there tonight?’

  ‘In a Holiday Inn Express in Brooklyn. I’m going to pick up the car and drive back tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh that’s good. I was worried about you making such a long round trip in one day. Are work okay about it, then?’

  ‘They’re fine. I think I’ll drive straight down to you tomorrow afternoon, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Of course it is. You don’t have to ask. Oh, here’s Nathan.’

  ‘Hello Daddy!’

  ‘Hey there, buddy. What have you been up to today?’

  ‘I’ve been helping Grandpa in the den. Making things with wood.’

  ‘With wood? Are you being a good boy for Grandma and Grandpa?’

  There was a moment’s silence, then Matt could hear his mother’s voice whisper, ‘Yes, you have.’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ said Nathan. ‘When are you coming home, Daddy?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Cool! Is Mommy coming home too?’

 
‘No, not yet. She...she’s still not very well.’

  Nathan said nothing.

  ‘You still there, sport?’ asked Matt.

  Still no answer.

  ‘Nathan?’

  ‘I’m here, Daddy.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Daddy. Can I go and play with Grandpa again now?’

  ‘Sure. See you tomorrow. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too. Bye.’

  Matt heard the phone being laid on a hard surface and Nathan’s footsteps running off. Estelle returned to the phone.

  ‘Is he okay?’ asked Matt.

  ‘I think so. He kept asking about Ruth today. He needs you, Matt.’

  ‘I know. I’ll see him tomorrow. Promise.’ He started to fill up. ‘What’s all this about making things with wood?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Oh, your dad went down into town and bought one of those child’s carpentry sets. It’s quite safe. He loves messing about in the den with your father.’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’ll call you in the morning.’

  ‘All right, Matt. See you.’

  Matt hung up and ran his hand through his now almost dry hair. He was getting hungry. He reached across the bed and got the hotel guide. They only served breakfast here, and he was right: if he had the car, he would have had to pay for parking it.

  He finished drying himself, got dressed, and consulted the guide again. There was a section for local places to eat. There was a restaurant two blocks away on Fourth Avenue. He put on his coat, and walked round.

  It was a small establishment, probably family run, with a limited menu. He settled for an all-day breakfast: two eggs, bacon, sausages, and potatoes, and coffee. Unhealthy maybe, but it tasted delicious. All for $7.50.

  As he sat back awaiting the check, he looked around the place. The walls were filled with framed photographs of what looked like famous sportsmen – basketball players, probably – sitting in the restaurant. Some of the pictures looked like they were taken in the 1950s, and the décor looked as if it had not changed since. In one corner was a picture of Muhammad Ali in his Cassius Clay days posing with a man in a chef’s outfit. To the left of the picture was a small CCTV camera, its red light blinking. Matt looked around: there was another camera in the opposite corner. Sign of the times, Matt guessed: décor from the mid twentieth century, with technology from the early twenty-first.

  The waiter brought over the bill: Matt gave him $10 and said, ‘No change.’ The waiter thanked him and returned to the back of the restaurant. He came back to Matt with a coffee pot and gave him another refill. Matt was staring at the cameras again.

  ‘Can I take that to go?’ he asked the waiter. The waiter nodded and fetched a paper cup of coffee. Matt thanked him and left the restaurant.

  He ran back to the Union Street subway station and consulted one of the wall maps. To get to Hoyt St-Schermerhorn Street would mean one change: an R to Jay Street, then an A to Hoyt. The journey took only twenty minutes and Matt burst onto the street looking for the parking garage where the Toyota had been found.

  He found the garage and walked up a short ramp to a booth. The woman in the booth looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is the super here right now?’ he asked.

  She looked around, chewing. ‘You wanna see him?’

  ‘Yes please. It’s important.’

  She shrugged, muttered something unintelligible, and picked up the phone. Moments later, a large African American man, well over six feet tall, came through a door. He leaned over to speak into the hole in the booth glass. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You the super?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A few days back, you reported a Toyota left here to the police.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Yeah. The police took it away.’

  ‘Did you see who left it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m the owner, and -’

  ‘The police took the car away.’

  Matt was getting nowhere. He pointed up to a camera high on the wall opposite. ‘You have cameras on every level?’

  The man sniffed. ‘So?’

  Matt reached into his back pocket and pulled out five $20 bills. He fingered them. ‘The car was left on the bottom level. I wonder if I could have a look at the footage of the day it was left.’

  The super looked at the hundred dollars and back to the woman. She was talking to a man who was paying for a ticket. ‘Wait here,’ he said. He left the booth and moments later appeared through a door halfway down the ramp. Matt hadn’t even noticed the door. ‘Come up here,’ the super said.

  Matt followed him up a dingy flight of stairs to a second floor office. The super sat on the dirty, cluttered desk. ‘It was left here last Saturday,’ he said, holding out his palm.

  ‘That was the day after it was stolen. Can I see the footage?’ Matt asked, passing him two bills.

  He looked down and took the money. Sat down behind the desk and swivelled his tattered leather chair to face a grubby computer. He stabbed at a few keys and got a drop down menu of dates. He highlighted the previous Saturday; then another menu of drop downs, each numbered. Matt presumed they referred to floor levels.

  ‘Here,’ the super grunted. ‘Bottom level.’ He held out his palm again and Matt gave him the other three bills. He stood up and motioned Matt to sit in the chair.

  ‘Did the police ask for this?’ Matt asked, sitting down.

  ‘No. Just took the car.’

  ‘Where was the car parked?’ Matt asked.

  ‘That corner. There.’ The super stabbed at the screen with a dirty fingernail.

  Matt was able to fast forward the images using the mouse. Cars whizzed in and out, drivers and passengers rushed to and fro. Matt kept his eye on the spot where the Toyota was found. An SUV arrived during the day. Matt frowned: had they got the right day, or the right floor? After a while, the driver returned and the SUV left. A few moments later, another car arrived. Matt slowed the footage down to normal speed and sat up to watch as his Toyota backed into the space. The driver got out, locked the car, and looked around. Then walked out of view. Matt wound backwards a few seconds then froze the screen with the image of the driver standing by the car.

  He sat back in the leather chair. He could feel his face flush; his mouth dried up, and his heart was now beating faster.

  It was Ruth.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘Hey, slow down a minute.’

  Squinting in the late afternoon sun, Lieutenant Weber looked down the alleyway they were passing.

  ‘No, stop here.’

  Mancini pulled up and applied the brake. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s someone down there,’ he said. ‘Behind the trash. Wearing a hood.’

  They both got out of the car and walked to the alley entrance. An elderly woman with a supermarket cart filled with newspapers hurried on by, giving them a curious look. Silently, Weber cocked his head in the direction of the alley and they both slowly walked down. Both had a hand on their weapon.

  The alley was about fifty yards long. At the end was a chain link fence, around ten to twelve feet high. On the other side there was a small parking lot. On both sides were the rear entrances for the buildings either side, business properties on the left and a night club on the right. Weber reflected how out of place premises like this look in the daytime, the neon signs which would be colourfully lighting up the street in a few hours looked dull and derelict. Like Christmas decorations in a sunny daytime. Outside each door was a dumpster, maybe two, some overflowing with plastic garbage bags.

  They heard a sound from behind a large blue dumpster at the end of the alley. The two police officers looked at each other, silently nodded, and pulled out their weapons. They were about to cry out to identify themselves when a figure shot out from behind the dumpster, knocking Mancini to the ground.

  ‘Police, stop!’ Weber called out as the figure ran towar
ds the open street. Mancini stood up.

  ‘Stop, or I shoot!’ he called out again. The figure stopped and turned round, both arms raised. Still covering him, Weber and Mancini caught up. Weber pulled the hood down. The figure was a white male, early twenties, around six feet, shoulder length red hair, and wearing grubby sneakers, jeans and a red sweatshirt.

  ‘Okay, assume the position.’ Roughly, Mancini took his arm and swung him round and leaned him against the wall. Weber watched while she patted him down. ‘He’s clean,’ she called out.

  ‘Right,’ she said, swinging him round to face her. ‘We’ll get round to assaulting a police officer later. For now, you want to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Uh?’ the man grunted.

  Weber walked over and put his face six inches away from the young man’s face.

  ‘She’s asking what you were doing here, and why you -’

  ‘Sam, there’s another,’ Mancini called. They both swung round as a second figure, smaller this time started climbing the fencing.

  ‘I’ll get him,’ Weber said.

  Mancini looked down at Weber’s stomach. ‘You gotta be kidding,’ she called out, already running off.

  Weber took a set of handcuffs off his belt and secured the young man, watching Mancini.

  ‘Police, stop!’ Mancini called out as the figure got further up the fence. She put her revolver back in its holster and began to climb the fence. The figure had almost reached the top when Mancini grabbed its leg, and started to pull down. The leg kicked about a few times, then the figure stopped climbing.

  ‘Down, now,’ Mancini said, tugging at the leg. The figure began to slowly climb down. ‘Take the hood off,’ Mancini ordered when they were both on the ground.

  The figure did so. She was a girl, maybe late teens. Pale skin, black hair in an untidy cut, lipstick the same colour. She had a ring through her left nostril, and was chewing. Her sweatshirt was a dark grey and had a logo which Mancini didn’t recognise on the right breast.

  ‘Assume the position,’ Mancini repeated, and checked the girl. Weber had already brought the young man over.