by Jeff Abbott
She took the keys to his Lexus and drove to the restaurant. Reveal was already seated on the restaurant’s patio, a beer in hand. He stood and waved at her.
The restaurant wasn’t busy with the dinner rush past. It was humid and there was only one other customer on the patio, a young woman sitting alone by the railing, reading a thick book, sipping a margarita. It looked good, and Mariah wanted one, the sharp taste of the lime, the dulling of the tequila.
Reveal’s real name was Chad Chang, but he insisted on people calling him by his stage name. He had been a couple of years ahead of Mariah at Lakehaven High School, and they’d known each other, but had gotten better acquainted since her mother’s vanishment. He had written about the case a few times, without pointing the expected finger of guilt at her father. He’d studied psychology at Trinity University in San Antonio. While there, he started a podcast about true crime, and it had exploded in surprising popularity. He focused on talking about crimes both past and present for a young, hip audience. His advertisers on his podcast included publishers, fashion designers, and car companies. Tonight he was dressed in jeans and an Astros jersey, wearing gleaming sunglasses despite the fact that it was evening.
“The drinks are on me,” he said.
The waiter came to their table and she ordered a margarita. “Thanks. I figured you’re broke after buying those sunglasses.”
He took them off with a shrug. “I got great news. I got a Hollywood producer interested in my podcasts. They asked me to pitch a series to the basic cable networks. Me, hosting a show on true crime cases. With a celebrity panel to discuss. It could be huge for me.”
“That’s wonderful, Chad—Reveal.” She reminded herself he really preferred his blogging name.
“So I got out to LA for the first meeting, and I felt so not-a-celebrity. I’m just a Lakehaven kid. I felt I needed the sunglasses to look cool, like a prop during the pitch.”
“Did it work?” He hadn’t said the deal was in place.
He put the glasses down next to his beer. “Freddy—that’s the producer—he’s getting back to me.”
That didn’t sound promising, but she smiled encouragingly. “I hope it works out for you.”
“Any news on your mom?”
“I want to talk to you about what you wrote regarding my mom and Beth Curtis.”
“So, um, what I wrote was more a thinking aloud than a theory about your mom’s case.”
“Bethany”—it was easier to avoid confusion talking about the two Beths to use Curtis’s full name—“Curtis left her husband. What if my mom did the same?”
Reveal frowned. “Have there been new developments?”
She didn’t want to confess about today’s mall incident. She had to be careful with him; he was a friend, but a friend whose main goal was to grow his name as a chronicler of crime. “No, I would have told you that immediately. But if I could find a pattern linking the cases…”
Then she noticed what was happening at the patio railing.
Reveal realized Mariah wasn’t looking at him. He turned around. A young man with a weasel’s smile had stopped at the patio’s fence along the shopping center walkway and was trying to chat up the solitary young woman, who was trying to focus on her book.
“That a good book?” he asked. “You could turn my pages.”
The young woman didn’t answer, but she fidgeted in the seat, eyes on the page.
“Question is why a fine young babe like you needs to fill her time reading when I’m right here, ready to buy you a drink.”
“I’m not interested, thanks,” the young woman said. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Yet here you are alone.”
“No, thanks.”
The jerk took immediate offense. “Listen, you think you too good for me? You’re not.”
“Excuse me,” Mariah said. She stood and walked over to the table.
“Mariah…” Reveal started to say, but he kept his seat.
“Please, I’m just trying to read in peace,” the young woman said to the jerk. An angry edge in her voice now. “Go away, I’m not interested.”
“Listen, books make you into a snotty bitch, from what I can see,” the jerk said.
“Hey,” Mariah said, now standing at the woman’s table, across from the jerk. She was tall, but not quite as tall as he was. “She said she’s not interested. Move along.”
The jerk smiled. Then he laughed. Mariah watched him study and gauge her and could imagine his thoughts. Here was this tall, solid, mouthy annoyance, dressed in black slacks, black mock turtleneck, even a black barrette holding back her hair. “Listen, was I talking to your ugly face? Is this patio bitch central? Because all of you need to…”
At the word need he jabbed a finger at Mariah, and a sudden sharp rage rose in her chest. Her hand lashed out and caught one of his fingers and wrenched it. The jerk’s mouth opened in pain; he tried to pull the hand back, but with the table between them Mariah had the leverage.
“Another millimeter, genius, and it breaks,” she said gently. “Step back and walk away. And consider how you talk to women. I mean, has this idiotic banter ever worked once for you? Ever?”
“You whore…” and he tried to yank his hand back.
The snap of the breaking bone was loud. They stared at each other and she released his hand. He gasped. The reader stared at them both, pushing away from the table.
“I’m sorry,” Mariah said. “I didn’t mean…”
The jerk cradled the broken finger against his chest, too surprised to cuss or yell, and he staggered away toward the parking lot.
“You did that,” Mariah called to his back. She felt sick. A wild tremble ran along her bones. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to. But it felt good.
“Mariah!” Reveal yelled. “What the hell?”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said quietly. They all watched the jerk get into his car and drive off.
“I feel a little sick,” Mariah said, and she sat down. Didn’t mean to. But it happened.
“Thanks,” the woman with the book said, in a shocked voice. She couldn’t quite look at them, and she quickly put some cash on the table, even though her bill hadn’t been brought.
“You’re welcome. Is that book any good? My book club picked it for next month.” This was a lie, but Mariah realized she’d stunned them with a moment of violence and she was trying to look like a person who would belong to a book club instead of someone who snapped the fingers of strangers. “I’m Mariah. I’m sorry about that…”
“No, thank you, Mariah, I appreciate your help…and it’s a very good read,” the young woman murmured. She got up and hurried off the patio, heading toward the parking lot, clutching her thick book.
“OK then,” Mariah sat back down across from Reveal, who stared at her.
“Mariah, have you lost your mind? You actually broke his finger…that was both awful and awesome.” For a horrible moment she thought he was going to pick up his phone and take a snapshot of her.
“It was an accident.” She cleared her throat. Would the jerk call the police? She couldn’t talk to the Lakehaven police twice in a day. He looked humiliated, so she hoped he wouldn’t come back with the cops. She took a long sip of her margarita. She kept screwing up. Badly. She had to get ahold of herself. Hallucinations, rage—she needed focus. Clarity. Purpose.
“Um, when I go back to LA, will you be my bodyguard?” Now Reveal was trying to joke, put her at ease. She probably looked like she was about to cry or vomit.
She made herself smile, very slightly, at his joke. “So, do you have a contact with Bethany Curtis’s family?” Mariah asked.
“Her husband, Jake, made a fortune in software. It wouldn’t surprise me if a lot of people approached him with information or tips, looking for a payout. He communicated with me by email, but just once, and very briefly. Her mother, Sharon, was more forthcoming when I talked to her. I asked her to be interviewed on the show, said it might help find Bethany, bu
t she said it was too upsetting.” Her own father had appeared on Reveal’s show, begging for information on his wife’s whereabouts, but it had produced no solid tips and a number of hurtful online comments suggesting that Craig had killed his wife and disposed of the body. Her father did no further podcast appearances. “I’d try her mother first.”
“Can I pick your brain? You theorized that there could be a”—she couldn’t bring herself to say killer—“perpetrator who targeted women with a certain name? I mean, you know about criminal psychology and all that profiling stuff.”
Reveal leaned back. “He couldn’t be like Ted Bundy or Kenneth McDuff, looking for victims at random. This would be planned. I don’t mean to upset you…”
“It’s OK,” she quickly said. “We’re just talking.” She cleared her throat. “What if he was a guy who had a hatred for a woman named Beth and took out his anger on other women named Beth?”
“You mean like the victims are a substitute for a Beth in his life? He targets them because they have her name, or they remind him of her in some way.”
“Yes.”
Reveal considered as the waiter stopped by to see if they needed anything. They waited for the waiter, surprised, to scoop up the cash from the reader’s table and leave.
Reveal took a long sip of his beer. “I’ve not heard of any other women named Beth going missing in Austin.”
“I feel like it’s worth exploring,” she said. “I mean, the timing, their names.” She looked at him, hope in her eyes for an answer. “I’m willing to take that chance, to waste time on it if it’s nothing.” And, she thought, to take the risk of the danger if this leads to my mom’s killer. But she kept that to herself.
Reveal drank down more of the margarita. “All right. I want a promise from you.”
“What?”
“First, be careful. Second, whatever you find you share with me. I want the exclusive if there is something to this. I gave you this lead.”
“All right.” That seemed fair.
“Because something like this…well, there’s lots of cases I look at. This would be decidedly different, if there was a connection.” He stopped, stared down at his food.
“What, Chad?”
He didn’t correct her on using his real name. “Mariah, I know how I sound. I can get so technical about crime that I come across as unfeeling. I know every person I have profiled had a story. Had a life they loved. Had a life worth fighting for. Had people who loved them, cared about them, miss them every day. I may have the douchebag sunglasses, but I’m not a total jerk. It’s not always a good idea to go poking around in cold cases. Sometimes the people involved get angry. They feel threatened. Like you’re accusing them.”
She closed her eyes. “I just want to know the truth so badly.”
Reveal cleared his throat, took another sip of beer. He was trying to sound extra tough, Mariah thought, probably because he’d kept his seat while she’d confronted the jerk. He took a deep breath. “So, here’s an even scarier prospect: you could be sticking your nose into an unrelated case where someone who’s gotten away with killing Bethany Curtis might not take at all kindly to you asking questions. Putting yourself in real danger for something that has nothing to do with your mom.”
It was a sobering thought. “You report on these crimes, but you have no idea what it’s like to actually live through one…everyone telling you how you should feel. How you should move on.” Mariah clenched the end of the table. “You can’t move on. It’s like being stuck. It makes me so angry. I hurt that man, but I didn’t mean to hurt him…I can’t go on this way. So, if this is a nothing thread, fine, maybe I can help someone else if I can’t help my mom.”
“I won’t underestimate your resolve. I loved your toughness with that creep. I couldn’t go get involved and get punched, not with a producer meeting coming up this week.”
“Of course not,” she said, her voice neutral.
“You’re right. I don’t know what it’s like. But you know I run a support group for those with missing relatives. You should come. Two nights from now, at the Episcopal church over off Old Travis.”
What didn’t he do? Support groups, podcasts, maybe a television show. It all made her dizzy. “I might,” she said, although she couldn’t imagine getting up and talking about her mom in front of strangers.
Reveal smiled. “It might help with your anger.”
“Finding what happened to my mom is the cure I need,” she said. She felt the resolve in her voice. She’d stopped that guy; she didn’t know her own strength. She could learn it. She could do this.
He raised his beer toward her and put the fancy sunglasses back on his face. “Then here’s to your cure. There’s no cure like the truth.”
5
MARIAH’S PHONE RANG as she got behind the wheel of her car. She stared for a moment at the number.
Lakehaven Police.
She had them in her phone’s contacts list—and answered, a chill settling into her chest. Wouldn’t they just come to the restaurant to arrest her for breaking the jerk’s finger? She watched Reveal, her one remaining witness to the incident, get into his car and drive off from the parking lot before she answered. It wasn’t even self-defense. The jerk had just pointed at her.
“This is Mariah.”
“Mariah. Hello. This is Dennis Broussard.” Lakehaven’s police chief. Her father’s nemesis.
“Hi,” she said.
“I just wanted to check on you and see that you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.
“I’m concerned for you.”
“I’m so sorry. I really am.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right.”
She didn’t know what to say. “Thank you for calling. I have to go now.”
“Mariah, is there anything you want to tell me? As a friend of your mom’s?”
You’re no friend, she thought. “No. I made a mistake today, and I’m sorry.”
“I’m worried about why you have all this gear in your trunk.”
“I don’t have to explain that to you.”
“Is it for self-defense? Are you afraid?”
“No,” she said.
“All right,” he said mildly. “But I am concerned about you. If I can help you, I will.”
Help pin my mother’s disappearance on my father, she thought. No thanks.
“Really, I’m okay, and I’ll pay for the damage to your police car. I’ll make it right.”
“We’re insured. Again, my concern is for you.”
“If you’re so concerned, let me ask you this. You think my dad killed my mom. If I could prove to you that he didn’t, that there was another theory that was workable, would you follow it up?”
“Of course,” he said. “But investigating a crime isn’t your job.”
“But it is yours, and you haven’t found my mom.”
“I promise you we will. But I want you to stay clear of the investigation, Mariah. I want you to be safe. And if you ever don’t feel safe living at your father’s house, I want you to know you can come to us here at the police department.”
“Why wouldn’t I feel safe? He’s my dad.”
“I think your hallucination today was a response to something traumatic you saw. Maybe the day your mom vanished.” Broussard said nothing more, waiting for her to speak.
“You’re not a psychologist.”
“No. But if you’re protecting your father, you are carrying such a heavy load. An unfair load. If he was the one who hurt your mother. You’re protecting him but betraying her.”
“I don’t need your psychobabble, and I’m perfectly safe with my father. Good night.” She hung up, her anger a hard knot in her chest. Broussard, trying to be her friend while trying to prove her father was a monster. The accident had given Broussard a reason to insinuate himself back into her life. Pretending to care while he failed to do his job.
Why not start following the Beth
Curtis thread this very moment? She didn’t feel like going home, and Broussard’s call made her feel like she needed to take action, now. Prove him wrong. She opened the browser on her smartphone.
She did an internet search on Jake Curtis. He had a Faceplace page—and she and he had one mutual friend, Rob Radlon, a high school classmate of Mariah’s. She checked her friend’s page and it said Rob worked for DataMarvel, the company that had bought Jake Curtis’s company. She hadn’t really stayed in close touch with Rob, but he might be useful.
She checked Jake Curtis’s statuses. He didn’t post often, and she understood that—when you had a loved one missing, you didn’t much feel like talking about seeing a movie or snapping pictures of your dinner at the cool new restaurant or sharing a cat video. He did write statuses about technical issues in the public eye, or about having had a nice weekend of reading or fishing. It struck her those were solitary activities. There was a link to a page about Bethany—she followed it. FIND BETHANY was the page’s name, but it was weirdly inactive. A few postings from people who sounded like armchair detectives, contemplating where she might have gone or what her fate had been. She went farther down the page. The original page had been started by Bethany’s mother, Sharon—postings nearly every day, pleas for her daughter to return or for whoever had taken Bethany to let her go, rewards for information. And then Sharon had fallen silent. Perhaps exhausted for asking and never getting an answer that helped? Jake would “like” statuses and ask occasionally for help in finding his wife—“I just want to be sure she’s OK, don’t care about anything else”—but also had not posted in a while.
She went back to Jake’s main page. He had “liked” other pages related to other local software companies, his alma mater’s football team, a couple of TV shows. And Reveal’s Faceplace page. Among Jake’s likes was a bar just north of Lakehaven, off Loop 360—the weekly trivia game night was a favorite. That was tonight. Maybe he was there. She looked him up on the property tax database and found his residence, not far from that bar, in a high-end neighborhood on the edge of Lakehaven.