My watch said it was ten past six in the morning. I was surprised I still had it. I hurriedly checked and discovered I also retained my phone, Amy’s phone, and my wallet. Either the local thieves weren’t up to much or they just hadn’t wanted to get close to me. My face and hands hurt, but the physical discomfort was nothing compared to how I felt emotionally and spiritually. I assumed I must still be in Seattle, but otherwise the map was blank. I’m not a heavy drinker, most of the time. I don’t find myself in these kinds of situations, and I have neither the skills nor the experience to deal with them. I felt sick and afraid. I stood up, hoping this would help.
“Sir, are you okay?”
I turned sluggishly to see a guy with a bicycle was standing six feet away. “Is this Seattle?”
“Occidental Park, sir,” the guy said, coming closer. He was wearing a white cycling helmet, and his jacket was white, too. Everything about him was clean and upstanding—and white. He was like me with the word “not” in front.
“Which is in Seattle, right?” I asked doggedly, and immediately regretted it. While obviously not an actual cop, it was clear the bike guy occupied some kind of semiofficial law-and-order capacity. Could you be arrested in this town just for being an asshole?
“Yes, sir. You’re a couple of blocks from Pioneer Square, if that means anything.”
It did. I was actually only about five minutes’ walk from where I could last recall being. “Look, I’m fine. Had a couple drinks too many, that’s all.”
He nodded, politely avoiding loading the action with too much No shit.
“Are you hurt?” He was looking at my face.
“Slipped on a steep sidewalk, banged myself up some.”
“You lost anything overnight?”
I went through my pockets again, for his benefit. “Everything’s present and accounted for,” I said, hoping the choice of words would signal I was a stranger to this kind of situation. In fact it just made me look worse, like a half-senile old woman talking incessantly to prove she’s not half senile.
“Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Got a car. Will be driving home. Today.”
“Wouldn’t be in any hurry,” he said. “And some breakfast would be a good idea.”
He got back on his bike and pedaled off.
I walked out of the park. A single block got me to First, a right and another couple hundred yards to Pioneer Square. This is a small triangle rather than an actual square, with First on one edge, Yesler on another, the third arm cobbled over along with the rest of the “square.” None of the sides is as much as fifty yards long. It has a paved area with a seating area protected by Victorian-style ironwork, trees, a drinking fountain with an Indian’s head on it, and a totem pole, this one a taller and a more explicable straight-up-and-down affair.
I stood outside the Starbucks across the way, which wasn’t yet open, and looked at the trees. There were people out sweeping the streets. One raised an eyebrow as he passed and paused, as if offering me the opportunity to be gathered up into his pile of detritus and cleaned up out of public sight. It was quite amusing, but I could have done without it. I still felt physically desperate, but I was no longer in the location where I’d woken up, and so I could start pretending that it hadn’t really happened. The closing stages of the previous evening were opaque, the parts after the fight, but now that I could see it across the square, I distantly remembered being in a bar there called Doc Maynard’s, perched belligerently on a stool in a dark and crowded room, knowing I was far past the point of recovery and deciding I might as well follow the road and see where it led. Very wise. I wished I could go back and stand next to this other self and punch him in the mouth. It ends with you waking in a park! I would have shouted. How fucking cool is that?
I decided to take the advice of the man in white and get some breakfast, specifically the kind that is hot and wet and comes in cups. If I was going to do what I guessed I now had to do, then not smelling too obviously of alcohol would be better. I lit a cigarette to gird my soul for the long, cold hack up to Pike Place Market, the one place presumably doing business at this hour. My head hurt in three ways. I had localized but significant pains in my back, neck, and right hand. My mouth felt like a seabed that had been drained after years of environmental disaster had rendered it ecologically dead.
But none of these was the real problem.
The problem was that over the last six months I had come to be concerned that my wife’s feelings toward me had changed, and that yesterday I’d started to wonder if she might be actually having an affair. And that if either was true, I didn’t know what I was going to do.
About her or about myself.
I sat in a waiting room for forty minutes reading grim posters and moving my feet occasionally to let people walk past. Some of them were sad, some of them were angry, some were shouting, some looked like they’d never say anything again. I had consumed enough coffee and weapons-grade headache pills to feel both a little better and a lot worse. I’d brushed my teeth and changed into a new shirt I’d bought on the way. As far as anyone could tell, I hoped, I looked almost like a normal person.
Eventually a guy in shirtsleeves and a tie appeared out of a door in back and said my name. I followed him down a corridor and into a room that had no windows. He introduced himself as Detective Blanchard and indicated for me to sit down at the other side of a table.
He spent a few minutes looking through the information I’d given earlier, and I found my hands tightening on the metal arms of the chair. The room was small and had gray walls and was not designed to provide diversion. I was stuck with watching the detective as he tried to memorize the stuff in front of him—or perhaps translated it to Chinook in his head. He was comfortably overweight, with soft-looking skin and pale, wispy hair that looked as if it was rapidly deserting his head to leave him looking even more like a large, confident baby. I tried to ignore everything else and concentrate on breathing deeply and evenly. I could feel it not working.
“My wife,” I repeated fifteen minutes later, “is missing. Which word are you finding problematic?”
“Define ‘missing’ for me.”
“She is not in the hotel where she’s supposed to be.”
“So she checked out.”
“She never checked in. They have no reservation for her. As it says in those notes.”
“Was it a Hilton? We got a few of those. Maybe you went to the wrong one.”
“No,” I said. “It was the Malo, as you also know if you were actually reading what’s there in front of you.”
“The Malo. Nice. What does she do, your wife?”
“Advertising.”
He nodded, as if Amy’s occupation explained something significant about her or me. “Travel on business often?”
“Seven, eight times a year.”
“Seasoned. So she changed her mind. Or someone screwed up the booking and she had to find an alternative.”
“I’ve been through this. She’s still missing.”
“You ever call her while she was here this week, get her on the Hotel Malo number?”
“No, because—and I’ll keep repeating this until it gets through to you—she was never there. I always call her cell when she’s away. It’s easier.”
“Right—except now she doesn’t have it.”
“It’s been thirty hours since it was reported lost. She would have called to let me know what was going on.”
“But you’re not at home, right?”
“I have a cell phone, too.”
“She tap in the number every time?”
“She had it on speed dial,” I admitted. He had a point, annoyingly. If asked to quote Amy’s cell number from memory, I wasn’t sure how far I’d get. But Amy was different. Her brain was optimized for that kind of information. Although…I had changed networks when we moved, and I hadn’t had the new number very long.
“So she wants to call to let you know the score, but she n
ever learned your number by heart and her phone’s missing. You see what I’m saying?”
“She’d remember it. The number.”
“You’re sure?”
“I know my wife.”
He sat back and looked at me, judging that he didn’t need to comment on this, given the current situation. Also that it might be unwise to. “Do you know how to pick up your home messages remotely?”
“No,” I said. “Never had a need to.”
“You do now. Got a neighbor with a set of keys?”
I knew this was bullshit, but it was clear I wasn’t getting anywhere without jumping through this guy’s hoops. Ben Zimmerman wouldn’t mind going around and checking the machine, though I would mind asking him. I nodded.
Blanchard drove it home. “Excellent. See if your wife has been trying to get in touch. Maybe she’s wondering where you are. Filing her own missing-persons report out in…” He consulted the form again. “Birch Crossing. Wherever that is.”
“And if there’s no message?”
“Come back and we’ll talk again. Mr. Whalen, I appreciate that it maybe seems like I’m being obstructive. My wife went off radar for a couple nights, I’d freak out, too. But right now I can’t do anything you haven’t already done. Meanwhile there’s stuff going on in this city that needs people paying attention to it. I am one of those people. You were, too, from what I gather.”
I stared at him.
“Yes,” he said with a faint smile. “Guy comes in with an alleged missing wife, we run his name. You get no red flags, I’m happy to say. No reports about late-night shouting matches. No freaked-out calls to emergency ser vices. But I got a Jack Whalen with ten years in LAPD Patrol Division, West. Resigned a little under a year ago. That you?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “So?”
He did nothing but sit looking at me, remaining silent for long enough to become insulting.
I cocked my head. “You got a hearing problem?”
“Just intrigued,” he said. “You present more like the kind of guy I’d expect to see on the other side of the desk. Wearing handcuffs, maybe.”
“I had a bad night’s sleep,” I said. “I’m very concerned about my wife’s safety, and I’m having more trouble than I anticipated in getting someone to take a missing-persons report seriously.”
“Right now we don’t have a missing person,” Blanchard said firmly. His voice wasn’t as flabby as his face. “We have a missing phone. Except it isn’t missing anymore, because you’ve got it in your jacket, right?”
“Right,” I said. I stood up, banging the table accidentally. This is precisely why I hadn’t gone to the cops the day before. I felt dumb for doing so now.
“I’m curious,” Blanchard said, folding my information in half. “Care to tell me why you left the force?”
“No. But I’m curious, too. You actually do any police work, ever?”
He smiled down at the table. “I’m going to tell you what I think your bottom line is, sir. Your wife didn’t stay in the hotel she said she was going to, and in the last day and a half she’s declined the opportunity to get in touch with you. Either there’s a straightforward explanation or she’s missing on purpose. That’s not the law’s problem, Mr. Whalen.” He looked up at me. “It’s just yours.”
I walked fast and randomly for ten minutes and finally got out Amy’s phone and scrolled through her contacts. I’d noticed yesterday that she had the Zimmermans in her list. Just as well, because I didn’t.
My heart sank when Bobbi answered. She got straight to asking if their vehicle was okay and when it would be back, implying that she needed it right now to ferry carloads of sick children and wounded nuns to the hospital.
“The car is fine,” I said. “I’m still in Seattle, that’s all.”
“You said you would be back yesterday afternoon.”
“Something came up, and I’m sorry, but…look, is Ben around?”
“No,” she snapped. “That’s the whole point, Jack. He’s flying down to the Bay Area this morning to visit an old friend of ours. Who is dying.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said again, relieved at being able to apologize for something that wasn’t actually my fault.
“Benjamin had to take the other car. I’m stuck here in the house because we thought you’d be back last night. Which is…Why do you want to talk to him?”
“I’ve got a problem.”
“That much is abundantly clear,” she said. “But—”
“Bobbi,” I said, “would you just listen for one second? Amy’s missing.”
There was silence at the other end of the line for a long moment. “Missing?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t wanted to get into this but I didn’t know how else to get through to her. “She lost her phone two nights ago, and I’m hoping it’s just that she doesn’t know my cell number to tell me where she is. She might have remembered the number at the house, and so I wanted to ask Ben if he’d go see if there were any messages.”
“Jack—is this supposed to be funny?”
“Does it sound like it’s meant to be funny?” I shouted, finally losing my temper. “Jesus, Bobbi.”
“You want me to walk around to your house, let myself in, and check your machine, to see if Amy’s called?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I understand now that you have no car, and if it’s too much trouble, that’s fine.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” she said. “In fact, I can do better than that.” There was muffled silence, and then someone else came on the line.
“Jack,” the voice said, “where are you?”
For a moment I believed I’d started hearing voices.
“Amy? Is that you?”
“Of course it is,” the voice said calmly. It was like hearing my mother on the phone. My mother is dead. “Why are you in Seattle, Jack?”
“Where…where the hell have you been?”
“I’ve been here,” Amy’s voice said. “Wondering where you are.”
“Didn’t you get my messages? On the answering machine?”
“You know I can’t work that thing. Plus, why would I think you’d leave me a message there?”
I opened my mouth to reply but couldn’t come up with anything at all to say.
“Look, honey, just come home, okay? And drive carefully.” Then she put the phone down, leaving me standing in the street with my mouth hanging wide open.
It began to rain then, with sudden firmness, as if it had meant to start earlier but forgot.
chapter
FIFTEEN
I dropped the Zimmermans’ car outside their house, leaving the keys in the ignition. If Ben had been there, it would have been different. I wasn’t going to deal with Bobbi right now.
Or so I’d thought. She’d evidently been standing behind her door, possibly for the last two hours, and was out of the house before I had time to get away. I took a deep breath. My head hurt badly, and I wasn’t going to give anyone a fight. Unless she asked for it.
“Thank you,” Bobbi said, disconcerting me.
I reached inside the car and got out the keys. “Sorry for the delay, Bobbi, I was just—”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry I was harsh earlier.”
I nodded, not really knowing what to say. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend, too. I hope he’s okay.”
She smiled vaguely, and I headed up their driveway, back along the road, and into our own domain. I started slowly, but by the time I got to our house I was striding fast. Our car was standing outside the house. It looked big and black and reproachless.
Nothing strange happening in my life, boss.
I let myself in, closing the door quietly behind me. Took off my coat and walked to the top of the stairs to look down into the living area below.
Amy was sitting in the middle of the sofa. She was wearing a red sweater and black slacks, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands and absorbed in a report. Other pieces of corporate paper
work were spread around her and strewn over the coffee table and the floor. This tableau was essence of Amy—stock photography of Woman Working at Home. The scene looked so normal I felt like a ghost.
She glanced up when I was halfway down the stairs, and smiled. “Hey,” she said. “You made good time.”
“When did you get back?”
“This morning.” She looked confused but cheerful. “When I said I would. Jack, what’s going on?”
“I got a phone call late on Thursday,” I said. “From a guy who’d found your phone in the back of his cab.”
“Aha!” she said triumphantly, shifting paperwork off her lap. She bounced up and came to give me a hug. “I wondered if that’s what happened to it. I hailed the taxi off the street and couldn’t remember what company it was. There’s fresh coffee, by the way.”
“What?”
She nodded toward the kitchen. “You look like you could use some.”
“I’m fine,” I said, keeping my voice steady and calm. “Had a couple beers last night, that’s all.”
“A couple, right. And then a couple more couples? Nice dent you’ve got on your cheek there, teetotaler.”
“Amy, where the hell were you?”
“You know where I was, honey—Seattle. What I don’t get is where you’ve been. I mean, it’s cool, there’s no rule says you have to sit around like a hausfrau while I’m gone. But you seem kind of…Are you okay?”
I didn’t know where to begin. “Weren’t you due back yesterday?”
She gently led me by the hand up the stairs to the kitchen. “Exhibit A,” she said, pointing to the calendar stuck to the side of the fridge. An entry in her handwriting showed her leaving for Seattle on Tuesday and getting back Saturday morning. Today.
“I called your hotel on Thursday,” I said. “They had no record of you.”
“Which hotel?” she said, handing me a cup of coffee. It was too hot, and I didn’t want it.
“The Malo.”
“Honey, I told you I wasn’t staying there.”
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