Girl Missing (23 page)

“How did she get the drug?”

Sykes shrugged. “Maybe she bought it off Esterhaus. Or got a free sample in exchange for, uh, services.”

“Prostitution?”

“She’d been busted for it before. It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, pardon the double entendre.”

“So we’re back to blaming Herb Esterhaus?”

“I don’t know who else to blame. It’s a dead end for us.”

For Mandy Barnett as well
, thought Kat. She remembered the woman’s flame-colored hair, her porcelain beauty, shrouded in the cold mist of the morgue drawer. Not the sort
of looks that went unnoticed in this world. Surely there’d been friends, lovers? Men who’d known the pleasures of her company, if only for a night. Where were they now?

A woman dies, and no one seems to notice
. She thought about this as she walked through the police station. She thought about herself, wondered how many would notice
her
death, would come to her funeral. Clark, of course. Wheelock, out of duty. But there’d be no husband, no family, no giant mounds of flowers on the grave.
We’re alike, Mandy and I. Whether by choice or by circumstance, we’ve made our way alone through life
.

She stopped at the elevators and punched the
DOWN
button. Just as the floor bell rang, she heard a voice say behind her, “Well, speak of the devil.”

Turning, she saw her ex-husband emerge from the chief’s office.
You wouldn’t come to my funeral, either
, she thought with a sudden dart of hostility.

“My, what a nice scowl you’re wearing today,” said Ed.

They both stepped into the elevator, and the doors slapped shut. He was looking dapper as usual, not a scuff on his shiny Italian shoes.
What had she ever seen in him? she wondered. Then she thought morosely, what had he ever seen in her?

“I got what you asked for,” he said.

“What?”

“The name of the cop who arrested Esterhaus last year. You still want it, don’t you?”

“Who was it?”

“The name was Ben Fuller, Narcotics detail. A sergeant with eighteen years on the force. He filed the arrest report. Possession of three live marijuana plants.”

“Did Fuller also arrange the release?”

“Nope. Feds did. They stepped in and pulled their ex-witness out of the fire. So you can drop the conspiracy angle. Fuller had nothing to do with it.”

“Can I see his Internal Affairs file?”

“Won’t do you any good.”

“Why not?”

The elevator doors slid open. “Because Ben Fuller’s dead,” he said, and walked out.

Kat dashed after him into the first floor lobby. “Dead? How?”

“Shot to death in the line of duty. He was a good cop, Kat. I’ve talked to his buddies. He had a wife, three kids, and a whole drawer full
of commendations. So lay off the guy, okay? He was a hero. He doesn’t deserve anyone mucking up his memory.” With that, Ed went out the front door.

Kat watched her ex-husband stride away down the sidewalk. Then she stalked off to her car.

Traffic was heavy on Dillingham, and she didn’t have the patience to deal with it. Every red light, every idiot making a left turn, seemed to jog her irritation up another notch. By the time she got back to the morgue, she felt like a menace to the public.

In her office two dozen long-stemmed roses sat in a vase on her desk. “What the hell’s
this
?”

Clark stuck his head out of his office and called out sweetly: “So who’s the new lover boy, Novak?”

She slammed the door on his laughter. Then she sank into her chair and sat staring at the roses. They were gorgeous. They were blood-red, the symbol of love, of passion.

Once, Ed had sent her roses, that very same color. Just before he’d asked for a divorce.

She dropped her head in her hands and wondered morbidly what sort of flowers Adam Quantrell would send to her funeral.

Her dark mood lasted all afternoon, through the processing of a hit-in-the-crosswalk old lady, through hours of paper catch-up and court depositions. By the time she drove through Adam’s stone gate that evening, she was good and ready for a warm hug and some pampering. Or at the very least, a stiff drink.

What she found instead was Isabel’s Mercedes parked in the driveway.

Kat got out of her car and stood for a moment by the Mercedes, gazing in at the leather upholstery, the kidskin gloves lying on the front seat. Then, in an even blacker mood, she went to the front door and rang the bell.

Thomas opened the door and regarded her with surprise. “Oh dear! Did Mr. Q. neglect to give you a key, Dr. Novak?”

Kat cleared her throat. It had never occurred to her to simply walk in the door. After all, she was a guest and would always feel like one. “Well, yeah,” she said. “I guess he did give me a key.”

Thomas stepped aside to usher her in.

“I thought I should ring first,” she added as he took her jacket.

“Of course,” he said. He reached into the closet for a hanger. “Mr. Q. hasn’t arrived yet. But Miss Calderwood dropped by for a visit. She’s in the parlor, if you’d care to join her for tea.”

Joining Isabel was the last thing she felt like doing, but she couldn’t think of a graceful way to avoid it. So, hoisting a socially acceptable smile onto her lips, she entered the parlor.

Isabel was seated on the striped couch. Her sweater, a fluffy cashmere, hung fetchingly off the shoulder. She seemed unsurprised to see Kat; in fact, she appeared to have expected her.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” said Kat. “I don’t know when Adam’s expected home.”

“He gets home at six o’clock,” said Isabel.

“Did he call?”

“No. That’s when he always gets home.”

“Oh.” Kat sat down in the Queen Anne chair and wondered what else Isabel knew about Adam’s habits.
Probably more than I ever will
. She glanced at the end table and saw the empty teacup, the plate of biscuits. The book Isabel had been reading lay beside her on the couch—the title was in French. The very air held the
scent of her perfume—something cool, something elegant; no drugstore florals for her.

“Six o’clock is his usual time,” Isabel went on, pouring more tea into her cup. “Unless it’s Wednesday, when he kicks off early and gets home around five. He occasionally has a drink before supper—Scotch, heavy on the soda—and perhaps a glass of wine with his meal, but only one glass. After supper, he reads. Scientific journals, the latest pharmaceuticals, that sort of thing. He takes his work seriously, you see.” She set the teapot back down. “And then he makes time for fun. Which normally includes me.” She looked at Kat and smiled.

“Look, if you’re telling me all this because you feel threatened, Isabel, don’t bother. With me, what you see is what you get. No blue blood, no pedigree.” She laughed. “Definitely no class.”

“I didn’t mean to put you down,” said Isabel hastily. “I simply thought I could clear up a few things about Adam.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t know …” Isabel shrugged. “Aspects of his life you may not be familiar with. It must seem quite disorienting. Being thrust into this huge old house. All these portraits
of strangers hanging on the walls. And then there’s a whole circle of his friends you’ve never met.”

“I guess you know them all.”

“We grew up in that same circle, Adam and I. I knew Georgina. I watched the whole sad affair. And I was there when he needed a friend.” She paused, and added significantly, “I’m still here.”
And I’ll be here long after you’re gone
was the unspoken message. Isabel took a sip of tea and set the cup and saucer back down on the end table. “I just wanted you to think about this. So you know what to expect.”

Kat did think about it. She thought about it as Isabel walked out the front door, as the Mercedes drove down the driveway. She thought about the gap between Surry Heights and South Lexington—a distance measured not in miles but in universes. She thought about country clubs and back alleys, picket fences and barbed wire.

And she thought about her heart, recently healed, and how long it takes to put the pieces back together once it’s broken.

She went upstairs, collected her toothbrush and underwear, and came back down again.

Thomas, carrying a tray of fresh tea and biscuits, met her in the hall. “Dr. Novak,” he said. “I was just bringing this in to you.”

“Thanks. But I’m on my way out.”

He frowned when he saw the car keys she’d already removed from her purse. “When shall I tell Mr. Q. you’ll be returning?”

“Tell him … tell him I’ll be in touch,” she said, and walked out of the house.

“But, Dr. Novak—”

She got into her car and started the engine. “You’ve been great, Thomas!” she called through the car window. “Don’t let Miss Calderwood push you around.” As she drove off, she could see him in her rearview mirror, still staring after her.

The stone pillars lay ahead. She was in such a hurry to get away, she almost crashed into Adam’s Volvo, driving in through the gate. He skidded to a stop at the side of the road.

“Kat?” he yelled. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll call you!” she yelled back, and kept on driving.

Half a mile later, she glanced in her mirror and saw, through a film of tears, that the road
behind her was empty. He hadn’t followed her. She blinked the tears away and, gripping the steering wheel more tightly, drove on, toward the city.

Away from Adam.

I’ll call you
. What the hell did that mean?

Adam watched Kat’s taillights disappear into the dusk and wondered when she’d be back. Had there been a call from the morgue? Some urgent reason for her to rush to work? An emergency autopsy?

He pulled in front of the house and parked. Even before he’d climbed the front steps, Thomas had appeared in the doorway.

“Evening, Thomas. What’s up?”

“I was about to ask you. Dr. Novak just left.”

“Yes, I passed her at the gate.”

“No, I mean she’s
left
. Taken her things with her.”

“What?” Adam turned and stared up the driveway. By now, she would be a good mile or more away, perhaps already turning onto the freeway. He’d never be able to catch up with her in time.

He looked back at Thomas. “Did she say why she was leaving?”

Thomas shrugged. “Not a word.”

“Did she say
anything
?”

“I never had the opportunity to speak with her. She and Miss Calderwood were taking tea, and—”

“
Isabel
was here?”

“Why, yes. She left a short time before Dr. Novak did.”

At once, Adam turned and headed to his car.

Isabel was home. He saw her Mercedes parked in the garage, the groundsman busy polishing the flanks to a gleaming finish. Adam took the front steps two at a time. He didn’t bother to knock; he just walked in the door and yelled: “Isabel!”

She appeared, smiling, at the top of the stairs. “Why, Adam. How unexpected—”

“What did you say to her?”

Isabel shook her head innocently. “To whom?”

“Kat.”

“Ah.” With new comprehension in her gaze, Isabel glided down the stairs. “We spoke,” she
admitted. “But nothing of earth-shattering significance.”

“What did you say?”

She came to a stop on the bottom step. The crystal chandelier above spilled its pool of sparkling light onto her hair. “I only told her that I understood the difficulties she must be having. The transition to a large house. A new circle of friends. She’s not having an easy time of it, Adam.”

“Not with friends like you.”

Her chin jutted up. “I was only offering her my advice. And sympathy.”

“Isabel.” He sighed. “I’ve known you a long time. We’ve shared some … reasonably enjoyable moments together. But I’ve never known you to be, in any way, shape, or form, sympathetic to anyone. Except maybe yourself.”

“But Adam! Look at who she is, where she comes from! I’m telling you this as a friend. I don’t want to see you make a mistake.”

“The only mistake I ever made,” he said, walking out of the house, “was calling you a
friend
.” He slammed the door shut behind him, got back in his car, and drove home.

He spent all evening trying to locate Kat. He called her cell phone. It was switched off.
He called the city morgue. He called Lou Sykes. He even called Ed Novak. No one knew where she’d gone, where she was spending the night. Or, if they knew, they weren’t telling him.

At well past midnight, he went up to bed in frustration. There, lying in the darkness, Isabel’s words came back to assail him.
Look at who she is, where she comes from
. He asked himself over and over if it made a difference to him.

And the honest answer was:
No
.

He’d already had a “proper” marriage, to a proper woman. Georgina was everything the social register required: blue-blooded, wealthy, well glossed by finishing school. Together they were, by the standards of their social set, the perfect couple.

They had been miserable.

So much for proper partners.

Kat Novak’s origins, her hardscrabble youth, were, if anything, an asset. She was a survivor, a woman who’d wrestled the challenges life had thrown at her and come out the stronger for it. Could any of his friends, with their money and their platinum exteriors, have done the same? he wondered.