Songs for the Missing (4 page)

“Come on, Kimba,” he said to break the spell, and even then he was slow to pull away.

He checked his phone to make sure it was on. It was almost eight—frustrating. He needed to get home, but at the same time he thought it was wrong to give up. Going down to the next exit and coming in the back way might take longer, but at least he’d be covering new ground, and before Fran could call and talk him out of it he ducked into the Taurus and got back on 7.

A sign at the top of the on-ramp prohibited pedestrians, farm equipment and animals. He blew past it and then the yield at the bottom, accelerating away from a lumbering dump truck. He drove close-mouthed and frowning, blinking away a twitch in his right eye. They would all laugh at him later, he imagined, Dad freaking out, driving around like a maniac. That was fine with him, as long as she was all right.

He didn’t expect to see anything, but kept a generous following distance so he could look, fastening on random objects as if they were clues. A scrap of truck tire. A tuft of roadkill. A garbage bag broken open, its contents scattered in the grass. In the median two identical tractors sat nestled against each other, their mower bars raised for the night. He couldn’t make sense of the world, and clung to the idea of a mission, forgetting everything else. Just cover this last leg and get home.

When he saw the car far ahead on the shoulder he automatically slowed.

The size was right, a tiny box. He thumbed on his hazards and braked, veering off as traffic behind him shot by. He could see how it happened. The car was his mother’s, ancient and temperamental, a bad match for her, except that she loved it. It had broken down halfway between exits—walkable even in the heat, but instead of waiting for triple-A she’d accepted a ride from someone, and like that she was gone.

Except, as he rolled up, it was obviously not hers. This car was squatter, and the wrong color, an old beater of a Toyota. He stopped behind it, noting the Pennsylvania plates. He decided to take down the number just in case, jotting it on the pad suction-cupped to his dash. While he was there he figured he might as well take a look, and got out and walked around the Corolla, peeking in the windows as traffic shuddered past, analyzing it like a crime scene. There was a black scrunchy twisted around the base of the stick shift and a pack of sugarless gum in the dish beneath the emergency brake—both items he associated with Kim, and for an instant he imagined she’d been driving the car. He saw her struggling, arms raised, both wrists gripped in a man’s fist, then shook his head to banish the vision.

Fran was right, he had no idea what he was doing. He was a good salesman, despite the beating the market had been handing him lately, an okay coach, a decent husband and father, not a bad or incompetent man at all (he hoped), but he was not going to find her, not this way. He’d felt helpless at times in his life, over money troubles most recently, or, more often, the unhappiness of a loved one. This was different. His usually reliable talents of hustle and attention to detail were worthless against the unknown, and he was frightened.

Why wasn’t Perry out here? Where were all the state cops?

He was still picturing Kim when his ringtone knocked him out of his brooding. Traffic was loud, and he stuck a finger in his ear.

“Lindsay’s up,” Fran said. “Where are you?”

“I’m just heading back.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing,” he said, then had to add, “I think that’s good though.”

“Come home,” she said. “I need you here.”

He promised he’d be there as fast as he could, and for the tenth time today she asked him to be careful. He would, he said, thinking at least he could do this for her. As he was telling her he loved her, he noticed that the people whooshing past were staring at him. Truckers, a woman his mother’s age, a school bus full of kids. “I love you too,” she said. Even as he closed the phone and started for the Taurus, he felt watched and weighed, on display for the whole world. Another pack of traffic was coming. He could make it if he ran, but kept the same determined pace. Their faces turned to him, suspicious and concerned, as if he were either a criminal or some poor bastard who was stranded.

Victimology

The detective interviewed them separately, as if they were suspects. He was older than Fran expected, paunchy and olive-skinned, with fragile-looking moles on his eyelids and a black toupee that rode high and didn’t match his sideburns. He took Ed into the den and closed the door, leaving her and Lindsay to fill out forms in the kitchen. A blond deputy not much older than Kim stood by the fridge like a proctor. He’d only spoken once, politely turning down her offer of coffee, and Fran thought his silence was a bad sign.

Full name, date of birth, height, weight, hair, eyes—these were easy. She’d been at work when Kim left, and couldn’t have guessed what she was wearing. Lindsay was the one who came up with her light blue Old Navy T and Levis. Fran had gone through Kim’s dresser and hamper to make sure. Likewise, Lindsay knew Kim’s sneakers were Asics, showing her the box in the top of her closet.

“Thank you,” Fran said, abject, wondering why she’d wanted to keep her out of this. It was just like Lindsay to have all the answers.

She’d already interrogated her in private, asking if Kim had said anything about leaving, anything about J.P., anything at all strange lately. This wasn’t like the drinking and drugs, she knew about those. She didn’t want to scare Lindsay, but she needed her to be honest, and she was. Fran was fairly sure of that.

List any distinguishing features (birthmarks, scars, tattoos, piercings):

Her tattoo, obviously, but she’d forgotten her jewelry—Ed’s mother’s cameo ring, and the butterfly pendant Fran had picked out for her Sweet Sixteen, but which earrings, and did she have on her bracelets? She thought she should know. She was almost relieved that Lindsay didn’t. They’d have to look upstairs.

When Fran stood, the deputy held out a hand and patted the air, waving her down again. “That’s okay, ma’am. We’re going to have a look around right after this.”

Health concerns.
Did allergies count, or did they have to be serious? And then, waffling, she realized this was for people with Alzheimer’s who wandered away from home.

At work she’d filled out these forms from the other side of the desk, documenting the unconscious and unidentified, translating the painful and life-changing into the bloodless acronyms of emergency medicine. As a professional she honored calmness above all, trusting efficiency over emotion. She didn’t want to be the hysterical mother, demanding her child be seen immediately, but it felt like they were wasting time. They should be out searching for her.

Special interests
she left blank, just to be done. Lindsay was still writing, and Fran couldn’t help but peek.

Horses
, she’d written,
softball, iceskating, drawing
—all the talents Lindsay envied, and Fran wanted to stop her, to tell her that was enough for the police.

The deputy said they should hold on to their papers, so they waited. With no radio or TV to distract her, she ran through the possibilities again, as she’d done every few minutes since Ed had told her Kim hadn’t come home, quickly tripping over the worst before settling on the less dire, like an accident, a head injury. She’d seen people brought in who didn’t wake up for days. Her car could be down a ravine. She could be in the woods somewhere, hurt and disoriented, and here they were sitting around.

Lindsay was watching her, so she gave her a pinched buck-up smile—unconvincing, she thought, yet Lindsay returned it, and again Fran wanted to protect her from this.

“Your turn,” Ed said when he finally came out. He was trying to be businesslike but looked clenched, and she took his hand and squeezed it as they passed. As she followed the detective in she wondered if they needed a lawyer.

The detective barely glanced at her completed sheet before sliding it into a folder. His name was Ronald Holloway, and he was the detective with the County Sheriff’s Department. From his delivery Fran understood that he was the only one, so they should get used to him. He shook her hand and listed his credentials to reassure her, stressing that he’d worked several successful missing persons cases in Erie County. She didn’t ask how long ago or what he meant by “successful.”

They were lucky, he said. Because Kim was an adult and there were no signs of foul play, up until last year they would have had to wait twenty-four hours to file a report. Now, with Suzanne’s Law, they could get this information out right away. Fran didn’t have to ask what had happened to Suzanne.

“Mrs. Larsen, I told your husband, and I’m going to tell you the same thing. Ninety-nine percent of missing adults that want to be found
are
found, okay? That’s the main thing to keep in mind.”

But, she wanted to say, she’s not an adult.

He flipped his yellow pad to a blank page and wrote her name. “First time anything like this has happened with your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Responsible girl.”

“Yes.”

“Usually good about keeping in touch?”

“Most of the time.”

“Not all the time.”

“Sometimes she’s not so good when she’s out with her friends. Like any teenager.”

He took a different sheet from the folder and spun it toward her on the coffee table, pointing to a list of names with a pen. “Anyone I’m missing here?”

“No, that’s them.” She was surprised Ed had gotten them all, he paid so little attention.

“You’ve got phone numbers and addresses for all of them.”

“I think so, yes.”

“How about her place of work?”

“I’ve got the number by the phone.” Which magically rang out in the kitchen, making her turn her head as Ed picked up.

“How well do you know her coworkers?”

“We know Nina very well. I’ve never met any of the others.”

“Places she hangs out at. Friends’ places. Her boyfriend’s.”

This was so obvious that she didn’t know why she didn’t want to admit it. Was she resisting out of pride, or just because she didn’t like the man presuming? “They mainly hang out at Elise’s.”

“Any public places—bars, party spots?”

“They go to the beach a lot.”

“The river?”

“That’s during the day.”

“They ever go there at night?”

“Not that I know of.”

“They drink?”

“Yes.”

“Heavily?”

“Just beer, mostly.”

“She ever come home drunk?”

Wouldn’t Ed have already answered this? “Yes.”

“Did she ever drink and drive that you know of?”

“No.” Though she suspected.

“How about drugs?”

“Not that I know of for sure. My guess is she’s probably smoked pot.”

“Any problems with the boyfriend, far as you know?”

“No.”

“They’re serious.”

“I don’t think I’d go that far. She just started seeing him around Easter.”

“Exclusive.”

“I believe so.”

“No one else you know of.”

“No.” Not that Kim would have told her.

“She on birth control?” He didn’t look up when he asked it.

“Yes,” Fran said. At least in that respect she’d been responsible.

“How long?”

“Since she was sixteen.”

“Are her pills here?”

“Yes.”

“Has she ever been pregnant?”

“No.”

“Any health problems?”

“Nothing major.”

“Broken bones, unexplained bruises, anything like that?”

“No.”

“History of depression, suicide attempts.”

“No.”

“Any enemies or rivals?”

The idea made her laugh—as if Kim were part of a gang. In her whole life she’d gotten into one fight. That was in middle school, and the girl ended up becoming her friend.

“Does the boyfriend have any enemies you know of?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Any ex-boyfriends who might give her trouble?”

“No.” Adam Vozza coming to the door drunk one night, but he wasn’t really a boyfriend.

“Things all right at home?”

The change of pace threw her. Was it an accusation? Because that’s how it sounded. For the last four years she and Kim had fought each other to a draw, but that was over now. Fran was heartbroken that Kim was leaving, but relieved too. No one had ever made her unhappier, or more unsure of herself. Hateful. Helpless.

She wanted to be honest, and was aware of him waiting. He had to know how complicated these questions were. “We have our differences, like any mother and daughter.”

“Any big issues the last couple of weeks?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you talked with her?”

“Sunday.” He wrote it down, and she hurried to explain about their work schedules. They’d gone to church as a family that morning, that had to count for something.

“What did you talk about?”

She turned her head, trying to remember, pinching her lips in one hand. They were eating lunch on the back deck; Ed and Kim were laughing at some punchline from the Simpsons. Lindsay was being Ralph Wiggum.

“If you can’t remember, that’s fine.”

“I don’t know, just normal conversation. She was laughing.”

“Would you say your relationship with your daughter is good?”

“It’s not perfect by any means, but it’s good.”

“And your husband’s?”

“Good. He’s the good cop, I’m the bad one.”

“And things between you two, how are they?”

She shrugged as if there was no reason to think of it. “Fine.”

“Family finances?”

Ed had sold one of their mutual funds to cover their June estimated taxes, but that had nothing to do with this. “Okay, as far as I know. We’re not starving.”

He stopped to write something at the very bottom of the page, then flipped it over.

“Your daughters get along?”

“Most of the time.”

“Usual sibling stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Any extended family she’s especially close to?”

“Her grandmother—Ed’s mother.”

“Where does she live?”

“Erie, in an assisted living place. Ed’s already talked to her.”