Sooner or Later (37 page)

“Tortilla soup,” he said, wafting off the silver dome covering the food. “Olive bread, the kind you like. Cold roast chicken, with a green salad. And a bottle of your favorite wine.”

He took a corkscrew from his pocket, opened the wine, then poured a little into the glass for her to taste. “Madame?” He stepped back with a courtly little bow. She said nothing and he sighed as he walked back to the door.

“Please enjoy it, Ellie,” he said in that low, rough whisper. “Believe me, I mean you no harm. All I want is for us to be together.”

She stared sullenly at him and he gritted his teeth, angrily, reminding himself it would take time. In a couple of days, she would come round. Didn’t they say women always fell in love with their captors? He locked the door securely behind him.

The finality of the key turning in the lock chilled Ellie’s blood. She was his prisoner and he meant to keep her that way. Forever. He’d just said so. It was him and her, together.

She had to get out of here.

She ran to the table, picked up the knife. It was sterling, from Christophle. The wine goblet was Baccarat, the plates, Limoges. The food was exactly what she liked, and the wine, Chateau Beychevelle, a favorite.

Hunger gnawed incongruously at her stomach. She had no idea of how much time had passed since she was abducted, no idea how long it had been since she had eaten, but suddenly she was starving.

She took a piece of bread, held it to her mouth.
Maybe be was a poisoner? Or the food was drugged, so he could rape her more easily?
Dropping the bread, she backed away. Her knees buckled and she sank into the pink chair again. She put her head in her hands, and tears trickled through her fingers. “
Oh Dan,”
she whispered,
“please, please help me. Please find me.”

But then she remembered, Dan was a homicide cop. What he found were bodies.

T
IME TICKED SLOWLY PAST.
E
ACH MINUTE SEEMED LIKE
an hour, each second an eternity as Ellie waited for him to return. She washed her face and looked longingly at the shower, but didn’t dare take off her clothes in case he came back. Naked, she would be even more vulnerable. Besides, he might be spying on her. The idea sent a shiver through her and she stared apprehensively at the ceiling, looking for hidden cameras.

Sitting in the pink chair again, she wondered if Maya had discovered she was missing. But then she remembered, Maya had gone to the dentist; she wouldn’t be at work for a couple of days. And Dan was in Napa with Carlos. But surely Chan would try to call her at home, saying, Hey, where are you? What’s going on? She shook her head. She doubted it. Chan knew she was wrecked, and he’d been going out of his way not to upset her. Tears spurted from her eyes.

Nobody would even have missed her yet. Nobody was looking for her. She was on her own.

•   •   •

She must have dozed off, because the sound of the key in the lock woke her. Her swollen eyes flew open and she jerked upright in the pink chair, watching warily. He was standing in the doorway. Immediately behind him she could see a small hallway with a naked lightbulb dangling overhead. She wondered if it was nighttime.

Buck’s mouth tightened angrily behind the mask; she hadn’t even tasted the wine he’d bought specially. Without a word, he wheeled the cart back to the door and locked it behind him.

She had to get out of here.
Panicked, Ellie ran and peered through the crack, but she couldn’t see anything. She lay flat on the floor, and pressed her face into the thick pile carpet, peeking through the tiny gap under the door, but all she could see was a thin sliver of light.

She flung herself onto the fluffy satin and lace bed, staring helplessly up at the ceiling, remembering how strong he was. He was big, powerful, vicious, and she was no match for him. Her heart sank like a stone. There was no escape.

D
AN WAS ON THE PHONE TO
E
LLIE AT SIX THE NEXT
morning, then again at seven. “It’s no good,” he said to Carlos, “I have to get back.”

Carlos knew a worried man when he saw one, and he also knew a man in love. “Don’t worry, Señor,” he said as they sped back to San Francisco and the airport, “everything’s gonna be all right. Trust me.”

Dan wished trusting Carlos was all it took, but he had the uneasy feeling that something was terribly wrong.

Three hours later, they were back at Running Horse Ranch. The red light flickered on the answering machine in the office. Praying it was her, Dan punched the playback button.

“This is Chan from Ellie’s Place. Do you know where she is, because I cannot open the cafe again tonight, by myself. I need to hear from her. Please call me.”

“Where the hell could she have gone?”

Carlos’s brow furrowed as he thought. “She loved the
grandmother. She is disturbed, unhappy, grieving. She would maybe go back to Journey’s End?”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Dan was already searching in the drawer for the key Ellie had left there.

The ornate iron gates were shut, but Dan told Carlos it meant nothing; Ellie might easily have closed them behind her for security.

Already, weeds were sprouting in the gravel driveway, the lawns looked overgrown and shaggy, and the beautiful dolphin fountain was silent. The windows glinted dully in the weak sunlight, and the front steps were littered with leaves. Journey’s End looked cold, empty, forbidding. And Ellie’s Cherokee was not there.

Dan ran up the steps and pressed the bell. He could hear it ringing loudly inside:, but somehow, he knew no one would answer. Hurrying round the corner, he unlocked the kitchen door and went in. Everything was neat and in place. There were no dishes in the sink, no half-empty mug of tea on the counter.

Their footsteps rang hollowly on the stone floor as they strode into the hall. Everything looked the same, and yet it didn’t. The house felt as dead as a long-closed museum.

“Ellie?” Dan’s voice rang loudly in the silence. “Ellie? Are you here?” Taking the steps two at a time, he flung open the door to Miss Lottie’s room.

Violence still hung heavily in the air, like a sinister presence. The room had been cleaned, but brownish bloodstains showed faintly on the pale green Aubusson rug. Down the hall, he could hear Carlos opening and shutting doors, calling her name. He shook his head, he realized it was futile. Ellie would not have come here.

There was only one other place she could be. At home.

Traffic flowed easily on the freeway and an hour later, he exited at Las Virgines, and made a right onto Malibu Canyon. He got lucky, the road was virtually empty, and soon he was driving down the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Monica. He called Chan on the car phone, just to check.

“She’s not here,” Chan said, sounding desperate. “Tonight, we cope, but not tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I quit.”

“Don’t quit,” Dan said determinedly as he turned into Ellie’s street, “she’ll be there.”

A couple of little kids were kicking a red ball around in the garden of the house next door. The street looked quiet, normal, an everyday scene. In a second, he was pressing the bell, hammering his fist on the door. The dead silence was ominous. Taking a step back, he gazed up at the bedroom window. “Ellie,” he yelled.

The kids next door stopped their playing and came and hung over the fence.

“Nobody’s there,” the towheaded boy said.

“Have you seen Ellie today?”

“No, sir. She hasn’t been round for a while. Usually we see her and she gives us cookies. Mom said she shouldn’t do it, but she said she can’t resist.”

Dan grinned, that sounded like Ellie. Then reality took over again. “Thanks, guys,” he said, already back in the car.

The phone was ringing. Pressing the TV mute button, Maya searched for it under the litter of Kleenex and magazines, her eyes still on Fred and Ginger, foxtrotting in white tie and tails and apple-green chiffon, in
Roberta.

She picked it up. “I’m in pain. Who is it?”

“Maya, it’s Dan Cassidy.”

She grinned, surprised. “Well, well, the rancher who
managed to get Ellie off the straight and
very
narrow. I guess she’s with you, waiting to apologize. She was meant to be here, with chicken soup and champagne. Some friend, huh? Deserting me in my hour of need.”

“Maya, no one has seen Ellie in two days. I was hoping she was with you.”

Maya switched off the TV. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“But I haven’t seen Ellie since the night before last. I left her at the cafe.” Maya could see her now, handing her her jacket and pushing her out the door, then turning to pick up the phone. There was a catch in her voice as she said, “Oh, Dan, where can she be?”

She could tell from his answer, he wished he knew. “Take it easy,” he said, “she’s okay, I’m sure of it. We’ll find her. I’m on my way to the police now.”

“Call me,” she said desperately. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“I will.”

He rang off and Maya stared at the blank TV screen. Ellie and she were like twin sisters, she knew what Ellie was
dunking
almost before she knew it herself. And in her heart she knew that Ellie was in trouble.

D
ETECTIVE
M
IKE
F
ARRELL, OF THE
S
ANTA
M
ONICA
police department, was a humorless, methodical man who believed every question had a logical answer, if you were smart enough to find it. He had thinning dark hair and a waxy complexion that spoke of too many doughnuts and late nights.

“People go missing every day in California,” he said, twisting a ballpoint pen endlessly through his stubby fingers.

Dan nodded. “But how many of them have had their grandmother murdered, only weeks before?”

Farrell sat up straight, ballpoint poised over the work sheet. “You dating her?”

“We see each other. But Ellie works hard, she’s at the cafe six nights a week.”

“So you see her on the seventh, the day God said all men should rest.”

With an effort, Dan kept his temper in check. “I see her on Mondays.”

Farrell scribbled the information on the sheet.

“She datin’ anyone else? Maybe you didn’t know about?”

“No.”

Farrell grinned. “That’s what they all say.”

“Jesus Christ, man.” Dan banged his fist angrily on the table between them. “A woman has disappeared. Her grandmother was murdered three weeks ago. This is no ordinary missing person.”

Farrell pushed back his chair, looking steadily at him. “Did you ever think of this scenario?” he said, in his slow southern drawl. “Maybe the grandmother’s death, combined with hard work and responsibility, has been too much for her? Maybe she’s just cracked, walked away from it all? It’s been known to happen.”

Dan thought about that steely core of self-reliance that fueled Ellie’s ambitions; the resilience that got her through the long, hard days;; the courage that had made her pick up her life and go back to work, instead of languishing at Running Horse. “She’s not a quitter.”

Farrell nodded, satisfied. “Then we’d better get out there and look for her.”

D
ETECTIVE
F
ARRELL WEAVED THE UNMARKED BLACK
Ford through the clogged Santa Monica traffic, then turned up the hill to Ellie’s house. There were no kids playing outside this time and the street was quiet. A squad car pulled in behind him as he and Dan got out and walked up the little brick path and pressed the bell. It rang with the same hollow sound as at Journey’s End.

Farrell had the search warrant in his pocket and he motioned to the waiting officer to break the lock. They fanned out on the ground floor as Dan ran up the creaking stairs.

Ellie’s room was neat. The bed was made up, and her favorite old pink chenille robe, the one she’d put on after they had made love and that clashed with her hair, was flung across the chair by the window. In the bathroom, the T-shirt she had slept in was in the laundry hamper. The towels hanging on the rail were dry and so was her toothbrush. There were no droplets of water in the sink and the soap had not been used. Ellie had not been home recently.

• • •

The
Closed
sign was up at Ellie’s Place and a squad car was parked outside, lights flashing. Chan, Terry, Jake and the kid were sitting round a table with Farrell, while a couple of officers stood by. A lamp shone on the green-checkered tablecloth, and Dan was leaning against the wall in the shadows, arms folded, listening while each said what he knew. It wasn’t much.

“I saw her Friday night,” Chan repeated one more time. “Here, at the cafe. It was very busy, people stayed late. I cooked the last meal at eleven, then I left.”

“I finished up a half hour later,” Terry said. “Then I ate dinner in the kitchen. I left after midnight, when the last couple finally went home.”

Jake was almost enjoying the scene, it might have been a TV movie of the week, even the lighting was good. “I wasn’t there Friday,” he said, “I only come to help out occasionally, when they need me.”

The kid ran his hands nervously through his tousled blond mane, thinking of the joint in his pocket. He hadn’t bargained on the cops. “Then I finished the cleaning up. I left when Maya did.”

“Maya?” Farrell looked questioningly at Dan.

“Ellie’s friend, she works as a waitress here.”

“Maya had a bad toothache that night,” Terry explained. “Usually she stayed to help Ellie tidy up.”

“That’s right,” the kid remembered. “I heard Ellie tell her to go home, and then the doorbell chime as she left. I was just on my way out the kitchen door myself.”

Farrell fixed his bland gaze on the kid. “Then you were the last person to see Ellie that night.”

The kid swallowed hard, red in the face with panic. “Jeez, I never thought of that. I don’t know, maybe somebody else came in …”

“Where did you go, when you left the cafe?”