The Disappearance (27 page)

“And a thirteen-year-old girl?”

“Not so uncommon, either.”

“It’s a lethal combination,” he says doggedly.

“But is it the best way for you to defend Joe Allison?”

He takes a beer out of the small cube refrigerator, twists the top off, hits on it. “It’s the best one I have until a better one comes along.”

Neither has eaten all day; they’re both famished. “I’m tired of ordering in,” Riva says. “I want a good meal in a good restaurant with a good bottle of wine and good service.” She walks around the office, turning off the computers and the lights. “Take me to the best place in town.” She gives him a supportive hug. “You can’t cloister yourself forever, Luke.”

It’s true he’s been avoiding public contact. It’s a small town, wherever you go you’re going to run into someone who knows you. He hasn’t wanted to deal with the negative vibes, the smirking looks and sniping behind-the-hand remarks.

“Okay,” he says, relenting. She’s right—he has to be in the world. Hiding from your demons is the coward’s way.

It’s late, but they luck out and get a last-minute cancellation at Downey’s, one of the city’s premier restaurants. A quick trip home, fast shower and spiff up, then the drive back down the hill in the old truck. “The brakes’re getting mushy,” he comments as he navigates a hairpin turn. “We need to take it to Midas.”

They find a parking spot on the street a block away. Walking arm in arm with Riva along State Street, mingling easily into the early-evening pedestrian gumbo, he ruminates on all the nice things he likes about this little city. The old, stylish, unforced Spanish architecture, the ease of moving around, the friendships he used to have, the quality of life—sophisticated enough for his taste, but unhurried. He misses it more than he’d realized.

The restaurant is one white-washed room separated into sections by waist-high partitions. Candles and fresh-cut flowers are on each table, and California landscapes by local painters adorn the walls. The place is only three-quarters full, but all the tables not yet in use have “reserved” signs on them—the chef-owner is nationally renowned.

The maître d’ leads them to a table in the back. Luke didn’t realize he’d been apprehensive until he’d walked the gauntlet from the door to their table and taken his seat, his back to the room. Riva has the good seat; looking over his shoulder, she can survey the entire scene. He’s happy to have it this way.

“Care for a cocktail?” The waitress, a young, smiling woman wearing the restaurant’s uniform of starched white blouse and black skirt, stands poised over them.

“Champagne,” Riva says, before Luke can voice a choice. “Two glasses.”

The waitress hands them menus. “Take your time,” she says. “If you need anything explained, let me know.” She goes to get their drinks.

Luke lays his menu aside, smiling at Riva across the table. He’s enjoying her attention, reaching under the table and stroking her ankle as it teases his thigh. “As long as you’re running the show, you can order for me.”

“No
problema
, big boy.” She scans the menu. “Everything looks yummy. How hungry are you?”

“I could eat …” He grins lasciviously at her.

“Don’t say it,” she says, grinning back, her foot moving further up his leg.

“Good evening, Dr. Tenley.” The maître d’s voice drifts back to them through the low-pitched fog of dinner conversation.

“Hello, Wilber,” a woman’s voice says in greeting.

Luke hears the voice. He tenses.

“We have your table ready.” The maître d’s voice again.

“Thank you.” Again, the woman’s voice.

The waitress places two flutes of pale champagne in front of them, tightly clustered bubbles rising up the center of the slender glasses. Riva raises hers in toast. “To our fun evening,” she says. “All night long.”

He’s transfixed, the glass sitting untouched in front of him.

She looks at him, perplexed. “Luke?”

“Luke?” From behind them, a woman’s questioning voice. The voice that had greeted the maître d’.

Glacially, he turns. The woman, her stomach now so distended he can see her protruding belly button through the fabric of her maternity dress, is standing a few feet behind their table.

“Hello, Polly,” he says, his mouth going dry. He lumbers to his feet.

“Hello, Luke.” Her dark blond hair is cut shorter than when they were together, above her shoulders—trouble-free hair, mommy hair. Green eyes, Irish porcelain complexion now mottled red from the nervousness of this unexpected encounter. Behind her a few paces, her husband, the man Luke saw her with at the beachfront when he first came back to town, hovers awkwardly, a half smile on his face, not knowing how he’s supposed to be reacting, what his place in this is.

“You look … good,” she says. “Different.”

“You too. You look very different. I mean good. Both,” he fumbles, feeling ridiculous. He forces a smile, glancing at her protruding tummy.

She smiles back. “D-Day’s approaching,” she says lightly.

“You have a son, too, don’t you?” he says. Riva has gotten up from her chair and is standing at his shoulder. She reaches out and takes his hand and squeezes. He squeezes back.

Polly nods. “Eighteen months old.” She rubs her stomach. “They’ll be a year and a half apart.”

“You moved fast,” he says, wishing he hadn’t said that, wanting to bite his tongue off.

She looks him in the eyes. “I wasn’t getting any younger.”

Her husband is standing next to her now. She turns and smiles at him. Turning back, she says, “Luke, this is Grant, my husband. Grant Tenley.” To her husband she says, “This is Luke Garrison …” She hesitates.

“Hello,” Luke says, extending his hand. The man reaches out and shakes it. His grip is firm.

“Grant’s a surgeon. At Cottage,” she adds, as if naming the best hospital in town confers added prestige on him. “We’re a two-doctor family,” she says, smiling.

“I know,” Luke replies. He knows more about the new husband than he wants to.

There’s a moment’s awkwardness, then he pulls Riva forward. “Polly, I’d like to introduce you to my—”

In the nanosecond that elapses, his brain flashes wilder than the speed of light:
Lover-mate-significant other-friend-associate-partner-mistress-companion …

Screeching halt.

“—my woman. Riva Montoya.”

Her hand is gripping his fiercely. Then she releases it. She holds her hand out to Polly. “Nice to meet you. Congratulations.”

Polly shakes Riva’s hand. Polly’s is moist. “Thanks, I guess,” she says modestly, a slight blush playing on her neck.

“When are you due?” Riva asks, woman to woman.

“Any day now, I hope.” Polly laughs, a nervous-friendly laugh. “I feel like a monster cow, all I want to do is spit this out.”

“I’ll bet. Boy or girl?” Riva asks. “Do you know?”

Polly nods. “Another boy. At my age you do an amnio.”

Luke, watching the byplay between the two women, is surprised at his calm.

“Do you have children?” Polly asks Riva.

“Not yet,” Riva answers, without a trace of guile.

“Someday.” Luke hears the word coming out of his mouth. It takes him by surprise, but it doesn’t feel wrong.

Riva stares at him, struggling to contain her astonishment. This time he takes her hand.

“That’s … I hope you do,” Polly says to him.

He smiles at her. Man, she really is large. Do they all get this big? But she’s still pretty. Still Polly.

He doesn’t love her. That’s why he’s so calm, why words about a future with someone else come so easily, so effortlessly.

What a wonderful revelation! He feels like the weight of the world has been suddenly lifted off his shoulders. And he also realizes how, subconsciously, he’s been burdening himself with the memory of their relationship, and his fantasies about it. Which is what they were, he now knows. Fantasies. Wishes. Historical rewritings. But not the real thing.

Standing here with her and Riva, he knows he doesn’t love her anymore, knows he’s really happy Riva is standing here with him. Goddamn, he’s lucky she stuck with him through all his shit.

“Well …” Polly says. The awkwardness is returning now. As much from her as from him.

Luke leans over and kisses her on the cheek. Then he touches her belly. “Good luck,” he says.

“Thank you.”

It’s over. The couples retreat to their respective tables.

“Would you like to change seats?” Riva asks, glancing at Polly and her husband over his shoulder. She doesn’t know what’s happened, exactly, but she knows something has, and that it’s good for her. For them.

He shakes his head. “I’m comfortable where I am.” Reaching across the table and taking her hand, he adds, “Very comfortable.” He lifts his still-bubbling glass of champagne. “To a fun evening,” he says, repeating her earlier toast. “To a wonderful life.”

She has tears in her eyes. “I hate it when I get sentimental like this.”

He reaches across the table and dabs gently at her eyes with his napkin. “Don’t worry about it. It’s sexy.”

“You find the weirdest things sexy.” She’s forcing a smile through her tears.

“You,” he tells her. “What I find sexy is you.”

They lie in bed, naked, under one thin sheet. The windows are open, the breeze coming up the mountain off the ocean ruffles the curtains, stirs the sheet. Long, languid kisses, touches. He feels a glow coming off both their bodies, a heat passing back and forth. His tongue caresses her dark nipples and she moans softly, sliding in rhythm to his touch.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers, tonguing his ear. She starts to push the sheet aside so she can get up and go into the bathroom, to put in her diaphragm.

“Stay.” He pushes her back down onto the mattress. The mattress is moist, their bodies are moist and salty.

Her eyes, dark, large, stare at him with intensity. “Are you sure?”

“
I
am. Are you?”

“You’re not reacting to tonight?” she asks.

“I
am
reacting to tonight. That’s why I want to. With you.”

She pulls his face to hers and kisses him fiercely, kisses him with a freedom that comes with love and the assurance, finally, of being loved, and knowing they’re going someplace new and where it will take them she doesn’t know or care but she wants to go there, she wants to go there because he wants to, because he’s able to.

The private detective, who’s from Houston and has a well-earned national reputation—his fees match those of top lawyers, and he has clients lined up months in advance—has been in Santa Barbara for three weeks. Doug Lancaster hired him because he’s the best in the business, and because he isn’t from Santa Barbara or anyplace close. This detective, Paul Bowie by name, is known for getting results without leaving any footprints. When his job is done he’s gone, and his quarry is none the wiser.

Doug meets with Bowie in a private cabana at the Coral Casino, a swanky exclusive beachfront swim club across Channel Drive from the Biltmore Hotel. The media mogul has just swum a mile in the pool; he tries to swim thirty to forty minutes every other day, in the pool or the ocean, as part of his workout regimen. Bowie has information for Doug. It’s contained in an oversized manila envelope. They wait to discuss business while the white-jacketed waiter serves them lunch. Bowie hands Doug the envelope. Doug opens it, slides out the contents.

There’s a written report, and photographs, eight-by-ten color glossies.

The photographs were taken with a long lens. They show Luke Garrison with Huerta, the car attendant from the Santa Monica hotel; Riva with Hillary, Emma’s friend; Luke and Nicole Rogers in the entranceway of her law firm; Luke talking to the old couple who were Joe Allison’s landlords; Luke’s trashed motorcycle.

Luke Garrison’s been covering the waterfront, Doug can see that at a glance.

Bowie picks up the report. It’s about twenty pages thick. “He’s interviewed the police, whose work was sloppy, because they were under the gun. Nothing should come of it, but he might make some noise. And he has the phone number of the, uh, lady you’re seeing down there in Malibu. He hasn’t contacted her yet, because the phone’s registered in her husband’s name—a business acquaintance of yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not,” Doug says curtly.

“Yeah. Well, like I said, he hasn’t pursued that angle yet, but if he does, you’ll be embarrassed.”

“I can handle that. I want to know what Garrison knows that could put Allison’s conviction in doubt.”

“Your daughter’s pregnancy.” He shakes his report, holding on to a corner. “That’s in the record, in the autopsy report.”

Doug looks stricken. “That was supposed to be sealed,” he says. He lays the pictures down, increasingly annoyed. “Ray Logan was supposed to keep a lid on that.”

Bowie, in turn, is getting annoyed with his client’s naivete—a man of this caliber should be hipper. “There’s no way Logan could do that,” he tells Doug. “It’s part of the record. The defense has the right to see everything in the record, sealed or not. Anyway,” he continues, “the prosecutor’s going to use that at trial, you’ve always known that. It’s the most important part of his case.”

“They’re going to crucify my daughter. Desecrate her memory.” Doug grips his iced tea so hard, Bowie’s fearful he’s going to shatter the glass. Taking a deep breath, he collects himself. “But why would Emma’s being pregnant help Garrison help Allison? It should sink them, shouldn’t it?”

Bowie leans forward, tapping his large fingers on Doug’s knee. “I hate to be the one who breaks this to you, Mr. Lancaster, but sheltering you from the truth isn’t what you’re paying me for.” He wolfs down the last of his fries. “Your daughter was not the sweet little girl you’re remembering. Rumors are starting to fly around town that she was involved with more than the one guy who got her pregnant.”

“What do you mean?” Doug asks slowly, his voice chilly.

“Your daughter Emma was screwing around
before
she met the stud who knocked her up,” the man says bluntly.

“How could she have been?” Doug blurts out, his voice rising. Conscious of his surroundings—the cabana’s walls are made of canvas—he lowers his pitch. “We would have known!”