by Amy Stuart
Own alias. Austin catches that slip, eyeing Clare, smiling, his face aglow with the light of the monitor. The tapping at the keyboard makes Clare antsy. She sips her drink again and glances at the bar. A whiskey would dull these nerves, but no. No.
“Can we focus?” Clare asks. “I worked for Malcolm. And you worked for Jack Westman. So maybe, I was thinking. Maybe we could exchange questions. Like you suggested we do last night. Keep going. I go first.”
“Fire away,” Austin says, closing his laptop and raising his right hand. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
“When did you work for Jack Westman?”
“Right before he died. I lasted a month.”
“Why did you quit?”
“I was too busy with school. He needed someone at his beck and call.” Austin narrows his eyes, scrutinizing her. “My question. When’s your birthday?”
“I’m an Aries,” Clare says. “That’s all you get.”
“What’d you do before this work?”
“I was a cleaner at a hospital.”
“That’s quite the career shift,” Austin says.
“Just like going from limo driver to investigative journalist, I guess.”
His beer arrives. Austin studies Clare with a twinge of longing in his gaze. He likes her. She will use that to any advantage she can.
“I think a lot about that job,” Clare says. “The cleaner job. I did it for about five years. People talk about being a fly on the wall. In a hospital, doctors and nurses, orderlies, pastors, whatever, when they walk in the room, everything stops. Patients and their families. Everyone stops talking, stops crying. But if a cleaner comes in, it’s like you’re not even there. I remember once entering a room to empty the garbage can, and a husband was sitting at the foot of his wife’s bed. And he was saying sorry to her in a way that made it clear he was the reason she was in the hospital. ‘I’ll do better,’ he was saying. And I was right there, and he just kept talking. A few hours later I was called into the same room to clean up a spill. But this time, the doctor was there. And it was a whole different picture. The husband all doting, making mention of some accident that clearly didn’t happen, nodding at everything the doctor said. And the doctor spoke to the husband and not the wife, like the husband was the patient. I remember making eye contact with the wife as the husband was talking. The look she gave me, I swear. I’ve thought about that look so many times since.”
“Why?” Austin asks.
“Because she knew I’d heard the real story. And her face was blank, but at the same time I could read it exactly. Like her actual expression was written in invisible ink. The sadness, the energy it took to play along.”
Instantly Clare sees it, the shift in his expression, a flicker of understanding.
“Sounds like you could relate,” he says.
“I think we all can,” Clare says, sipping her soda, regrouping. “My turn. Tell me about the Westman business.”
“Oh man. I could write a book. I will write a book.”
“I’ll take the crib notes for now. The missing women. Your exposé. ‘Connections people haven’t made before,’ as I believe you said yesterday.”
“Wouldn’t be much of an exposé if I spilled it all to you, would it?”
“Come on,” Clare says, smiling. “Just a crumb.”
“The biggest crumb is Donovan Hughes. Jack Westman’s business partner.”
“I’ve read about him. He’s in jail.”
“Yeah. He went down for racketeering and tax fraud about a year after the murder. The prosecution tried to tie the money stuff to the murder, make the jury think that Jack Westman was dead because of the shit they were pulling. There was no direct evidence, but it’s not a stretch—”
“Have you ever gone to the prison?” Clare asks.
“Hell, yes. It’s a nice drive. It’s a regular field trip for me. Donovan’s funny. He’s like a scholar now, all-serious. He’ll sit across from me for the entire visit and say next to nothing. He once told me he’s been reading up on law books. Trying to support his appeal. I think he only agrees to see me because he likes a break in the monotony. Not sure he gets many visitors. But he’s certainly not answering any of my questions.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”
This time Austin doesn’t laugh at all. He cocks his head at Clare.
“How did you meet Malcolm?” he asks. “How exactly did this little working relationship begin?”
“He hired me.”
“But why you? I’m guessing he didn’t put an ad in the local paper.”
Clare can only shake her head. She must give him credit for his astuteness.
“You never sent me that link,” Clare says. “The one about the missing women. The niche blog, I think you called it.”
“Right,” he says, opening his laptop again. “I’ll send it right now. Should I use the email on your card?”
“Yes, please.”
“Done.” Austin drains the last of his beer and looks at her. “Hey, want to hear something crazy? I looked up Detective Somers. I knew her name sounded familiar. I knew it. And guess what? She was the detective assigned to one of the missing women cases. Stacey Norton. I guess the last Stacey Norton sighting was in Somers’s jurisdiction. Case has been open for about two years. Pretty much gone cold by now. But you probably knew that. Right?”
A knot of bile rises in Clare’s throat. Austin’s eyes are trained on her. She flashes a smile before pulling her phone from her pocket and lifting the screen to fake an incoming call.
“I’ve really got to take this,” she says.
Austin appears unconvinced. “Sure.”
“Hello?” Clare says, standing and walking to the door of the bar.
Once outside, she unlocks the screen and punches in Somers’s number. Somers answers on the first ring.
“Clare,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“What haven’t you told me?” Clare asks.
“What do you mean?”
Clare turns around to face the bar’s door. The street traffic is loud. She must adjust the volume on her phone and press a finger to her ear to hear Somers clearly.
“You’ve got some missing woman case tied to the Westmans?”
“So?” Somers says. “I’ve got cases tied to every corner of the country.”
“But you never told me that. You lied to me.”
There is a long silence, Clare certain she can hear Somers’s deep breaths.
“I wasn’t lying,” Somers says. “I didn’t want to distract you. It’s not really relevant.”
“Yes, it fucking is,” Clare hisses.
“Clare—”
Before she can think better of it, Clare swipes to end the call. Every muscle in her body is tight with rage. It will take her a few moments to gather herself so that she might go back into the bar and address Austin again.
It is early afternoon. Clare sits on the hotel room bed encircled by papers and photographs from her Malcolm file, the articles she printed in the hotel business center after arriving back here, anything on Donovan Hughes she could find. The article Austin emailed her that mentions the two women ostensibly vanished from Lune Bay. She didn’t speak to Austin again after her call with Somers ended. When she’d retreated back inside, Austin had been on the phone too, hovering in a dark corner of the bar, his voice too low for Clare to listen in. She’d paid for their drinks and left without a formal goodbye, texting him only once she was back in her rental car to let him know she’d be in touch soon.
Clare spreads the contents of the file out across the bed, forming a timeline. She places today’s date at the end, working backwards until she reaches the date almost a year and a half ago when Zoe disappeared, then the date five years ago when Jack Westman was shot at Roland’s. The key to this story, Clare thinks, is in the gaps, the blank spots in the timeline where the secrets surely lie. First, Malcolm. Gone ten days after Zoe was last seen. But what hap
pened in the three years between Jack Westman’s death and Zoe’s disappearance? Clare looks through the folder for articles related to that stretch. “Lune Bay Business Park Deal Sours as City Denies Permit to Westman Corp.” Bribe investigations implicating developers, city staff, construction companies. The Donovan Hughes trial and conviction for tax fraud.
And then Clare must create space on the timeline for the missing women. Stacey Norton was last seen two years ago. Kendall Bentley, another woman who was last seen in Lune Bay only three months before Stacey disappeared. Austin’s article contains an interview with Douglas Bentley, Kendall’s father. Clare studies the photograph provided of Kendall. She is young, tall and slim, beautiful. A premed student living at home. The police theory is that Kendall left town with her convict boyfriend when a warrant was issued for his arrest, her father painted as a man unhinged by far-fetched theories. And Stacey was an opioid addict. The police, Austin writes, have no other theory or leads but that. His article mentions that the two women may have crossed paths working summer jobs at a local seafood restaurant: Roland’s.
Clare snatches her phone from the bedside table and texts Austin.
Can you send me Douglas Bentley’s contact info?
A quick response comes.
What do I get in exchange?
How about I don’t spoil your exposé?
He sends a side-eye emoji before sharing the contact information. Clare lies back on the bed and scrolls through the photographs on her phone until she arrives at the one taken yesterday at Malcolm and Zoe’s glass house. The family portrait of the Westmans on the beach. The togetherness, the smiles on all but Zoe and Malcolm. But on second glance what strikes Clare the most in this picture is Charlotte, the way her head is angled towards her brother-in-law, the proximity at which they stand.
They seemed tight, Roland had said about Charlotte and Malcolm.
“Where are you?” Clare asks the Malcolm in the photograph.
Driving back to the hotel from The Cabin Bar, Clare had been met with an urge to turn the car around, to point it inland, to disappear herself. She felt rage at Somers, at herself for agreeing to come here. As she stares at the photograph, at this young and brooding depiction of Malcolm, she feels it again, the compulsion. This is about Malcolm. Whatever he became to Clare in those months she worked with him, Clare wants to know his story. She wants to know what happened here. She will work this case until she does. She collects her phone again and presses in Somers’s number.
“You hung up on me,” Somers says as a greeting.
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t. Honestly. You were planning to work this case anyway. Your case is about Malcolm. Yes, I was assigned a case of a woman who went missing from Lune Bay. It landed on my desk because she was last spotted around here. I got it because no one else wanted it. Missing women aren’t always a huge priority.” Somers clears her throat. “You of all people know that. Anyway, she had some ties to the Westman family. But Lune Bay is a small place from what I could tell. Most people there have some ties to the Westmans.”
“Have you ever come to Lune Bay?”
“No. I worked the case from here. I had a detective there as a liaison. A useless one, at that.”
“It feels too convenient. It feels like you lied to me.”
“Listen,” Somers says. “I work hundreds of cases a year. I never got anywhere with this one. I fucking hate the way cops toss out missing women cases. It grinds at me. Eats away at me. I hate that I couldn’t figure out what happened to her.”
Somers pauses, but Clare says nothing.
“Then you show up with this Malcolm guy, and hey, he was married to a Westman. And you tell me that you need to find him. That’s exactly what you said to me, Clare. So I throw some resources behind you, figuring if we’re lucky, if I’m lucky, you might dig something up that’s relevant to the Stacey Norton case. I know how good you are at this work. I don’t have a lot of resources, let me tell you—”
“You put me at risk,” Clare says. “When you withhold. When you don’t tell me what I need to know, you put me at risk.”
“I get why you feel that way,” Somers says. “But the Norton case is peripheral. I wasn’t withholding. And I couldn’t be sure how objective you were.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Somers sighs in the receiver, choosing her words. “My instinct is that you had feelings for Malcolm. That’s why you wanted to find him. Feelings mess with our objectivity, Clare. I wanted to give you a shot, but I wasn’t willing to risk the integrity of the Norton case. I didn’t want you asking questions on my behalf—”
“Fuck you,” Clare says. “Do you really think so little of me?”
“Listen to me, Clare.” Somers’s voice is a low, angry rumble. “This is not about what I think of you. This is about police work, about your work as an investigator. Do you know how many times I’ve watched cops soil cases because of their own bias? Like I said, my hunch is that things between you and Malcolm are murky. And that solving this case isn’t just about testing your mettle. You want him off the hook. So yes, I protected myself from that bias.”
Clare can feel the well rise from her chest. Anger, frustration. She cannot bring herself to admit that Somers may be right. She knows she arrived here hoping she might find Malcolm absolved. But now, Clare only wants the truth. She needs to prove she can do this work objectively, thoroughly, professionally. She needs to prove it to Somers, prove it to herself.
“You still there?” Somers asks.
“Yes.”
“Listen,” Somers says. “I think the Westman story goes way back. My mother used to say that our fate is laid out for us a century before we’re born. People might rob a corner store on a whim, or stab someone in a fight, but this stuff? Murder, people vanishing, shady business? This stuff goes further back than any of us can see. A lot of people are tangled up in this web, right? Stacey might have been one of them. I didn’t want your bias, I’ll admit that. But I also hoped you’d bring some fresh eyes. I didn’t want to taint you with my cynical cop shit.”
Clare shifts the papers around on the bed. She will make Somers wait for a response. Her gaze lifts to the minibar in the corner of the room. She thinks of the heat down her throat, the warm coating of one of those small bottles. Just one. No, she tells herself. No.
“I need you to do something for me,” Clare says.
“Okay,” Somers says, suspicious.
“I want to go visit Donovan Hughes in prison. The Roy Mason Correctional Facility, it’s called.”
“I know it well,” Somers says.
“Donovan Hughes was Jack Westman’s business partner. Visiting hours end at five, but I’ve got a stop to make en route and I might be a little late. Can you call ahead?”
“You want me to ask them to roll out the red carpet?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of some excuse,” Clare says.
Somers laughs. “I guess I will. And hey, I might have something else for you. Something came across my desk earlier today. Can I email it to you?”
“Sure,” Clare says.
“Hang on. Sending.”
Through the receiver Clare can hear the pressing of buttons, the whoosh of a file being sent. She clicks on her phone to summon the message through. The email arrives and Clare opens the attachment. It is a handwritten note.
Tell C this is where to find me. There is an email address written down too.
“You think that’s for me?” Clare asks.
“It could be for someone else whose name starts with C. I’ve got a few dumb-looking beat cops around here named Clark or Cal. But my gut—and I like to think my gut is pretty smart—it tells me that it’s Malcolm reaching out to you. What do you think? Could it be?”
“Maybe,” Clare says. “Why not just write my name, though?”
“Has this guy ever made any sense to you?” Somers asks.
“No,” Clare answers. “Not really.”
>
“Okay, so. Here’s the part where I give you a cop speech. Maybe it’s my conscience talking here. You can do whatever you want, and I’m going to shred this piece of paper, and I’m not going to ask you any questions, but you know there’s a warrant out for his arrest, right? What side is he on? I want you to remember that he could be dangerous. That makes me really antsy, especially after all this talk about your objectivity. Corresponding with him isn’t the best move on your part.”
Clare remains silent.
“Wait. You haven’t already heard from him, have you?”
It galls Clare to be asked. “No,” she says forcefully. “No, Somers. I have not.”
“Okay,” Somers says. “Sorry. But if you hear from him, you need to go straight to the German guy.”
Despite her ire, Clare smiles. “You mean Germain.”
“Ha. Germain. Okay, listen. I’ve got a meeting. You call me anytime, okay? I want you to know that you can. Anytime. No more secrets. Okay?”
“Okay,” Clare says.
After she hangs up Clare reads the note over and over again. Has she ever seen Malcolm’s handwriting? Jason wouldn’t be capable of penmanship so neat. Clare opens a new message on her phone and carefully types in the address from the attachment, the tag a random stream of letters and numbers, nothing to indicate it belongs to Malcolm. This could all be a trick; Jason could be behind it. Nonetheless, she writes.
It’s Clare. I was told this was your email address.
She presses send, then clutches her phone and lies back on the bed. Clare closes her eyes and counts her breath. Ten minutes must pass before she feels the phone buzz in her hands. The incoming email has no sender name, but it is from the address Somers gave her.
Clare,
I’m glad you wrote. Before anything else, I want to say that I’m sorry. It was never my intention to drag you into this or to leave you without a valid explanation. I know where you are. I know you’ve been digging. I implore you to stop. It could be very dangerous for both of us. Please trust that I can handle this myself. You are good at this work and could continue to do it in whatever capacity you want. Just please, do not search for Zoe or for me. It’s not safe and I’m not sure I could bear to see you hurt on my behalf.
