Girl Missing

by Tess Gerritsen

  “I dreamed about you last night,” he said, his fingers lightly tracing the length of her spine.

  “Adam,” she said. “What happened last night—” She felt a shudder of pleasure as his hand moved upward, crept under the flap of the robe to graze her breast. At once she stood up and moved away from the bed. She shook her head. “It’s not going to work.”

  He didn’t say a thing. He just watched her, his gaze too searching for comfort.

  She began to move around the room, anything to avoid that look of his. “I walk into your bathroom,” she said. “And everything’s marble and—and gold. The soap’s French. And the towels all match.” She stopped and laughed. “Adam, in all my life, I’ve never had towels that matched.”

  “You’re saying it won’t work because of my towels?”

  “No, I’m saying I can’t see myself … fitting in here. I can’t see your friends accepting me. Or you accepting me. Right now, maybe, I’m exciting for you—”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “But it doesn’t last, the novelty of a girlfriend from South Lexington. Look, you’re a nice guy. I know you don’t mean to hurt me. Maybe you’ll even feel guilty about it when it falls apart. But I’m not the kind of woman who gets hurt, okay? I refuse to be hurt. And that’s why I’d much rather stay your friend.”

  “Because you think our relationship is doomed?”

  “Well, yes. I guess.”

  For a moment he considered that statement without apparent emotion. Then he said, quite calmly, “I suppose it is better for you. We both know how it is with these rich bastards. Love ’em and leave ’em—that’s what you say, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Adam.” She sighed. “Please.”

  He rose from the bed, snatching up his clothes. “I’m insulted. I’m really insulted. We make love—what I thought was love—and then you hand me the script to the rest of the affair!”

  “Because I’ve played this part before. With Ed. With other men—”

  “Also rich bastards?”

  The knock on the door startled them both.

  “What is it?” snapped Adam.

  Thomas entered, looking quite taken aback at his employer’s tone of voice. “I … thought perhaps you should know. The police are downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “Sergeant Sykes and that chubby detective. Shall I set breakfast?”

  Adam sighed. “Go ahead. Lay on the bagels for Ratchet.”

  “And some extra cream cheese,” Thomas added and withdrew.

  Adam and Kat looked at each other. The tension was still there, crackling between them. So was the desire.

  Push and pull. Attraction and fear. That was what she felt when she looked at him.

  She picked up her clothes. “I’ll see you downstairs,” she said. Then she left to get dressed in the other room.

  The two cops were sitting at the dining table, Sykes nursing a cup of black coffee, Ratchet wolfing down scrambled eggs and sausages. Both men seemed quiet, maybe a little cautious, this morning. As though they had to be careful about what they said.

  Something has changed, thought Kat, studying them.

  She and Adam sat across the table from them. Though Adam was right beside her, he didn’t touch her, didn’t glance at her. She felt the distance between them widen with every minute that passed.

  Sykes said, “It’s about the Esterhaus murder. Rockbrook Precinct’s handed the case to us.”

  “Why?” asked Adam.

  “Because of what’s come to light.” Sykes put a large envelope on the table and slid it across to Adam. “I’m sorry to be the one to show these to you. But I need you to confirm the identity.”

  Puzzled, Adam pulled out a dozen photographs. At his first glimpse of the woman in the pictures, he paled. They were nude shots, in grainy black and white, amateurish and obviously home-processed. In one, the woman was sprawled suggestively across a bed, her hair fanned out, her hands cupping her breasts. In another, she pouted seductively from a bar stool, a whiskey glass raised to the camera. More photos, some taken with an apparent effort at artistic shading, others blatantly prurient. Adam stared at the thin and girlish face gazing back at him from an array of poses. Then he looked away and dropped his head in his hands.

  Sykes asked: “Is it her?”

  “Yes,” murmured Adam. “It’s Maeve.”

  Sykes nodded. “I thought so. I recognized her face from the photos you gave me earlier.”

  Adam looked up. “Where did you find these?”

  “In Herbert Esterhaus’s bedroom.”

  “What?”

  “They were in a bureau drawer. Along with a lot of other … interesting things.”

  Adam stared at him, shocked. “Esterhaus and Maeve …”

  “We’re trying to find her, bring her in for questioning. But we can’t seem to get near her. That’s a tight group she hangs out with in South Lexington. It’s only routine questions, of course. Ex-girlfriends are always on the list—”

  “You don’t think Maeve had anything to do with it?”

  “As I said, it’s routine. Just a drill we go through—”

  Adam pointed to the photos. “I’d say Maeve is the victim here, Sergeant!” he shot back.

  “I know exactly how you feel, Mr. Q.,” said Sykes. “I’ve got a little girl of my own, and I’d want to wring the neck of any bastard who used her like this. But a man’s been killed. And now we have to go through the paces.”

  “I know Maeve! She wouldn’t—”

  “Did you know about her and Esterhaus?”

  Adam paused. “No,” he admitted at last. “I didn’t.”

  Sykes shook his head. “There’s a lot you never know about people. Even your own family. I’m not saying you should get panicked or anything. You’re probably right, she had nothing to do with it. With the evidence we found, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she didn’t. Still—”

  “What evidence?” asked Kat.

  “Things we found. In the victim’s house.”

  “Aside from nude photos of ex-girlfriends?”

  “Yes.” Sykes looked at Adam. “What did you know about Esterhaus when you hired him?”

  “Just what was in his résumé. As I recall, he came well qualified. Excellent references. Had a research position somewhere out in California.”

  “That should’ve tipped you off right there,” said Ratchet, spearing another sausage. “Who in his right mind leaves sunny California and moves to Albion?”

  “You mean his references were falsified?” asked Kat.

  Sykes nodded. “Courtesy of the U.S. government.”

  “What?”

  “See, the name Herbert Esterhaus was an alias. We found his old IDs in his house. His real name was Dr. Lawrence Hebron. Oh, he was a biochemist, all right, but he didn’t work for a company in California. He worked in Miami. A designer drug lab owned by the mob. A real genius, so I hear. Then he got busted and turned state’s evidence. They put him in the witness protection program, gave him a new name, a new résumé. And a new job, with Cygnus. Where, I take it, he was working out just fine.”

  Adam nodded. “He was one of our best.”

  “And you think that’s why he was killed?” asked Kat. “Old mob connections?”

  “There are folks in Miami who aren’t happy with him. If they traced him to Albion, then he was a dead man.”

  “We figure,” said Ratchet, wiping sausage grease from his mouth, “Esterhaus is the key to it all. Maybe he needed some extra cash, so he rips off a few grains of Zestron-L from the lab, sells it on the street. A few junkies die as a result. Then his old buddies from Miami get wind of his whereabouts, come up, and perform a little thirty-eight-caliber justice.”

  There was a silence as Kat and Adam considered the theory. “So we’re supposed to believe that Miami boys drove up and did your job for you?” said Kat. She shook her head. “Too neat. And who blew up my house?”

  “Esterhaus was a biochemist,” sa
id Ratchet. “He could put together a respectable bomb.”

  “Why? Just to shut me up?”

  Sykes laughed. “There are times, Novak, when I would love to shut you up. Consider what the man was faced with, if you kept pushing your investigation. Charges of theft. Manslaughter, for those junkies. Plus, you’d blow his cover identity, so his life was at stake as well.”

  “And Maeve?” said Kat, glancing at the nude photos. “How does she figure in?”

  “We don’t know,” said Sykes. “We thought maybe Mr. Q. could shed some light.”

  Adam shook his head, troubled by what he’d heard. “Maeve never said a word to me about any of this.”

  “You had no idea she was seeing Esterhaus?”

  “She had her own life, her own apartment. I suspected there was a man, but I didn’t know his name. And she wouldn’t bother telling me.” In disgust, he swept up the photos and stuffed them back in the envelope. “I’d strangle him myself, if he weren’t already dead.”

  Kat caught the glance that flew between Sykes and Ratchet. Careful, Adam, she thought. They’re looking for suspects. Don’t provide them with one.

  She said, quickly, “Do you think Maeve knew about his real identity? We know she and Esterhaus weren’t getting along—those arguments at the lab, remember? Maybe it had nothing to do with the job. Maybe it was personal. Maybe she learned the truth about him. And she walked out. Not on the job, but on him.”

  “She could have told me,” said Adam. “But she didn’t. Lord, what a disaster I’ve been as a father.”

  Kat touched his arm. It wasn’t enough to close the gap yawning between them; perhaps nothing could close that. But it let him know she cared. “Maybe she couldn’t tell you. Maybe she was ashamed she had fallen for the guy in the first place. Or scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “The man she was sleeping with had a price on his head. And he was pushing poison on the street. That would scare a lot of people.”

  “Then why didn’t she come to me?” said Adam. “I would have kicked him out of Cygnus so fast, he wouldn’t know what hit him.”

  “You may have answered your own question,” said Kat. “If she had any feelings at all for Esterhaus, she wouldn’t expose him. So she just walked away. Went someplace he couldn’t find her.”

  “South Lexington?” Ratchet snorted. “I can think of better neighborhoods to hide in.”

  Sykes scooped up the envelope of photos and rose to leave. “We’ll keep trying to find her,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s turned into a game of hide-and-seek. And Maeve’s pretty damn good at it.” He glanced at Adam. “As you already know.”

  Adam shook his head, a weary gesture of acceptance. Defeat. “You won’t find her,” he said. “No one will. Not unless she wants to be found.”

  They spotted Celeste a block away, her curlicued hair bouncing up and down as she skipped rope. She didn’t break stride as they drove closer and pulled up next to her. She was counting to herself in a soft, flat drone: “One twenty-eight, one twenty-nine, one thirty …”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Adam whispered to Kat. “Maybe we should try Anthony again.”

  “And lose another two hundred dollars?” Kat shook her head. “This kid knows her way around. Let’s see if she’ll help us out.”

  “One thirty-eight, one thirty-nine …”

  “Hello, Celeste,” Kat called through the open car window. “Can we talk to you?”

  “One forty-four, one forty-five.”

  “We need a little help.”

  “One forty-eight …” The rope suddenly fell limp, snagged by Celeste’s shoe. She stamped her foot in annoyance. “I was goin’ for a record, too.” Resignedly she turned to Kat. “So what do you need?”

  “We want to talk to Jonah,” said Kat. “The big man.”

  “What for?”

  “Just talk. About what’s coming down.”

  “Jonah doesn’t talk to outsiders.”

  “Maybe he’ll talk to us. A new jump rope says he will.”

  “I’d rather have a watch. Y’know, with all those fancy dials and things.”

  “And you thought Anthony was steep,” muttered Adam.

  “Okay,” said Kat. “A watch. But only if he talks to us.”

  Celeste grinned. “Wait here,” she said and trotted off down the street. She turned left, into an alley, and vanished.

  “Is this going to work?” said Adam.

  “We can’t get to Maeve any other way. So we have to try going to the top. If she’s Jonah’s lady, that’s where she’ll be. With him.”

  “Maeve won’t talk to us. She won’t let us anywhere near her.”

  “But things have changed. Esterhaus is dead. She’s a suspect. So she’d better talk to us. Before the police make her talk.” She looked at Adam. “Besides, this is your chance to call off the feud, or whatever it is between you two. It’s gone on long enough. Don’t you think it’s time for you and Maeve to be a family again?”

  He gazed down the street, at the alley where Celeste had vanished. “You’re right,” he said softly. “It’s time …”

  They waited. Ten minutes, fifteen.

  Instead of Celeste, it was their old escort Leland who emerged from the alley. He sauntered over to their car and peered inside.

  “You two again,” he said.

  “We want to see Jonah,” said Kat.

  “What for?” demanded Leland.

  “This place is gonna be thick with cops. I thought the big man might want to know what’s coming down.”

  Leland looked skeptical. “You doin’ him a favor? Sure.”

  “I got one to ask in return.”

  An exchange of favors—that concept, Leland could grasp. He opened Kat’s door. “Okay, you’re on. Just you, not the dude.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Adam, climbing out of the car as she did.

  “It’s the chick or nobody.”

  “She’s not going in there without me.”

  “Then she ain’t goin’ in at all.”

  “If those are the terms, then we’re not—”

  “Adam, can I speak to you?” Kat grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “Don’t ruin it.”

  “You don’t know anything about this Jonah character!”

  “And I never will, if I don’t go in.”

  Adam glanced at Leland, who was standing by the rear bumper. “He’s twice your size. No, he’s twice my size. If he wanted to, he could—”

  “Do you want to contact Maeve or not?”

  “Not if it means sending you off with him.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not afraid of him, you know.”

  “Which says something about your sanity.”

  “There’s a code of honor here, Adam. You may not believe it, but people do play by the big man’s rules. Jonah says I’m in, then I’m in. And no one touches me.”

  “What if the rules have changed?”

  “I’m gambling they haven’t.”

  “There’s the word for it. Gambling.”

  “Are you comin’ or what?” said Leland.

  “I’m coming,” said Kat, and she turned to follow him.

  Adam caught her arm. “One question, Kat. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you need your daughter. And I think she needs you.” With that she pulled away and followed Leland up the street.

  They turned left, into the alley, then right, up another alley. There Leland halted. He pulled out a bandanna and tossed it to her. “Put it over your eyes,” he said.

  “You boys got a secret hideout?”

  “We wanna keep it that way.”

  Stupid kid stuff, she thought as she wrapped the bandanna over her eyes and tied it at the back. The cloth stank of cheap aftershave. “Okay. I’m blind as a bat. Now don’t screw up and let me trip on anything.”

  “You, lady, I’ll be happy to throw out a window. Come on.” She felt his paw take hold of her arm—not gently, e
ither.

  They moved forward. She felt glass skitter away before her blindly shuffling feet. Leland’s grip remained firm, her only link to the world. She tried counting paces, then gave up after a while, knowing only that they’d traveled a long way—maybe in circles. She stumbled over a threshold, was dragged back to her feet. They were in a building, she realized, listening to their footsteps echo across the floor. Too many turns to keep track of now. Up some stairs, then back down. Cold air on her face—outside? A walkway, perhaps? Back inside—those echoing footsteps again.

  The echoes elongated, bounced off widely spaced walls. There were others here; she could hear footsteps and a murmur of voices.

  Leland halted.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “My castle,” said a voice—one she didn’t recognize. It boomed forth, like an actor’s from the stage.

  “Are you Jonah?” asked Kat.

  “Why don’t you see for yourself?” said the man. “Take off your blindfold.”

  Kat hesitated. Then, slowly, she reached up and pulled off the bandanna.

  SHE WAS STANDING IN A DARK ROOM—A warehouse. On her right was a window, covered over by fabric. Only the faintest light managed to seep through the weave, offering her a dim view of scattered crates, sagging posts. I have an audience, she thought with a sudden flash of nervousness as she realized shadows were moving around her.

  A light sprang on, a single bare lightbulb swaying from a wire.

  She squinted against the glare, trying to make out the faces surrounding her. There were at least a dozen of them, all with eyes trained on her, watching her, waiting for signs of fear or vulnerability. She tried not to show either. “So,” she said, “which one of you is Jonah?”

  “That depends,” someone said.

  “On what?”

  “On who you are.”

  “The name’s Kat Novak. And this used to be my neighborhood.”

  “She’s a cop,” said Leland. “Goes around askin’ questions like one, anyway.”

  “Not a cop,” said Kat. “I work for the medical examiner’s office. People die, my job’s to find out why. And you’ve had folks dying around here.”