“Which one?”
“Glenhaven Crossing.”
“Want to trade?” Lauren asks wryly.
Jessica laughs, and her son stirs in her arms.
“Uh-oh—he’s so overtired,” she whispers, stroking his head. “I should probably just take him home for a regular nap but I hate to be stuck in the house on a beautiful day, and it’s supposed to rain later and tomorrow.”
“You can always put him on a blanket in the shade. I used to do that when my kids were little. A lot of people do.” Lauren gestures at the smattering of sleeping babies and toddlers on the grassy area beneath the trees.
“Good idea. Next time I will. I’ll be around here a lot. The pediatrician told me the best thing I can do is keep exposing him to water and eventually, he’ll get used to it. So I guess that’s my only plan for now. Come here every day until he stops screaming—or someone kicks us out.”
“Trust me, that won’t happen. They’re pretty laid back here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Not the lifeguards, I hope.”
“No, but—”
“Mom!”
She turns to see Lucy, holding her pink phone. “What’s wrong?”
“I texted Daddy last night and asked him where he is—you know, home or still on vacation. I just checked my phone and he answered.”
“Just now?”
“No…a while ago, but—”
“What did he say?”
“It was kind of weird.”
“Weird, how? Here, let’s see.”
Lucy gives her the phone. The sun glares on the screen no matter which way Lauren turns it.
“I have to go over there into the shade.” She hands over the towel. “Can you please get your sister out of the pool for me?”
“Sure.”
Lauren starts away, then remembers Jessica. “Oh…it was nice meeting you.”
“You too.” The woman smiles and waves.
“Sadie,” Lucy is calling, “come on.”
Hurrying over to the shade beneath several towering oaks, Lauren examines Lucy’s phone.
I’m still on vacation with Elizabeth. I will be back soon.
What’s so weird about that?
Other than the fact that it’s completely selfish and callous…
She looks around to see that Sadie is out of the pool and wrapped in a towel, little stinker.
“Lucy, come here for a minute,” she calls.
Lucy hurries over. “Did you see it?”
“I did. Why is it weird?”
“Because her name is Beth. Not Elizabeth.”
“Beth is a nickname for Elizabeth.”
“No, I know that, but… I mean, Dad never calls her that. Ever.”
“Oh, well…” Uncomfortable, she shrugs. “Maybe he does sometimes, and you’ve just never heard him.”
“No. I’m worried that maybe…you know.”
“What?”
Lucy takes a deep breath. “I’m worried that maybe Dad’s trying to tell us something—you know, like maybe he’s trapped somewhere or someone’s holding him hostage and he’s sending a signal.”
“Oh, Lucy…are you still reading that Robert Ludlum spy book?”
“That’s not why, Mom. I seriously feel like something’s wrong with Dad.”
Lauren looks at her, then, again, at the phone.
Just yesterday, she herself was consumed with the same feeling. But then they heard from Nick, and she felt better.
Now she wonders uneasily why he’s so cagey, avoiding the kids, and his job…
Maybe something really is wrong. Maybe he’s in some kind of trouble.
“Mom? You’re worried about him, too, aren’t you?”
Slowly, Lauren nods.
“What are we going to do?” All at once, Lucy sounds—and looks—like a frightened little girl.
This, Lauren tells herself, is why you can’t admit to her that Nick might be in some kind of trouble. You’re the mother. You have to be the optimistic one.
Lauren hugs her. “Oh, sweetie, try not to worry. Daddy’s a grown man. He knows how to take care of himself. He’ll be okay.”
Lucy nods bleakly, clearly not buying that any more than Lauren does.
Elsa’s instinct was—is—to trust Mike, just as she always has, and yet…
She could have sworn she’d seen something in his eyes there, just for a moment.
But she’s probably mistaken.
That’s why you need to forget it and move on.
“Let’s go over what we know,” Mike suggests, and opens the folder he brought with him.
There never were many details. One minute, Jeremy was there. The next, he was gone.
Someone must have taken him, unless…
“Maybe he ran away,” Brett suggested on that awful long-ago day when, hysterical, Elsa reached him at work.
“How could he run away? He’s seven.”
“How many times has he told us he was going to leave, Elsa?”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“How do you know? He says a lot of things he claims he didn’t mean to say. He does a lot of things he says he didn’t mean to do.”
Brett was jaded. After what they’d been through with Jeremy, who could blame him?
I could. I did.
They’ve come a long way in fourteen years.
But we still have a long, long way to go.
Before they leave the restaurant, Elsa asks Mike if he remembers what he said to her the first time they’d met—back when Jeremy was newly missing and she hired Mike because she was getting nowhere with the authorities.
“What did I say?”
“You said that in cases like these, there’s always someone who saw something, or knows something. You told me the trick is to figure out who that person is, and find him.”
Mike nods.
“Have you given up on that? Or do you still think someone is out there?”
“I’ll never give up. On anything. I’m always searching for new leads, Elsa.”
She believes that.
She tells him to keep trying, and he promises that he will.
“Thank you, Mike. Because I need…”
Once, a long time ago, she would have ended that sentence…my son back.
Now, older and wiser and realistic, she seeks something else.
“Closure, Mike. I need closure.”
No traffic to speak of; wooded parks; tree-lined, brick-paved streets; old-fashioned gingerbread houses instead of skyscraper apartments…
I bet I could get used to this lifestyle.
Here in Glenhaven Park, anyway. Unlike most cookie-cutter suburbs, the town has its share of charm. So does the Walsh family.
What a shame to have discovered both under such unfortunate circumstances.
What a shame it would be if something were to happen to Lauren Walsh, or worse yet, to one of her precious children.
Or to all of them—Lauren included. An entire family, wiped out due to nothing more than incredible bad luck.
Dammit. Where is that pink stuffed animal?
A search of the house turned up nothing. And it was a thorough search, once the pooch had enjoyed his special treat and drifted into a dead sleep.
Dead, indeed.
Some watchdog. Maybe the dosage was a little too high. But a sedative overdose beats killing the kids’ pet, right?
No unnecessary canine casualties. Garvey will be pleased.
So what happened to the damned toy? Maybe it was never even in the house.
No. It was. Nick Walsh said it was.
So where is it now?
There’s only one way to find out.
Make that two.
You can either ask the Walshes nicely—and subtly—and be on your way. Or you can force it out of them, and leave no witnesses behind.
The first option is infinitely more appealing, of course. But the clock is ticking, and Garvey Quinn isn’t exactly known for his infinite p
atience.
A little more time. That’s all I need. I’ve already blended into their lives here. No one’s giving me a second glance. If I can find it on my own, no one will ever be the wiser. No casualties, like Garvey said.
Just a couple more days. Then, if the stuffed animal—and the file—still haven’t turned up, there will be no alternative.
The nice little suburban family will, regrettably, have to be destroyed.
Oh well.
Better the Walshes than the Quinns.
It would have been nice, Mike thinks as he heads up Hanover Street, if Elsa Cavalon had wanted to see him about something other than her missing son, or the woman she had more recently asked him to track down.
He turns to catch a last glimpse of her walking in the opposite direction. Damn, she’s hot. Even after all these years, and a one-way trip to hell, there’s something about her that turns him on.
Better not to get involved with her on an emotional level, though.
What the hell are you talking about? You’ve always been emotionally involved, from the moment she showed up with that picture of her missing kid.
Physically. That’s what he meant. He can’t get physically involved…much as he’d like to. Even though his policy is to mix business with pleasure whenever possible.
But for him, Elsa Cavalon is off limits. She’s married, she’s classy, and—most importantly—Mike suspects she’s hanging on to her sanity by a mere thread.
She’s better now, though, than she was. She told him she’s been keeping busy—doing some volunteer work, taking care of her new house…
She looks a lot better, too, than she used to. She was always a beautiful woman—anyone could see that—but there was a ravaged look to her back then.
Her gorgeous face has some color to it now. She’s wearing makeup today, and all dressed up. She’s still skin and bones, but her kind of figure has always appealed to Mike, who grew up surrounded by voluptuous women—and married one.
Yeah. Elsa Cavalon gets to him. And he’s not going to do a damned thing about it.
Mike waits for a delivery truck to rattle past, then crosses the street in mid-block.
“Hey, Mikey,” the Sicilian butcher calls, emphasis on the second syllable.
“Hey, Joe. Whatsa matter, you got nothin’ to do today? No dead cows to chop up?”
“I got plenty of dead cows. And I got some nice capicolla just for you.” Cigarette in hand and wearing his red-stained apron, Joe lounges against a globe-topped lamppost. “You want a sang-wich, Mikey?”
“Later, Joe. Maybe later.” Mike unlocks the door tucked between Joe’s shop and the neighboring pharmacy storefront.
Inside, he doesn’t bother to stop at the row of post-boxes and check mail. Nothing that matters comes to this address. He rents a box down at the main branch for that.
Up he goes, taking three narrow flights of stairs with practiced ease. On the top floor, he unlocks his door and thinks again of Elsa.
She’s on her way home now, to her husband and their new house down by the Connecticut shore. What’s she going to tell him when she gets there? That this was a wasted trip? That they might as well give up on Mike, because he’s given up on them?
“I wish I had something new that I could tell you,” he said to Elsa earlier—and it was true. He did wish he could tell her…something.
But he can’t. Not unless…
Time to make a call.
Tossing his keys on the table, he notes that the cordless phone isn’t sitting in the charger base. Not unusual. He looks around but doesn’t see it, and that’s not just because the shades are drawn. There’s crap everywhere. Papers, files, magazines. Beer bottles—a lot of those. Piles of dirty laundry and even a few stacks of clean clothes.
No freaking phone.
Mike pulls out his cell, dials the apartment number, and waits.
Ah—the ringing is coming from a pillow on the futon. He lifts it up, and there’s the cordless.
He hangs up the cell and tosses it aside, not wanting to dial this particular number from that particular phone. Better that it comes from the landline, which will register his name. Maybe this time, for a change, the call will be answered. He’s been trying for a couple of days now.
He dials the number.
The line rings once…twice…three, four, five times.
Then the voice mail picks up, as it has been lately.
“Hey, this is Byron. You know what to do. Do it at the beep.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dr. Rogel’s office is unusual, as medical offices go. It’s a two-room deal. There’s no receptionist, and not much of a waiting area—just two chairs and a table with a few magazines: Highlights, Woman’s Day, Sports Illustrated Kids.
There’s a white noise machine, too, right next to the closed door leading to the inner office. The pleasant rhythm of ocean waves makes it impossible to hear what’s being said on the other side of the door.
Her thoughts consumed with questions about Nick, Lauren goes through the motions of flipping through a magazine as she and Sadie sit waiting.
One thing at a time. First the doctor, with Sadie…
Then she’ll go home and see if she can get in touch with Nick. Even if it means calling Beth.
“Is it almost time, Mommy?” Sadie asks.
“Almost. Are you sure you don’t want to look at Highlights or play Brickbreaker on my phone or something?”
Sadie just shakes her head, green eyes haunted.
Lauren would give anything to erase that expression.
It’ll happen. That’s why you’re here. One thing at a time. Sadie comes first, no matter what might be going on with Nick.
She hears the faint sound of a door closing somewhere out in the hall, meaning the current patient has left. Patients exit the office through a second door that leads right into the stairwell. It’s all very private.
Lauren appreciates that. She doesn’t particularly want anyone to know that her four-year-old is seeing a psychiatrist. And she doesn’t particularly care who else’s kid is a patient here—even if, according to Lucy, Everyone has a shrink.
“Sadie, it’s almost our turn. Are you ready?”
“I guess.”
The door opens and a woman appears. Dr. Prentiss looks nothing like Lauren expected. Which was…what? A female version of Sigmund Freud? Maybe. Dr. Rogel has round glasses, white beard and mustache, and a distinguished air.
This woman, an attractive brunette, is about Lauren’s age and wearing the same sleeveless top and summer skirt Lauren admired on a mannequin at Ann Taylor at the mall the other day.
I love your outfit, she’s about to say—but Dr. Prentiss is entirely focused on her daughter.
“Well, hello there, my friend,” she addresses Sadie warmly. “How have you been?”
“She’s been well,” Lauren answers, when Sadie fails to—and instantly regrets it. She wonders if the psychiatrist has pegged her as a pushy parent who won’t let her child speak for herself.
Dr. Prentiss doesn’t seem fazed, though, as she says, “Hello to you, too, Mom. Are you having a nice summer?”
Hardly. But Lauren nods.
“How about you, Sadie? Are you having a nice summer, too?”
Sadie looks down at her shoes.
“I’ll tell you what—why don’t you come in and have a nice chat about it?” Dr. Prentiss asks.
Still no reply from Sadie.
“Sadie?” Lauren nudges.
Her daughter looks questioningly at her.
“It’s rude not to answer when someone asks you a question, sweetie. Dr. Prentiss wanted to know if—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Walsh. We’ll do just fine. Why don’t you wait here for a little while so that Sadie and I can get to know each other? I’ll call you in shortly.”
“Sure. That’s fine.”
But is it?
Lauren sits back down in the guest chair as Dr. Prentiss holds open the door to the
office and motions for Sadie to go inside.
Just before the door closes after them, Sadie shoots a worried look over her shoulder at Lauren.
Lauren gives her a reassuring smile and picks up her magazine again. But she doesn’t even bother turning the pages this time. And instead of allowing her thoughts to wind back to Nick, she finds herself straining to hear what’s going on in the office. It’s impossible, of course, with the white noise machine, but still…
She doesn’t know anything about Dr. Prentiss, really, other than that she’s filling in for Dr. Rogel.
Yet you just entrusted your little girl into her care, behind closed doors. What are you thinking?
Lauren shifts in her chair, staring at the closed door, and tells herself she’s just paranoid. Because she thinks something might have happened to Nick. Now she thinks something might happen to Sadie…even here.
Bad things happen everywhere.
Lauren goes over to the other door, the one leading to the corridor and stairwell. The second door to Dr. Rogel’s interior office—the one patients use to exit—is closed. She sneaks toward it and stands there, listening.
From here, away from the canned ocean waves, she can hear the murmur of voices. Dr. Prentiss is talking.
Then Lauren hears Sadie, too. Not just talking—laughing.
She can’t make out what they’re talking about, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s the first time she’s heard Sadie laugh in ages.
See? she tells herself as she slips back into the waiting room. There’s nothing to worry about. Dr. Prentiss is here to help.
“Marin? What’s going on?”
She opens her eyes to find Garvey standing over the bed. He’s wearing a suit, and the room is brighter than it should be; sun shining in from the window facing the western terrace.
“What time is it?” she asks.
“Almost four. I just got back from a meeting. What are you doing in bed?”
“Taking a nap.”
“Are you sick?”
“Maybe.” Marin sits up, rubbing her eyes. “I had a headache.”
“Caroline told me. She said you promised to take her shopping, but you cut it short to come home and lie down.”
“I did take her shopping, Garvey. All morning, and into the afternoon. I bought her everything she wanted.”
Live to Tell Page 22
