by Peggy Slocum
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
“I want to know.”
“Blessed is the name of the Lord.” As the words come out of her mouth, Claire begins to change in front of Beth’s eyes. The gray in her dark brown hair disappears, along with her crow’s feet and laugh lines––all the signs of her mother’s age disappear. “It’s easy; just praise the Lord.”
“I’m dreaming.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“What?” Beth musters. I miss you, Mom.
“Hon, meet me at the coffee shop at eight,” Elliot says.
“What?” Beth whines.
“Coffee shop—eight!” Elliot says loudly enough to be heard through the door.
“’K!”
Elliot’s footsteps fade as he descends the stairs.
Beth pulls the comforter over her head. While drifting back to sleep she hears the distant thump of the apartment door closing.
Two hours later, the alarm screeches, waking Beth from a sound sleep. She throws the covers back and smacks the alarm silence button twelve feet away in under four seconds. Shower, coffee, meet Elliot at eight. Mrs. Freedman at nine. Great, one hour before the chaos starts … plenty of time.
Chapter 2: The Case
Elliot, stretched out on one side of the plush leather sectional, stirs. Kelly is lying on the adjacent section next to the windows on the south wall covered in the soft gray blanket Elliot retrieved from his room. He gazes at her beautiful features lit by the flicker of the natural gas flame from the fireplace. Beautiful, but … not. His eyes squint to make out the time on the missionary clock above the mantle. Four-thirty; she’ll be late. “Kelly.” He rolls upright and leans to shake her shoulder. “Kelly,” he says louder.
Kelly opens her eyes slowly. “What time is it?”
“Four-thirty.”
“I’m gonna be late. I am supposed to be there at five on Friday’s.”
“You can be late this once.”
“Not if I want my job. This’ll be number four.”
“Four? Last month, this week, or jobs?”
“Augh!” Kelly jumps to her feet.
“Relax, use the shower. I’ll take you. You’ll be there with time to spare.” Elliot attempts to calm Kelly with a wide smile. “The towels are in the linen cupboard.”
Kelly is already closing the bathroom door behind her.
Fifteen minutes later, Elliot finishes his quick shower in the upstairs guest bathroom. On his way to the stairs he stops in front of Beth’s door to knock and yell through it for her to meet him at Odell’s. Odd, her door’s locked. It’s usually open. The fireplace warms the upper floor of the suite during the winter. The Barstow might be an elegant old hotel, but some of the basic utilities still need to be modernized. The radiators upstairs do not always do an adequate job heating when the temperature dips into the teens or below. Did she hear me? She can be such a bear. I’ll call if she doesn’t show.
“Are you ready?” Elliot asks Kelly, who is waiting by the open door.
“Are you kidding me?” Kelly says to Elliot, pushing him through and allowing it to slam behind them.
Later, Elliot sits at his usual booth in the back of Odell’s Coffee Bar. The booth has a dark cherry laminate table top with a low-hanging, yellow and green stained-glass light fixture. The case file Beth gave him is spread out. Too engrossed to savor the smell of the fresh gourmet coffee, Elliot’s eyes twitch back and forth as he reads the details.
He flips a page and yawns, then stretches and continues to read,
Mrs. Freedman’s granddaughter, Vicky, and her mother were abducted last Thursday, the third of January. Vicky is eleven. Her parents were dysfunctional. Her biological father left when she was four. Guys move in and out every couple of years. Grandmother tried to take custody of Vicky several times. They live in a small house in Dorchester. Her mother has been unemployed for five years. Vicky’s mother had been chatting with this guy on the Internet and they decided to meet. She left to meet him at eight pm on the second of January. Vicky woke up at five AM the next morning, and her mother was not home yet. Vicky called her grandmother, and the grandmother called the police. Because of the mother’s record, the police didn’t take the report seriously, but told the grandmother they would send an officer to stay with Vicky while they waited for Mrs. Freedman.
Later that morning when Mrs. Freedman arrived at the small house, it was empty …
Elliot takes a sip of coffee as questions form in his mind. Hmm, why isn’t Vicky’s mom named? And what about … ? Elliot hears a crash, and several pans hit the floor in the kitchen.
A muffled scream escapes from the kitchen a second later.
“Kelly!” Elliot leaps up and bolts toward the kitchen. Reacting on instinct, he bursts through the kitchen door. “Are you O … ?” Elliot feels a concussive force strike the back of his head. His knees buckle, and his forward momentum hurls him to the red and white checkered tile floor. He slides and slams against the stainless deep fryer, not feeling the force of the impact before the receding light of his mind winks out.
“Elliot?” Odell shakes Elliot’s shoulder harder than he should, upset that his regular customer lies unconscious on his kitchen floor. What happened? “Elliot,” Odell says with a hurried Jamaican accent.
Slits appear between Elliot’s eyelids. He raises his hand to hold the plastic baggy filled with ice that Odell is holding on the welt jutting out of his pounding head. “Where’s Kelly?” Elliot asks.
“You tell me, man. You the only one I see.” Odell helps Elliot to his feet and guides him to a booth. “I called Frank. Been about five minutes.”
“He should be here soon.” Elliot feels the growing bump. Man, whoever did this came out of nowhere. “Kelly’s in trouble. Did you see any blood back there?”
Frank and Chip burst through the door. “Elliot, you OK, man? Want us to call an ambulance?” Frank asks.
“No. I’m good.” Elliot feigns a smile. “We’ve gotta find Kelly.” He strains to stand.
“Hey, you just hold on.” Frank puts his hand on Elliot’s shoulder to keep him put. “We’ve got Sal outside looking for anything peculiar.”
Chip pipes in. “Yeah, we’ll take care of everything. You worry about you, bro.”
* * *
Ahh, eight o’clock on the dot. Beth approaches the small coffee shop and notices three police cars parked in the back lot. That’s odd. I don’t recall their coffee and doughnuts being that good. Impressed with her witty self after a late, annoying night, she smirks and enters Odell’s Coffee Bar. She notices Elliot sitting in a booth with ice on his head. She walks over and musses his hair. “I guess Kelly said no.” Her wry smile widens as she sits across from him.
Elliot raises his head and glares directly at Beth. His eyes well up, almost to tears. “Someone took her.”
“I know,” Beth says with compassion, thinking Elliot’s talking about the case file she gave him. She grasps Elliot’s free hand. “I promised Mrs. Freedman we would find her and we will.”
“No, Beth! Pay attention. It’s Kelly—someone took her.”
“What? What happened?”
“I don’t know. I was goin’ over the case, and I heard a scream from the kitchen. I ran back and bam! Next thing I remember, Odell’s got ice on my head … and … Kelly’s gone.”
“Who’s checking it out?”
“Frank and Chip are in the back. Sal’s got this block. They called it in an hour ago.”
“I’ll check the kitchen.” Beth slides out of the booth.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Any sign of a struggle, guys?” Elliot asks Frank as they walk into the kitchen.
“Not really, just a few pans out of place and you being knocked out,” Frank answers. He reaches for the back of his neck with both hands and takes a deep breath. “Odell said it didn’t look like anyone even went near the office.” Frank moves one of hi
s hands to scratch his balding crown. “Chip and Odell are checking the cash box.”
“What’d you guys find?” Frank asks, shouting toward the small office door at the back of the kitchen.
Ten seconds later Chip pops out of the small office and throws his hands up. “Nope, no sign of a robbery here. The cash box wasn’t missing a penny. That’s about the only thing I have found out of place so far. Back when I was in school, I worked at a gas station and everyone’s cash box was always off by at least a few …”
Frank butts in. “Now’s not the time for a ‘way back when’ story.”
“I’m just saying …”
“Actually, that’s a good point, Chip.” Beth stands in the kitchen doorway. “Doesn’t it appear odd that nothing is out of order? Did Kelly have an ex? You know, ‘psychoooo.’ What did Odell say about the girl?”
“She’s late all the time,” Chip says. “She hasn’t worked here long. One of those country girls comin’ to the city to make it big.”
“Kinda sounds familiar, doesn’t it?” Frank asks.
“No sir, it does not,” Chip responds. “If you’re saying that’s why I came, you’re wrong. I came to the city to clean it up. And make it more like back home. People like her are just looking for trouble. They want to get rich by exploitin’ themselves and …”
“All right, all right,” Frank interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You can talk about how sinful the world is later.”
Beth and Elliot exchange blank stares, both wondering exactly where this is going. They agree without words: It isn’t helping find Kelly.
“We’ll have to go to her apartment and see what we can find out about her. What’s her address, Elliot?” Beth asks with her pen already in hand.
“I don’t know. Kelly told me she walks to work.”
“I’ve got all her information right here,” Chip says proudly. “I’ve got it in my PDA. I can send …”
“Wait a minute, Chip.” Frank cuts Chip short. “I hate to say it, Elliot, but you’re a suspect. I know you didn’t do it. But you’re all we’ve got. You’ll have to leave it to us.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Elliot says.
Unsatisfied, Beth says, “But Frank. You can let Chip send it to me, right?”
“Well.”
“Well what?” Beth burns a hole through Frank’s forehead with her gaze.
“How about I call you if we find anything?”
Beth reconsiders and softens her stare. Vicky. I’ve got an appointment. Kelly is missing, but so is an eleven-year-old girl. “Frank, did you hear anything about a missing Freedman kid?”
“Freedman kid?”
“Yeah, an eleven-year-old girl that’s missing.”
“News to me.”
“I can’t believe it. You guys should be all over it. I figured the high-ups decided a news blackout would protect her.”
“Hold on, Beth. I’ll check into it. It may just be one of those domestic-custody disputes.” Frank braces himself, apparently waiting for another death glare from Beth, but it doesn’t come.
“I’ll call Mrs. Freedman and reschedule, Elliot.”
“No. I’m good,” Elliot says. “Anyone got the time?”
“Nine-fifteen,” Chip responds.
“We’re late, I’ll have to call her on the way,” Beth says.
* * *
Beth and Elliot hurry out the back door of Odell’s Coffee Bar. Elliot strides to the passenger door of his red Corvette parked in back.
“Oh, you’re finally going to let me drive ‘the car.’ ” Beth smiles and gestures double quotation marks with her fingers.
“Does ‘a cold day in hell’ ring a bell?” Elliot asks, motioning Beth to get in the passenger side.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to ask sister Sarah about that,” Beth says, disappointed.
Elliot smirks. “It will take a lot more than a nasty bump on my head to get anyone other than me behind the wheel of ‘the car.’ ”
“Oops,” Beth says, slamming the passenger door with enough force to rock the car and remove the smirk from Elliot’s face.
Ignoring Beth, he settles into the driver side leather seat and presses the ignition button on the dash of his red 3LT Corvette Coupe. The 436-horsepower engine ignites. Yeah, that’s the ticket. The rush of adrenaline quickens his smile, and the throbbing pain from the goose egg becomes a memory.
Beth, unimpressed, flips her phone open to call Mrs. Freedman and notices that she has a new text.
“Hello, my beautiful, beautiful girls.” Again the message has a blocked caller ID. The message arrived at 7:15 am. She would’ve been in the shower. “That’s it; give me your phone.”
Elliot is preoccupied negotiating the traffic and intent on reaching the freeway that should be thinning by now on the westbound lanes out of Boston.
“Elliot!” Beth snaps.
“What? Oh, yeah. Sure.” He reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve his phone, without taking too much of his attention off the surrounding vehicles. He tosses it to her.
Beth grabs it midair and opens it. She goes to “Sent Messages” and finds none of the messages she’d received are in his phone’s memory, sent or received.
“Elliot?”
“What?” The 3LT engine comes to life as Elliot presses the accelerator harder toward the floor board. The engine sound retains its civil nature with the benefit of the highly tuned exhaust system. The Vette effortlessly passes eighty miles an hour at the end of the on-ramp. They enter the flow of traffic heading west on the Massachusetts Turnpike to Brighton.
“Where’s the text you sent me last night … and this morning?”
“I didn’t text you.” Elliot’s heart pounds from the thrill of the speed.
“Sam used my phone to text Kyle, but she sent it to you by mistake.”
“How did she do that?” Elliot’s frown deepens. This is looking like it’s goin’ to be talk time and not drive time.
“She hit number one by accident.”
“Oh, I’m number one?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are you sure she hit number one?”
“Sam said … Good point. I’ll check my Sent Messages. ” Beth suddenly feels sick. I considered Sam setting me up. I assumed she may have made a white lie about her battery dying. But, I heard the warning beep. She actually sent the message to Kyle. She didn’t hit number one at all. I’m an idiot. How do I shut the door I just blundered through with Elliot? Being a guy, he probably doesn’t have a clue. “Yes, it could be Kyle’s number.” Beth fiddles with her own phone. “You think I should tell Sam about the weird messages from Kyle?”
“I don’t know,” Elliot replies, a bit puzzled.
“Thanks for the insight.”
“Shouldn’t you call Mrs. Freedman?” Elliot pulls into the office complex parking lot.
“Actually, I think that’s her car.” Beth points in the direction of a gray Cadillac.
“OK. Let’s go say hello.” Elliot gets out of the car. He pauses and then with a boyish grin says, “Uh, Beth, you’re first on my speed dial too. Maybe we should talk about our phone similarities some time.”
* * *
“Good morning, Symphony.” Beth says, entering the office lobby.
“Yeah, Mrs. Freedman was early, so she’s been here awhile. I think I scared her. So I sent her to your office and pointed her in the direction of the doughnuts and coffee,” Symphony says with the excitement of watching moss grow.
“Great thanks,” Beth says.
“No problem.”
Beth and Elliot walk back to her office. “Don’t you think she’s a bit dark for a receptionist?” Elliot whispers.
“You have a problem with her Goth gear?”
“Yeah, she scares me. What happened to Cherry?”
“She was too much to handle before a pot of coffee. So I introduced her to a friend in retail downtown. Making clients suffer with ‘Cheery Cherry’ just didn’t seem right. Symphon
y, on the other hand, makes them feel good about themselves. She doesn’t fish for information or empathize with their crises.”
“I don’t think she cares at all.”
“Exactly! She’s perfect for the job.” Beth agrees.
“Let me guess; Sarah Perkins introduced you.”
“Yep.”
“She has a record?” Elliot asks.
“Yep.”
“Beth, do you really think …” Elliot says.
“Quit being so judgmental!” Beth opens her office door. “Good morning, Mrs. Freedman. We apologize for any inconvenience. We are normally punctual, and I assure you the emergency was unavoidable.”
“Yes, good morning, Mrs. Doyle. You should get one of these cell phones they make nowadays. It’s quite a handy little object,” Mrs. Freedman says with a sugar-sweet voice, accenting her obvious sarcasm.
“It’s Miz … but please feel free to call me Beth. And this is my partner, Elliot Synclair.”
“Oh, he’s not your husband? I thought you might be married.”
“No, what gave you that impression?”
“I heard your receptionist tell someone your home numbers were the same. So I assumed you were married. But, silly me, it is apparent with the bickering, you must be brother and sister.”
“No—we’re not.” Beth says, while studying Mrs. Freedman.
Without grasping the situation, Elliot says, “We just live together.”
“Oh … well, I wasn’t aware.”
“It’s not like that.” Beth says. “We’re roommates, but I wouldn’t think that pertains professionally.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Freedman says.
“Excuse me?” Beth asks.
“I’m not the judge … today. I’m just the client.”
Beth regards her with uncertainty.
“Why, isn’t that what you call us? Clients?” Mrs. Freedman asks.
