The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  “Have they shown him McQueen’s photograph?” I asked.

  “Of course. But the guy couldn’t say for certain it was him.”

  “Don’t they usually tape all ATM withdrawals?”

  “Yeah, but not in the little machines you see in convenience stores. And unfortunately, both of the withdrawals were made in convenience stores.”

  “Isn’t Causeway Street right nearby?”

  “Half a minute’s walk from the hotel. I went into the Seven-Eleven myself before coming back. Showed the woman behind the counter Lizzie’s picture. She’d never seen her, but she also was working largely in the back on the night the withdrawal was made. I also went around, talking to a lot of the street people hanging near North Station. No one recognized her, though everyone I spoke with hit me for a couple of bucks.”

  “Why would a rich doctor like McQueen be using Lizzie’s ATM card to get money?”

  “I asked the same question to Leary. He said that McQueen might be trying to muddle the trail—to make everybody believe that Lizzie is still alive because she’s withdrawing money . . .”

  “That makes sense. Have they questioned McQueen yet about this?”

  “They haven’t mentioned the ATM. They want to see if there’s another cash withdrawal—and if they can somehow trace it this time. Or maybe they hope that whoever’s taking out the money might slip up and use a cash machine with a videotape facility.”

  “McQueen would be too clever for that.”

  “They still haven’t ascertained that it is McQueen, and though he’s under surveillance, they haven’t even intimated he’s a suspect, just in case he gets nervous and tries to flee.”

  Lizzie murdered? No, I couldn’t accept that, couldn’t believe that. As much as I hated McQueen, I remember his upset and anger during our phone call. Surely if he had killed Lizzie, he would have acted more cagily, would have played dumb. But maybe he was also putting on an outraged act for my benefit, to further deflect attention from himself as the prime suspect. After all, if he could convince the police that the last time he saw Lizzie was in the bar of the Four Seasons when she went ballistic, then how could they link him to her subsequent disappearance?

  I articulated this theory to Dan. He shrugged and said that Leary had essentially posited the same idea. The detective now wanted to meet me face-to-face in order to hear my description of that phone call with McQueen and to conduct a general interview with me, and one with Dad too.

  “The way he figures it, either of you might tell him something that you don’t think significant but which could help him. He suggested nine-thirty tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I do want to meet him.”

  “He’s a good guy. But he also gave me another bad bit of news. Some journalist on the Boston Herald is on the case—and though Leary has been able, so far, to keep it out of print, he says it’s just a matter of days before they run with it. And when they do . . .”

  Oh, I could see it all now. Because this story had all the angles the tabloids loved—wealthy, highly respected doctor; big-salaried, well-educated young career woman; illicit sex; a terminated pregnancy; the reneged promises of a future life together; the way she stalked him, the big scene in front of the doctor’s wife and kids; and, best of all, the fact that she had vanished. Could it be murder? Could this well-known dermatologist (they’ll love the fact that he’s a dermatologist—with his own TV show) have cracked and, in a moment of deranged rage . . . ?

  And I could see some grainy vacation snapshot of my poor daughter being blazoned across an inside page of the Herald with the subtitle “Yuppie Executive Elizabeth Buchan Had It All . . . Except for the Celebrity Doctor of Her Dreams.”

  “Dan, do you think he killed her? And don’t say no just to keep me calm. Do you think he went that far?”

  “No, I don’t. It doesn’t make sense—and Leary says that McQueen can account for his whereabouts in the hours after Lizzie’s disappearance.”

  “Then why is he treating McQueen as a suspect?”

  “Because he’s a cop, and I guess cops never rule anyone out until they can be ruled out . . . and also because if he’s looking for someone who would want Lizzie disappeared, McQueen is the guy.”

  “We have to call Jeff,” I said.

  “That thought did cross my mind, especially if it’s going to blow in the papers at any moment. If he got the news secondhand . . .”

  He’d go berserk. And he’d be right to go berserk. This was news he had to know.

  “I’ll make the call if you like,” Dan said.

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  I really didn’t want to do it, because, like Dan, there was a part of me now that feared Jeff. Feared his anger, his judgmental tone. But I also knew that, unlike his father, I’d be better at deflecting any crap he threw at me. Dan hates confrontation, especially with his kids.

  So I reached over and picked up the phone and dialed Jeff’s house in West Hartford. Shannon picked up. In the immediate background, I could hear loud cartoon voices from a television.

  “Oh hi there, Hannah!” she said in that relentlessly cheerful voice of hers, which ended every sentence in an exclamation point. “You’ve kind of caught me at a crazy moment . . .”

  “I could call back when Jeff’s home.”

  “No, he’s here. We’ve just gotten back from church.”

  “On a Friday?”

  “It’s Good Friday today,” she said coolly.

  Somehow this fact hadn’t registered with me.

  “So it is,” I said.

  “I’ll get Jeff.”

  I could hear her shout his name . . . followed by him shouting back, “I’ll take it in the den,” then him picking up the phone and Shannon hanging up the extension, and all that ambient family chaos suddenly vanishing from the line.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said pleasantly. “How are things up in Maine?”

  “I’m in Boston. And I’m here with your father and grandfather.”

  “Didn’t know you were all spending Easter weekend together in Boston.”

  “Nor did we.”

  A pause.

  “What does that mean?” he said.

  “Jeff . . . I have some difficult news. Lizzie has gone missing.”

  And then I told him everything. He didn’t interrupt me once. He just listened. When I finished, he said, “I’m coming to Boston.”

  “There’s no real need,” I said. “The police seem to be doing a pretty thorough job, and we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “No. I would prefer to scour every street and knock on every door in the greater Boston area if it meant finding Lizzie. But your dad has three operations scheduled for Sunday . . .”

  “He’s operating on Easter Sunday?”

  “Not everyone’s an evangelical . . .”

  “Why do you have to make a crack like that at a time like this?”

  “Because I’m beyond stressed, that’s why. Okay?”

  Something in my voice told him to back off. He did.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “So your dad has to operate the day after tomorrow, and I have to get Granddad back to Burlington and then drive back to Portland . . . so if you want to come to Boston, fine. But we won’t be here. Because we won’t want to be here when the story breaks in the Boston Herald—even though Detective Leary assures us that the paper will, no doubt, send one of their reporters up to Maine to snoop around and try to get us to give a tearful interview all about Lizzie, and probably get her high school friends to talk about what a nice kid she was . . . is . . .”

  I caught a cry in my throat and squelched it before it turned into a howl.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I shouted. “How can I be all right . . . ?”

  “What’s this doctor’s full name again?” he asked, all business.

  I told him.

  “And the detective in Brookli
ne handling the case?”

  I gave him Leary’s name and phone number.

  “I’ll see what I can do about keeping this out of the papers. We don’t want the publicity.”

  “We?”

  “The family . . . and especially Lizzie. When people find out she’s had this affair and the scene with his kids and the abortion, her career will be over.”

  “Her life might be already over, Jeff.”

  “You can’t think that way.”

  “Why the fuck not?” I yelled.

  “Is Dad there?”

  “I’ll put him on.”

  I tossed the receiver on the bed.

  “Your sanctimonious son,” I said to Dan.

  He picked up the phone and walked toward the window and talked quietly with Jeff for some minutes. Then he turned back toward me and said into the receiver:

  “Of course I’ll tell her . . . okay . . . right . . . call me whenever.”

  He replaced the phone in the receiver.

  “All right,” I said, “tell me I handled that badly.”

  “You handled that badly, but Jeff wanted you to know that he understood why.”

  “Well, that makes me feel real good all over.”

  “Hannah, I know you’ve got your problems with Jeff, but . . .”

  “You know why he really wants to keep this all out of the papers? Because it means he won’t be publicly embarrassed by the fact that Mr. Pro-lifer’s sister had an abortion while screwing a married man . . .”

  “He’s very shaken, just like the rest of us. And very worried for Lizzie.”

  “And for his career, of course.”

  “If he can somehow keep it out of the papers, that’s just fine by me. None of us needs the intrusion this will bring. And you need to try to get some sleep tonight.”

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “I have a prescription pad in my bag. I’m sure there’s a late-night pharmacist somewhere in Boston. I could get the concierge to run over a prescription for something that doesn’t leave you too groggy in the morning.”

  “So you think I need to be knocked out, do you?”

  “Yes, I do—and quite frankly, I want to take a couple as well tonight.”

  He called the concierge. He came upstairs for the prescription. An hour later, he returned from the late-night pharmacy, proffering a small bag. Dan thanked him with a $20 tip. I was already in bed—determined to get an early night. I accepted two of the pills from my husband and chased them with a glass of water.

  “You coming to bed?” I asked.

  “In a little while.”

  He started putting on his shoes.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I need another walk,” he said.

  “You’re heading out to look for her again?”

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “I just don’t want you wandering the streets all night, getting yourself more troubled. Anyway, weren’t we supposed to get drugged up together and pass out for the night?”

  “Just give me an hour.”

  “I’ll be asleep by then. Anyway, you won’t find her.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “But it’s the truth.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” he said.

  “If it makes you happy.”

  “It’s not about making me happy,” he said sharply. “It’s about finding Lizzie.”

  “I’m not trying to start a fight here.”

  “Then don’t say stupid stuff,” he said, grabbing his coat. “I hope you sleep. You need to.”

  So do you, I wanted to add, but stopped myself. As soon as he was out the door, I felt desperately guilty. If it makes you happy. I didn’t mean that to come out sounding catty, and yet that’s exactly what happened. He was right: it was a stupid thing to say. And if wandering the streets made him feel he was doing something in the search for Lizzie, so be it.

  The pills had their desired effect, pulling me out of waking life a few minutes later. The next thing I knew it was morning—seven-ten, according to the bedside clock. My brain felt chemically fogged in. It took me a few moments to overcome the initial postsleep grogginess and get my bearings. But at least I had slept.

  Dan was already up, showering in the bathroom. When he emerged after a few minutes, he said, “You didn’t seem to move at all last night.”

  “Didn’t you take a couple of pills as well?”

  “I had a few drinks when I was out. Sleeping pills and booze are always a recipe for disaster.”

  “What time did you get in?”

  “Late.”

  Again? I felt like asking . . . but stopped myself.

  “Where’d you end up this time?”

  “The Theater District, Chinatown, South Station . . . then took a cab over to Cambridge and walked all around Harvard Yard. A lot of people sleep rough there at night. That’s where I found this bar . . .”

  “Another scotch night?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “I wish I could drink whiskey. It just doesn’t sit with me.”

  “It has its uses.”

  A pause.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For making that stupid comment last night.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I still shouldn’t have said it.”

  “Don’t you have a nine-thirty appointment with Detective Leary?”

  Dad and I drove out to Brookline together.

  “You look like you slept better last night,” he said.

  “It was drug-induced. Did you sleep?”

  “Intermittently. But maybe that’s because I also got a phone call from my grandson around ten last night.”

  “Jeff rang you? Was he friendly?”

  “Not unfriendly, but a bit forensic when it came to questioning me. Still, I was pleased he phoned. He’s worried—and, I suppose, he wanted to get my perspective on what had happened. He’s going to come up here on Monday.”

  If it makes him feel better . . .

  Detective Patrick Leary was in his late thirties—a big, slightly disheveled man wearing a suit that could have used a pressing. But his eyes were sharp and highly focused—and though his manner was a little unceremonious, I liked his professionalism and his no-nonsense decency. He didn’t ooze sentiment about what we were going through. He didn’t make rash promises about leaving no stone unturned—because he struck me as someone who, by his very thorough nature, would do everything necessary to find my daughter . . . but also wouldn’t toot his own horn by telling me how much he was doing. I felt an immediate confidence in him, even after he started asking me some very awkward questions.

  When we arrived at the Brookline station house, he came out to greet us both—and then asked if we didn’t mind being interviewed separately.

  “I find people talk a little easier when there isn’t another family member in the room.”

  We agreed—and operating on the principle of ladies first, he led me down a corridor to a faceless interview room: dirty cream walls, fluorescent lights, white ceiling tiles, a steel desk, two hard chairs. He offered coffee. I accepted. As it was being made, he asked a lot of general questions about Lizzie’s childhood and adolescence—whether she ever showed any signs of instability before (“not until she came to Boston and started working in mutual funds—though, from the moment she got interested in boys when she was around fifteen, she was always something of a romantic”), and was she someone who’d had reasonable amounts of friends (“she wasn’t a great joiner—and she hated cheerleader types who hung together in cliques—but there were always pals at school and around the neighborhood”).

  Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “Would you say that Dr. Buchan and yourself have had a happy marriage?”

  “I don’t really see what that has to do with Lizzie’s disappearance,” I said.

  “I’m just trying to piece together a psychological profile, see if
there’s something in her past that might have triggered a reaction during the breakup and sent her . . . I don’t know . . . back to a place she used to spend time in during childhood. Often when people go missing, they are acting, on one level, irrationally. At the same time, they frequently head back to places that have certain past associations for them . . .”

  “I still don’t see what this has to do with my marriage.”

  “Are you afraid to talk about your marriage?”

  “No, not at all. At the same time, though . . .”

  “It’s an invasion of your privacy?”

  “I wouldn’t put it so strongly.”

  “I posed the same question to your husband.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That’s not for me to reveal,” he said. “A police interview is always strictly confidential. What do you think he said?”

  “Knowing Dan, he probably thinks we have a very good marriage.”

  “And would you agree with his opinion?”

  A pause.

  “Yes, I think that, compared to many couples I know, we have a good marriage.”

  “But not a very good marriage?”

  “A good marriage is a good marriage.”

  “By which you mean . . . ”

  “It’s survived. Both parties have kept their nerve, stuck with it, despite . . .”

  “Despite what?”

  “Are you married, Detective?”

  “Divorced.”

  “Then you understand what despite means.”

  He favored me with a small smile.

  “So Lizzie grew up in a stable household? No ongoing domestic warfare, no major bust-ups, no public exhumations of skeletons in the closet?”

  “No, nothing like that at all.”

  “And you were both supportive, loving parents?”

  “I think so, yes. But where are you going with this, Detective?”

  He reached for a file kept in the briefcase he’d brought in for the interview. Upon retrieving it, he opened it.

  “I’m sorry to have to bring this up, but I think it’s relevant. One of her work colleagues told me that Lizzie once confided in her that she never felt that her parents were a happy couple. Civil with each other. Accommodating. Totally noncombatant—and completely stable. But never, in her mind, really happy with each other. And that made her worry that, perhaps, the reason why she herself never felt totally at ease with herself—and was always desperately searching for happiness—is because she never felt she came from a particularly happy family.”