The Empty Bed

by Nina Sadowsky

  He nods.

  When they’re settled in yet another taxi, Stephanie casts a questioning look at John, but he keeps his head resolutely turned away from her and stares fixedly out the window at the teeming streets. It’s only when they climb out of the taxi that John addresses her again.

  “As long as we’re stuck here in Hong Kong, we have to work together.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then stop being such a pain in the ass.”

  She smiles up at him. “I’ll do my best.”

  The taxi deposits them outside a shiny multilevel mall monstrosity, an assault of trademarked signage announcing the presence of every major European designer.

  “The restaurant’s here?” Stephanie asks doubtfully.

  “Upstairs.”

  They enter the mall and ascend on an escalator. Everywhere Stephanie looks there are people weighted down with shopping bags bulging with luxury goods. Where does all this money come from? Stephanie’s life before the murders was very much a blue-collar existence, her father working construction and her mother relocated to Hawaii to “find her bliss.” And after the murders—well, that’s a dark hole that she’d prefer not to think about. But bottom line, Stephanie’s never had money. Never particularly lusted for it either. It’s only now she’s beginning to understand the freedom and privilege it can provide.

  Yuan Dai’s restaurant is enormous. A factory really, with a glass-enclosed kitchen thrumming with white-clad chefs. A perky young hostess with an unflappable smile mans a check-in stand at the front entrance, busy handing out buzzers to the many waiting patrons. Jake waits his turn and then asks for Yuan instead of a table. The hostess’s smile doesn’t waver. She nods politely. John shoots Stephanie a look and then repeats his question.

  “Yuan Dai? Is she here? I’m a friend of her friend Eva Lombard.”

  Two very thin young men appear by the hostess’s side. They nod politely to Stephanie and John and gesture that they should follow them. The men are in their late teens or early twenties, Stephanie guesses. She also guesses they’re not waiters.

  Stephanie shoots John a look that screams, I hope you know what you’re doing, before obediently falling into step.

  The men remain mulishly silent, despite John’s attempts at conversation. His bullshit doesn’t work everywhere. Stephanie can’t help feeling a little bit smug. She assesses their two companions; she can probably take both of them, as long as they’re unarmed.

  They’re led through the tumult of the eatery: waitpersons delivering trays of steaming noodles, chattering patrons, screaming babies, the bang and clatter of plates and cutlery. There’s not a single empty table.

  At the far end of the restaurant, next to the fishbowl of a kitchen, is a door forbiddingly marked in red Chinese characters. If Stephanie had to hazard, she’d guess those characters made up the equivalent of STAY OUT. Nonetheless they follow the boys through the door.

  When it shuts behind them with a solid thump, the noise and chaos of the restaurant disappear like a puff of smoke. The corridor is dull and plain. Gray Pirelli rubber tile covers the floor and taupe concrete walls sport incongruously cheerful orange stripes zigzagging across their widths. Or at least Stephanie thinks they’re intended to be cheerful. Whether they’re succeeding or not is another story.

  The men escort them to a closed door. One raps sharply on it. A woman’s voice barks a command from within and one of the two opens the door. Stephanie peers in around John’s shoulder. A woman sits behind a massive ornate desk. The whole room is outfitted in antiques, genuine, as far as Stephanie’s marginally trained eye can discern. Intricate inlays of ebony and mother-of-pearl enhance the desk and a matching credenza. The chairs are all upholstered in embroidered silk. A collection of vases, each one more beautiful than the last, fills the shelves of a long, low bookcase.

  The woman now rising to inspect them is very slight in stature; her shiny black hair is dyed platinum blond on the ends. She wears oversized Chanel glasses, a complicated black outfit involving a multitude of buckles and oversized snaps, and a pair of insanely tall platform sneakers.

  John extends a hand for the woman to shake and Stephanie has to suppress a snicker when she ignores the gesture and circles around both of them like a prospective buyer skeptically assessing a purchase.

  “Are you Yuan? My name is John Bernake. We’re looking for Eva Lombard.”

  “And why might that be?” The woman’s voice is surprisingly firm and strong coming from someone so diminutive.

  “We’ve been hired by the firm that her husband works for. He’s desperate to find her.”

  “Well, maybe. But he’s not the only one looking.” Yuan Dai snaps her fingers. Their two escorts pull out Glocks that they point at Stephanie and John respectively. “So why don’t you tell me a little more about why you’re looking for my friend Eva?”

  Trust is a fragile thing….

  Hard to earn. Easy to fracture. Nearly impossible to truly repair after breaking.

  Have you ever heard of Kintsugi? It’s a Japanese technique used to repair broken pottery with seams created of resin and gold. Some believe the repaired vessels are more beautiful than the originals. But just like in Kintsugi, the fissures mending broken trust that may appear to be an enhancement are often revealed to be gleaming but still fragile scars, reminders of the hot pulsing blood pumping to our battered hearts.

  Do we lie to ourselves when we affirm: “I can get past this. We can get past this”? Isn’t the impossibility of doing so almost inherent in the repeated assertion?

  Why do we hurt each other so? I wish I knew.

  TRUTH OR DARE

  Magali Guzman,

  New York City

  Maggie waits in the cold marble lobby of Roger Elliott’s flagship Manhattan office building as the uniformed security guard behind the desk checks her credentials. She’s dug deep into Elliott, even deeper after the hint from family friend Rachel Ferris that perhaps paradise wasn’t perfect, after all.

  Mostly she’s been impressed. The guy inherited a boatload, which should make him a shithead almost automatically in Maggie’s opinion, and yet she likes him. He’d been born into a Manhattan empire but had also been a smart, key player in early development of the outer boroughs and had expanded his company’s interests into a diversified portfolio of investments, primarily tech companies. Remarkably, he’s pretty clean as far as she can tell, practically squeaky, particularly for someone whose gnarled roots sprang from New York real estate, as that is an especially fetid swamp.

  Elliott’s office on the top floor of the building is nothing like the empty and chilly lobby. The place hums with workers; there’s energy and excitement in the air. An exquisitely dressed, young Indian American man greets her and nods at her politely but doesn’t offer his own name as he escorts her to Elliott’s domain.

  He’s on the phone when she enters, and Elliott gestures that she should sit as he finishes up his call. She does, sharp eyes roving over his environment, open ears parsing what she can of his conversation.

  His office is mostly what she expected: expensive furniture, state-of-the-art electronics, family photos, a doorframe basketball hoop. A large collection of astronaut memorabilia housed in Lucite boxes and a gigantic brass telescope aimed out the plate glass window. Her research had revealed space exploration is an obsession of his.

  Elliott wraps up his phone call and addresses Maggie. “I’m losing my mind. I only come in because work is at least a distraction.”

  “I understand that.” Maggie gives him a disarming and complicit smile. No judgment here. The story of my life too. “Have you gotten any further instructions?”

  Elliott bristles with anxiety; a muscle twitches in his cheek. “Nothing. What have you learned?”

  “Special Agent Johnson is meeting me here, sir. We can brief you together.”


  “He called to say he was running late. Please just tell me what you know.”

  Johnson called Roger Elliott but couldn’t be bothered to even text me? That prick. Any good feeling Maggie harbored toward Ryan as a result of their shared moment over Rachel Ferris’s scones dissipates immediately and irrevocably.

  She briefs Elliott on the forensic information the Bureau has collected. She glances at her watch. Johnson is twenty minutes late. Screw it.

  “How was your wife’s relationship with Rachel Ferris?”

  Elliott looks confused. “With Rachel? Fine. What’s Rachel got to do with this?”

  “Would you say Betsy and Rachel were close?”

  “Thick as thieves.” He winces. “Why?”

  “Would Betsy have confided in Rachel?”

  “Oh yes, I see where you’re going. Yes, she might very well have. Have you spoken to Rachel?”

  “I have. And I’m figuring out how to say this delicately, but of all your friends and neighbors, she’s the one person who sensed that maybe something had changed with Betsy the last few months. Or changed for you and Betsy.”

  He stares at her, then offers up his palms. “I’m an open book. Ask me anything. Literally anything.”

  There’s something off about his insistence. No man in Roger Elliott’s position can afford to be completely transparent. Why is his lawyer not here? Did Elliott and Johnson conspire to leave her alone with Elliott? To what end?

  Maggie gets that tingle, the one that tells her she’s just on the edge of an unknown something, creeping closer to a turn or a revelation in a case, a feeling she’s come to respect.

  “So did something change in your relationship with your wife?”

  “Absolutely not. Give me a polygraph if you want to.”

  “Sir, no one is asking you to do that.”

  “I know. But actually, I’m insisting you give me one.”

  Maggie feels it again. That tingle. “Well, sir. If you insist.”

  Later that day, as Maggie greets Terry Addis, she’s reminded of how much she likes working with him. They’ve run a number of polygraph exams together and she always finds Addis excellent. It’s not about how he attaches wires or reads printouts. It’s his careful collaboration with agents in preparing the questions to be administered and his deft handling of the subjects that make him a good colleague.

  She’s briefed him on all she knows to date. Together they’ve crafted the series of ten questions they are about to put to Roger Elliott. When they enter the examination room, Roger Elliott waits for them, his suit jacket flung across the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

  He offers his arms to them as they enter, along with a charming, self-deprecating smile. “Ready for slaughter.”

  He’s eager to confess something, isn’t he? Maggie gives him her most welcoming smile in return. “Let me introduce Terry Addis. He’ll be conducting the exam.”

  Elliott nods at the tall, thin African American man with the square-framed glasses. “Hello.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Terry replies.

  “But before we hook you up to the box,” Maggie continues, “we want to go over a few things with you. Make sure that you’re comfortable with the procedure and also with the questions we’ll be asking you.”

  Elliott can’t hide his surprise. “You’re going to tell me the questions in advance?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Maggie takes him through all of the technical details first. Sensors will be attached to his fingers and his chest. His blood pressure will be monitored. There are also sensors in his seat cushion.

  Then she explains that once he’s all hooked up they’ll give him a baseline question. “Terry will ask you how many fingers he’s holding up. He’ll hold up two, but you say three. That’ll give us a reading of how a lie appears on your particular graph.”

  For the first time since making his demand for a polygraph, Elliott looks uneasy. “Don’t all lies show up the same?”

  Maggie flashes him a reassuring smile. “Actually, no. That’s why we do the baseline. But it’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Elliott. We only compare you to you.”

  Elliott relaxes. Maggie wonders what he’s thinking. She can’t get a handle on this guy and it pisses her off. Surety, that’s what Maggie likes, as a person in private life, and even more so in conjunction with her work.

  “So let’s review the questions. Ready?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Number one: Is your name Roger Deacon Elliott? Number two: Are you married to Elizabeth ‘Betsy’ Baer Elliott? Number three: Are you the father of Bear Elliott? Number four: Would you describe your marriage as a happy one? Number five: Do you know the whereabouts of your wife and son? Number six: Have you ever done something for which you could be extorted? Number seven—”

  “What kind of question is that?” Elliott interrupts, hackles again on the rise.

  Maggie beams at him. “Mr. Elliott, sir, you requested this exam. You don’t have to do it. You’re free to go at any time. But, let me ask, is there a reason that question bothers you? Because if there’s something you want to tell us, even if it’s unrelated to your family, we can iron that out right now. A business issue, maybe?”

  “Of course not. Don’t you think I would have told you if there was something going on that would have put Betsy and Bear at risk?”

  “I’m sure you would have, sir.”

  Maggie waits, half convinced Elliott is going to bail and half hoping he’ll be tempted to spill something that might give them a lead. But while he shoots his cuffs, cracks his knuckles, and purses his lips—all classic delaying tactics—he doesn’t give anything up.

  Finally Elliott assents to continuing with the exam, and they go over the full list of questions with him twice. Number seven: Do you believe your wife left involuntarily? Number eight: Do you have any idea who might have kidnapped your wife and child? Number nine: Do you and your wife argue? Number ten: Can you confirm the date and time you last saw your wife and son?

  Then they excuse themselves and take a tactical break before they hook him up. The stew. Let him wallow in it.

  When they re-enter, ready to get things going, Elliott seems equally eager. Terry attaches all of the monitors and checks his equipment.

  “Are you ready?” Her question is directed to Terry but it is Elliott who answers.

  “Yes. Let’s do this.”

  “Okay. I’m going to step out now, and Terry will conduct the exam.”

  Maggie exits the room and enters the adjoining room equipped with a one-way mirror. Terry establishes Elliott’s baseline. Maggie keeps her eyes razor sharp as Terry moves into the body of the questions. She knows well enough that the polygraph will have its own reveals, but she trusts her observations and instincts too. When Terry has taken Elliott through the questions once, Maggie re-enters the examination room.

  “There. That wasn’t so bad, right?” Maggie smiles at Elliott and he looks relieved.

  “That it?”

  “Actually, we’re going to give it another go. Three times is usual. We’ll be right back.”

  Another calculated break, this one just a shade longer. This time Terry mixes up the order of the questions. Maggie sees Elliott’s cheek twitch as he realizes the progression has changed, but he doesn’t comment. Then another break, this one even longer than the last.

  After round three, Maggie again asks Elliott to wait. She and Terry sit down to review the results.

  Terry frowns as he runs his finger along the readout.

  “What? Spill,” Maggie urges.

  Terry adjusts his glasses. “I think he’s telling the truth when he says he doesn’t know where his wife and kid are or who might have kidnapped them. But look here and here,” he continues, pointing at the readout. “He’s lying about the
ir marriage being a happy one. Same as he’s lying about never having done something for which he could be extorted.”

  “So maybe he does know more than he’s saying?”

  “There’s consciousness of guilt reflected in this exam. Roger Elliott is hiding something. Which fits with his insistence on us administering the exam.”

  “I see where you’re headed. If Betsy and Bear’s disappearance is tied to something Roger Elliott got himself mixed up in…”

  “And if he had reasons for keeping that something on the down low, like it was illegal…”

  “He could be compelled to find a way to confess to what he doesn’t know in order to protect exposure of what he does. I agree with you about the psychology, Terry. The only problem is that we’re not mind readers.”

  DIZZYING HEIGHTS

  Eva Lombard,

  Kowloon

  Hong Kong Island as viewed across Victoria Harbour from the Kowloon shoreline was pretty impressive a decade ago; now it’s like nothing Eva’s ever seen. Ricocheting lasers, flashing neon, a tightly packed crowd of buildings that coordinate a light show every night shortly after sunset.

  The first time Eva had seen the Hong Kong skyline from the Kowloon side had been a magical night ten years ago when Alex had taken her to an underground party on the rooftop of a not quite finished skyscraper here. Love had been her drug that summer; everything they did together was magic and she would have followed him anywhere.

  The second time was when Alex brought her to this hideaway four nights ago.

  Guilt threatens to eat Eva from the inside out. She’s not contacted Peter since she’s been stashed here. She’s drifted into a dangerously unreal bubble where time is elastic and her moorings to “real life” frayed.

  She’s also come perilously close to sleeping with Alex. She flushes as she remembers how they had collided together after finally finding a safe haven in this apartment on the forty-ninth floor of an eerily nearly empty skyscraper. After the rush of their escape from his apartment, both of them had been urgent and hot. Their kisses had been both familiar and heart-stoppingly new.