After She's Gone

by Lisa Jackson

  As she sat cross-legged on the messy bed, staring at the bit of jewelry in her palm, she realized the earring wasn’t a clue to who had worn it in her hospital room, but it was the only hard evidence that the nurse had really existed and visited her. No one would believe that she had actually seen the nurse, not in her state of tentative rationality. The same could be said of Steven Rinko, as no one at the hospital nor his parents trusted him since he had been diagnosed with some kind of neurological disorder in which, at least at some times, he hallucinated and couldn’t distinguish between reality and fantasy. Though he claimed his IQ was off the charts, and that’s why he saw things others didn’t, Cassie wasn’t quick to believe him. But she did think he actually believed his own warped view of the world, even though it was slightly altered from that of the general public.

  She studied the earring for the hundredth time, then slid it into a compartment in her purse and made her way to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth, threw on her clothes, and twisted her hair onto her head. A slap of lipstick and sunglasses was her makeup as she grabbed the overnight bag that she kept with a change of clothes and headed out the door and into the bright morning.

  A flock of tiny birds chatted and flitted in and out of the bank of bougainvillea that separated the parking area from the main house. The sun was high, sharp rays bouncing off the windshield of her car as she slid inside. She rolled down the windows and started the ignition.

  As she backed up, she glanced at the door of her condo, the place she’d sought sanctuary after her last split with Trent. The unit had been available and she’d been able to rent it month to month, but it had never felt like home, had always been a place to crash when she was in LA, nothing more. The truth was that there was nothing to come home to here. No pets. No children. No husband. No reason to stay. Which is just as well as she intended to drive to Oregon the following morning.

  If she could get through another night.

  She’d already called the owner of the apartment and explained about the key going missing and asking that the locks be changed at her cost. Doug Peterson, who lived in the main house and was retired, was a handyman and promised to replace the dead bolt. Thankfully, he hadn’t asked a million questions about Allie.

  As she drove to the local post office Cassie’s stomach growled. Somehow she’d missed dinner, opting instead for the Moscow Mules Holly had ordered and which had, as far as she could see, zero nutritional value.

  Her plans for the day were simple: First grab her mail, then find coffee followed quickly with food. Next, she planned to double-check with a jeweler about the earring. Then the rest of the day she would spend trying to connect with acquaintances of Allie’s, people Cassie hadn’t talked to since entering the hospital. She knew her chances of finding out anything new, anything the police could have missed, were nearly nonexistent, but she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d reached as many people as possible. Why? Because she loved her sister. Oftentimes it was a love/hate relationship, sibling rivalry at its worst, but she did care about Allie. That was a fact.

  And, of course, there was the story surrounding her disappearance and the fact that Cassie was already blocking it out in her head.

  At the post office she went through her mail, tossed the junk in a recycle bin, and kept the bills and anything that looked important before grabbing coffee and a scone at a drive-through coffee shop. She pulled into a park and rolled down the windows to let in a soft little breeze, eased her seat away from the steering wheel, then made several phone calls, starting with the people who had recently worked with Allie.

  As she watched a nanny playing with toddlers at a slide, Cassie dialed Little Bea, then Dean Arnette, followed by Cherise Gotwell. No one answered. “Great,” she said, leaving voice mail messages and texts for each of them. She then tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and opened the paper bag she’d brought from the coffee shop.

  Picking at her scone, she kept her eyes on the scene in front of her, the group of little children running, skipping, and screaming with glee as they darted in and out of the play structure. With an effort she ignored the emptiness that threatened to crawl through her soul. A boy of around four and a girl a couple of years younger prattled at each other as they took turns on the small slide, then, with the nanny pushing the empty stroller, they ran for the fountain, which was little more than a grid of spouts shooting jets of water high into the air. The kids giggled and screamed in delight as they tried to anticipate where the next stream would appear.

  They were wet, happy, and adorable.

  Cassie smiled and took a sip of her coffee. Being the oldest she could remember playing with Allie at that age, here in California. Her sister had been a toddler, cute, plump, and delightful, and their parents had been, at that time, happily married. Before Robert had started cheating, or at least before Jenna had realized it. God, it seemed like ages ago, another lifetime.

  Nearby the nanny lit a cigarette, blew smoke away from the children who were paying her no attention, then checked her cell phone as she sat on a bench, just out of reach of the spray. She was young. Maybe twenty. Maybe not quite. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and she wore tattered jeans, a T-shirt, and a bored expression, but she kept her eyes, for the most part, on her charges.

  Cassie glanced at her own cell. Of course there were no new messages.

  She wondered if anyone she’d called would phone or text her back.

  Unlikely. Very unlikely.

  How could she ask questions or find out anything when no one would give her the time of day?

  Figure it out. There has to be a way.

  As if she were in the throes of trying to quit smoking or hide her habit, the nanny quickly dropped her cigarette onto the concrete and crushed it with the heel of her sandal. Then, while the kids were distracted, she walked to a trash can situated near the restrooms and discarded the butt.

  Cassie watched while a thirtysomething man in shorts and a T-shirt jogged along a path. He passed by on the opposite side of the fountain, where beneath a shade tree an older woman sat on a bench. She was busy breaking a crust of bread and tossing crumbs to a few small birds and a crow that inspected each morsel before pecking quickly and cawing for another tidbit. “Enough,” the woman yelled as if the bird could understand her. Then she crumpled her sack and stuffed it into her collapsible shopping cart, dusting her hands. “Tomorrow,” she said, then climbed off the bench and, rolling the cart in front of her, headed to a little Volkswagen Beetle parked in a handicapped space.

  Cassie’s thoughts were still on how she could possibly find her sister as she watched the woman leave. She finished her scone and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Someone knew something. She was sure of it. Allie had to confide in someone. Probably Cherise, who was MIA. Damn it all to hell. If only—

  Like a lightning bolt, inspiration hit.

  Who would be Allie’s most likely confidante? Someone who knew her moods inside out, someone who had worked with her for years. A smile spread across Cassie’s face as she picked up the phone again, scrolled through the menu, and touched Laura Merrick’s name. There were several numbers listed, one being her personal cell, which Cassie had gotten from Allie. In her mind’s eye she conjured up Laura’s face. Sharp features, big eyes, smooth complexion, and someone who might just know something.

  Laura the makeup artist.

  Laura the hairdresser.

  Laura who had been with Allie since her first role in Street Life.

  Who else would Allie spend so much time with, be inclined to share secrets with? Cassie pressed the number and waited. One ring. Two. Three and then a real voice, not a recording.

  “This is Laura.”

  Thank God. “Hi. It’s Cassie,” she said, testing the waters.

  No response.

  “Cassie Kramer.”

  Another pause. “Yeah?”

  Not exactly encouraging and Cassie didn’t want to take a chance that Laura would simply hang up
on her if she started asking questions, so she said, “Look, I’m in town for a day or two and I was wondering if there was any chance you had room to squeeze me in for a haircut?”

  Again the pregnant pause, then, “You want an appointment with me? And like immediately?”

  “Well, yeah. That would be so great.”

  “Well . . . you know, Cassie, I’m booked solid.”

  “It’s . . . it’s just a quick trim. Really. I don’t need a shampoo or color or anything.”

  “Today?” Laura actually laughed. “Seriously?” And then, before Cassie could respond, “You’re here? In LA? But I thought . . .” She let the sentence trail.

  “I thought that you were in a psych ward somewhere.” That’s what she was about to say. Of course. “I just got back into town and I won’t be here long.” Cassie forced her voice to sound cheerful. “I knew it was a long shot, a really long shot, but I thought I’d call. Allie raves about you.” Cassie crossed her fingers, knowing she was playing on Laura’s relationship with her sister, but she didn’t feel bad about using every possible trick in the book. Laura, as Allie’s hair and makeup person, was likely to know more about Allie’s inner feelings than anyone. Sitting for hours in a chair while the stylist tended to you created a sense of intimacy. Secrets were often shared.

  “Have you heard from her?” Laura asked.

  “No. I . . . we don’t know anything.”

  A long sigh. “Look, I’m not joking. I’m scheduled for like eternity. Most of the time I’m on a set somewhere. I’d like to help you out, but everyone who works in my salon is crazy busy.”

  Cassie hid her disappointment. “The truth is I’d like to talk to you. About Allie.”

  “You said you hadn’t heard from her.”

  “That’s right, but I was hoping you might know something.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know what happened to her. It’s weird, y’know?” There was another pause, then Laura said, “Look, Cassie, tell ya what. I’ve got to run, but if anyone cancels with any of my hairdressers, they’re all spectacular, by the way, then I’ll text you, okay? We’ll work something out. Are you here for a while?”

  “I was planning to leave in the morning.”

  “You thought you could get in today? Just today?” Laura laughed again. “You don’t ask for much, do you? I’ll do what I can, but don’t hold your breath. As I said, on the off chance someone in the shop gets a cancellation, I’ll let you know. But you have to understand it’s really unlikely. Like probably not going to happen.” And then she was gone. Cassie stared at her phone and felt defeated. Laura wasn’t just Allie’s hair and makeup person, she had other big-name clients as well. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Cassie could speak to her alone. Not that it really mattered, she thought, staring out the windshield. Hadn’t Laura just said she didn’t know anything?

  A text had come in while she was on the phone, from a private number she didn’t recognize:

  santafe07.

  What? She texted back:

  Who is this? What do you mean?

  She hit send before realizing someone had probably texted the wrong number.

  Or not?

  What did anything having to do with Santa Fe, New Mexico, have to do with her? And 07? Did something happen there in 2007? Or was the 07 part of another number? Had Allie had a movie out in that year? Been on location in Santa Fe . . . no, her career started after that.

  “It’s nothing,” she warned herself. She didn’t even know the person who’d texted. Still, it bothered her, so when no one responded immediately to her text, she dialed the phone number, which she could tell from the first three digits had originated in Oregon. Maybe if she knew who’d called?

  A recording stated: “You have reached the voice mail of Dr. Virginia Sherling. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message and I’ll get back to you.”

  Dr. Sherling? Cassie’s own psychiatrist at Mercy Hospital? Why would she send a cryptic text? That couldn’t be right. But there was no way Cassie was going to leave a message back and risk talking to the doctor who would try to convince her to return to the hospital.

  At the sound of the beep, Cassie disconnected.

  Through the windshield she watched the older boy push the little girl into the water with enough force to send her sprawling. The girl screamed bloody murder, then got up and gave him a reciprocal shove while the nanny, caught up in her texting, looked up sharply. Scowling, the nanny reluctantly slid the phone into a huge bag then marched her charges out of the spurting fountain while they both cried and balked, blaming each other in true sibling fashion.

  Like she and Allie had done.

  Rather than take a melancholy trip down memory lane, Cassie finished her coffee, wadded up her empty bag and cup, then climbed out of her car in search of a trash can. The nanny was bundling the kids into their double stroller. The breeze had died, and in the distance Cassie heard the steady hum of traffic on the freeway. She thought she caught a whiff of smoke, but the nanny was long over her cigarette and halfway to her car.

  Odd.

  She made her way to the garbage can the nanny had used that was positioned near the restrooms and a covered picnic area. Glancing around, she searched for the source of the scent. No one else was in the park except two people who were seated in a silver SUV, a Toyota with tinted windows, and parked several spaces away from her Honda. It must’ve pulled up when she was lost in thought, she decided, as she hadn’t noticed it pull in. She shot a look its way and noticed that the driver was a woman in sunglasses who, like Cassie, had been staring through the windshield observing the action, or now, lack thereof, in the park. The SUV’s windows were rolled down. Cassie caught a glimpse of the occupant in the passenger seat, a burly man whose hairy arm was stretched through the open window, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His eyes, too, were shaded.

  The hairs on the back of Cassie’s neck rose. She sensed both occupants of the Toyota were staring at her, following her with their shaded eyes, not moving their heads, not saying a word.

  Cassie checked the park and her heart sank. The nanny and kids had almost disappeared through a far entrance, the jogger long gone, the woman who’d been feeding the birds already driving away.

  Stop it. It’s no big deal. Weren’t you just doing the same thing? Sitting in your car, observing everyone else. The park is a public place, for crying out loud.

  Still, she felt uneasy as she headed back toward her car.

  As she did a door clicked open and the woman stepped out of the SUV.

  She was slim. Attractive. With thick black hair cut at an angle, her oversize sunglasses hiding her face. She raised a hand. “Cassie?” she called and her voice was vaguely familiar. “Cassie Kramer?” Two inches shorter than Cassie, she walked purposely across the spaces separating their vehicles. Before she said, “Whitney Stone,” Cassie recognized the reporter.

  And her heart nosedived.

  She braced herself.

  Whitney Stone was smiling, white teeth flashing above a pointed chin, her arm outstretched as if she and Cassie were long-lost friends or at the very least acquaintances.

  Cassie ignored the friendly hand reaching for hers and saw the tiny tightening of the corners of Whitney Stone’s mouth. In her free hand was a microphone. “I’m the producer and reporter for Justice: Stone Cold.”

  Cassie didn’t need to know what the reporter wanted. She could guess because the subject of interest never changed: Allie. Always Allie. Interest in Cassie was limited to the fact that she was Allie Kramer’s sister and, of course, Jenna Hughes’s daughter. Now that Allie was missing, even Jenna had become an adjunct to the real matter of interest, the “story.”

  From the corner of her eye Cassie witnessed the guy in the passenger seat toss his cigarette out the window, climb out of the SUV, and, while crushing the smoldering butt with his shoe, head their way. A bruiser in jeans and a black T-shirt, with huge biceps, receding hairline, and a swagger, he w
as carrying a shoulder camera as if it weighed nothing.

  “I’d like a few minutes with you,” Whitney was saying as her companion hoisted his camera to his shoulder. “We’re doing a series on the mystery surrounding Allie Kramer’s disappearance.”

  “No, thanks.” Cassie was firm.

  Whitney Stone barreled on, “Since you’re Allie Kramer’s sister and are rumored to be the last person to see her before she vanished, I think your input is necessary.”

  “Not interested.” Cassie started moving toward her car.

  Whitney offered that well-practiced smile again as she eased between Cassie and her car. “I’d just like to talk to you about your sister. It could be helpful, I think, in finding her.” Whitney Stone was scrambling now. “I know you want to know what happened to her and together we could—”

  “I said I wasn’t interested and I’m not.” By now Cassie had angled to her car but she saw that the cameraman had positioned his camera so that it was focused on her, its red light a beacon warning that he was filming. Bastard!

  “The public wants to know—”

  “About Allie? Yeah, I know, but I have nothing to say.” She was aware of the cameraman, moving in closer, focusing on her face. “Don’t,” she warned him.

  “Nothing?” Whitney repeated as a gust of wind kicked up, pushing a bit of trash across the parking lot and causing Whitney’s sleek hair to ruffle. “You don’t want to say anything to the public, to find a way to locate your sister?”

  Cassie ignored the barb with an effort and kept walking.

  “Come on, you two were close at least at one time, that’s what I’m told.”

  “Who told you that?” Cassie blurted while trying and failing to hold her tongue. She was tired and cranky from lack of sleep and she didn’t need Whitney Stone’s questions or her innuendos.

  “Common knowledge.”