Knowing how inefficient the Freeport police were, Jack was surprised when two officers entered the lobby after only a few minutes. Jack went up to them at once.
“Are you the one who called in the burglary?” the black officer asked.
“Suspected burglary,” Jack said, and told them what had happened as he walked with them toward the elevators.
“Good reason to be suspicious,” the white officer said. Instead of going up, they turned down a side corridor to a door marked “Night Manager.” There they identified themselves, stated the problem briefly, and asked the man to accompany them and bring the pass key. The manager, a craggy gray haired man, complied with obvious concern. Then they all went up to Emily’s floor together.
Jack led them to the door where the officers instructed him and the manager to stand to one side. The black officer rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again. Still no answer. He knocked, called out Emily’s name. There was no response at all.
The white officer nodded to the manager who came up and unlocked the door, then stepped aside to let the police be the first to enter. He and Jack followed the two officers inside.
Lights were on, though there was nobody home. The place had obviously been searched, and rather thoroughly. Every drawer and closet had been opened, furniture moved and sometimes overturned. The officers told Jack and the manager to stay where they were and made a quick tour of the apartment, guns drawn.
When they came back they asked Jack to describe the man he’d seen. They asked the manager about Emily, known visitors, and known habits, but he was of little help. Then they ushered Jack and the manager out of the apartment. While the white officer remained behind, the black officer escorted them down to the lobby again, so he could call in a report from his squad car.
On the way down the officer took Jack’s name, address, phone, and inquired about his relationship with Emily.
“Can you let me know when you find anything out?” Jack asked as they walked through the lobby to the front door. “She may need some emergency therapy as a consequence of this.”
“There should be no problem about that,” the officer said.
“There’s something else,” Jack said, as they went out to the street and over to the patrol car. “I don’t know if there’s any connection, but there might be.” He then told the officer about the phone call he’d received from Emily.
“We’ll check it out,” the officer said. He reached into the car and took out the microphone.
There was nothing more for Jack to do.
File Three: Tuesday Morning
Jack got to his office shortly before nine the next morning. His secretary, Mrs. McKinley, had coffee waiting as usual.
“Your first appointment’s at ten,” she said, handing him a cup.
“Fine. Has Miss Velasquez called?”
“No, is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid there is,” Jack said, and told her about what had happened last night.
“That sounds very bad,” Mrs. McKinley said, tapping her toes under her desk. “Does her family know?”
“Nothing to say until we find out more from the police. I’m going to call them right now.”
He went into his personal office and after checking the folders Mrs. McKinley had placed on his desk, had her put the call through. He identified himself to the officer who answered and asked if they had come up with anything yet.
“We’re looking into it,” the sergeant said, “but we don’t have much to go on. She could have messed up the apartment herself, or the man you reported seeing there could have done it, but we have no evidence one way or another. She hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours yet, so we can’t officially declare her a missing person.”
“I would think that an intruder in her apartment would indicate that she hasn’t just walked off,” Jack said, exasperated by the sergeant’s apparent lack of interest.
“Well, sir, we have only your word for that. Nobody saw a man such as you described going up to that floor, and none of the neighbors saw or heard anything suspicious between the time you say Miss Velasquez called and the time the officers arrived on the scene.”
“That doesn’t mean the man wasn’t there.”
“No, sir, but we have no reason yet to believe that the situation is serious. There are a lot more pressing problems to be handled, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“I think,” Jack said, struggling to keep his voice even, “that there’s every reason to assume that the problem is indeed serious.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we’ve got murders, robberies, muggings, dope dealers, black marketeers, God knows what. We’ll get to Miss Velasquez just as soon as we can.”
“All right,” Jack said stiffly. “You have my number, please keep me informed.”
“We’ll do that,” the sergeant said and hung up.
Jack sat staring at his office door for a long moment, bringing his anger under control. It was true that there was more crime in Freeport than the police could handle, but most of the time they didn’t seem any too enthusiastic about handling it. That didn’t help his worries, however.
He had Mrs. McKinley call Emily’s apartment. There was no answer. Then he had her put a call through to Emily’s office. The familiar voice of Joyce Higgins, Emily’s secretary whom Jack had never met, answered.
“Hello, I called last night and left a message on your answering machine.”
“I’m sorry, sir, we got a lot of messages last night. Which one was yours?”
“I was calling from the Escapades, where I was supposed to meet Emily. She—” a tiny crackling sounded on the line. “Sorry,” he went on, “there’s some static. Emily was supposed to—” the crackling came again, only this time he knew what it was, a poorly installed bug.
He felt the hair on his arms rise up as he hung up without further word. He was grateful that he hadn’t identified himself. Emily could have installed a recording tap herself, but after her call and disappearance Jack doubted that that was the case. He didn’t remember hearing any similar bug-static when Emily had called yesterday evening. Somebody else had put that bug there, someone who wanted to know more about Emily’s business than he had any right to know. And that implied that Emily hadn’t just wandered off, but had been abducted.
But if that were the case, there had to be a reason, and whatever that was, the people who had Emily hadn’t been able to learn what they wanted from her herself. Had they killed her?
He wished Emily had felt free to tell him more about the conspiracy she had feared. He didn’t know what to do next. He thought about calling the police again, but the sergeant’s lack of enthusiasm and interest in the case put him off.
Before he could work himself up into a real state, his intercom came on and Mrs. McKinley announced his first client. Ten o’clock already? It was. Jack composed himself and prepared to deal with Mrs. Atchison’s drinking problem.
After Mrs. Atchison left, Mrs. McKinley came in, coffee cup in hand, to tell him that both his eleven o’clock and one o’clock appointments had been canceled. “What did the police say about Miss Velasquez?” she finished.
“They’re too busy to look into it now,” he said bitterly, glancing at the folders on his desk.
“I can’t believe that,” Mrs. McKinley said.
“Well, that’s the gist of what they told me,” Jack answered. The two patients who had canceled had both been complaining of Alien Anxiety Syndrome. “What reason did they give for canceling?” he asked, holding up the folders.
“Mr. Brown said he just felt a lot better, and Mr. Clancey said it didn’t seem worth the trouble anymore. If I were you, I’d call the police back and demand an explanation.”
“If Miss Velasquez doesn’t show up by seven thirty tonight, I will. Right now I’m going to her office, to see if anybody there has any answers.”
“You could call—”
“Her phone’s been bugged.” He got up and got ready to lea
ve. “I’ll be back at two,” he told Mrs. McKinley, and left her standing there with her mouth open.
Emily’s offices were decorated with the strong colors, patterned rugs, and textured fabrics that were the hallmark of the David Hicks school. The secretary, Joyce Higgins, was a startling contrast, a tall young woman who wore bright, clinging dresses and shoulder-length brown hair. Jack introduced himself and Joyce smiled in recognition.
“Emily’s talked a lot about you,” she said, “but I’m afraid she’s not in right now.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Jack said. “Look, I called a little earlier this morning and hung up rather abruptly. I—” “Oh, was that you? I thought it might have been. That static was terrible.”
“It wasn’t static, it was a bug. I—”
“I don’t understand.”
“Somebody has put a tap on your phone line. The best thing to do is to report it to the phone company and have them come out and—”
“That’s terrible, who would want to listen in on our calls?”
“I don’t know, but I suspect it might be whoever is responsible for Emily not meeting me last night.” He went on—with frequent interruptions from Joyce—to explain about Emily’s call, not showing, and the business at the apartment. “I was hoping,” he finished, “that she might have gotten in touch with you here.”
“No, Dr. Page, she hasn’t. This is terrible. Emily didn’t come in yesterday at all, and we were beginning to worry because of this big new contract she was trying to land.” “When was the last time you saw her?”
“Friday afternoon. Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“I have, but I’m not holding my breath. I figure I’d better do a little investigating myself.”
“I think you’d better talk with Marvin,” Joyce said, getting up from behind her desk. She led him through the conference lounge to a small private office at one side.
Marvin Dahlgren, Emily’s partner, was in his late thirties, very blond, with heavy-lidded eyes in a long face and a slender but muscular build. He wore slacks, a gray blazer, and a dark brown shirt with no tie. When he got up from the drafting table at which he was working, he proved to be a good six feet tall. He did not seem very happy to see Jack.
“This is Dr. Page,” Joyce said by way of introduction. “He thinks something may have happened to Emily.” “Indeed,” Dahlgren said. He did not offer to shake hands. “And how did you come to that conclusion?” Jack explained briefly. Dahlgren listened, strangely suspicious.
“I’m sure,” Dahlgren said when Jack had finished, “that we’re all very concerned about Emily’s whereabouts, but isn’t looking for her yourself a bit beyond your responsibility?”
“Perhaps,” Jack said, “but the police don’t seem eager to take an active interest, and as 1 am her therapist, I felt I had to do something.”
“A purely professional interest, I’m sure.” Dahlgren turned away, went to his desk, and sat down.
“There was a man in Emily’s apartment last night,” Jack went on. “If it was a friend of hers, then fine, but he denied knowing her, indeed intimated that it wasn’t her apartment at all. Perhaps you might know him.” He described the man as best he could.
“Means nothing to me,” Dahlgren said, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “Are you accustomed to visiting your ‘clients’ in their homes?”
“What’s the matter with you, Dahlgren? I’m Emily’s therapist. She called me for help. When she didn’t show up at the Escapades, I called her apartment, and called here, and then went there to see if she was all right, or leave a message. What would you have me do, just pass if off as unworthy of attention, as the police seem to have done?” “I’m sorry Dr. Page, but I don’t know you, and I don’t know that Emily is missing, only that she’s not here nor at her home.”
“Where else might she be, then? I believe she called me from home. Where might she have gone afterwards, given that she was intending to meet me at seven thirty?”
“I really couldn’t say. She was busy all day yesterday with fabric designers. Maybe she had other appointments to keep.”
“That hardly seems likely. Look, Dahlgren, I’m only trying to help. When did you see her last?”
“Saturday afternoon, here in the office. It’s not unusual for either of us to work on weekends. I had to do some paperwork on the Stafford Hotel account, and Emily was developing some film 1 think.”
“Did she seem at all upset then? Anxious? Afraid?” “No, she didn’t. She was enthusiastic about the pictures she’d taken Friday evening. I don’t know what they were of.”
“Emily told me something about a big contract she was trying to land,” Jack said, and watched as Dahlgren, who had begun to relax, got stiff again. “Did those pictures have anything to do with that?”
“The pictures, as far as I know, had nothing to do with the contract.”
“Look, there has to be a reason why she didn’t just immediately go to the Escapades. The only thing I can think of is this contract, whatever it is. Could she have gone there for any reason?”
“How should I know? She had an appointment with Vanessa Carpentier Sunday evening, but you say you’ve spoken to her since then.”
“This Carpentier is the one with the decorating job?” “Yes, dammit, what do you think?” Dahlgren got up
from his desk, shoved his hands in his pockets, and paced between his chair and the drafting table. “Look, Page, this is a complete redecoration, a big job, lots of money, and a boost to our reputation. I can’t just go tossing out information that might hurt us.”
“You can’t afford to withold information that might help us find out what happened to Emily and why. I’d like to talk with this Vanessa Carpentier, how can I get in touch with her?”
“All I know is that her offices are in the Delmark Building.”
“That’s all? You’re Emily’s partner. If this contract is as important as you say, as Emily has led me to believe, surely you have talked with Carpentier yourself.”
“No, I haven’t. First, I’m busy with other work. Second, Emily wanted to handle this herself. I’ll help out if we get the contract, of course, but I really don’t know much about it.”
“All right,” Jack said. He turned to go. “I’ll let you know if 1 find out anything.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Dahlgren said.
File Four: Tuesday Midday
The Delmark Building was Freeport’s newest and finest office building. Owned by WCTY-TV. its rents were the highest in the city, and it was located at the comer of Calvin and Howard, in the heart of Freeport. It was the last major building to be put up before the Visitors came, and only the Wagner Building, two blocks west, was taller.
The underground parking lot was well lit to discourage vagrants and unwanted criminal activity. The elevator led only to the lobby floor, where Jack had to announce himself at a reception desk. One of the three clerks on duty took his name, address, and asked his business before issuing him a numbered stick-on badge. Only then was he allowed to go past to the banks of elevators beyond, flanked by stairs.
Following the reception clerk’s instructions, Jack went up to the top floor where he found himself in another large and luxuriously decorated lobby, with the logo of WCTY-TV prominently displayed in metal letters on the wall. There were other people in and passing through the lobby, some of them he recognized from the evening news or other local programs. OIF to one side, through a broad series of arches, was a desk behind which sat a secretary. Jack went to her, and asked to speak with Vanessa Carpentier.
“Do you have an appointment?” the pretty young woman asked brightly.
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, dear. The president is usually quite busy at this time of day. If you’ll give me your name and business, I’ll try to arrange an appointment for you, maybe next week.”
For a moment, Jack didn’t know what to say. No wonder Dahlgren had been so cautious, he thought, if he thought Jack was out to st
eal a decorating job of this magnitude.
“I don’t think I can wait until next week,” he said. “I wanted to talk with Ms. Carpentier about Emily Velasquez, who I believe has been discussing a redecorating job with her. ”
“Oh, of course. Just a moment please.” She touched a button on her intercom. “Someone from Miss Velasquez to see you,” she said to it.
“Send him right in,” a woman’s voice on the other end told her.
“Down the hall to your left,” the secretary, now smiling for real, said to Jack, “and third door on your right.”
“Thank you,” Jack said, and followed her instructions.
Vanessa Carpentier, a tall, slim, vigorous woman in her mid-forties, conveyed a sense of administrative competence while still being feminine. Her blond hair was slightly grayed, and her conservative business suit was relieved by a
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careful and elegant bit of color in the scarf at her neck. She came around the desk to meet him, extending a hand in greeting.
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“I’m Vanessa Carpentier,” she said, “and you’re . . . ?”
“Doctor Jack Page, Emily Velasquez’s therapist,” Jack said, shaking her hand, quick to correct the misinterpretation the secretary had conveyed. “I apologize if there has been a misunderstanding. I think Miss Velasquez may be in serious trouble, and I need all the help I can get.” “What kind of trouble?” Carpentier asked, cooling visibly and returning to her desk.
“Emily seems to have disappeared.” Carpentier’s eyebrows shot up, and Jack took the opportunity to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “I can’t say for sure, but she may have been abducted.”
“Are you a detective, Dr. Page?”
“No, I’m her therapist, as I said. Emily called me yesterday evening with a story I’m not free to discuss. Since then she has dropped out of sight, and I’m hoping you might be able to give me some clues.”
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