The Night She Disappeared

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Anna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me know if you get any more calls like that. Listen, I need to go. I’m sure the cop downstairs is wondering what’s taking me so long. They want to take me to the precinct and fingerprint me—”

  “Fingerprint you?”

  “It’s just to eliminate all my fingerprints in the living room.”

  “Well, I was there on Tuesday and Wednesday, and so was George, my cameraman. They might want our prints, too. You might tell them that.”

  “Maybe you should tell the detective when you talk to her,” Russ whispered. “Work it in somehow. I’d rather they not know we’ve been talking here. It might look bad.”

  “It’s already looking bad, Russ,” she said, feeling her insides tighten. “It’s already looking pretty awful.”

  Anna passed her carport and noticed a young man standing at the dock gate. Tall, pale, and lanky, he wore dark trousers and a white, short-sleeve shirt with a tie. He seemed to be standing guard. Anna was pretty certain he’d already spotted her. She suddenly knew how Russ felt: talking with him on the phone seemed at the very least, suspicious. She almost wanted to hang up and hide the phone. But it was too late.

  “Does the detective’s assistant have blond hair and dress like a Mormon missionary?” Anna asked.

  “Yeah,” Russ said.

  She waved to the young man. “He can see I’m on the phone,” she whispered. “So I’m telling him we’ve talked—that you called to let me know the police were on their way over. I’m not going to lie to them about any of this, Russ. I won’t volunteer anything, but I won’t lie to them, either.”

  “Oh Jesus,” he said, sighing. “Okay, yeah, you’re right. I’ll call you later.”

  “Gotta go,” she said. Then she hung up.

  As she approached the young detective, Anna once again found herself short of breath. “I’m Anna Malone,” she called. She hated the little quaver in her voice. “Are you here to see me?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Saturday, July 11—5:33 P.M.

  Poised near the end of the dock, the woman was obviously trying to peek into Anna’s living room window. Anna guessed she was about fifty. She had a pretty, slightly careworn face and crimped silver hair that fell down to her shoulders. Her tight-fitting blue blouse and khaki slacks showed off a buxom figure. She carried a notebook and murmured into a mini-recorder. Her police badge was pinned at her belt.

  Anna couldn’t take much offense to her snooping around. She’d done the exact same thing outside Russ and Courtney’s floating home a few hours ago.

  The officer waiting by the dock gate—the one who looked like a Mormon missionary—was in his early twenties. It looked like he’d cut his own hair—sandy blond mini-bangs. But he was still kind of cute in a nerdy way. A minute ago, he’d introduced himself as Officer Lloyd Bransky, and pointed out, rather bashfully, that he enjoyed her segments on the news.

  “Well, thank you,” Anna had said with a strained smile. She’d slipped her phone into her purse. “I just got a call from Dr. Knoll. He said you were on your way. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I was at the store. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  She’d figured this tack would give the impression of total transparency. But her voice still had that nervous tremor in it. For a TV journalist, it was maddeningly unprofessional. But she was still rattled over the news that they’d discovered some blood in Russ and Courtney’s living room. All she could think about was the creepy voice on the phone, saying she’d killed Courtney. Of course it was a lie, but the part about Courtney being dead seemed more and more real.

  The policewoman met her and the young cop by Anna’s red front door. “Anna Malone? Hi, I’m Detective Kit Baumann.” She slipped her recorder in her purse and shook Anna’s hand. “I see you’ve met Officer Bransky.”

  The young officer whispered in Detective Baumann’s ear for a few moments. He almost seemed like a kid telling his mom a secret. Baumann nodded patiently, but she rolled her eyes, too. “Okay, thanks,” she said. Then she turned to Anna. “I understand that Dr. Knoll called you about our visit. So—that should save us some time. I just have a few questions.”

  Setting down her grocery bag, Anna took out her keys and unlocked her front door. “Yes, of course. Won’t you come in?” She opened the door and let them go inside first. Then, brushing past them, she hurried into the kitchen and set the grocery bag on the table. “Can I get you something to drink? A soda or water or coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Detective Baumann said, standing in the kitchen doorway. “I understand you spent the better part of last week with Courtney.”

  Anna nodded a few more times than necessary. “Yes, I did a profile spot about her for the news. It aired on Friday.”

  “I know, I had another look at it on YouTube on our way here. Did you know Courtney very well?”

  Anna was about to unload the grocery bag, but hesitated. “Well, we shot that segment for three days and one night. So—I guess you could say we sort of became fast friends. It’s part of my job. When I do a profile piece on someone, I get to know a lot about them very quickly.”

  “You weren’t friends with Courtney before?” the detective asked. “I got the impression you knew her.”

  “We ran into each other a few times before that, and then Courtney talked me into doing the profile about her. But I didn’t know her all that well until we started working on the news story together.” She glanced down at her bag. “Would you mind if I put some of this stuff in the refrigerator?”

  Baumann smiled. “Go ahead. I didn’t mean to hold you up.” She glanced over her shoulder at the other officer.

  Anna couldn’t quite see the look that passed between them. She started to unload the groceries.

  “During your time together with Courtney this past week, did she confide in you much?” the detective asked.

  “I guess so,” Anna allowed, setting a carton of milk on the table.

  “Did she mention having any enemies, or if someone was stalking her, or threatening her?”

  Anna stopped to consider the question. She shook her head. “No.”

  “Any guy friends she might have told you about?”

  “No.”

  “I understand from her husband that Courtney had a lot to drink on Thursday night. Was that the first time you’d seen her intoxicated?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid I had too much to drink that night, too. I don’t remember much.” She put the milk, a carton of orange juice, and a package of chicken breasts inside the refrigerator.

  “I’ll get to Thursday night in a minute. I’m trying to determine if Courtney has a drinking problem—or maybe even a drug problem.”

  “I didn’t get that impression,” Anna said, closing the refrigerator door. “Did you ask Dr. Knoll? He’d have a better idea about that than I would.”

  “Sometimes the husband is the last to know,” Officer Bransky piped up from behind Baumann’s shoulder.

  “Well, I didn’t get that impression,” Anna repeated.

  “What impression did you get?” the detective pressed. “I mean, how would you describe Courtney—in general?”

  Anna shrugged. “I think she’s—quite talented and ambitious. She never seems to let her disability slow her down. In fact—” Anna hesitated. She was about to say, In fact, she uses it to her advantage, but she thought better of it. “In fact, it hasn’t slowed her down one bit. Courtney is assertive, very sure of what she wants. Her career is really important to her, and so is her image. I think she feels she’s on the brink of becoming famous.” She sighed. “I don’t know what else to tell you about her.” She grabbed a pint of gelato off the table and stashed it in the freezer.

  Baumann gave her a sidelong glance. “You mentioned earlier that Courtney talked you into doing the piece about her on the news. So it wasn’t your idea?”

  “Not originally,” Anna answered. “But that’s not unusual. Most of my news stories are assign
ed to me or someone persuades me to take on a certain subject.” She nodded at her half-empty grocery bag. “I can put the rest of this away later. We might be more comfortable talking in the living room.”

  As Anna led the way, she got a waft of Baumann’s patchouli perfume. She also noticed her flushed face and the beads of perspiration on her forehead. Anna figured she was probably having hot flashes. She was just about at that age.

  Meanwhile, the young officer glanced around the living room in awe. “Nice,” he murmured to his superior. “If I had a houseboat, I’d have one just like this.”

  He and Detective Baumann settled on the sofa while Anna sat down in an easy chair. “Let’s get back to dinner at Canlis on Thursday night,” Baumann said, all business. “You mentioned that both you and Courtney had a lot to drink. How many drinks would you say you had?”

  “At least three cocktails, maybe four or five, I’m not certain,” Anna answered. She got up, switched on the fan, and sat back down again. “Courtney kept reordering for me. And I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “How much would you say Courtney had to drink?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’d had one or two cocktails before I got there. Lemon Drops, they were pretty strong. After that, she kept pace with me.”

  “So—she had at least four or five cocktails, maybe even more. How was her mood?”

  Anna hesitated. She knew the detective had already talked with Russ. Was she double-checking to see if their stories matched?

  “Courtney was—argumentative,” Anna answered carefully. “She kept picking at her husband, complaining how difficult it was being married to a doctor. It started out like she was teasing him, but then it seemed to grow abusive. And she was loud, partly because of being deaf. But she got even louder the more she drank. I was embarrassed.”

  Don’t say any more, she thought. If they think Russ has anything to do with Courtney’s disappearance, this isn’t helping. It’s bad enough that they found blood in the living room.

  “Dr. Knoll seemed to take it in his stride,” she added. “But I felt so tense that I just kept drinking. I remember getting through dinner, but I couldn’t tell you when we left the restaurant.”

  “Dr. Knoll said that the three of you drove back to their floating home at around ten-thirty,” Detective Baumann said. She brushed a bead of sweat from the side of her face. “What you say about Courtney’s behavior jibes with what he told us. Apparently, she was even more argumentative when they got home.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember,” Anna said. “Then again, maybe it’s a blessing I blacked that out.”

  “According to Dr. Knoll, you weren’t feeling well, and he drove you home around eleven o’clock. You got sick, and he put you to bed. Do you remember any of that?”

  “Vaguely,” she replied. In truth, she didn’t remember it at all, but she wanted to back up what Russ had said as much as she could. “It’s all kind of a blur from the time we left the restaurant until I woke up Friday morning on the daybed in my study, horribly hungover. I was wearing a dressy pullover that Dr. Knoll must have mistaken for a T-shirt or a pajama top.”

  Anna thought this quirky little detail might bring some authenticity to the story—and show that Russ had the best of intentions. She also figured, being a woman, the detective might find this aspect of the story somewhat amusing.

  But Kit Baumann barely cracked a smile. “Yes, he told us that he’d cleaned you up and helped you change into some nightclothes. That must have been embarrassing for you, a total stranger, practically . . .”

  Here it comes, Anna thought. Just how well do you know Dr. Knoll?

  “I felt so awful Friday morning,” she said. “It didn’t even dawn on me until later what exactly had happened. But then, I figure, he’s a doctor, and I should be happy I didn’t wake up in a puddle of my own vomit. He called me yesterday morning. In fact, his call woke me up. He wanted to know if I’d heard from Courtney. He told me that, after he left here, he went for a drive. When he came home around two in the morning, Courtney was gone—along with her overnight bag. We checked in with each other a couple of times last night. I left Courtney three messages, but didn’t hear back. I figured Courtney must have switched off her phone and checked into a hotel or something. I thought maybe she was too embarrassed to talk to me, and she was giving her husband the silent treatment. But Russ—Dr. Knoll—he was genuinely worried about her.”

  Anna shifted in her chair. She couldn’t believe she’d slipped up and used Russ’s first name like that. Now she was starting to perspire, too. She told herself to keep talking.

  “He said that if Courtney didn’t show up to her book signing today, then he’d call the police.”

  “What do you mean by ‘the silent treatment’?” the detective asked, leaning forward.

  Anna shrugged. “Like—you know, when you’re angry with someone and won’t talk to them. I thought Courtney might have disappeared and become incommunicado to punish him or screw with his head.”

  “What gave you the impression Courtney would behave like that?”

  Anna wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

  “During this last week with her,” the detective pressed, “did Courtney confide in you about her marriage?”

  “Not very much,” Anna said. It wasn’t really a lie. Courtney had told her all that garbage about Russ’s infidelity nearly a month ago. “I know she was upset with Dr. Knoll because he couldn’t attend her book signing at Elliott Bay Books on Wednesday evening. That’s why she was giving him so much grief on Thursday night. I figured she might have taken the punishment even further by packing her bag and disappearing. But then, she didn’t show up to that book signing, and now, I don’t know what to think. Courtney wouldn’t neglect her fans just because she’s upset at her husband.”

  “You mentioned that Courtney’s career and her image are very important to her,” Detective Baumann said. “So perhaps that explains something very strange to me. It seems when Courtney packed her things, she left behind some night cream her husband says she uses every evening at bedtime. But apparently, she took with her a writing award of some kind. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Well, Courtney was pretty drunk on Thursday night,” Anna said, wincing a bit. “Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  She knew the award that Detective Baumann was talking about, the same one Russ had said was missing from the bookcase. Anna had noticed it in the living room when they’d been shooting one of the segments at Russ and Courtney’s floating home. It was a glass objet d’art in the shape of a writing quill—with a black base that was supposed to be an ink bottle. At least, the quill looked like it was glass. It might have been Lucite or crystal, Anna wasn’t sure. The point of the quill was a tilted steel rod fixed to the inkwell base. The thing was about ten inches tall and looked heavy. The silver plate on the black base was inscribed: THE NORTHWEST LITERARY SOCIETY’S BEST FICTION DEBUT AWARD. Courtney had pointed it out to her and tried to dismiss the award as “tacky” and “phallic-looking,” but Anna could tell she was secretly proud of it. The award was even mentioned in her website biography—and in most of her press releases. Maybe she had indeed taken it with her on Thursday night.

  But Anna couldn’t help thinking about how that bloodstain was on the same bookcase where Courtney had kept the award. And she couldn’t help imagining a drunken Courtney saying something vile and horrible to Russ, pushing him to the breaking point. She could see him grabbing the first heavy thing within reach and smashing her skull with it.

  Was the Northwest Literary Society Award with Courtney now? Or was it at the bottom of Lake Union with traces of blood and brain still clinging to it?

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Anna stared at Kit Baumann and blinked. “I’m sorry—”

  Her phone rang.

  Anna realized she’d left it in her purse on the kitchen table. She was about to get up, but hesitated.

  “Maybe you
should answer that,” Detective Baumann said. She raised an eyebrow. “It might be Dr. Knoll.”

  Anna got to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured. Hurrying into the kitchen, she reached into her purse and found the phone. She could still see the detective and the young officer on the sofa, watching her. The detective fanned herself. Officer Bransky leaned toward his superior and whispered something to her.

  Anna glanced at the caller ID: Unknown Caller. Was it the same awful person with the raspy voice who had phoned before?

  The ringing stopped. “It went to voice mail,” Anna announced, stashing the phone back inside her purse. “Probably just a telemarketer.”

  She returned to the living room and sat down across from them again.

  Someone else’s phone rang. Anna wasn’t sure if it was the detective’s or her assistant’s.

  “Well, now it’s my turn. Pardon me.” Baumann reached into her satchel, took out her phone, and glanced at it. She tapped the screen. “Yes, Gary, what’s going on?” she said.

  Anna looked at the young officer. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink?” she whispered.

  He quickly shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said under his breath.

  Anna was wondering about her own phone call, the anonymous one that had gone to voice mail.

  “Well, that’s fast work, thank you, Gary,” Detective Baumann said. Putting down the phone, she frowned at Anna and sighed. “A couple of hours ago, I requested a check on Courtney’s phone and credit cards. That was a colleague calling with the results. No activity at all since early Thursday evening.”

  “Oh God,” Anna murmured under her breath. She was thinking about Russ’s assumption that Courtney had called Uber or a taxi for a ride to wherever she was headed late Thursday night. This new revelation shot down that hypothesis.

  Baumann turned to her colleague. “We’ve got to get forensics over there now,” she muttered. “I want them to check the perimeter of the house and the dock before it rains again.”