The two of them got to their feet. Baumann gave Anna a somber look. “Since you were in the house on Thursday night, we’ll need to get your fingerprints so we can rule them out.”
Anna stood up. She nodded. “Elimination prints, I understand. My videographer was filming the segment there with me on Thursday morning. Do you need his prints, too?”
“I sure do,” the detective replied. “What’s your colleague’s name?”
“George Danziger,” Anna said.
Her back to the other officer, Detective Baumann spoke over her shoulder to him. “You got that?” She started for the front door.
“I’m not sure how to spell it.”
Anna spelled it out for him. She followed Baumann to the door and opened it for her.
The detective handed Anna a card with her contact information on it. “I realize it might be inconvenient, but could you and your colleague stop by the East Precinct within the next hour? The address is on the card. I probably won’t be there, but they’ll be expecting you. All they’ll do is take your fingerprints and then you’ll be on your merry way. I promise it won’t take long.”
“I’ll call him right now,” Anna said.
“You do that,” Baumann said. “Thank you for all your help, Anna. We’ll be in touch with you again, I’m sure.”
“Thanks very much, ma’am,” the young officer said, nodding at her. He followed the detective out the door.
Anna stood in the doorway and watched them walking down the dock. She figured Baumann was a woman of her word. She was sure to be in touch again.
Anna stepped back inside and closed the door.
She wanted to call Russ, but figured he was probably at the police station right now. She’d wait for him to call her.
Meanwhile, she’d have to phone George and give him the disconcerting news that the cops needed to fingerprint him. She hoped he was home. She’d offer to pick him up so that they could drive to the precinct together. She didn’t want to go through it alone.
Anna returned to the kitchen and reached into her purse for her phone. Then she remembered she had a message from that Unknown Caller.
Taking a deep breath, Anna tapped the voice mail icon on her phone screen.
There were a couple of seconds of silence, and then that same raspy voice again, making her skin crawl: “Do the police know you’ve been fucking her husband?”
CHAPTER TEN
Sunday, July 12—10:22 A.M.
Driving north on Highway 99 toward the Aurora Bridge, Anna turned on to the spiraling, shady road that was a shortcut to the Queen Anne neighborhood. Traffic from the downtown Amazon campus made the route a veritable parking lot during rush hour on weekdays. But it was smooth sailing now, and the quickest way to George’s house. Anna was alone in the car—with all the windows rolled down.
She’d taken this same road to George’s place just fourteen hours ago—with him in the passenger seat. They’d been on their way back from the police station, their fingertips still slightly gray from the black fingerprint ink. Soap, water, and paper towels hadn’t completely washed away the smudge marks.
George said the whole experience was surreal—and strangely intimate. “I feel like we just got initiated into a fraternity together.” He glanced at his fingertips again. “It’s like we’re partners in crime.”
Anna was thankful she’d had George to lean on throughout the ordeal. At the same time, it killed her that she couldn’t tell him about her and Russ. George was her best friend, and she wanted to confide in him. But she also figured he’d be bitterly disappointed in her. So she held back. The story he’d gotten from her was the same one she’d given the police.
Pulling up in front of his place yesterday, they’d talked for a while. George had predicted that the news director would give her the Courtney story assignment—if Courtney was still missing today. It only made sense, since Anna had shot so much material on her for the profile piece. And she was one of the last people to have seen Courtney before she disappeared. “Plus, you know the husband and have been communicating with him, so they’ll probably expect you to get an exclusive interview.”
“God, I hope not,” Anna murmured. She shuddered, imagining how such an interview would go viral and be analyzed to death if the word ever got out that the two of them were lovers.
“I have to admit,” George said, “it still strikes me as weird that he took you home Thursday night and changed you out of your clothes. I know you’d just puked, and he’s a doctor and all that. But you hardly know the guy. I find it creepy. And I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me any of this on Friday.”
“Because I knew you’d find it creepy,” Anna replied, a hand on the steering wheel. “Plus I was embarrassed that I’d gotten so drunk. As for Courtney’s husband, he was just being nice.”
“Getting you undressed for bed is being nice,” George mumbled—almost to himself. He turned to her. “Okay, so why didn’t you tell me on Friday morning about Courtney disappearing. You already knew, right?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mention it because I—well, her disappearance seemed connected to a spat between the two of them. And I’m not one to gossip.”
“Oh, c’mon, that’s bullshit,” he said with a chuckle. “You’re always the first to tell me if you’ve heard about something going on with somebody in the newsroom. You live for gossip. It’s one of the things I love about you.” Eyes on the dashboard, he shook his head. “I don’t get it, Anna. Working with Courtney last week, I have to say, you weren’t yourself. I can’t pin it down exactly, but you seemed so uncomfortable the whole time. I kept getting this weird vibe—like she had something on you, or you owed her.” He turned to look at her. “So, you say the husband’s nice? You don’t think it’s possible he bumped her off?”
“No, of course not,” Anna said. “He’s extremely nice. He’s one of those Doctors Without Borders doctors. He’s really a decent guy.”
Anna fell silent as she noticed the front door of George’s two-story, white stucco, Spanish-style house swing open. His wife, Beebe, stepped out on the front stoop. One hand on the doorknob and the other on her hip, she glared at them.
Anna nodded in Beebe’s direction. “I’ve kept you long enough,” she said. “I’m sorry. Please apologize to Beebe for me, too.”
They said good-bye. She remembered George’s gait as he headed toward his frowning spouse at their front door. Dead man walking, she thought. She felt sorry for him.
She waited until she got home to call Russ. It was around eight-thirty and starting to get dark out.
“Hey, I was just thinking of you,” he said when he picked up.
“Is it a good time to talk?” Anna asked. She sank down on the sofa.
“Yeah, but I don’t think we should chat for too long. I’m worried the police might be monitoring my calls, not exactly listening in—but keeping track of my phone records, who I’m talking to and for how long.”
“My God,” she murmured. She hated that he sounded like a guilty man. She squirmed on the sofa. “Should I—should I hang up?”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “It makes sense you’d call me for an update on Courtney. They know we’re communicating. I just don’t think we should hang on the phone for more than a few minutes. Then again, I could be wrong about the cops having access to my phone records—”
“No, you’re probably right. Why take a chance? Let’s keep it brief. So, are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m okay. No new developments with Courtney, at least, nothing that they’ve told me. I’m here at the Silver Cloud Inn until their forensics team finishes going over the house. It kills me, because I could start walking and be over at your place in ten minutes. But I don’t think we should be seen together.”
“Nor do I,” she said. And that included being seen together on TV. She wasn’t even going to ask him for an interview.
“So, what about you?” he asked. “What happened with the police?”
Anna
told him about the talk with Detective Baumann. “She didn’t come right out and ask if you and I were having an affair, but I’m sure she knew. It’s only a matter of time before they start to investigate just how well acquainted we are. And here’s the scary part, Russ. Somebody already knows. I got another anonymous call while the police were at my place, the same raspy-voiced creep who’d phoned me earlier.”
Anna had kept the voice mail recording, and she played it for him.
Russ asked to listen to it twice. He still thought the caller might be some nutcase who had picked up the details of Courtney’s disappearance over the police radio. “I don’t mean to downplay it, because this is really troubling,” Russ concluded. “I think it might be some nut. I mean, it’s happened to you before, one of the hazards of being on TV. Remember in March, that woman in Ballard who kept e-mailing you every day until you blocked her? I think this guy on the phone is just guessing about us. At least, it sounds like a guy to me. I suppose it could be a woman. It’s not Courtney. I know her voice. Whoever it is, they don’t really know anything. Last night, what he said to you was mostly gibberish. And in the call earlier today, didn’t he say that he saw you kill Courtney? I think he’s saying whatever might get a rise out of you.”
“You’re probably right.” Anna sighed. From the sofa, she stared out the windows and the sliding glass door. She would close the curtains as soon as she got off the phone.
“Still, I’m worried about you over there all alone,” Russ said. “Do you have anyone who could put you up for the night? Maybe your friend George? Didn’t you once mention that he had a guesthouse over his garage or something?”
“Yes, but George’s wife can’t stand me. I’d rather take my chances here. I’ll be okay. I’ll be sure to lock all the windows and doors.”
Before they hung up, Russ once again made her promise that she’d call him if she got scared. Anna remembered him telling her the same thing when that stalker had been tormenting her in October. But Anna didn’t want him to have to lie to his wife about a phone call and why he was running out the door in the middle of the night. Russ had already lied enough to his wife because of her. She hadn’t been comfortable putting him on the spot then, and she didn’t want to put him on the spot now. This time, it wasn’t his wife who would wonder about a late-night call; it was the police who might question it.
Anna had leftover Thai food for dinner. Then she started to wonder when the phone might ring again. She was so on edge. She must have moved the curtain and checked outside at least twenty times. Every little noise—inside and out—made her whole body tense up.
At 9:55, her phone rang, and Anna almost jumped out of her skin. She snatched it up and checked the phone screen: Unknown Caller.
After two rings, the phone went silent in her shaky hand. It didn’t go to voice mail.
For the rest of the night, she’d waited for the phone to ring again—or for someone to start banging on her door or for a rock to fly through one of the windows. Still jumpy, she’d gone to bed at one in the morning and finally drifted off to sleep around three.
Then the phone had woken her at 8:50 this morning. It had been the news director, Josh Southworth, wanting her to cover Courtney’s disappearance.
Half-asleep, Anna had argued that she would have a hard time keeping objective about it, since she was part of the story. Plus, she hardly ever did any hard news reporting. Couldn’t they give the assignment to somebody else?
“Nonsense,” Josh had said. “Your involvement is what makes it intriguing. Besides, there is no one else available. I don’t think any of the other stations are covering this. It’s a routine missing person case from what I can tell, but you profiled Courtney on Friday and that makes her news as far as KIXI’s concerned. I want three minutes. Since you were one of the last people to see Courtney before her disappearance, we’re counting on you to put a personal spin on the story. Could you possibly get an exclusive interview with the husband?”
“I don’t think Dr. Knoll is talking to anybody except the police,” Anna had told him.
Now she was on her way to pick up George so they could put a story together for the five o’clock news. Anna didn’t see how she could report on this accurately without making Russ look guilty and making herself look ridiculous. After building Courtney up to be a saint in that profile piece on Friday, she would have to expose her as drunk and belligerent in the last moments that anyone had seen her.
She hoped George might have some ideas on how to approach the assignment. Anna’s phone was in the holder bracketed on her dashboard. It hadn’t rung since this morning’s call from her news director. Taking her eyes off the road for a moment, Anna tapped the phone screen twice.
George answered after three rings: “I was just remembering that, yesterday, I predicted you’d have to cover this story. I forgot to mention it when you called me an hour ago. Don’t you hate that I’m always right? Are you here?”
“I’m about five minutes away,” Anna said, with her eyes on the road again. “And yes, I hate it when you’re right. I don’t have a clue how to approach this story. I texted Detective Baumann, who’s in charge of the investigation. I asked if we could get a statement from her. I still haven’t heard back. Other than that, I thought maybe I could do the segment intro and wrap-up from the dock in front of Courtney’s house—that is, if the police don’t have it sealed off.”
“That’s good. Maybe we could use some of the footage we shot from Courtney’s book signing at Elliott Bay Books. You’re not interviewing the husband, so we’ll need to use the shots of him that we used in the profile. People will want to see what he looks like. Anyway, we’ll hash it out when you get here. I’ll be waiting out front for you.”
“Sounds good, see you soon,” she said. She tapped the phone screen to hang up.
As she drove down the residential street, Anna thought about how she could depend on George. Yet Russ was the one she loved, and she couldn’t rely on him at all. They had no future together. If ever there were any doubts, the last couple of days had confirmed that for her. Maybe deep down, she’d known it from the start.
She pulled into George’s driveway. Straight ahead, past the white stucco house with the Spanish-tile roof, was a matching garage with steps up to a small apartment. Beebe’s mother had stayed there when she’d been sick and dying last year. That was another reason Anna would never ask to use the apartment for a couple of nights: someone had died there.
She popped the trunk and left the motor running. Staring at the house and the slightly neglected, yellowing front lawn, she waited a couple of minutes.
Finally, the front door opened, but it was Beebe who hurried out. Her graying brown hair was a mess, and she wore an oversize T-shirt and cutoffs. Scowling, she continued at a brisk, determined clip—right up to Anna’s car window.
Wide-eyed, Anna stared at her. “Beebe, is everything okay?”
“Well, I hope you’re happy!” she screamed. Particles of saliva hit Anna in the face. Beebe looked like a crazy woman. “George and I are splitting up! That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” Anna asked, shrinking back from the window.
George’s wife looked like she might reach inside the car and grab her by the throat. “You should know that I kicked him out of the house last night. Are you satisfied? The two of you can stop sneaking around now. You’re free to fuck each other’s brains out. I don’t care anymore! I hope you have fun. That’s quite an accomplishment, breaking up a marriage of sixteen years and ruining the lives of two children. How does it feel, Anna? You selfish, manipulative bitch.”
“My God, Beebe, that’s insane!” Anna shook her head. “George and I are friends. We’ve never . . . ever . . .”
“Beebe? What’s going on?” George called.
Anna turned and saw him coming along the driveway—from the general direction of the garage. He was carrying his video equipment.
Beebe
turned toward him. “I’m telling your whore that she’s welcome to you!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Beebe, that’s total lunacy,” he wailed. George looked exasperated. Stopping in front of the car, he set down the bags. “Why are you doing this? You’re embarrassing yourself. Anna doesn’t deserve this—”
She glared at him. “Don’t tell me I’m embarrassing myself, you son of a bitch.”
“For the umpteenth time, listen to me,” George said. Then he punched each word: “Anna . . . hasn’t . . . done . . . anything!”
Beebe swiveled toward Anna again. “That’s right,” she snarled. “You haven’t actually done anything. No, it’s even worse than that, because he thinks he’s in love with you. You’ve just been leading him on all this time. You’ve had him wrapped around your little finger. Did that make you feel superior or desirable or pretty? Was it good for your ego, Anna? You prick tease—”
“Jesus, Beebe, enough already! Leave her alone!” George pointed to the house. “Go inside! Stop making a fool out of yourself and go inside.” He was talking to her like she was a bratty little girl.
Beebe marched over to him and said something under her breath.
His arms crossed in front of him, George whispered something back to his wife.
Dumbfounded, Anna sat at the wheel and watched the two of them standing in front of her car. It looked like Beebe might haul off and slap him. But she muttered something else, swiveled around, and flounced back toward the house.
Shaking his head, George opened the trunk to Anna’s Mini Cooper and loaded his video equipment inside. He shut the trunk, opened the passenger door, and plopped down on the seat. “Just shoot me,” he said, staring straight ahead. “No questions. Just put a bullet through my head and end this misery. On behalf of my deranged wife, I apologize.”
“What the hell was that all about?” Anna asked—with her hand over her heart.
“Could you please just get us out of here now?” George asked. He nervously glanced toward the house. “I don’t want her coming out again. I don’t think I could take another round.”
The Night She Disappeared Page 11
