The Night She Disappeared

by Kevin O'Brien

  Anna stopped and took a few deep breaths. She heard silence on the other end of the line. “Say something,” she muttered.

  “I was listening,” he said.

  She rubbed her forehead. “I can’t yell at you without feeling horrible about it.”

  Her phone clicked, and she saw another call had come in.

  “The station manager’s trying to get ahold of me.” Anna sighed. She let the call go to voice mail. “I’m hearing directly from the top. They’re not wasting any time. I’m sure he wants to tell me how my likability quotient will take a dive once people realize I’m an adulteress involved in a possible murder case. I wonder if they’ll fire me outright or leave me a shred of dignity and ask for my resignation.”

  “This is all my fault,” he murmured.

  “No, I probably deserve this. I mean, how selfish can I get? It looks like your wife may be dead, and all I can do is think about us and myself and my job.”

  “Well, it’s not like you and Courtney were friends.”

  “She thought we were.”

  “No, she didn’t. She was using you. And it’s okay to worry about yourself and your job. I’m worried about mine—and my patients, all those kids who’ll have to start with a new doctor. We’re in the same boat, Anna. What parent in their right mind would want a confirmed adulterer and murder suspect looking after their child?”

  “I know it seems far-fetched, but I still think Courtney might be alive. I think she could’ve orchestrated this whole thing. What better way to pay us back and screw with us?” Anna paused. “So—what are you going to do? You’ve got to do something to let people know you didn’t kill her, maybe a press conference or something.”

  “No, I’ll talk to my lawyer and the police. Then they can talk to the press if they want to. Meanwhile, Anna, you do whatever you need to do—make a formal announcement on your news program or give an interview. Whatever you do, I promise, I won’t accuse you of throwing me under the bus. I was out of line with that.”

  “Well, I’m glad you seem to know what I should do about this, because I haven’t a clue.”

  She heard a long sigh on the other end.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Anna, make a deal with the station manager. You give a prepared statement, a KIXI-TV News exclusive. You tell the truth about us and beat Sally Justice to the punch. Do it in exchange for a sabbatical or a leave of absence until this blows over. They’ll hire you back.”

  What he said made perfect sense.

  “And what about us?” she asked quietly.

  There was a silence.

  “Russ?”

  “I think,” he said, at last, “whether she’s alive or dead, Courtney’s won. I think we’re finished, Anna.”

  Then she heard something she’d never heard him do before.

  She heard Russ crying.

  “It never would have happened if I hadn’t had so much to drink. There was nothing premeditated about it. But I guess things had been building up for a while . . . That night, she was so nasty and abusive—first at dinner, and then when we came back to their place. I got so angry that I couldn’t sleep. I had to go back there. I just wanted to tell her off. It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did. But she wouldn’t shut up, and she was so goddamn mean. If she’d been able to hear herself, maybe she would have stopped barking all those insults at me. A part of me was so glad for the silence after I bashed in her skull.”

  —Excerpt: Session 3, audio recording

  with Dr. G. Tolman, July 23

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday, July 13—4:51 P.M.

  Sally had ninety minutes until showtime. As usual, she’d arrived early at her studio to have her hair and makeup done. HDTV wasn’t exactly made for sixty-nine-year-old celebrities. It didn’t matter how many nip-and-tuck sessions, Botox treatments, and chemical peels she’d had—and that was well into the double digits—Sally still needed at least an hour in the makeup chair before every show. Hell, she didn’t even leave her house—a five-bedroom estate in a gated community near Madison Park—without first putting on anti-aging serum, eye repair, foundation, concealer, rouge, eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, and one of her twelve ash-blond wigs.

  Nine years ago, she’d made the mistake of leaving the house without her makeup and wig for a quick trip to the Red Apple Market. The idiot checkout girl had overcharged her, and Sally had merely raised her voice a little at the gum-snapping nincompoop. Who wouldn’t? But some son of a bitch had recorded the whole episode on his cell phone, and “Sally Justice Has a Meltdown” had gone viral. The damn thing was still on the Internet—with six million hits and counting. But what had really irked Sally was how hideous she’d looked.

  Three lifestyle changes had gone into effect after that incident. Sally never again left the house—even for a minute—without wearing makeup and one of her wigs, and she didn’t shop or cook again. She now had a full-time housekeeper, a cook, and a chauffeur. That was three more people dependent on her—in addition to the twenty-nine employees working for The Sally Justice Show. They depended on her, too. That didn’t even include her personal assistants, her agent, her attorneys, her publicist, her trainer, her masseur, and her twenty-seven-year-old daughter, Taylor. Sally supported them all.

  And on top of that, she had to worry about her ratings and lawsuits and demographic shifts and algorithms or whatever the hell they used on the Internet to gauge her popularity.

  Small wonder her back was constantly killing her.

  Sally’s studio was in the Ravenna neighborhood, not too far from University Village. The small, renovated warehouse used to have a billboard on top of it—with a photoshopped image of Sally, her arms crossed, her smile glistening, looking like a smart, savvy fortysomething attorney:

  TAYLOR-MADE PRODUCTION STUDIOS

  Home of the 24/7 News Network’s

  THE SALLY JUSTICE SHOW

  Over 20 Million Viewers Nationwide!

  It was something of a local landmark and tourist attraction. But then, eight years ago, Sally had done a story on reverse discrimination that hadn’t gone over well. She’d had pain-in-the-ass protestors picketing the place for days afterward. Someone had defaced the sign—with a crude rendition of what looked like a penis in front of her mouth. The culprit had also scrawled IN- in front of her last name—how original and clever. She’d had the sign taken down and never bothered to replace it. Since Sally was no stranger to controversy, her people had advised that it might be prudent not to advertise where her TV studio was located—what with all the nutcases out there. The whole billboard was dismantled months later.

  Inside the studio, they had all the latest audio/video technology, a media library, recording booths, editing bays, dressing and makeup rooms, two greenrooms, a break room, and a kitchen.

  The Sally Justice Show was broadcast live from six-thirty to seven in Seattle, nine-thirty until ten on the East Coast. For over a dozen years, the show was the crown jewel of the 24/7 News Network. Sally reported on injustice in many forms—whether it was the hardworking, single-mom waitress who had gotten stiffed by a movie star or the airline passenger who had gone ballistic on the person constantly kicking his seat back. Sally kept busy with this sort of stuff during dull news days. But she really made her mark with political scandals and high-profile crimes—including murder. These bigger stories often became the topic of several shows in a row. Sally usually reported the story from a mahogany desk with a nameplate front and center—just the kind of nameplate a judge might have. She talked directly to the camera and wasn’t past smirking, rolling her eyes, or pounding on the desktop to drive home a point. Then she’d discuss the details with a victim, a witness, or a so-called expert. Sometimes the guest was in another locale, shown in split screen with Sally. And sometimes the guest was there in person with Sally, seated by her desk in what looked like a witness box. For the last ten minutes of the show, Sally took calls from viewers. And God help the poor fool who disagreed with
Sally, because she could be brutal and sarcastic, and she often hung up as soon as a caller with an opposing opinion started to make a valid point. Viewers also got to vote online or over the phone about who was at fault for the latest reported injustice. Sally would read the results the following night, and she always got the last word in.

  Social media always went abuzz with the voting results of The Sally Justice Show—especially with the high-profile cases. One Sally critic—and there were many—once pointed out: “Why bother having a civil or criminal trial when Sally Justice and her followers—with mounds of misinformation and sheer conjecture—have already determined months ahead of time if a defendant is innocent or guilty?”

  Tonight’s Sally Justice Show would focus on the disappearance of Courtney Knoll. Sally had already developed a theory about what had happened to the beautiful, young, deaf author, whose literary star had seemed on the rise.

  “What exactly did Anna Malone’s neighbor say?” she asked, seated in her makeup chair—in front of the lighted mirror. Sally had two makeup guys on her staff, both named Chad. What were the odds? Chad II was working today, applying her HD makeup. She liked Chad I better. Sally was addressing a third person in the room, a woman standing behind her.

  On the corner of the makeup table was a small-screen TV, which was tuned to channel 8, KIXI-TV. Sally’s people had discovered that Anna Malone was supposed to make some sort of statement on the news tonight regarding her part in Courtney Knoll’s disappearance. Everyone was pretty certain that Sally’s promo spots for tonight’s show had forced Anna to come clean about her involvement with Courtney’s husband. Any fool reading the police report could put together that something was going on between those two. It didn’t matter if Anna’s statement would be a full confession, a flat denial, or something in between, Sally didn’t intend to miss a second. Her people would be recording Anna’s announcement, and Sally had demanded fact-checks on everything. “I want to catch her on at least three lies tonight!” she’d decreed. She was pretty sure Anna’s career wouldn’t survive this.

  “Are you listening to me, dear?” she asked, looking in the mirror at the full-figured, fortysomething brunette standing behind her. Despite a few too many pounds on her short frame, the woman was beautiful, with dark eyes and a gorgeous complexion. Her name was Brenda, and she was one of the private detectives Sally had on retainer.

  Brenda glanced up from her phone. “Yes, the neighbor’s name is Mrs. Britz. I showed her a photo of Dr. Knoll. She confirmed for me that she’s seen him several times coming and going on the dock to Anna Malone’s houseboat. Mrs. Britz has spotted them together at least twice, maybe more than that. She thinks he’s been visiting her since last October, maybe before. The lady said Dr. Knoll was hard to miss, since he’s so good-looking.”

  “Oh, I like that,” Sally said, closing her eyes while Chad II worked on her lids. “ ‘Hard to miss,’ I’m going to have to use that on the show. You’ve gotten confirmation about his coming and going from only one neighbor? The other neighbors had nothing to say?”

  “Nothing you want to hear,” the detective replied. “They all love her. They said Anna’s very considerate and sweet, does grocery runs for them when they’re sick, looks after their mail when they’re gone—”

  “Stop, you’re killing me,” Sally said. “You’re right. I don’t want to hear it. Did one of these neighbors happen to notice any activity in or around Anna’s love boat late Thursday night?”

  “Nothing. I asked and asked again.”

  “Okay, fine.” Sally sighed. “Are those two moron witnesses from the restaurant here?”

  “One of them is here, the tall skinny woman with the mustache problem.”

  Sally opened one eye and looked at Chad II. “You’re going to have to fix that with makeup or something. I want people listening to what she says—and not comparing her to David Niven.”

  “Who?” Chad asked.

  “Never mind,” Sally grumbled. “God, don’t you millennials know anything?”

  The two women she’d booked as “witnesses” for tonight’s show had been dining at Canlis on Thursday evening—just hours before Courtney had vanished. They’d been at a table near where Anna Malone and the Knolls had been seated. Brenda had tracked them down. The two women said they’d recognized Anna from the news. Apparently, both Anna and Courtney had been drunk. The mustached woman said she thought it odd, because, as the trio had left the place, “the man, who was clearly the deaf woman’s husband, was sort of holding up Anna Malone. She was so drunk she could hardly walk.” Far more damning, as far as Sally was concerned, was what the lady’s friend had said. “I heard the deaf woman complaining about what it was like to be married to a doctor, all the disadvantages. I think everyone in the restaurant heard her. But she told her husband and Anna that it didn’t matter, because she was never leaving him.”

  Then a few hours later, Courtney Knoll had disappeared. And the story Dr. Knoll had given the police was that he thought his wife had left him.

  Tonight’s guests were among the last people to see Courtney alive that night. Sally’s assistant director had already videoed both women giving their testimonies earlier this afternoon—sort of a test run for each of them. Sally’s people viewed the tests, and everyone felt both women lacked charisma and credibility.

  Sally still had one eye open and watched Chad II working on the other. She focused on the detective. “Is my daughter here? Can you go get her?”

  “Sure thing,” Brenda replied, and she headed out of the room.

  Sally glanced at her smartphone: 4:48. She still had two more minutes until KIXI-TV News at Five. Courtney Knoll’s disappearance was trending among the local and national news stories—thanks mostly to Sally’s promo pieces for this show. Sally had checked the Amazon sales rank yesterday for Courtney’s most recent book. It had been a bit over 41,000. Now Sally looked it up again, and Silent Rage was number 67. Courtney’s other two books had rocketed up the sales charts as well.

  The theme for the KIXI News show started up.

  “I’m going to need you to close the other eye now, Sally,” Chad II announced.

  Staring at the TV, she held up her index finger. “You’ll have to wait. I need both eyes to watch this. In fact, get lost for ten minutes. And if you see Taylor out there somewhere, tell her I want to see her now.”

  He let out a defeated sigh, noisily fussed with the cosmetics on the table, and then headed for the door.

  “Tonight’s top story on KIXI-TV News at Five,” the anchorman announced. “A freight train derailment in Wenatchee has left two dead . . .”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Sally wailed. “Idiots! I can’t believe that a train wreck trumped the Courtney Knoll story.” She wondered when they were going to bring out Anna Malone to make her statement. Sally needed time to respond to it on tonight’s show and make her out to be a liar.

  On TV, a reporter stood in front of the smoldering train wreck, addressing the camera.

  Sally grabbed the remote and turned down the volume. She checked herself in the makeup mirror. Behind her, she noticed the dressing room door open. Her daughter, Taylor, came in the same way she always entered a room—inconspicuously.

  Far less attractive women could turn heads with their style, panache, and magnetism—but these were all qualities that blue-eyed, brown-haired, mousy Taylor clearly lacked. Sally was always trying to get the Chads to do something to make her plain-looking daughter prettier and more appealing. Taylor had made about twenty appearances on The Sally Justice Show in the last two years. Sally brought her on as an “expert” because she had a BA degree in sociology, which wasn’t very impressive, but to hear Sally talk, her daughter might as well have been Stephen Hawking. Test-market audiences found Taylor “smart,” “sweet,” and “dreary.”

  Sally spun around in the chair. “Honey, these two idiot women who are supposed to be my witnesses on tonight’s show, I don’t like them, nobody does. I might just run a bri
ef clip of one of them talking about what she overheard at the restaurant. Then I’ll bring you out to talk about Courtney, how close the two of you were and how brilliant she was—or is. Maybe you can even work in something about how worried you are about her right now.”

  Taylor slouched and rolled her eyes. “Mother, I’ve told you, I hardly know Courtney.” She signed as she spoke. Her speaking voice wasn’t always clear. When they polled a test audience about Taylor’s appearance on the show, one audience member—obviously an asshole—wrote: “It’s hard to understand her. She sounds like a dolphin that somebody trained to talk.” Sally and the producer decided that, from then on, whenever Taylor appeared on the show, they’d automatically closed-caption her—as they did whenever Sally had a guest with a thick foreign accent.

  Sally’s only child had been deaf since birth. It was remarkable that she spoke as well as she did. One of Sally’s critics once wrote: “Though Taylor Hofstad is drastically underqualified as an expert at anything, Sally insists on parading her deaf daughter onto the show in order to gain sympathy points.”

  The hard truth was, every time Taylor came on the show—and she and her mother spoke and signed with each other—Sally’s likability rating went up with audiences.

  Taylor leaned against the doorway frame. “I met Courtney three times—briefly. That’s all. Each time was at some formal fund-raiser. You were there two of those times. You might as well talk about how much you miss her.”

  “It sounds better coming from you,” Sally said. “Now, I’m in a bind here. Can’t you help your dear old mother for just a few minutes? Please? Chad Two can make you up, and there are a bunch of gorgeous blouses and sweater sets in your size in the wardrobe closet.”