by Ben Rehder
Son of a bitch.
He wasn’t worried about what I might do if he came back to the table. I knew that. He was leaving because he thought it was funny. It was his way of making me wait around like an idiot, then sticking me with the check.
I wished I’d thought of it first.
9
I was angry, but at least I’d learned something useful. Boz Gentry was probably still out there somewhere. All I had to do was find him. So what next? Truth is, I had no idea how to proceed.
I sat in my van outside Chili’s for a few minutes and tried to think like Boz Gentry. Tough, because I didn’t know Boz Gentry. The critical question: If I were going to fake my own death, where would I go? The answer was disheartening. I’d leave the country. I would plan far in advance and create a flawless fake identity—which was still possible, even in this digital age—then I would flee to someplace like Costa Rica.
But I didn’t know if Gentry was smart or creative enough to construct that sort of elaborate getaway. It seemed more likely that Boz Gentry was somewhere close by, so he could rendezvous with Erin on occasion. Then, when the money came through, they’d take off together, or attempt to. Good chance they’d flee in such a clumsy fashion that they’d be rounded up in a few days. But, again, that wasn’t my concern. I just needed to provide evidence that Boz was committing fraud.
So, for now, I decided to assume he was somewhere nearby.
Where? How to find him?
In an ideal world, I’d have GPS trackers on the vehicles of Boz Gentry’s closest friends, Albeck included. Then I could see if any of them traveled anyplace out of the ordinary. But physically locating that many people could take days. And some of them would likely own more than one vehicle. I didn’t own that many trackers. Besides, it would likely be wasted effort, because it was probable that none of them knew anything about Boz Gentry’s whereabouts.
If any of them did know, it would be Albeck, right? Albeck was Gentry’s best friend, and I had to wonder why Erin had driven over to his house so late at night.
There was also the fact that Albeck—being wealthy—had plenty of resources to help Boz stay off the radar. That made me think of the case from last year—the missing girl, Tracy Turner. She had been stashed in an empty rental house. Not around the world or across the country, but just a few miles from her home.
I had to wonder: What real estate holdings did Albeck own? Where might Gentry hide? I decided to go back to my apartment to do some research on Albeck, but as so often happens, a different idea popped into my head, and I went off in that direction.
The office of Bernard Wilkins, D.D.S., was located in Dripping Springs, in a small building across Mercer Street from The Barber Shop. (The Barber Shop wasn’t a barber shop, but was actually a small brew pub. Made me wonder if anyone was tempted to open an actual barber shop and call it The Brew Pub.)
The dentist’s office had last been updated in the late fifties, if one were to judge by, well, everything in it. The dark walnut paneling in the waiting room was something you’d have seen in Ward Cleaver’s study. The Danish furniture was so out of date that it was now back in style. Who needs Wi-Fi and flat-screen televisions when you can have Reader’s Digest and Highlights magazine? What were Goofus and Gallant up to now? There was even a dusty book of illustrated Bible stories, because what better time to ponder the mysteries of man’s creation than when you were about to get all jacked up on nitrous oxide? On the plus side, the office smelled minty fresh.
There was only one patient in the waiting room—an elderly man who appeared to be dozing—but that was one more than I’d been hoping to see. When the woman behind the halfway-opened frosted partition asked if she could help me, I said, “I was wondering if Dr. Wilkins could see me today. I hear he’s giving out those miniature floss dispensers, and who can resist a sweet deal like that?”
The woman smiled. She was maybe 55, with short salt-and-pepper hair and striking green eyes. “They are handy, aren’t they? I keep one in my purse and one in my car. Never know when you might need some floss.”
“Couldn’t agree more. I spend an inordinate amount of time flossing. In fact, I listed flossing as a hobby on my resume.”
That really seemed to tickle her. “Well, now you’re just being silly. Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve never been here before. Truth is, despite all my flossing, I have this toothache that’s been driving me nuts. Any chance you could squeeze me in?”
As I spoke, I grimaced just a bit and lightly cupped my jaw with the palm of my left hand. See, I have a toothache. Where do I pick up my Academy Award?
The woman—Shelley Milligan, according to her nameplate—said, “It’ll be about thirty minutes. Is that okay?” A small sign next to Shelley’s partition informed me that they didn’t take credit cards and the office was closed on Mondays.
“Better than a kick in the shins,” I said.
Shelley grabbed a clipboard and passed it to me over the counter.
“Okay, I’ll need you to fill out a New Patient form,” she said. “Front and back, and please include a current phone number, mailing address, and insurance information if you want us to file a claim.” Very efficient, this Shelley. Like a well-oiled machine. She’d given that little speech a thousand times.
Just behind Shelley, against a wall, were five filing cabinets. Metal. Gray. Utilitarian. Four drawers each. Heidi was right—this place had thus far successfully avoided the digital revolution. Boz Gentry’s file had lived in those filing cabinets until it disappeared.
“Thank you, Shelley,” I said, and I could tell that she appreciated the fact that I’d called her by name.
She nodded, and I took a seat. The old man was still snoozing. I pretended to fill out the form, but actually I was just biding my time. Waiting. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long.
After less than seven minutes, I could hear the murmuring of a conversation—a male and a female, behind walls, but coming closer—and then the door to the rear portion of the office swung open and a middle-aged woman appeared. She was clutching a small paper bag that likely contained a miniature floss dispenser, a miniature tube of toothpaste, and a toothbrush. Freebies for every patient. She made some small talk with Shelley as she paid her bill and arranged her next appointment.
Then she walked out, and less than a minute later, Shelley stood up and left her counter, disappeared from view for a moment, then opened the same door and said, “Mr. Goodwin, come on back.”
The elderly man groaned softly as he hoisted himself out of his chair, and then he disappeared through the doorway. The door closed behind him with a loud click.
Now I was alone in the waiting room. As it turned out, I was alone for a solid twelve minutes, which told me there were only two employees who worked here—Shelley and Dr. Wilkins. Which meant Shelley wore many hats: receptionist, office manager, and dental hygienist, or at least dental assistant. This wasn’t one of those high-dollar operations that felt more like a day spa than a dental office. This was bare-bones.
I used the twelve minutes wisely. After Shelley and the old man disappeared, I got up and tried to open the door through which they had just passed. Nope. It wouldn’t open from this side. That meant the file cabinets were not easy pickings for anyone alone in the waiting room. That narrowed down the possibilities.
Next, I took a closer look at the lock on the door coming in from the parking lot. I am by no means an expert on locks, but I know which brands and models are fair, which are good, and which are excellent. This old office—maybe precisely because it was old, and things were built to last back then—had an excellent lock on the door. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of a break-in, and now I was fairly sure that the person who had stolen the file hadn’t picked the lock. That narrowed down the possibilities even further.
I turned and faced Shelley’s counter again. She’d left the frosted partition open. The window was about two feet wide. Would someone
have had the balls to climb over that counter, through that narrow space, and steal a file from the metal file cabinets? Could they have done it gracefully, without making a great deal of noise? Without being caught by Shelley? Without a patient arriving and wondering who that was behind the counter? Plus, the cabinets had locks. Not great locks, but the average Joe wouldn’t know how to open them. It just didn’t seem likely that someone had vaulted the counter, stolen the file, and left, without getting caught.
I sat back down and checked my email on my iPhone. Nothing important. None of Gentry’s friends had accepted my friend requests on Facebook. A friendly Nigerian man informed me that I had won a lottery, but that would have to wait.
Then I saw that I’d missed a call from Laura, my ex. There was a voicemail waiting. I was about to listen to it when Shelley came back, settled in behind the counter, and gave me another warm smile. “How’s that form coming along?”
“Honestly, I hate filling out forms. It’s like pulling teeth.”
She shook her head, but she couldn’t help grinning. “You are terrible.”
“The laughter helps me endure the pain.”
“You know what kind of award the dentist of the year gets?” Shelley asked.
“No idea,” I said.
“Just a little plaque,” she said, and I gave her an authentic laugh.
Now that we’d made a connection, I raised the clipboard and said, “Actually, Shelley, I have a question for you about this form.”
“Yes?”
I rose from the chair and approached the counter, and she looked so pleasant and eager to help. Just me and Shelley out here. Nobody would hear anything, but I kept my voice low and leaned in a bit.
“I have to be straight with you,” I said. “I don’t really have a toothache.”
Now Shelley was truly puzzled. It said so all over her face. But she wasn’t afraid or nervous—just confused—because she had no idea what was coming.
I said, “I’m the guy who paid you for Boz Gentry’s file.”
Shelley’s pretty eyes widened with surprise and her face went as white as the lab coat she was wearing.
10
I have to admit, it was uncomfortable to watch her react. Suddenly she wouldn’t make eye contact. She fumbled around on her desk, as if she were looking for something. This was not a woman who was used to deceiving people. Then she actually said, “Pardon me?” as if she hadn’t heard what I’d said.
I spoke even softer—now just a whisper. “Shelley, don’t freak out on me, okay? What I just said isn’t true. But judging from the way you reacted, I’d say it’s pretty obvious someone did pay you—”
She started to speak, but I held up my hands and kept talking, because I’ve found that once someone denies their guilt, it’s almost impossible to get them to admit otherwise. Maybe they don’t want to add being a liar on top of whatever else it is they’ve already done.
I said, “Look, I’m not a cop, okay? I’m not here to cause trouble for you. The insurance company hired me to prove Boz Gentry is still alive, because they aren’t convinced he’s dead. That’s it. I don’t care who did what, or why, or for how much money. I don’t care where the file went. But unless Dr. Wilkins himself did something with that file, there aren’t many other ways it could’ve disappeared. There wasn’t a break-in. I’d say someone contacted you discreetly and offered a nice chunk of money for it. Believe me, I can understand how tempting that would be. What’s one file, right?”
Shelley had gone from pale to bright red. Shame was settling in. She was not proud of what she’d done.
“It’s just me here, Shelley. Anything you tell me won’t go any further. Promise.”
I was lying. I’d tell Mia. Also, depending on what Shelley revealed—if she revealed anything at all—it might be the type of information I’d be morally bound to share with Ruelas. Speaking of Ruelas, it was obvious he hadn’t grilled Shelley, because if he had, he would’ve seen the guilt on her face. He would’ve pressured her, and she would’ve caved. If she found me intimidating, and I think she did, imagine how she’d feel about a homicide cop. It was a sloppy oversight on Ruelas’s part. Meanwhile, Shelley was just about to talk. I could tell. But she needed one more push.
“Just tell me how it went down,” I said, “and then you’ll never see me again. It’ll stay between you and me. Or you can stay quiet, but I’ll call the sheriff’s department and tell them you’re withholding information.”
She placed one hand across her lower forehead, looking down at the desktop, totally stressing out. I think she was starting to cry, which didn’t make me feel real great, to be honest.
I waited. I could hear the muffled murmurings of Dr. Wilkins talking to the patient in some other room.
I waited some more.
“It was so stupid,” she said.
I didn’t say a word. She sniffed. I could hear a drill. The elderly man was getting a filling.
“I needed the money,” she said. “Our thirtieth anniversary is coming up—me and Edgar—and we’ve been talking about a trip to Paris.”
“How much money?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
More than I would have guessed. But five grand wasn’t much if it helped Boz Gentry and his wife score three million dollars.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “most people would take the money. Including me.”
She looked up at me for just a second with a rueful smile, then lowered her head again.
“It started with a letter in the mail.”
First thing I did when I got back in the van was listen to the voicemail from Laura.
Hey, give me a call when you get a minute, please.
Short. To the point. I listened a second time.
My reaction? This was not good. Was it fair to draw such a conclusion based on a message that brief? Well, she had been my wife for six years, and I could still remember that particular tone. Trying to sound casual and agreeable, but in reality there was something she wanted to worry or complain about. I called her back.
“Hey,” she said, picking up after one ring.
“How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Everything’s fine.”
“Yeah? That’s good,” I said.
“But there’s something we need to talk about.”
Who would have guessed?
“What’s up?” I asked. “Is Hannah okay?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s nothing like that. It’s just...” She let out a big sigh. A delaying tactic. “It’s about her visit. I’ve been thinking about it some more, and I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.”
To my credit—even though I’d wondered if something like this might happen—I did not overreact. I simply said, “Okay, well, what is it that’s causing you to be concerned?”
“Just... I don’t know. The way she’s acting lately. I don’t think she wants to go.”
“Has she said that?” I asked. “Has she said she doesn’t want to go?”
“No, not directly. She’s just all moody. Like she’s pissed off, because the date is getting closer, and it’s making her unhappy. When I call her on it, she goes into the whole silent treatment thing, you know?”
“I’m sure that’s no fun to deal with,” I said, “but isn’t that typical teenage behavior?” Laura didn’t respond right away, so I said, “When we started talking about this visit—what was it, seven, eight months ago—I remember you saying it might straighten out her attitude a little bit. That you two were getting on each other’s nerves.”
More silence, but I was starting to fill in the gaps myself. Hannah didn’t have the problem. Laura did. I couldn’t blame her, though. The last time I’d spent time alone with our daughter—I mean serious time alone, just the two of us—I’d made the mistake of leaving her unattended at a dog park. I wasn’t any more than two minutes, but when I returned to the car, she’d vanished. That was nearly ten years ago. She was five years old at the time. We didn’t
know it, but Hannah had been abducted by a very sick man. We quickly learned that if she wasn’t found in the first few hours, she’d probably never be found—at least, not alive.
But our sweet Hannah had been found. Alive. Unharmed.
Unfortunately, our marriage hadn’t been able to withstand the aftermath of the ordeal. Laura blamed me for failing to watch our daughter closely enough, and I can’t fault her for that. Her anger festered into a lingering resentment and distrust that ultimately eroded our relationship. Bottom line: She asked for a divorce a year later, met a new guy, then moved with him to Canada when Hannah was eight years old. My daughter lives in a different country, more than two thousand miles away. She is nearly fifteen years old, and I haven’t seen her in person—Skype doesn’t count—for seven years.
I could feel myself starting to lose it. I wanted to lash out, but that would have been the worst thing to do.
“Please, Laura,” I said calmly. “I know this is a big step, and I know it’s not easy for you, but please don’t take this away from me. I promise you everything will be fine. I’ll take good care of her. Once she gets here, she’ll be glad she came, and so will you.”
Call waiting beeped. Ruelas was on the other line. Probably wanting to razz me about the free lunch. I ignored it.
I said, “You’ve never been apart from her for that long. It’s natural to get a little emotional about it.”
I stopped talking before I made it worse. We sat in silence for a solid minute.
Then Laura said, “Okay. Okay. I just need to get my head around this a little more. I’ll talk to you later.”
Before I could respond, she hung up. I wasn’t sure what she’d meant. Was the visit back on?
I checked my phone and saw that Ruelas hadn’t left a voicemail, but as I was looking at the screen, he called again.
I answered, saying, “I didn’t appreciate that little stunt at lunch, asshole.”
