No Show

by Simon Wood

  “What did she call for, then?” Oscar asked.

  “Just to let me know she was okay.” Terry went into the bedroom to put on a dry T-shirt.

  “She should have thought of that a few weeks ago. What else did she say?”

  “She said she was lying low because of the five murders.”

  “So we were right.”

  Terry nodded. “I asked her why the killer blamed her.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “Not much, but she didn’t tell me I was talking crazy.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  Terry exhaled and shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “You should call Holman. He’ll be able to find her.”

  “Will he want to?”

  “At least it’ll get him off your back. He’ll stop thinking you have something to do with her disappearance.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like I can tell him anything.”

  “There are phone records he can check to prove someone called.”

  Terry shook his head. He couldn’t call Holman. That made him a snitch. Sarah wanted her anonymity. And yet he knew Oscar was right. This was his first big test of their marriage, and he was about to fail it. If Holman took him seriously, maybe he could succeed where Terry had failed so far. What did it matter if she didn’t get her story as long as she was safe and well? He found the cordless phone and dialed.

  “Sheriff Holman, please.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The following morning, Pamela Dawson took Terry by surprise when she touched him on the shoulder. He was totally engrossed in his work.

  “Could I have a word?” she asked, smiling.

  The saccharine tone again. That wasn’t a good sign. “Sure,” Terry said.

  “Come with me.”

  She led him to a small conference room and held the door open for him. Frosty was there, sitting at one end of the conference table, a ring binder in front of him. He attempted a smile. It was a decent effort, but he didn’t quite pull it off. Pamela closed and locked the door.

  Terry stared at her hand on the lock, then at her.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed. Have a seat.”

  Terry sat down on the opposite side of the table from Frosty. Pamela bridged the gap by sitting at the head of the table. She smiled. She did better than Frosty, but only marginally. Terry didn’t like where this meeting was going.

  “Terry,” Pamela began in a frank business tone. “I would like to talk about you, us”—she indicated to herself and Frosty—“and Genavax.”

  “My six-month review isn’t for some time.” It was an obtuse thing to say, but he wanted to play dumb.

  “That’s right,” Pamela agreed. “But we want to skip past that, if you’re agreeable?”

  Terry shrugged.

  “We see big things for you, Terry,” Frosty said, giving him the chance to dispense with the smile.

  “Good,” Terry managed without the enthusiasm the compliment deserved.

  “That’s right, Terry,” Pamela said. “We see you as an integral part of the Genavax operation.” She interlaced her fingers, palms up.

  The hand gesture reminded Terry of the “here’s the church, here’s the steeple” nursery rhyme he’d been taught during his first year of school. He’d always found the little party trick fun when he was a kid, but Pamela spoiled his childhood memories.

  “Genavax likes to look after its more important employees,” Frosty said.

  “Is that right?” Terry asked.

  “That’s why we would like to promote you to senior scientist,” Pamela announced proudly.

  “Here are the terms and conditions.” Frosty pushed the binder over to Terry.

  Terry eyed his gift with suspicion. His name and proposed job title straddled a large Genavax logo on the cover. For a standard job contract the binder was overkill, but unlike a normal employer’s contract, this one was over half an inch thick.

  He flipped it open. After a pretty cover page was his new job title, enhanced salary, job description, and bonus scheme. His proposed job required him to do no more than he was doing now. In fact, it required less. It seemed most of his job would be done for him by other people. Ignoring the generous bonus, he was looking at an extra twenty thousand dollars a year. After a brief terms and conditions section came the meat of the contract—a privacy and confidentiality clause. It was twenty pages long. Even scanning the pages briefly, he could tell it wasn’t actually a privacy and confidentiality clause. It was a secrecy clause, forbidding him from divulging any of Genavax’s operations and promising the full force of the law if he did. They were buying his silence. He closed the binder.

  “What is this all about?” he asked.

  “It’s a reward,” Pamela said. “A show of appreciation for your hard work, if you will.” She tapped the neatly packaged thirty pieces of silver. “It’s a very good offer.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What is there to get?” Frosty said. “Just take the offer.”

  “I’ve been here less than a month.”

  “So?” Pamela said.

  “Don’t you think the rest of the lab is going to think it’s odd?”

  “And that bothers you?” Frosty asked.

  “It does a bit.” Terry turned to Pamela. “A week ago, you threatened to sack me.”

  “And that would have been a mistake.” She tried to smile the accusation away.

  Terry had to be careful here. Pamela was pushing him into a corner. He knew Genavax was dirty and that Pamela and Frosty were just as tainted, but he didn’t have all the answers he required to take action. He needed to buy himself time.

  “Well, first off, thank you for this show of faith. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome,” Pamela said.

  “Is it okay if I go through this and get back to you?”

  “Why?” Frosty asked.

  “Ideally, I’d discuss this with my wife first. As you both know, she’s still missing; and I’ll be honest, finding her is my first priority.”

  It was a nice bit of verbal gymnastics on Terry’s part that silenced both Pamela and Frosty. It put them to a decision—push and risk forcing Terry’s hand or back down. Terry didn’t think they’d go for the former.

  “You might as well sign now,” Frosty said, “and get it out of the way so you can focus on your wife. Sarah, right?”

  Terry was impressed with Frosty’s subtle piece of arm twisting, but the suggestion drew a disparaging look from Pamela.

  No overstepping your mark, Frosty, Terry thought. “I’d like to hold off, if I can.”

  “Of course you can,” Pamela said. “Totally understandable.”

  Terry smiled, grabbed the offer, and stood. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  “Just one thing,” Pamela said. “There is a time limit on this offer. We need your signature soon. You understand, don’t you?”

  Terry did. He guessed he’d reached the point of no return.

  Arriving home, Terry found the answering machine loaded with messages. He hit PLAY.

  “Terry, Tom Degrasse.” His tone was clipped and businesslike. “I don’t know anything. Can’t help. Sorry.”

  That was succinct to the point of nonexistence, Terry thought.

  Beep!

  “Mr. Sheffield, this is Sheriff Holman.” His tone was as clipped as Degrasse’s. “Just wanted to let you know I’m working with Pacific Bell to assist with tracing the call you received last night from Sarah. If you could let me know if she makes contact with you again, it would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.”

  Beep!

  “Terry, it’s Jake,” the sheriff’s son announced. “Just seeing when you’re free, pal. Call me.”

  “You are far too needy, my friend,” Terry said to Jake’s overly chirpy voice.

  Beep!

  “This is Javier Rivera, Terry. Abuelita Perez doesn’t remember Myda mentioning Genavax. Sorry.”
>
  It was all dead ends, but not a surprise. He was getting used to it. Not that their information mattered much. Sarah wasn’t missing anymore. But was that true? She was alive and well, but she wasn’t home. He replayed the messages, deleting them one by one.

  Terry’s finger hovered over the erase button when Tom Degrasse’s message played again. He didn’t erase the message and pressed the skip button instead. Beasley had suggested Degrasse and Sarah were close, so why was Degrasse’s message such a big brush-off? The phone rang.

  “Oh good, you’re there. It’s Marcus.”

  “Hi, Marcus.”

  “I thought I’d give you some news from the trenches. I’ve been putting some feelers out about Sarah’s past triumphs. So far no one seems to remember anything of great importance. But that’s not surprising. Laskey, the executive editor at the Chronicle, is a hack, and he wouldn’t know a story if it shook hands with him. Did you know that when Watergate broke, he said it wasn’t newsworthy? The Examiner people weren’t much better, but I’ve pissed off a few of the editors in my time. Scooped their scoops and that sort of thing. I’m waiting for some of the TV people to get back. Tomorrow, I’ll probably move the search out farther afield to Southern Cal and such. I know she knows some of the LA Times boys and girls. La-la land—why she went down there, I’ll never know.” Beasley paused. “I seem to be going on, don’t I?”

  “Just a bit, Marcus,” Terry agreed.

  “Rest assured, my friend, I will keep digging.”

  “There’s not much need,” Terry said, preempting a further wandering exchange.

  “Why?”

  “Sarah called.”

  “Is she there? Can I speak to her?”

  “No, she’s not here. She wants to remain in hiding.”

  “When’s she calling back?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Beasley sighed, going silent for a moment. “Did she say what this is all about?”

  “No, we didn’t get that far.”

  “Damn.”

  “The other night you said Sarah and Tom Degrasse were close.”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “He left a pissy message saying he didn’t know anything. And when I met him he didn’t have much in the way of compliments for Sarah.” Terry went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of juice. “Does that sound odd to you?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Terry. I know they were colleagues once.”

  “He never mentioned that.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason why.”

  Beasley’s remark implied an office tiff, but Terry wondered if it was more—a grudge maybe.

  “Marcus, do you know where I could find Tom at this time of night?”

  “At his restaurant.”

  “His restaurant?”

  “He bought into some fancy California cuisine place near Union Square. He always finishes his day there. He likes to use his fame to put butts on seats.”

  “Do you know what it’s called?”

  “I’m trying to remember. What did he call the damn place? It was something meaningless. Oh, I remember. It’s called Rendezvous. It’s on the corner of Bush and Powell.”

  “Sounds like a place a hungry man would go. Thanks, Marcus.”

  Terry hung up and grabbed his car keys. Reversing out of the garage, he thought better of his actions. He left the Monte running, half in the garage and half on the driveway, and raced back into the house. He stuffed all his notes on Sarah’s women and the photocopied Genavax records into an envelope. His home had already been broken into, and evidence had been both stolen and planted. This time, he wasn’t taking any chances. He needed a different hiding place.

  When Terry pulled into the Gold Rush’s parking lot, Oscar was closing for the night. A couple of the teenagers working for him were ushering kids out the door and shutting off the machines. Oscar was on the golf courses emptying the trashcans into a larger can on a cart. He saw Terry and smiled.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  “Oscar, I need a favor.” Terry held out the envelope. “Will you put this somewhere safe?”

  “Of course.” Oscar took the envelope and peered inside. “What is it?”

  “It’s everything we’ve dug up on the women on Sarah’s list and the human testing stuff from Genavax.”

  “Why do you want me to hold on to it?”

  “The stakes are being raised. Genavax knows I made copies. They tried to buy me off today.”

  “You shouldn’t be giving me this. You should give it to Holman.”

  “I want to give it to Sarah.”

  “Has she called again?”

  “No.”

  “I’m in no position to tell you about marital affairs, but…”

  “Then don’t.”

  Oscar frowned and shook his head. Terry knew what his friend was going to say. He was wasting his time on a woman who didn’t have the courtesy to come out from the shadows when he was being accused of murder. He knew, because he’d thought the same thing. He might be a fool, but he still loved Sarah.

  “Just let me do what I have to.”

  “Buddy, you’re setting yourself up again.”

  “If you don’t want to help, I understand.”

  “It’s not that, pal. I’m just not sure how many more times I’ll be able to help you.”

  “I can’t do this any other way.”

  Oscar nodded. “I know. I’ll look after this.”

  “Thanks.” Terry smiled and backed away.

  “I’ll be finished up here soon,” Oscar called after Terry. “Stay, we’ll catch some dinner.”

  “I can’t, I already have a dinner date.”

  Terry found Rendezvous more easily than he expected, but parking was another matter. He had to leave the Monte three blocks away.

  From the outside, Rendezvous was understated. Its corner location was good for picking up passing trade. The blue neon sign was bright but tasteful, and the brick facade and wrought-iron finishing made the establishment stand out against the surrounding concrete and stucco. A doorman who looked more like a bouncer held the door open for Terry as he stepped inside.

  The décor was style conscious. There was a preciseness to everything from the tables to the place settings. The place would have possessed a clinical feel, if it weren’t for the warm color palate used to soften the edges. A tall and attractive hostess greeted him with a smile.

  “Welcome to Rendezvous.”

  Terry smiled back. “Thanks. Is Tom Degrasse here?”

  Her smile faltered. “No.”

  “I know he likes to keep a watchful eye over his pride and joy.” Terry maintained his smile to make up for her shortfall. “When do you expect him?”

  The hostess’s gaze flitted from Terry to the doorman. “Is he expecting you?”

  Terry understood her apprehension. He guessed it wasn’t the first time she had a rabid fan clamoring for an audience with the great reporter. And he doubted any amount of explaining would help.

  “He’s a friend of the family. He and my wife work together.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Afraid not.”

  She replied with a pained smile. “We’re fully booked.”

  Terry cocked his head to one side to see a half-empty restaurant. “Too bad.”

  “We are very popular.”

  “Do you serve meals at the bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll eat at the bar, then.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated for the briefest moment before picking up a menu and escorting him to the bar. “He doesn’t always come in,” the hostess said, handing Terry a menu.

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  The hostess told him to enjoy his meal and returned to the reception area.

  “What can I get you?” the barman asked.

  “Just a lemonade.”

  “Designated driver?”

  “
Something like that.”

  “A lemonade for the designated driver coming right up,” he said and tapped a hand on the polished bar.

  Terry turned his gaze back to the hostess. She’d deserted her post and was talking to the doorman outside. The barman placed the lemonade in front of Terry. The hostess and the doorman glanced over at him. Terry raised his drink to them.

  The barman said something.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you waiting for a table?”

  “No, I’ll be eating here at the bar.”

  “Then I’ll be your waitress this evening,” he said.

  Terry scanned the menu for something appetizing. It boasted fancy fonts and even fancier descriptions, all of it enticing.

  “I’d like a Caesar salad and the ahi, but can I substitute garlic mashed potatoes for the rice?”

  “You got it,” the barman said, taking the menu. He handed Terry’s order to a passing waiter.

  Terry’s salad came and it was still a game of furtive glances between the hostess, the doorman, and him, but no one was making a play to remove him. Maybe they were waiting to see if he would get bored. He wouldn’t.

  “You waiting for someone?” the barman asked, making a cocktail.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve had your eyes glued to the front door since you sat down.”

  “I’m waiting for your celebrity owner.”

  “Tom Degrasse?” The barman placed the cocktail on the bar for the waitstaff to pick up, then he threw together another concoction. “He came in about fifteen minutes before you arrived.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “Oh, yeah. He won’t be gone until we close.”

  Terry smiled at the hostess’s deception. She did her job well. No one could blame her for that.

  “Could you get him for me?”

  The barman shrugged. “I can try.”

  A breath of night air blew across Terry. The doorman headed toward him. The hostess looked worried for someone. Terry wondered for whom.

  “Hold that thought, friend,” Terry said. “I think Tom knows I’m here.”

  Terry smiled at the doorman. He leaned in close to Terry’s ear, placing a thick hand on the bar.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said calmly and quietly. “I believe you’re waiting for Mr. Degrasse?”