by Jason Starr
“Deborah.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Mark.”
“Berman, right?”
“Right.”
Mark Berman, why did that name sound familiar? Wait, didn’t Stu play golf with a Mark Berman? Larry was pretty sure he did.
“And can I have your address, please?”
The girl gave him her address, on Savage Lane in South Salem. Larry knew exactly where it was and it was sort of on his way home.
“I’ll tell you what,” Larry said. “I’ll stop by in about an hour to check in on you and look into the situation. In the meantime, you let me know if your mom comes home, okay?”
“Okay.” The girl was crying again. “But something happened to her. I’m telling you something happened.”
LARRY DIDN’T get a call from the girl so after he put in another hour or so doing paperwork he swung by the house off Lake Shore Drive. He parked in the driveway at the end of the cul-de- sac on Savage Lane, then went around to the front and rang the bell. Inside a dog was barking.
A stocky, middle-aged dark-haired man opened the door. Larry watched the man’s expression morph from anger to surprise. He’d obviously been expecting someone else.
“Mark Berman?”
“Yeah.” He was squinting, confused.
While Larry still didn’t know whether this Mark Berman was the Mark Berman who played golf with Stu, he seemed to be about the right age—mid-forties—and seemed like the suburban golf-playing type. But what straight guy out here didn’t?
Larry showed his badge, said, “Larry Walsh, Bedford Hills Police.”
Now Mark’s surprise became concern.
“Is your wife home?” Larry asked.
“No,” Mark said. “Actually I thought it was her when I heard the car in the drive. Is everything okay?”
“I don’t know,” Larry said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I called him, Dad.”
A teenage girl, hair back in a ponytail, had appeared from behind Mark.
“For Chrissake, Riley,” Mark said.
“I’m scared, and you weren’t doing anything,” Riley said.
“This is ridiculous,” Mark said to Larry. “There’s no reason for you to be here.”
“So you’ve located your wife,” Larry said.
“No, but she doesn’t need locating,” Mark said. “She’s probably in the city with a friend.”
“She wouldn’t go to the city overnight without telling us,” Riley said.
Now a boy, holding a gaming remote, came down, asking, “Is Mommy home yet?”
“Kids, I want you to go upstairs right now,” Mark said.
“But I’m the one who called him,” Riley said.
“It’s okay,” Larry said to Riley. “Why don’t you go upstairs? I want to talk to your father alone for a few minutes, okay?”
Riley muttered, “Okay,” and went up with the boy. Larry heard the boy asking, “Where’s Mommy?” and Riley telling him, “We don’t know yet,” and the boy saying, “I miss her.”
When the kids seemed out of earshot, Mark said, “I’m really sorry about this. I had no idea she was calling you.”
“It’s okay, I was passing through anyway and just wanted to check the situation out.”
“The situation is she’s probably with a friend, and she’ll be home any minute.” Mark sounded annoyed.
“Is that what she told you? That she was meeting a friend?”
“No, she didn’t really tell me anything.”
“Have you tried calling her friends?”
“I didn’t want to make a big deal about this for no reason. You know, get people all worked up.”
“Have you tried to call her yourself?”
“I did before you got here, yes.”
“And?”
“It went right to voicemail.”
“Does she usually have her phone off?”
“No, not usually, but sometimes it dies.”
“Can you try to call her again right now?”
“I don’t see why—” Then he let out a breath and said, “Okay, okay.”
Larry followed Mark into the kitchen. Mark picked up a landline phone, tapped in the number, then ended the call and said, “Voicemail again.”
“So when exactly was the last time you saw her?” Larry asked.
“I don’t know,” Mark said, running a hand through his thinning hair. “I guess yesterday at like seven, seven-thirty.”
“That’s significant,” Larry said. “It’s getting to the point when we’ll probably have to start getting concerned.”
“Concerned about what?”
“Let’s not worry about that right now. Let’s just try to locate your wife.”
“Shit,” Mark said.
Now Larry thought Mark seemed genuinely worried.
Larry took out a pen and a small pad from the pocket of his Windbreaker, flipped to a fresh page. After jotting, 7, 7:30? in the pad he asked, “And she gave you no indication where she was going?”
“No,” Mark said.
“Is that unusual?”
“I didn’t think so at the time,” Mark said. “I figured she was just going out for a while.”
“Were you concerned when she didn’t come home last night?”
“A little but, like I said, I figured she was with a friend.”
“Who’s this friend?”
“I don’t know. I heard a car pull up.”
“So she didn’t drive her own car?”
“No, her car’s in the lot of the Oak Ridge Country Club where we have a membership.”
Stu’s club.
Writing in his pad, Larry asked, “Did you get a look at the car she got in?”
“No, I just heard it.”
“And what was she wearing?”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Another deep breath then Mark said, “I didn’t notice.”
“Did she look like she was going someplace special?”
“I really have no idea.”
It seemed odd to Larry that he didn’t notice how his wife was dressed; Larry could name every outfit he’d seen Stu wear for the past two months.
“And behaviorally,” Larry said, “did you notice anything unusual yesterday?”
“What do you mean?” Mark asked.
Larry thought Mark suddenly seemed nervous, uncomfortable.
“I mean was there anything off about her, anything that seemed out of the ordinary, or did anything happen that may have gotten her upset, made her want to leave for some reason?”
Larry was trying to hint about Mark and Deborah’s possible divorce situation.
“No,” Mark said. “Not really.”
Larry noticed Mark’s right hand was clenched into a fist.
“Do you know where she was earlier in the day yesterday?” Larry asked.
“Nowhere special,” Mark said. “Just around.”
“Did she leave the house?”
“She picked up the kids, ran errands, went to the country club. Shit like that.”
“And is everything…” Larry wanted to be sensitive here. “…okay in your marriage?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mark sounded defensive.
“I mean are you and your wife… divorcing?” Larry asked.
“What? Where did you get that idea?”
“From me.” Riley Berman had entered the kitchen.
Mark’s face was pink. “You told him that? Why? Where did you even get that idea?”
“Oh come on, it was so obvious,” she said. “She wasn’t talking to you yesterday, and I saw her iPad. She was looking up divorce lawyers. I saw Scott Greenberg’s page on there.”
“Okay, that’s enough, Riley,” Mark said. “Go upstairs.”
“Well, she was. You can’t lie.”
“I said that’s enough.”
&nbs
p; Riley left the room slowly, shaking her head.
“Look, this is getting out of control,” Mark said to Larry. “I don’t know why Riley told you that. Teenagers, they get these ideas in their heads, you know?”
“So you aren’t getting divorced.”
“No, I… Look, I don’t know what was going on, okay? Did we have a fight yesterday? Yes, we had a fight. Was it any more unusual than any other fight we’ve ever had? No, not really. And she was always threatening me with divorce. That’s just what she did when she got mad. So, no, we were not planning to get divorced, that is absolutely untrue.”
“I understand,” Larry said.
“And you know,” Mark said, seeming more agitated, “I’m getting pissed off at you for coming here even asking me these questions. I mean, I get why you’re here and, honestly, I’m getting very concerned myself right now, but that doesn’t give you the right to pry into my personal life. What was going on with me and Deb has absolutely nothing to do with any of this except she might have gone out with a friend and stayed overnight to prove a point, to try to get my attention or something. I’ll call around now, check with all her friends, and I’m sure I’ll track her down. When I do I’ll call you and you’ll be the first to know. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds good to me,” Larry said, putting his pad away and taking a business card out of his wallet and placing it on the breakfast bar. “I’m sorry for any stress I caused you, and I hope your wife turns up shortly.”
On his way out, Larry saw the kids, scampering upstairs, so they’d probably listened in on the whole conversation.
From outside, Larry heard the dog barking again. He felt bad for the family and hoped Deborah Berman came home soon, but driving back along Savage Lane he was much more concerned about this situation than he’d been a half hour ago. He had nothing solid to go on—it was just instinct—but he had a feeling that Mark Berman was hiding something, and Larry could spot a man with a secret better than just about anyone.
AT WORK on Sunday afternoon Owen was in a great mood. Walking through the club he smiled and said ‘hi’ to everybody he passed which was unusual for him because he usually kept to himself and didn’t give a fuck about people. But today was different; today he wanted to spread the love.
As he worked, pruning the shrubbery near the clubhouse and along the back nine, and then watering the greens and setting up sprinklers in the rough, he was still thinking about Karen. He didn’t think about Deb at all until later. During a break, he went to the storage shed and, after making sure nobody was around to see, hosed down the wheelbarrow the best he could, just in case there was some kind of evidence from last night, even though he didn’t think there was any or that anybody would have a reason to check.
The rest of the day, Owen went about his business. Every now and then he heard the giggling, but now that he knew it wasn’t Deb, it didn’t bother him as much. It was actually, like, comforting, like he had an angel following him wherever he went. The angel wasn’t mocking him; it was letting him know that, It’s okay, I’m here, and nothing can hurt you when I’m here.
When Owen’s workday ended, at eight p.m., he left the country club, imagining what was going on at the Berman’s. Mark had probably called the cops by now and maybe Deb was officially missing. They’d find her car in the high school lot, but so what? The cops would look around for months, maybe years for her, but it didn’t matter because they’d never find her.
Owen drove with the front windows open, loving the rush of cool air against his face.
Several minutes later, as he approached his house, Owen’s great mood turned to shit. What was up with all the boxes and garbage bags in front of the house? He parked on the street, ran around the car toward the lawn, and saw that it was stuff from his room in boxes and his clothes in the bag. He picked up one of the bags and flung it toward the house, shouting, “Fuck you! Fuck you, you son of a bitch!”
Then he tried to open the front door but his key didn’t fit and then he noticed that the lock had been replaced. Owen marched around the house, telling himself that he didn’t care that Raymond was bigger and stronger—he was going to do whatever he had to do to get him out of his life, once and for all. If his mother wouldn’t leave him, Owen would have to do it himself.
He rang the bell a bunch of times and banged on the door. The door didn’t open, and Owen didn’t hear any movement in the house, but Raymond’s car was in the driveway and when he backed away from the house he saw the light was on in the master bedroom. He was probably up there with his mom, both of them ignoring the ringing and banging. He hated his mother so much; he didn’t understand why she was doing this to him. He couldn’t let this happen; he had to do something. The light wasn’t on in Kyle’s room, so maybe Kyle wasn’t home; maybe he was away on a play date or sleepover or something.
Owen went to the trunk of his car, took out the heaviest object there—the carjack. Then he stormed back toward the house, ready to smash one of the living room windows. He imagined himself climbing in, going upstairs, finding Raymond and…
He stopped himself, with carjack cocked behind his back like an axe. He was telling himself, You gotta be smart, bro. You gotta be chill. He remembered everything else that was going on in his life, the big picture, and knew that getting into a fight now with Raymond and then maybe some neighbor calling the cops wasn’t the smartest idea in the world. It definitely wouldn’t make his life any better anyway.
So he put the carjack back in the trunk and then filled up the car with the rest of his stuff, making a bunch of trips back and forth to the car. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this. He knew Raymond hated him — that was different, Raymond was just a prick—but what about his mother? How could his mother do this to him? His mother was his mother; wasn’t a mother supposed to love her kid no matter what? Yeah, Owen knew he’d given her a hard time over the years, but he was still her kid. Wasn’t that supposed to mean something?
As he drove away, he looked toward the house and saw his mother, watching from one of her bedroom windows. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he knew she wasn’t crying or even sad. He glared at her, wanting her to see him, but she moved to the side, out of view, and, just like that, was gone, out of his life, probably forever.
HE WENT to a motel off the Saw Mill River Parkway, not too far away, where his family—and Raymond—had stayed for a few days once after a Nor’easter had taken out the power at their house. There were vacancies and no problem for Owen getting a room for as long as he wanted, but it wasn’t cheap—ninety-five dollars a night plus tax. He had a bankcard, with about two thousand bucks in savings, and his paychecks from the country club, but that wouldn’t be enough to last very long at a motel, or anywhere. He’d planned to take it slow with Karen, try to woo her a little first before he made his big move, but he’d have to move faster now. If he didn’t hook up with her soon and move into her house he’d be in trouble in the fall when his job ended—he was a seasonal employee—and his savings ran out. He didn’t have any friends, and his relatives were all in Arizona and California. He wasn’t close with them and, besides, they probably wouldn’t want to put him up anyway after Raymond and his mother finished badmouthing him.
As he pulled a couple of changes of clothes out of the Hefty bags in the car and went up to his room, he was scared about the future, and he hated being scared, being weak. He wanted to hear the giggling now, to know he wasn’t actually alone, but there was just silence.
“Come on,” he said. “Now, when I need you, you disappear on me?”
Still nothing. Angry and hurt, he wanted to break something so he did—grabbing a lamp, yanking the cord out of the wall, then tossing it against the wall. The bulb shattered.
It figured that she’d take off when he needed her, that she’d change, because that’s what she did the last time. But he didn’t need her, or Deb, or anyone else because he had a new woman in his life now—Karen Daily. Karen was here, she was alive, s
he was real, and soon she’d be his.
It was only a matter of time.
WHEN LARRY got word early Monday morning, via state troopers, that Deborah Berman’s Pathfinder had been discovered in the parking lot of John Jay High School in Cross River he knew this case wouldn’t have a happy ending. He also knew that it wouldn’t be his case for long.
Sure enough, at around ten a.m., after he’d been in the office for about an hour, he got a call from Nick Piretti, a squat, graying homicide detective from the Westchester County Police in Bronxville whom Larry had met before. Nick said he and his department would be taking over the investigation, and he was on his way over to be briefed. In the past it would have bothered Larry when a detective from County took over one of his cases, but over the past few years—well, the past year especially—he’d lost most of the ego and ambition about his job. His career used to be everything. He used to dream of scoring a promotion to detective at County and had even thought about relocating to the city, to pursue opportunities with the NYPD. But now Larry had lost his career ambition because he’d found something that was more important to him. His new dream was of riding out eight more years in Bedford Hills, getting an early retirement package, and then living happily ever after with Stu. The fact that he’d sacrificed his career ambition, and a major part of himself, for a fantasy that might never come to fruition was fucked up, but it was what it was.
Later, at Larry’s office at the Bedford Hills precinct, Larry filled Nick in about the discovery of Deborah’s car and the search for her.
“Her husband said she’d left her car at the Oak Ridge Country Club,” Larry said. “He said a friend picked her up at the house.”
“Well the friend may have driven her to the club to get her car,” Nick said.
“To drive to a high school parking lot?” Larry asked.
“I heard it’s a popular hookup spot.”
“Yeah, for teenagers, not forty-four-year-old married women.”
“Well, if she doesn’t turn up soon, we’ll need to expand the search beyond Westchester,” Nick said. “Connecticut, New Jersey, New York City, and Long Island for starters.”
