by Lee Winter
“Okay, but someone broke into his place?”
“Take that up with Detective Rankin from LAPD’s Adult Missing Persons Unit,” Kaye said curtly. “Or talk to his wife, Della. Okay? Leave me out of it.”
Lauren caught voices in the background, and the sharp authoritative whip of a masculine voice.
“If that’s all?” Kaye said. “I have work, and my boss has arrived.”
Before she could reply, the phone went dead.
“Now it’s two down.” Lauren said, pocketing her cell.
Ayers’s eyebrows rose.
“First Fels, now Sands,” Lauren continued. “Gone. He’s left behind a burgled apartment and a wife named Della.”
“What is going on?” Ayers murmured.
“Beats me,” Lauren said. “But I’m guessing he didn’t suddenly up and leave for a change of scenery.”
“I suppose we should consider all possibilities.” Ayers reached for her notepad. “This could be unrelated to the bus driver running. And it may be unrelated to the SmartPay party fiasco, too. For all we know he had debts and someone after him.”
“Not this guy. No tawdry dirty messes for him, no way. Sands is far too anal for that.”
“I see.” Ayers found her cell phone and tapped away at it. “Okay,” she said after a few minutes.
Lauren watched her and chewed her toast. Ayers continued, “There’s only one ‘Sands’ in the WhitePages in Carson City under J and D. I think we should pay the wife a visit.”
Della Sands peered at the reporters’ press passes through her screen door with blood-shot eyes. Ayers held them up after Mrs. Sands demanded proof they were who they claimed.
She was a tall blonde wearing a threadbare Nevada craft beer T-shirt and old jeans. Her shoulder-length hair was held together in a rough ponytail.
“What’s this about?” she asked suspiciously.
“Your husband,” Lauren said.
“What about him? What do you know?”
Her eagerness battered Lauren with guilt. “Sorry, Mrs. Sands,” she said. “All we know is that he’s missing.”
Della’s shoulders slumped. “That’s it? You’re as bad as the police.”
“They’re not being helpful?”
“You could say that,” she said darkly. “Do you know they wanted to know if he had a mistress! It was practically their first question. I swear they don’t listen.”
“We could listen. We’re here for the truth. Whatever it is,” Lauren said earnestly.
Della sized the women up. She sighed and reached for the screen door handle. “Well, you at least have an honest face,” she told Lauren. Her eyes shifted to Ayers. “You look like one of those one percenters.”
Oh shit. Lauren stifled a nervous giggle. Not very well.
“I see you agree,” Della observed.
Ayers narrowed her eyes at Lauren who gazed back helplessly. Oh come on. It was funny. She felt guilty for the second time in as many minutes.
“Well…you’d better come in.” Della opened the door. “Excuse the mess. I have a four-year-old, and I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”
It was a comfortable suburban home, dotted with pictures of a little girl, and a few framed black-and-white photographs of a man in an Army uniform. Ayers examined one photo in a set of three on the way past.
“Our daughter Fiona,” Della said over her shoulder. Her gaze fell to the image Ayers was inspecting. “And Jon’s father. He fought in Vietnam. This way. It’s just through here.”
Della pointed to a wide, brown-striped sofa, and Ayers sat on one end, Lauren at the other. Something dug into her hip, and she winced. She pulled out a nude plastic Barbie doll with matted blonde hair. She smiled as she placed it carefully on a coffee table loaded up with neat piles of magazines.
She glanced up to find herself at eye level with a bookcase on the facing wall. Everything from computer technical magazines and reference manuals to racy novels stared back at her. All arranged—not by size or type or author, but by color.
Reds to the left. Purples to the right.
She stared. She’d seen a similar color scheme in Sands’s office. Although, she noted absently, there was nothing black, nothing white.
Della followed her curious gaze. “Blacks and whites are not on the light spectrum.” She smiled at some fond memory. “As I am often reminded by my stickler of a husband.”
Lauren gazed at the literal rainbow of spines, unsettled.
“Tell us about Jonathan.” She switched her focus to Della. “What happened?”
“I have no idea,” she said and dug her fingers into the foam armrest of her chair. “Early last week, he Skyped our daughter for their daily catch-up. He talked with me at the end of the call. He told me that his job in California would be wrapping up really soon—in a month or so. He added he loved us, like he always did, and that was it. I never heard from him again.”
“What day was that?”
“Last Tuesday. About noon. He missed his Skype call on Wednesday and didn’t answer my calls. I called his LA office, and they hadn’t seen him. Then I called Barry here, and he said he’d spoken to him on Tuesday night but not since.”
“Barry?”
“Barry Whiteman. His best friend. He works in accounting for the state.”
“They work together?”
“Different departments, but yes.”
“Did Barry say whether Jon was acting out of character when they last spoke?”
“Barry didn’t say much of anything. He’s almost as upset as I am.”
“Would he mind if we called him for background information?” Lauren asked. “Can we get his number?”
Della shook her head firmly. “One thing he and Jon share is a dislike of the media. He wouldn’t want me to give out his number to you.”
“That’s okay,” Lauren reassured her. There were other ways. “So when did you call the police?”
“Wednesday night. They said they were busy, and he hadn’t been gone long and to wait and see if he came back on his own. I called back the next day and kept on calling until they started investigating.
“Then they wanted to know if we’d been having marital difficulties. Was Jon a ladies man?” She glared. “What a joke! Jon would never stray. He’s a devoted family man.
“When they went to his apartment, they found the lock had been broken. All his things had been gone through, but some cash in the bedroom was untouched.”
“The police must have taken the case more seriously after that?” Ayers said, speaking for the first time. “Men running off with mistresses don’t usually tip their apartments upside down first.”
Della’s jaw tightened. “Oh sure. Detective Rankin went from asking me about his secret girlfriends to what business Jon was really into. Drugs, gambling…”
“Well, is it possible that he—” Ayers began.
“No!” Della slapped the armrest hard. “Not drugs, not gambling, not crime of any kind. And even if you don’t believe me, look around you! He liked everything organized…” She gestured at the book shelf.
“How did you two meet?” Lauren asked curiously, wondering how a woman like this, who’d look at home pulling beers at a sports bar, wound up with the uptight Sands.
Della’s eyes warmed. “He was in Las Vegas for a Business in Technology convention. I was working as a waitress for the caterer. He was almost the only guy who talked to me—my eyes, not my boobs or my ass.”
She laughed. “He didn’t care that I didn’t know one thing about technology stuff. All he cared about was me. He gave up his career for me.”
“What do you mean?” Lauren asked in confusion. “He still works with computers.”
“Oh he had this much better job, but he quit and came here to be with me. I couldn’t leave Carson City—my family and
home are here. So he moved, we got married, and had Fee. And it was all fine.” She hesitated.
Ayers studied her. “What happened?”
Della didn’t answer immediately.
“Jon has been going through a difficult time lately,” she said and paused. She fidgeted with her watch again. “He’s become more and more secretive. Maybe a little paranoid. He talks to himself often. That happens with very smart people sometimes,” she said anxiously. “Right?
“Something wasn’t okay when he left for LA.” A faraway look crossed her face. “He wasn’t like this when we got married. He was the sweetest man.”
“It’s odd,” Lauren murmured. “He seemed fine when I spoke to him last Monday. Well except for the rant about the mainstream media.”
Della smiled. “Well, don’t try and figure it out. I discovered long ago that my husband’s brilliant mind processes things in curious ways. Nothing works quite the same way for him as it does for everyone else.”
“Do you think it’s possible his paranoia got the better of him? That’s why he’s missing?” Ayers asked carefully.
“Did you forget the part about his apartment being ransacked?” Della said sharply. “That was no figment of his imagination.”
“Do you have any ideas where he might have run to?” Ayers tried. “Friends? Family?”
“Why does everyone think he ran? What if someone has him? Our accounts haven’t been touched. Who runs without money? Besides,” her tone softened, “he would not leave our little girl. Those two are like peas in a pod. Fee misses her daddy.” Her hand curled into a fist, and she met their gazes. “Jon would never ever leave me or his baby girl. His family means everything to him, no matter what might be going on with his state of mind. Do you get that at least?”
Lauren and Ayers both nodded, which seemed to satisfy her.
“When did Jon start to decline?” Ayers asked.
Della eyed her warily. “About eighteen months ago.”
“Can you tell me all the things that happened around then? Even if they seem insignificant?” Ayers clicked her pen.
Della rubbed her temple as she thought. “Susan—that’s his sister in New York—came to stay. Jon started following the news. Don’t ask me why. He also bought Fee a little laptop for her third birthday. We had a terrible fight about it. It seems silly now, but I was so angry. I think three is far too young for computers, don’t you? Even one that’s a pink My Little Pony thing.”
She sighed. “Anyway, that’s about everything. Now can I ask why you’re taking such a sudden interest in Jon’s case? You know he’s been missing for a week already.”
“We only found out today,” Lauren said.
“A lot of people go missing,” Della said, frowning. “Why do you care about him?”
Lauren wasn’t sure how to answer that. She was fairly certain that mentioning a party full of hookers and cheap booze had led them here was not a good idea. Della’s bloodshot gaze swung between them as she waited.
Ayers answered for her.
“A lot of people do go missing, Mrs. Sands,” she said, smoothly. “But it’s like you said, what if Jon didn’t run?”
Della nodded, pleased. “Thank you. For keeping an open mind. That’s more than the police are offering.” She stood, making it clear their chat was over.
“Take my business card,” Lauren said as she rose and handed it over. “Call any time if something comes up. And we’re really sorry for what you’re going through.”
Della didn’t reply but nodded and led them to the door.
“So…” Ayers said as they stretched their legs out at a grassy park. “What does a tech expert having a meltdown have to do with a bus driver fleeing to Mexico and embezzlement costing the state of Nevada $100,000?”
Lauren glanced cautiously around. There were three teenage boys hanging out in the distance, two on skateboards. Otherwise, they had their corner of the park to themselves. Lunch was at their sides, and notebooks and pens were scattered around them as they brainstormed.
“What does a huge payroll business with expansion plans have to do with any of this,” Lauren countered. “Are they even linked?”
“What’s the common denominator?” Ayers asked. “Money? Power? Who gains what?” She reached for her coffee and took a swig.
“Politics,” Lauren said. “I think it comes down to Governor Freeman somehow. He’s up for re-election, right? He was counting on claiming SmartPay as one of his wins—the local start-up going global. He can’t do that if a whiff of scandal is attached to it. He’s being targeted.”
“And yet the other side isn’t saying a word,” Ayers said, tapping her cup. “I have sources there, too, and there’s no chatter at all on this. It’s not them.”
Lauren reached for a can of cola.
“That stuff will kill you,” Ayers said in disdain.
Lauren pointed to Ayers’s double espresso. “Ditto. Besides I have excellent metabolism. And good genes.”
“Well,” Ayers said. She placed her now empty coffee cup on the ground. “Lucky you.”
“Speaking of lucky genes…” Lauren said, carefully. “I gather you grew up with money, but I’m sorry I laughed at the one percenter crack. That was rude.”
“I can’t help being born into money,” Ayers said in a clipped tone. “But if it sits better with your working-class reverse snobbery, I bought my house with my own money. I didn’t get a dime from my family.”
Her tone was oddly stripped of emotion, and Lauren felt a little startled to be told even that much.
“Did you have some moral objection to using their money? Wanted to ‘make it’ on your own or something?” she asked.
Ayers’s lips thinned. This time Lauren knew she was well and truly trampling all over the woman’s comfort zone.
“Yes,” she said curtly. “But either way it’s irrelevant. My parents had a rather…strenuous objection to me pursuing the career I did. I was given an ultimatum—journalism or the family money.”
“Your parents weren’t proud as hell about the reporter you became? You ran a news bureau! My dad would have been doing handsprings and boasting to everyone if that was me.”
“Well,” Ayers said, and her eyes returned to staring at her sandwich. “As I said before, lucky you.” She bundled the remains of her lunch into its wrapper, fisted it into an angry ball, and dropped it on the grass.
“Um, what exactly did they think was a good career for you?” Lauren asked tentatively.
“They had me in line for an esteemed Fortune 500 company.”
Lauren’s eyebrows shot up.
“As a secretary. In the family business.”
“Shit.”
“Mmm. Or I could have married a nice man with impeccable credentials and retired to the upper echelons of the Boston social set. Thrown elaborate parties and fundraisers and so forth. My mother would have approved of that rather a lot.”
“Ew,” Lauren said, and screwed up her face. “It’s sort of weird you ended up attending those kinds of events anyway. All day every day in fact.”
“The irony hasn’t been lost on me. Now, if we’re done?” Ayers reached for her cell phone. “I’m calling Whiteman again. For the ninth time. You’d think he’d want to help us find his best friend.”
“Maybe Barry just hates the media more than he likes his friend,” Lauren shrugged.
She finished her potato salad as she heard Ayers go through the switchboard and ask for the accounting office.
Ayers suddenly sat up straight, quickly thumbed her phone across to speaker mode, and made a writing motion in Lauren’s direction.
Lauren scrambled for her notebook and pen ready to take notes as Ayers launched into one of her rare charm offensives.
“Mr. Whiteman,” she began. “Catherine Ayers from the Daily Sentinel. I’m very so
rry to intrude, but I’ll be brief. It’s about your friend, Jon Sands. I really think we should meet.”
Lauren pulled over and turned off the ignition. “Are you sure the address is right? This place is creepy.”
“You wrote it down,” Ayers said. “You tell me.”
They were in a small, dark alley behind a series of shops. The area was filled with large dumpsters, smaller trash cans, and the smell of rotting food pervaded the air. Rear doors lined the alley from the businesses that backed onto the area, and as Lauren glanced down to check what she’d written, one of them opened and banged shut.
“Your scrawl appears accurate,” Ayers murmured and pointed. “Over there.”
They watched as a man in his early forties, overweight, pale and anxious, with a five-o’clock shadow, shuffled out. He wore ill-fitting tracksuit pants and a faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that was a size too small. Lauren opened her door, about to get out and greet him, but he shook his head and pointed to the rear of the car.
He dropped into the back seat with a grunt and slammed the door on The Beast so violently that Ayers offered Lauren a vaguely sympathetic glance.
“Christ,” he said by way of introduction. “I can’t believe you kept calling me at work,” he hissed. “Everyone’s twitchy enough as it is right now. I had to tell them I was going to the gym. Like that was believable. And then I had to borrow gym clothes. God, look at me!”
“Barry?” Ayers checked, twisting to get a proper look at their passenger.
“Yeah, oh hell, sorry. Barry Whiteman. So let’s cut the crap. Have you heard from Jon?” He peered at them hopefully. “Della calls me every day, worried sick. He has a daughter, you know. Those two adore Jon. If anything happened…” He began to gnaw on his fingernails as he watched them.
“Why do you think something’s happened to him?” Ayers asked.
“I just told you. Why would a man choose to disappear when he loves his family that much? Hell, he must love them—why do you think he left Washington for this dump?”
Ayers started. “Sands used to work in Washington?”
Barry gave a short laugh. “Big time. I met him at a convention in Nevada, and we hung out some. Same event he met Della at.”
