Matthew Dicks

by Something Missing (v5)

  “I’m not a big oyster fan,” Martin admitted, hoping this news wouldn’t disappoint her too much. “But the French onion soup looks good.” He placed the menu down and returned his hands to his lap, where they continued their nearly imperceptible trembling.

  “So … are you excited about tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I mean, I still feel a little odd about going to your friend’s party. I didn’t really do anything. Just got lucky.”

  “I’m the one who got lucky” Laura said, staring him directly in the eyes.

  Martin blushed. “Yeah, well I feel the same way. And as long as I’m going with you, I’ll be fine.”

  “Good,” she said, the shortness of the word signaling an end to this part of the conversation. “So how is the novel coming?”

  In truth, Martin had continued to peck away at the thing over the last few days, but he still had only a couple of thousand words written. He had begun by writing about his own life, but he knew that if this were to be a successful novel, he would need to begin fabricating new characters, settings, and storylines soon, otherwise he’d end up with a tell-all memoir that might someday land him in prison. Besides, Martin knew that his life wouldn’t be interesting enough to carry a reader for three hundred pages, so fabrication would be essential.

  “I’ve worked on it every day,” Martin answered truthfully. “Slow and steady. But you first. Any news on the interior design front?”

  “Not since the other day. I’ve got a list of three schools that I like, but no way to pay for any of them. I’ll need to look into financial aid, I guess.”

  “I’m going to stop writing if you don’t get a move on,” Martin chided, lifting a piece of bread from the basket. He loved pushing Laura this way, because he knew how much she appreciated it. Seemed to need it even. And yet it came so easily to Martin, a man who didn’t like to waste a moment.

  “No, you won’t,” she said, laughing. “You’re not a quitter. You’re a writer, and someday your book will be sitting on one of the front tables of one of those bookstores around the block. Maybe you can even arrange to do a signing, and I’ll sit beside you and tell your readers that I am the Laura who the book is dedicated to. That would be great! Now please, can’t you tell me what the book is about? Please?”

  Martin shook his head. “Even I don’t know. I’m just writing what comes to mind.”

  “Well, what have you written so far?”

  “Nothing good. Honestly. When there is something worth reading, you’ll be the first to get a copy. Okay?”

  “Okay. But I don’t like it.”

  The waiter arrived at that moment and took the couple’s order. While they waited for their lunch, Laura tried to engage Martin in conversation, but without his full attention on the task at hand, Martin was failing miserably to carry his end.

  “Is there something wrong? You seem a little down. Not yourself exactly. Did I say something wrong? You don’t really need to dedicate the book to me.”

  “No, it’s not you,” Martin answered, almost laughing at the thought that Laura Green could ever do anything wrong. “I got news this morning from a friend who is in a bit of trouble, and I’m not sure how to help.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Martin paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. In his heart, he wanted to tell Laura everything. The burden of Sophie Pearl’s safety was already feeling like too much to bear. But without telling her everything about his life, he wouldn’t be able to explain his dilemma.

  “She asked me to keep this confidential. But let me ask you this: My friend is in trouble, and I don’t know what to tell her. I’ve never dealt with a situation like this before. What do you do when you want to help a friend but don’t know how?”

  Laura thought for a moment and then answered. “That’s a tough one, buddy. But if I can’t help my friend, I usually go to someone who can help and ask for their advice. If it sounds right and I can support it, I pass it along. Do you know someone who might be able to help with your friend’s problem?”

  “Yeah, I know someone. But he’s not the easiest person to talk to.”

  “Well, if you care about your friend and she needs your help, you’ll manage.”

  Martin had already considered this option and dismissed it. But perhaps Laura was right. If it kept Sophie Pearl safe and unharmed, he might have to speak to a man he hadn’t seen or spoken to in nearly two decades.

  He might have to speak to his father.

  After lunch, Martin walked Laura back to her office and received another kiss on the cheek before returning home. Though he had decided upon his next course of action, he wanted to take another look at Clive Darrow’s criminal history and check to see if he had missed anything of importance.

  According to the report, Clive Darrow had been convicted of assault and battery with a dangerous weapon and first-degree sexual assault seventeen years ago, when he was twenty-two years old and living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. It appeared that he had been in prison for fifteen years before being released less than two years ago, when he moved into the home on Ascension Street. Since his three previous addresses were all within the Pittsburgh city limits, Martin could not discern the reason that the man had moved to Connecticut. He had no current employment history listed, and there were no marriages or divorces on record.

  But the one thing that Martin could be certain of was that this man was intelligent. His plan to implicate Noah Blake in his own crime (and Martin had no doubt in his mind that this was Darrow’s plan) was brilliant in its simplicity. The only two things Clive Darrow needed to do in order to guarantee its success were to leave no DNA evidence of his own inside the Pearls’ house (something Martin knew that the man could avoid) and to make sure that Noah Blake had no alibi for the time of the attack. If Sophie Pearl was home alone at a time when Noah Blake was also alone, Darrow could strike. And considering the frequency with which Sophie Pearl’s husband traveled on business, and the fact that Noah Blake lived alone, the opportunities for Darrow would be plentiful.

  The fact that Darrow had been in the Pearls’ house that morning, likely planting DNA evidence to implicate Blake while mapping out the home for his next break-in, indicated that the man planned to make his move soon. He would likely wait until he was certain that Noah Blake was home alone, probably late in the evening or sometime over the weekend, but regardless, the time was near.

  Martin could not waste a minute in formulating a plan.

  He spent the next three hours planning the conversation that he would have with his father. Ideally, Martin would drive over to the house, acquire the information desired, and leave. But considering that father and son had not spoken in so long, Martin worried that the topic of family history would inevitably arise. He needed to be prepared.

  With the script set firmly in his mind, Martin drove to his father’s apartment in East Hartford, arriving outside the apartment building shortly past five o’clock. The sun was low in the sky as he parked the Subaru in the shaded parking lot behind the building, reminding Martin of how quickly time was passing. Having not visited the Pearls in almost two weeks (missing his previously scheduled visit in order to preserve the Ashleys’ party), he couldn’t be sure when Sherman Pearl’s next business trip was planned for, or even if he was out of town right now. Though Martin was keenly in tune with his clients’ vacation schedules, business trips taken by one spouse were less critically tracked, since these trips rarely provided him with additional opportunities for entry into the client’s home. For all Martin knew, Clive Darrow could be hiding in a closet in Sophie Pearl’s bedroom right now, waiting for the moment to strike.

  Martin’s father rented an apartment behind a barbershop on Silver Lane, and though it was small, it appeared clean and well maintained on the outside. Martin had always known where his father lived, and had kept close tabs on the man since their separation, cruising by occasionally to see if his father was still driving the 1990 Ford pickup that he
seemed unable to rid himself of.

  He was. Martin’s Subaru was now parked alongside its battered exterior.

  Though he had never actually been inside his father’s apartment, Martin had driven by the building hundreds of times over the past ten years, always wanting to stop and knock on the door, but never able to bring himself to do it. “Next week,” he’d say to himself, until next week became one year and then five, and any hope of reconciliation seemed impossible.

  But now he would have to knock on the door and face the man who hadn’t bothered to fight for his wife or son, who had left his home more than twenty years ago with little more than a whimper.

  When his father finally answered his knocking after more than a minute, Martin barely recognized the man. His once black mustache was now wispy and gray, his thick black hair was almost gone, and what remained was gray and lifeless. He had put on weight since Martin had seen him last, most of it in his belly, and he held a cane in his right hand for support. It was clear from his father’s furrowed brow that the man did not recognize the son standing before him.

  Martin hadn’t anticipated this, and as a result he froze.

  “Yes?” his father said. After a moment, he repeated himself, curiosity quickly turning to annoyance. His voice hadn’t changed a bit in nearly two decades, and for that, Martin was relieved. It was as if one piece of his childhood father still existed.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked, becoming more perturbed by the second.

  “It’s me, Dad. Martin.”

  The man’s blue eyes opened wide, and a second later Martin saw recognition in his father’s face. “Martin,” he said after a moment, a sigh more than a word. Then again. “Martin. I can’t believe it. Look at you.”

  “Do you mind if I come in?” he asked, this line rehearsed.

  “Of course. Come in.” His father backed away from the door, clearly requiring the cane for support, and Martin entered a kitchen in serious need of remodeling. Though the room was clean and organized, the yellowing wallpaper and the ancient linoleum gave it a depressed, hopeless appearance. The appliances were old, the cabinets were old, and the man standing before him was older than Martin could have ever imagined. He looked nothing like the father who had taught Martin to bait a hook, steer a canoe, and ride a bicycle, all in the same day. He was tired, used up, lacking the spark that Martin so fondly remembered. They stood facing one another for a moment, each man taking measure of the other until Martin’s father gestured to a small kitchen table opposite the appliances and cabinets and took the seat closest to the door. Martin sat down across from him.

  “How have you been, Dad?”

  The old man smiled. “You looking for a summary of my life, son?”

  “No,” Martin said, amused. His father was still as quick as ever. “I’m just wondering how you’re doing.”

  “Better than most of my friends, I can tell you that. So not too bad. I’ve managed to stay alive and out of the nursing home so far, which is more than I can say for most of my buddies.”

  “What’s with the cane?”

  “Arthritis,” he answered with a growl. “Bastard disease. I haven’t been able to golf or even walk much for, what?, at least three years now.”

  “Sorry,” Martin said and meant it. He hadn’t seen this man since he was a child, and yet he loved his father all the same. He had never really known it until this moment, but now he was sure. Despite the anger and disappointment that he felt toward his father, the thought that the old man couldn’t walk the golf course or even to the corner store anymore pained Martin more than he would have expected.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” the old man laughed. “So what brings you here? You in trouble?”

  Martin was both surprised and hurt at the implication, but he couldn’t deny its veracity. “Not me, but a friend. I’m not sure how to help her.” This line had been rehearsed.

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me what to do.” This line had also been planned on the drive over.

  “I can’t see how an old man who can’t walk straight might be able to help, but if you pour me a cup of joe from that pot over there, I’ll give you an ear.”

  Martin was relieved. His father would at least listen to the problem, and that’s more than what Martin had expected. He rose, moved over to the counter, took a mug from a rack hanging above the sink and poured from an ancient coffee pot. “Black?”

  “Yup. Only way I’ll drink the stuff. You remember that from when you was a kid?”

  Martin remembered but chose to lie. “Nope. Just a good guess. You seem like a guy who would like his coffee black.” Admitting that he remembered how his father drank his coffee might open up the door to that long-forgotten past, and Martin wanted nothing more than to keep that portal shut. At least for today.

  Martin returned to his seat, slid the mug across the table to his father, and waited for him to take a sip. Then he began. “Listen, Dad. I’m going to tell you some things that you might not want to hear, and I’m not going to tell you the whole story. Just enough so that you can get a picture of how much trouble my friend might be in. I can’t tell you everything, and like I said, I don’t think you’d want to hear it. But I can’t trust anyone else with this, and you’re the only person I know who might have a clue about what to do. Do you understand so far?”

  “No. Not yet,” his father said, taking another sip. “But from the sound of things, you’re in some trouble yourself, or else you’d be telling me everything. But I’m guessing that your friend might be in even more trouble. So I’m going to listen and help if I can, because I get the feeling that this is some serious business. But son, let me ask you something first. Why me? Why in hell do you trust me? You ain’t seen me in twenty-five years.”

  Martin had rehearsed the answer to this question dozens of times. He had planned on explaining how the bond between a son and father transcends time and space, and that he had always known his father to be a decent, honest man. He was going to tell his father that he had always felt a connection to him, even during the many years that they had been apart. But instead, this came out:

  “I don’t know, Dad.”

  “Well, there’s got to be a reason you came here. What was it?”

  “I dunno, Dad. I guess that you’re the only family I have left.”

  “After twenty years, I’d hardly call us family. I certainly haven’t been much of a father.”

  “You’re the only family I’ve got, Dad. You let me down, for sure, but I think I probably let you down too. Our relationship got messed up pretty badly, but it wasn’t because either of us wanted it to. We were just stupid. A couple of cowards without a brain between us.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” his father agreed.

  “But we were never mean to each other, Dad. Never intentionally cruel. I’ve always loved you, Dad. I just did a lousy job loving you. And I’m guessing, maybe hoping, that it’s the same for you. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, right?”

  Martin’s father took another sip of coffee, either to stall in case his son had more to add or to consider what had been said. When it was clear that Martin was finished, he placed the cup down and nodded. “Good enough, son. Someone had to say it, and you’re probably right. I was probably too stupid and afraid to be the one. You can trust me. Go ahead with your story.”

  Martin nodded, took a deep breath and began. “I came into possession of some information today while doing something that’s not exactly legal. I wasn’t hurting anybody, and it has nothing to do with drugs or guns or anything like that, but it’s something that could land me in jail if I’m not careful.”

  “Tax evasion?”

  “Huh?”

  “Tax evasion,” his father repeated. “Let’s think about your illegal activities as tax evasion. Okay? I can get behind that. Unless that don’t sit right with you.”

  Martin thought for a moment and then answered.
“Yes, tax evasion. That’s good. Okay, so while I was evading my taxes, I discovered that a registered sex offender is stalking someone I know. Not exactly a friend, but someone I care about. Someone who I don’t want to see get hurt.”

  “How do you know he’s a sex offender?” his father asked, placing the mug down and leaning forward.

  “After I saw him leave my friend’s house, I followed him to his home. Got his address, and from there, it was easy. He’s got two counts of assault, one sexual, and did fifteen years for it. He’s been out about two years and is living in West Hartford.”

  Martin’s father leaned in even more, placing his glasses, which had previously been hanging by a cord around his neck, on his nose. “You saw this man inside your friend’s house?”

  “I saw him leaving the house,” Martin answered.

  “How do you know that your friend wasn’t home? How do you know she hasn’t already been assaulted?”

  Martin had wanted to avoid this question, but he decided to answer it truthfully. “She wasn’t home. I’m sure of it.”

  “So you were watching your friend’s house, even though she wasn’t home, and you saw this man leave the house, and you followed him. Correct?”

  “Exactly,” Martin replied, but he didn’t like the way the old man seemed to be putting the pieces together so quickly.

  “But you can’t tell your friend about this man because if you do, the IRS will find out about your tax evasion and lock you up, right?”

  “Yes,” Martin answered, feeling a little ashamed. He had lost control of the conversation. His father seemed to already know too much.

  “How do you know that this man isn’t one of many who live in the house that you followed him to? How do you know that he isn’t renting from the owner, who is the actual sex offender?”

  “The sex offender registry includes a photo. It’s the guy, Dad.”

  “Oh.”

  Now it was Martin’s turn to lean forward. “So what should I do?”

  “Listen, son. If you know that a convicted criminal is stalking anyone, you need to let the police know right away. But I’m guessing that if you told the police, you might get prosecuted for tax evasion. Yes?”