Missing

by Jonathan Valin

  His tone of voice had been so strange that I decided to phone him right away, even though it was going on two-thirty. I looked him up in the white pages and dialed the number. I let it ring five times, and when no one answered and no answering machine came on, I hung up. His message had to have come in late, after my first stop at the office around eight. Could be he was off talking to the “old friend” he’d referred to in the message. Cindy had said Sullivan was a night owl.

  The second call turned out to be almost as odd. There was a long silence and then a boy’s voice: “This is Lee Marks. Mr. Greenleaf’s student from Nine Mile. I want to tell you something. I’ll be home tomorrow, all day.” He left a number, with a Kenwood exchange. I jotted it down on a notepad.

  The third message was from Cindy, asking me to return the call as soon as possible. “After talking to those cops, I’m not going to be sleeping,” she said. “So call anytime.”

  I dialed her number.

  She answered on the second ring. “Oh, man, I’m glad to hear your voice,” she said, sounding shaken enough to make me ask if anything was wrong.

  “It’s just that the cop treated me like I was a jerk when he came to check Mason’s car. Some guy named Segal. A real momzer.”

  “He was the IO on Mason’s case.”

  “I told him about the bloodstains, and he told me it didn’t make a difference. Mason killed himself, and the blood in the car didn’t change that. The bastard had all sort of explanations for what it meant: Mason bumped his head getting in the car—apparently there was quite a dent in the car roof. Or he fell in the lot and then bumped his head. Anything to avoid lifting a finger to find out why he died. I don’t even know why he bothered to take the samples.”

  I knew why—because he’d been ordered to. “Be patient, Cindy. There are some things that may break our way.”

  “You have news?”

  “Possibilities.”

  There was a moment of silence on the line. Having done with Mason, we were left with each other—our own possibilities.

  “You wouldn’t want to come out here, would you?” she said tentatively.

  “Yes,” I said, thinking about her. “I would.”

  “Good,” she said, sounding so relieved that she said it again. “Good.”

  17

  IT WAS almost three when I pulled into the driveway of the little yellow brick house and parked behind Mason Greenleaf’s Saab. Cindy opened the door a short time after I knocked. She was wearing a white T-shirt that stretched down to her thighs. Passing her hand through her curly black hair she smiled at me sleepily.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey, yourself.” I kissed her on the lips.

  “I must’ve dozed off,” she said, stepping aside to let me in.

  I went over to the couch and sat down wearily. Cindy knelt down beside me on the floor.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “You want anything? Food or anything?”

  “I’m fine.”

  There was a moment of silence, as we both settled into the newness of being together.

  “Did I tell you about that cop, Segal?” she asked.

  “Yeah, you did. Might as well just accept the fact that the case is officially closed. Anything we find, we’ll have to find on our own.”

  She laid her cheek on my leg. “Did you learn anything at that bar?”

  “No, but Ira Sullivan left a message that sounded promising. And a kid from Mason’s school apparently has something to say. We’ll see tomorrow.”

  We sat there for a while. Two vaguely haunted people in a haunted house.

  “This is more awkward than I thought it would be,” Cindy finally said. “I mean, you don’t really know me.”

  “How much do you know about me?”

  “I have some ghosts, Harry. More than Mason.”

  “You think I don’t?”

  “Yeah, but mine are doozies.” Folding her hands on her breasts, Cindy laid her head back against the edge of the couch. “I want to tell you a story about me. I wanted to tell you earlier tonight. There just wasn’t any time for it. Now that you’re here . . . you should hear this before you decide whether you want to be with me. Because it’s something you should know. Something that matters.”

  “Cindy, we could trade horror stories all night.”

  “I want to say it.”

  “All right,” I said.

  Cindy closed her eyes. “Before I met Mason, I was with a guy, Jerry. I’d been with him for better than a year. And I was in love with him, even though I knew that he didn’t love me. He liked me in bed—he liked that part a lot. After Randy and the divorce, I was willing to settle for that, to settle for anyone who had a need for me.

  “Lovemaking was a game with Jerry. ‘Let’s pretend under the covers.’ He’d turn off the lights and tell me to close my eyes, then start whispering to me: what he wanted me to do to myself, what he wanted me to think about while I was doing it. Most of his fantasies had to do with seeing me make love to other people, men or women. I didn’t mind—or told myself I didn’t. I wanted to please him, and I’ve never been a prude about sex. Then he started bringing it out of the bedroom. We’d go places—bars, parties—and he’d push me off with other men, friends of his. I knew what he was doing, what he wanted me to do. But it’s one thing in fantasy and another in reality. I loved him and I wanted him to love me, but I was never a party girl. He kept at it. We had a fight. A bad one. And I could feel we were coming to the end of each other, that I was about to lose him.

  “One night, right before the end, we were in a bar and we ran into this friend of Jerry’s, a guy named Dave. I’d seen him before at several parties, a nice-looking guy who liked me and didn’t disguise it. That night the three of us ended up going home together—back to Jerry’s house. There was a lot more drinking, some lines of coke, suggestive talk. It got late and all three of us were stoned. We ended up on the couch. Jerry started in on me, not even hinting anymore, just telling me to make it with Dave, to let him make it with me. At that point I was so drunk and desperate to hang on to him that I told myself that I didn’t care anymore. So I kissed Dave. He started undressing me, handling me. I got hot and just went with it while Jerry was watching.

  “After he finished, Dave told Jerry what a great piece of ass I was and left. Then we just sat there, Jerry and I, for the longest goddamn time, naked, with the television going and this stink of disgust and contempt filling the room up like a gas leak. I gave him what he wanted—I even enjoyed it, like he wanted—and he hated me for it. Jerry told me to get dressed and drove me back here. It was the last time I ever heard from him or saw him. I left a dozen messages for him that night. Wept on the phone. Begged him to forgive me—for what, I don’t know. He never called again.

  “The next day I couldn’t even get out of bed. I just lay there, wishing I was dead, thinking about how to do it so it wouldn’t leave a mess. I was like that for maybe a week. As close to the edge of my life as I’ve ever been—even after Randy, and that had been bad. I didn’t eat. I didn’t answer the phone. I just sat in bed and cried with shame. Eventually a friend of mine who I taught with, Alice Connelly, came to the house. She fed me, cleaned me up, got me dressed and out of bed.

  “The next week there was this teachers’ conference in Louisville. Alice insisted that I go with her, even though I didn’t want to go anywhere that people were. But she wouldn’t take no. So I stuffed myself with antidepressants and went. I thought I could handle it with the drugs in me. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t stand to be around people. I ended up making a scene at a cocktail party—just burst into tears and ran back to the hotel room. Mason happened to be standing in the hall when I came off the elevator.

  “I don’t know what he said to make me trust him—I was so distraught, I don’t remember much of anything. Just that he was kind, and gentle, and nonthreatening—just what I needed. Someone who would love me first, then make love to me. All my life it’s been the othe
r way. Even as a kid.

  “Mason was kinder to me than anyone I’ve ever known. And I loved him for it. I still do. When we made love, I knew he loved me. I grew to depend on that assurance. Now . . . I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in you, Harry. You see, I know it’s still part of me—the willingness to do anything to please, to love without being loved back.”

  She turned her head toward me and opened her eyes. “So, you see the kind of woman you’re getting. I’m going to be in love with you, and I want you to know it—up front—before we go upstairs. Because once we start, I’m little girl lost. And if you’re not prepared to make a commitment, I’m likely to get hurt.”

  I stared at her for a long moment. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Cindy.”

  “I just want you to be honest with me. That’s all I want.”

  She got to her feet and held out her hand. In the backlight I could see all of her through the thin cotton shirt. Her high round breasts with their long dark nipples, the heart of auburn hair that covered her sex, her long brown legs below the hem of shirt.

  I took her hand, and she led me up a half-flight of stairs to a landing above the garage. The door on the right led to her bedroom. She pulled me through it over to a large brass bed, sitting beneath a window that looked out on the driveway. Arching her back, Cindy stripped off the T-shirt and lay down in the middle of the sheets. She was brown all over, save for narrow strips of white at her breasts and hips.

  I unbuttoned my shirt and pants.

  “You look nice,” she said, watching me undress.

  I lay down beside her on the cool sheets. Shimmying closer to me, Cindy ran her hand down my belly. I reached down and began touching her.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she shuddered up and down her spine. “Just your touch,” she whispered.

  She wriggled out of my arms and reached over to the night table. Opening the drawer, she pulled out a condom and handed it to me. Flipping off the lights, she slid down the sheets.

  ******

  Sometime in the night I heard her get up. Opening one eye, I saw her walk naked across the room and out the door to the bath. I thought to myself, even as I was falling back asleep, that she was very beautiful and that I wanted her. Feeling a little uneasy at wanting her as much as I did, because she was a bit screwed up and very vulnerable. Because I wasn’t used to wanting anyone that much.

  I woke up with the same mixed feeling of desire and uneasiness, alone in her bed, with the morning sun pouring through the window. The light glinted off her vanity mirror and off the polished wood of the dresser across from the bed. A drawer stood open atop it, with a leg warmer dangling over its edge. I could smell the night on the sheets. Lying in bed, I thought about her—thought about how we’d connected so strongly physically.

  Naked, I wandered out into the hall, into the bathroom, and stuck myself under a hot shower. I found my clothes, washed and pressed, hanging from the doorknob of the bedroom. I slipped them on and went down to the living room. The card tables were folded up and gone, along with the chairs and plastic plates. The room smelled of coffee and cooking.

  I went into the kitchen and found her standing by the stove, arranging a tray full of breakfast. She turned to me with surprise as I came into the room.

  “You got dressed! I heard you in the shower and was going to bring your breakfast upstairs.” Smiling, she picked up the tray and set it down on the Formica breakfast table. “Eat,” she said.

  I was hungry and I ate, while she watched.

  “Are you okay? You seem so quiet.”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  Her pretty face bunched up with worry. “What is it, Harry?”

  She sat down on the kitchen chair, facing me.

  I put down the fork and stared into her face. “I’m forty-five years old this November. I’m a part-time drunk. I have virtually no friends except for a few ex-cops. I sleep with three or four women, all of whom I’ve known since the early seventies. All of whom have other attachments. I haven’t had a serious relationship in better than ten years, and I’m not used to being in love.”

  She started to smile. “Meaning what? That you’re in love with me?”

  “I’ve been half in love with you since I first saw you. It was a pleasant fantasy. I didn’t think it would come true. Now . . .”

  “What?”

  “Now we’re sitting here, and I’m thinking that I’m too old for this, that I’m bound to disappoint you or lay myself open to being disappointed.”

  She reached across the table and stroked my cheek. “I’m willing to take the chance if you are.”

  “I don’t think I have a choice,” I said, picking up the fork and starting to eat again. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her smile.

  After breakfast, while Cindy did the dishes, I called Ira Sullivan from the kitchen phone. His secretary, Cherie, told me that he hadn’t come into the office yet.

  “He doesn’t have any appointments today, so he may not be in at all. I’d tell you to try him at home, only he doesn’t always answer the phone.”

  “Does he call in for messages?”

  “Sometimes,” she said without confidence.

  “If he does call, tell him to phone me at my office. If he doesn’t get in touch by this afternoon, I’ll stop at his place—sometime after five.”

  I hung up the phone, got out my notebook, and dialed Lee Marks at the number he’d left on the answering machine. A woman answered in a harried-sounding voice, “Yes?”

  “Could I speak to Lee?”

  “Who is this?” she said, putting a little sweetness in her voice, as mothers do when they want to get the lowdown on their kids.

  Before I could answer, someone picked up an extension. “Mom,” a boy said, “is this for me?”

  “It’s Harry Stoner, Lee.”

  “Mom, please get off the line. This is important. It’s about school,” he added, as if he knew that would turn the trick.

  Which it did. His mother hung up.

  “You called me, Lee,” I said to him.

  “Yeah. Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk on the phone. I mean, she might pick up again any second. And . . . I don’t want her to hear this.”

  “Is there someplace you’d like to meet? The school?”

  He laughed. “Definitely not the school. You know the Kenwood Mall?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll meet you there in a half an hour. Down by the theater. Okay?”

  “Lee, what’s this about?” I said, wondering if he was pulling my chain.

  “It’s about Mr. Greenleaf. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but Snodgrass came in.”

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll meet you at the mall.”

  But I still wasn’t convinced that he was on the level, even as I kissed Cindy good-bye and walked out the door.

  18

  IT WAS close to noon when I got to the Kenwood Mall, on the northeast side of town. I parked the car close to a Lazarus department store and walked across the lot to the mall entrance. The doors opened onto an enclosed concourse with a little fountain in its center and corridors radiating off at compass points around it. The place was surprisingly crowded for a weekday noon. Aside from a few power-walkers scurrying along—heads down, eyes fixed, like Alice’s rabbit—the crowd was mostly teenagers, out of school and on a tear. They darted eagerly in and out of the stores that lined either side of the long walkway, nosing right and left as if they were following scent, plastering themselves against windows, against each other. Like dogs in the backseat of a car.

  I found a “You are here” sign in the south corridor that looked like a map of Los Angeles and managed to navigate a good half-mile farther south to a balcony overlooking a plaza. Below me, a band was playing light rock too loudly and with no discernible ensemble on a small step-up stand. All around them, more kids were mobbing cafeteria-style food booths—ordering everything from pizza to Chinese, served on paper plates and eaten on your choice of stool.
>
  As I went down the staircase toward the band, I spotted Lee Marks beside the marquee of a Loew’s theater, making time with a tall, pretty brunette in a leotard and neon yellow bicycle shorts. When he saw me walk up, he waved, then said something to his girlfriend. Glancing my way, she walked off a short distance and pretended to stare at some lingerie that even a teenager would have been ashamed to wear.

  “Mr. Stoner!” Lee shouted to me over the din.

  With the rock band and the kids playing with their food, I could see it was going to be impossible to talk.

  “Is there someplace we could go?” I shouted.

  He nodded. “Follow me.”

  He led me down another corridor that sprang from the headwaters of the eateries. Eventually we got far enough way from the chaos to hear each other speak—some secret, unused segment of the mall where bookstores were lined up like ducks on a pond. We found a resting place, a couple of varnished benches, and sat down. Up the way, clinging to the shadows of the storefronts, I could see Lee Marks’s neon-colored girlfriend. He could see her, too.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, looking embarrassed. “She thinks she’s gotta keep an eye on me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of you, I guess.”

  It was true I was over forty, but I was a clean old man.

  “What does she think I’m going to do—kidnap you?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I think that’s exactly what she thinks.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Gloria,” he said. “She’s okay, really. She just watches too much TV.”

  It appeared to me, from his manner, that Lee Marks didn’t. Which was something of a relief.

  “Well, we’re here, Lee,” I said. “I haven’t kidnapped you yet. What exactly do you have to say?”

  He bit his lower lip, raking it under his front teeth, as if he’d gotten his audience but wasn’t sure he could go through with the performance. “I honestly don’t know how important this is,” he admitted. “I mean, it’s such a little thing. But when I saw you yesterday and you told me that the police still don’t know why Mr. Greenleaf killed himself—I just thought maybe I should tell you.”