On other days, he’d say, “It’s a cereal-only kind of day, Rita. I’ve got a big day ahead of me, and I need to get to the office early.”
When Curtis and I began participating in extra-curricular activities in junior high, and my mom found it hard to keep up with our schedules, she’d ask us whether it was a two-egg kind of day or a cereal-only kind of day, so she could figure out what kind of day we were going to have.
Dad laughed. “It looks like it’s gonna be a two-egg kind of day tomorrow. I only have a late afternoon appointment.”
“In that case, why don’t you come by my hotel and have breakfast with me?”
“Well, thanks, Son. I’d love to do that. What time should I be there?”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby at seven.”
“Sounds good. How’s your investigation going? Did Senator Allen’s daughter ever turn up?”
“No, the senator called the police chief this morning and officially declared Lizzie a missing person. After that happened, I went over to the station and introduced myself to Lieutenant Lawrence.”
“Which detectives did he assign to the case?”
“He put your friend, Connor Ross, in charge, and he’s partnered up with Trent Springer.”
“They’re good detectives. They’ll stay on top of it.”
“I also had a chance to drop by and say hello to Curtis. He’s offered to organize some volunteers from the church to look for Lizzie.”
“Did you take him up on that offer?”
“No, not yet. I couldn’t even tell him where to start. I still haven’t gotten a handle on what’s happened to her yet, but we can talk about that tomorrow. Right now, I need to get off the phone so I can change for dinner.”
“Are you eating alone? You know you’re always welcome to eat with us. Your mother told me she’s fixing pork chops for dinner.”
“No, I’m meeting someone. Actually, you may know her. Her name is Whitney Engel. I met her when I stopped by your church this morning. She was filling in for the receptionist.”
“Is that right?” Dad let out a short laugh. “No, I don’t believe I’ve met her, but I’m sure she’s a nice lady, especially if she works at the church. You two have a—”
“She doesn’t work—”
“—good time. I’ll see you in the morning.”
If he hadn’t hung up at that moment, I would have pointed out Whitney wasn’t actually employed at the church.
Even so, she was still a nice lady.
I wasn’t sure what one had to do with the other.
I knew a lot of women who weren’t involved in a church, but they were still considered nice ladies. You could be a nice person without being religious.
After all, I considered myself a nice person, and I certainly wasn’t religious.
* * * *
As I was getting undressed to take a shower, I reached inside the pocket of my sports coat to remove my business cards and found the two booklets I’d picked up in the church office.
It was a little unnerving to read their titles, especially since I was just thinking about the subject. One was “Are You a Good Person?”
The other was “A Guide to the Basics of Faith.”
I wasn’t even sure why I’d picked up the booklets in the first place, except I was probably trying to look occupied so Whitney wouldn’t think I was listening to her phone conversation.
I glanced through the one about being a good person.
The first few pages contained a series of questions asking me if I’d ever stolen something, lied about something, hated another person, taken God’s name in vain, or lusted after someone.
Of course, I’d done everything on every page.
I suspected most people would have answered the questions the same way, and they probably didn’t need a law degree to recognize the questions were all based on the Ten Commandments.
The next question was, “If God were to judge you by his law, would you be guilty or innocent?”
Guilty as charged, your honor.
I flipped the page.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover my punishment for breaking God’s law was that I was condemned to spend eternity in hell, and that I wouldn’t be allowed into heaven.
However, I admit seeing the words in black and white shocked me. I even sat down on the edge of the bed and read them again.
“The punishment for your sin is separation from God in a place called hell, which Jesus described as a place of eternal torment.”
The next section was all about hope.
Even though I was guilty and deserved eternal punishment, Jesus had stepped up to the judge and paid the penalty for my sin. All I had to do was admit I’d broken God’s law and believe Jesus paid the penalty for my transgressions when he’d allowed himself to be crucified on the cross in my place.
I didn’t bother reading the last few pages.
I figured it was all about saying a prayer, or talking to a minister, or going to a website for further instructions.
Curtis and my dad had told me the same thing before.
At various times, they’d each talked to me about making my own commitment of faith. Although I’d always been willing to listen to what they had to say, I hadn’t been inclined to do much more than just nod my head and tell them I’d give it some thought.
In reality, I hadn’t given it much thought.
Christianity, or any sort of religion, had never been on my radar.
That being said, if having a belief system brought meaning to a person’s life and comforted them in their final days, I wasn’t opposed to it.
From a personal standpoint, I’d always assumed all the good things I’d done in my life would far outweigh the bad, and when I died, I’d be welcomed into heaven with open arms.
Now, as I tossed the booklet on the nightstand, I realized there was a possibility I could be wrong about that assumption.
I admit that thought was a little disconcerting to me.
* * * *
I left my hotel at six-thirty and arrived at Arturo’s Prime Steakhouse fifteen minutes later. I hadn’t intended to get to the restaurant fifteen minutes early; I’d just forgotten it didn’t take that long to drive anywhere in Columbia.
Arturo’s looked like a nice place, and when the hostess greeted me, I gave her my name and told her I’d wait for my guest to arrive before being seated.
She asked me if I’d like to have a drink at the bar while I waited, but I declined. I wasn’t a drinker; not even in college. The night I’d gotten myself into trouble at my frat house, alcohol wasn’t involved; neither were drugs. The whole thing was a big misunderstanding.
When the hostess pointed over to the bar, I noticed the evening news was being shown on one of the TV monitors, and after I saw a Breaking News logo appear, I walked over to see what was happening.
The news alert didn’t have anything to do with Senator Allen’s upcoming press conference. This was a report about a lone gunman shooting a bunch of people in a shopping mall in Miami.
I was so intent on listening to the details, I didn’t realize Whitney had walked up beside me.
“I guess I’m not the only one who likes to arrive early.”
“Hi, Whitney. Well, to be perfectly honest, I’m not usually so punctual. This was a case of overestimating how long it would take me to get here from my hotel.”
She laughed. “You were probably thinking you might get stuck in traffic. I bet that happens a lot in Washington.”
“You’ve got that right.” I gestured over at the hostess. “Shall we be seated? I believe our table’s ready.”
“Sounds perfect. I’m starving.”
We walked over to the hostess, who asked us to follow her into the dining room, and as Whitney and I made our way over to our table, I couldn’t help but notice several admiring glances being directed at Whitney from the male diners in the restaurant.
I agreed with their assessment.
Whitney looked outstanding.
She was wearing a black sleeveless dress with some kind of floral pattern on it, along with a pair of black stiletto heels that made her appear almost as tall as I was.
She also had a silky black wrap draped around her shoulders. The fabric had silver threads woven through it that highlighted the pair of silver earrings dangling from her ears.
The hostess seated us in front of a window with a panoramic view of Stephens Lake Park, and the setting sun had painted the fall colors on the trees an even brighter shade of orange.
Whitney commented on it as soon as we sat down. “Wow! Isn’t that beautiful? I should have brought my camera with me.”
“You mean you’re not one of those photographers who takes their cameras with them everywhere they go?”
“No, I’m not,” she said, shaking her head. She smiled and leaned across the table toward me as if she wanted to tell me a secret. “I love being a photographer, but I never want to become obsessed with it.”
“You think there’s any danger of that?”
“Oh, yeah. I could easily turn into one of those obsessive compulsive types. For example, the other day, when I didn’t have to meet a client until five o’clock, I sat down at my easel to work on a painting, and before I knew it, four hours had gone by.”
“I could never sit that long. I have to keep moving. That’s what I like about my job. I’m always on the go.”
“Yes, I thought as much.” She nodded her head as she looked me in the eye. “You seem to be the type of person who needs to stay active, and since you’re an investigator, I suppose that also means you enjoy figuring stuff out.”
I laughed. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it like that, but you’re right. I enjoy working through a problem, putting the puzzle pieces together, finding the answers, and reaching a conclusion.”
“I bet you’re good at it too.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes, I think I’m the best investigator out there, but there are other times when I feel like a complete failure.”
She nodded. “That happens to all of us no matter what line of work we’re in. It’s certainly happened to me before.”
“I admit I’m not a pleasant person to be around if I fail at something. In fact, I usually end up getting depressed about it.”
“I’ve been there myself.”
When our waitress appeared at our table and asked us if we were ready to order, Whitney and I smiled at each other. We’d been so wrapped up in our conversation, we hadn’t even looked at the menu.
I asked the waitress if she would mind coming back in a few minutes, and when we stopped talking long enough to study the menu, I suddenly realized I’d just revealed something to Whitney I’d never brought up with anyone, not even my closest friends.
Sure, a few of them knew I got depressed occasionally, especially if things didn’t go my way, but it wasn’t something I talked about.
As I analyzed why I’d mentioned it to Whitney, I finally decided it was because I felt completely at ease with her.
I wasn’t sure why.
When I glanced over at her, I noticed she was biting down on her lower lip as she ran her finger down the list of items on the menu.
A few seconds later, she looked up at me and smiled.
“The menu’s a bit pricey, isn’t it?”
“Don’t worry about the prices. Order anything you want.”
She laughed. “In that case, I’ll have the filet mignon.”
I smiled at Whitney’s unguarded response. She appeared to be completely comfortable in her own skin.
I realized that was the reason I felt so relaxed around her.
* * * *
We both ordered an eight-ounce filet mignon, medium well, with a house salad and a loaded baked potato. By the time we finished our salads, I’d learned a few things about her.
She was born and raised in the St. Louis area, had an older sister, and her father had passed away of a heart attack when she was thirteen. Her mother was a nurse who’d raised her two daughters as a single parent, and her mother planned to retire next year.
Whitney and her sister were both Mizzou graduates, but her sister had returned to St. Louis and married her high school sweetheart after she graduated, whereas Whitney had stayed in Columbia.
“What made you decide to stay in Columbia?” I asked.
“There were a couple of reasons. For one thing, the guy I was dating wasn’t due to graduate for another year, and for another, the portrait studio where I worked part time while I was going to the university, offered me a full-time job as soon as I graduated.”
“How long was it before you started your own business?”
“Ten years.”
“It took you awhile then.”
“Well, a lot happened in those ten years. I won’t bore you with all the details, but during those ten years, I got married, had a couple of miscarriages, took some business courses at MU, and then my husband died of pancreatic cancer.”
I stopped eating for a moment.
“I’m so sorry. That’s a lot for one person to handle in ten years.”
She nodded. “Without my faith in God, I’m not sure how I would have made it.”
I didn’t have to respond because at that moment the waitress brought us our steaks, and after we cut into them and voiced our approval, Whitney continued with her story.
“After my husband passed away, I used part of my life insurance money to start my own photography business, and since I’d already worked at the portrait studio a number of years, I had enough clientele and referrals to make a profit my first year.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine someone can actually make a living just taking pictures of small children.”
She smiled. “It’s not like it was when we were growing up, and our parents would take us down to the Sears Portrait Studio once a year and have our pictures taken. Nowadays, parents are willing to pay for elaborate photo shoots of their children, even newborns.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
Whitney waved her fork at me. “That’s enough about me. Tell me how you ended up working in Senator Allen’s office in Washington.”
Although I tried summarizing the years following my graduation from Georgetown Law, I found myself spending far too much time on why I eventually decided I’d rather be an investigator than a lawyer.
I suppose this was because Whitney kept asking me questions, and I kept answering them. She seemed to be really good at asking questions.
When I finally moved on from there and told her about Mac’s heart attack, and how I’d inherited both his law firm and his estate, she suddenly reached across the table and grabbed my hand.
“How wonderful for you, Mylas. Of course, I’m sorry the man died, but isn’t it amazing how the Lord blessed you in such an incredible way?”
“Ah . . . yeah. It’s really incredible.”
Chapter 16
When our waitress came by our table to drop off the check, I’d just finished telling Whitney about Senator Allen offering me the position of chief investigator, and how I’d spent my first year learning my way around Capitol Hill.
“I’m really clueless about how you investigate a judicial nominee,” she said. “Do you just go around asking people a bunch of questions about the person?”
“Basically, that’s it. I conduct interviews with their professional contacts, make sure their financial disclosure statements check out, and look into any rumors or allegations about their personal conduct. It’s similar to what the FBI does when they run a background check on someone, but the vetting process I conduct on a nominee is a little more detailed and a lot more comprehensive.”
“Are you allowed to tell me about the person you’re investigating here in Columbia?”
Before I had a chance to answer her question, my cell phone vibrated. It was a text message from Nina.
“The senator’s press conference begins in forty-five minutes. Cal
l me when he’s finished. We need to discuss some documents I found on Lizzie’s computer.”
When I put my phone back in my pocket, I apologized to Whitney. “I’m sorry. I usually try to ignore my phone when I’m having dinner with someone.”
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Since there was a good chance Whitney was going to hear about Lizzie’s disappearance on the late evening news, I decided to tell her what I was doing in Columbia.
“I’m not actually in Columbia conducting an investigation on a judicial nominee. Senator Allen sent me here to see if I could find out what’s happened to his daughter, Lizzie. She’s a student at the university, but she hasn’t been seen since Monday morning.”
“Oh, my word, that’s awful. What do you think happened to her?”
“I’m not really sure yet. I’m having a tough time figuring it out.”
“Did she leave some clues behind that might explain her disappearance?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. Right now, I feel like I’m working with a bunch of puzzle pieces without knowing the big picture. I guess you could say all those puzzle pieces are clues, though.”
Whitney’s question reminded me about the crumpled piece of paper I’d retrieved from Lizzie’s trash can with her doodles on it. I’d stashed it in the nightstand in my hotel room, intending to take a picture of it on my cell phone and send it to Nina.
I made a mental note to send it to her as soon as I got back to my hotel room, but then it occurred to me since Whitney had an artistic eye, she might be able to make sense of Lizzie’s drawings.
After the waitress came by our table and took my credit card, I gestured over at Whitney and asked, “Would you mind coming back to my hotel room with me?”
Whitney looked startled.
“Seriously? You’re asking me if I’d be willing to—”
“Oh, no, wait a minute. I’ve gotten ahead of myself.”
She pushed her chair away from the table. “You certainly have.”
“No, Whitney, wait a minute. Let me explain.”
I rushed through my explanation. “I found this piece of paper in Lizzie’s trash can with some drawings on it. Lizzie’s roommate told me she likes to doodle when she’s talking on the phone, and she usually doodles about the conversation she’s having. I can’t make sense of her doodles, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to take a look at them and give me your opinion. I left the paper back in my hotel room, and I just thought, since you’re an artist you might—”
One Day Gone Page 15
