by Wendy Tyson
“Just how do you plan to get in that man’s room?” Vaughn asked.
He, too, had apparently heard the little niggling voice inside her head because he was looking at her with a healthy dose of you must be crazy.
“I overheard Francesca and Simone talking when I was here last week. Paolo is back in the Intensive Care Unit.” She glanced at the hospital directory, written in square white typeset on a black background. “Fourth floor.”
“Only immediate family are allowed into the ICU.”
Allison took a belly breath, doing her best to calm her nerves. It wasn’t working. Should have paid more attention to my yoga instructor, she thought. Mustering conviction she didn’t feel, she said, “Follow my lead.”
They rode up the elevator next to a tall, narrow nurse in blue scrubs. She looked at Allison and Vaughn but glanced away before decorum would have required a polite hello. They all got off on the fourth floor.
Allison walked with confidence to the U-shaped nurses station in the center of the small ICU. The lights were bright over the station, a sharp contrast to the darkened patient rooms, all of which had open doors. Allison heard the whirs and beeps of a hundred different machines. She thought of Jamie, of the machines helping him survive each day. She put her hand on Vaughn’s arm, wondering whether he was thinking of Jamie, too. He shot her a grateful smile.
The nurse behind the desk had raspberry-red hair and freckles so numerous they became the predominant color of her skin. She looked at Allison through tired eyes and said, “Can I help you?”
“We’re here for Paolo Benini.”
“And you are?”
“His niece, Barbara. This is my husband, Lou.”
“Driver’s license, please.”
Allison rooted around in her purse, pretending to look for her wallet. Her mouth dry, she said, “I’m sorry. We came in a rush. I must have left it at home.” She glanced at Vaughn, silently willing him to play along. “Sweetheart, do you have your wallet?” He shook his head.
The nurse glanced over her shoulder. She was alone. She looked back at Allison and Vaughn, biting her lower lip, clearly deciding what to do.
Allison said, “I’m Francesca’s daughter. But if you can’t let us see him…”
The woman’s face relaxed. She grabbed a chart from the desk behind her and made a notation. “I didn’t realize Francesca had a daughter. Such a doll! I spoke to her a few times last week when she called about Paolo.” She smiled. “Your names again?”
“Rich. Barbara and Louis Rich.”
The nurse scribbled something else on the paper. With a weary smile that pulled at the nugget of guilt in Allison’s gut, she said, “Your uncle is in room 416. As I’m sure your mother told you, he’s comatose.”
Vaughn started to walk toward Room 416. Allison didn’t follow, but chose to linger by the counter. “Tell me,” she said, “has my Aunt Simone or any of my cousins been here today?”
“I haven’t seen them, and I’ve been here since six this morning.”
“When was the last time he had a visitor?”
The nurse shuffled through a few pages of the chart in front of her. “We don’t always have a record, especially when we come to know the family. I don’t see anything written in here for a while. But I remember seeing them over the weekend. His son, his daughter and Simone, at least.”
“Which son? Alex?”
The nurse smiled. Clearly she, too, had been the target of the attractive man’s charms. “No, the other one.”
“Ah, Dominic.”
The nurse nodded, put the chart down on the counter and straightened her uniform. “Is there anything else? If not, I have patients to attend to.”
“That’s it. Thanks for all you do for Uncle Paolo,” Allison said.
The nurse nodded. “I wish we had better news.”
“No change, I guess? My mother seemed pretty certain that he would not make it.”
“Here, we never say hopeless. But...” She let her voice trail off.
An alarm went off, causing lights to flash in the nursing station. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Of course.”
Allison watched the nurse disappear into another room. Before heading into Paolo’s room, she took a furtive glance around. Chiding herself for breaking patient confidentiality, she grabbed the chart and hastily perused the visitors’ names for Room 416. Not many entries. Alex was listed three times early on. Same for Maria. It looked as though they’d stopped recording the family’s comings and goings about a week ago. Allison was about to put down the chart when an entry caught her eye. It was dated a week ago. A neat hand had written “Reginald Burr” in red ink.
Allison recognized the name of the private investigator Dom and Alex had hired to look into Francesca’s disappearance. Odd. Alex mentioned he was a family friend, so maybe a visit made sense. But Allison decided she wasn’t going to wait for Mr. Burr to visit her. Before they left Ithaca, they’d go looking for him.
Allison found Vaughn sitting in a red vinyl chair next to Paolo’s bed. The drapes were closed and the interior of the room was dark and warm. Sickbed smells of antiseptic cleaner and urine filled the air. Allison’s gaze fell to the figure on the bed. Tubes and wires extended from Paolo’s emaciated body and connected to monitors and fluid-filled bags hung on silver carts around the bed. Paolo had a chiseled face, aged and pale and dotted with fine white whiskers. Despite age and illness, Allison saw Alex’s height, Dom’s broad shoulders and muscular build, Maria’s high forehead and patrician nose. He must have been a handsome man in his prime, Allison thought. Handsome and intimidating.
Vaughn stood up and grabbed a smaller chair, pulling it closer to the bed. Allison sat down on the edge. She felt jittery, nervous. The room was hushed by the stillness of dying, only the occasional beep breaking the unwritten code of silence. Allison became aware of her own breathing. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, a feeling of urgency overwhelmed her. They needed to leave. Now.
She stood, clutching her purse, and walked quickly to the door, motioning for Vaughn to follow. Allison gave the man on the bed one last look before heading out the door, toward the elevator. She felt childish, impulsive and a little bit crazy. She jammed a finger on the lobby button three times, waiting impatiently for the doors to close and the elevator to begin its descent. In the lobby, she hastened silently toward the automatic entry and rushed toward the parking lot. Once safely at her car, she handed Vaughn the keys. “You drive.”
She put her head back against the seat and allowed herself to exhale.
Vaughn said, “What the hell was that all about?”
Allison shook her head. “I can’t explain it, Vaughn. Something told me to get out of the hospital. It was a compulsion like I’ve never felt before.”
Vaughn laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Did you learn anything new from the nurse?”
Allison scanned the parking lot, looking for what, she wasn’t sure. Three cars over, a mother walked hand-in-hand with a little girl and pointed her key fob at a red Chevrolet. The toddler sang happily to herself. The mother looked disheveled and grim, her hair in a greasy ponytail that said she had bigger things on her mind than bathing.
“That private investigator has been here. Reginald Burr.”
Vaughn’s eyes widened. He pulled out of the parking space and headed toward the exit. “The family friend? Was this before Francesca disappeared?”
“Yes. Last week.”
“Interesting.”
“You know what else is interesting?”
“Talk to me.”
“I told the nurse I was Francesca’s daughter.”
“So?”
“The nurse didn’t bat an eyelash. If your aunt or sister-in-law was missing and you were worried about her, what would you do?”
“I’d
tell the hospital where her brother was admitted. In case she showed up there.”
Allison nodded. “Especially if you were distraught, as they claim to be. You’d call everyone, look everywhere.”
“Yet the hospital knew nothing. I’ll be damned.” Vaughn took a right out of the hospital parking lot and gave the Volvo some gas. “Where now?”
“Can Jamie locate Reginald Burr?”
“He sure as hell can try.”
“Then get him on the phone. I’m betting Mr. Burr is local. Let’s see if we can out-sleuth the sleuth.”
Only there was no listing for a Reginald Burr, in Ithaca or the surrounding area. And any Reginald Burrs that Jamie could find anywhere in the eastern half of the United States seemed unlikely candidates: a seventy-two-year-old blind man from South Carolina, a ten-year-old in Washington D.C. and a ninety-one-year-old man from Pittsburgh. So who was Reginald Burr?
“Guess we’ll have to wait for him to come to us,” Vaughn said.
Allison stirred her coffee with the thin plastic straw and put the dome lid back on. They were at a ubiquitous Starbucks near Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania and a low-fat blueberry muffin was staring up at her from atop a paper bag. She had no appetite. In twenty minutes, Vaughn was due to meet with the detective assigned to Francesca’s disappearance.
Allison shook her head. “Something is off. Not only didn’t the family bother calling the hospital about Francesca, but Reginald Burr, the private investigator they hired to find her, has no official presence. How does a PI make money without at least some advertising?”
Vaughn said, “Maybe Reginald Burr is an alias and he works under his real name.”
“Maybe,” Allison said without conviction. She took a sip of her coffee and wiped her mouth with a brown napkin. Her low-fat blueberry muffin still sat, uneaten. She stared at it, willing her stomach to unclench long enough to consume the pastry. “Or maybe he only works for the family.”
Vaughn arched an eyebrow, considering this. “Maybe.” He glanced at his watch. “Ready?”
Allison rose, walked over to the trash bin and threw away the remainder of her coffee and the muffin, feeling guilty at her wastefulness.
“I would have eaten that,” Vaughn said.
“Well I’m glad you’re not anxious.”
Vaughn laughed. “Never said that, but since when have I let a little case of the nerves kill my appetite?”
Eleven
Detective Butch Razinski had a sandy blond crew cut and a boxer’s nose, pummeled and misshapen into a flattened snub. He peered at Allison and Vaughn through bright hazel eyes, his expression that of a man with more responsibilities than resources. They were in the reception area of the police station near the truck stop where Francesca had last been seen. The room was drab green, with a worn beige linoleum floor mottled with black scuff marks. A bored-looking receptionist sat behind a shatterproof sliding window.
The detective held out his hand and made brief eye contact with Allison, then Vaughn. They shook. The detective’s gaze was piercing to the point of intrusiveness.
“Thanks for coming by,” Razinski said. His voice was low-pitched, his tone reserved.
“Of course. I’d like Allison to join us, if you don’t have an objection.”
Razinski said to Allison, “Have you met Francesca Benini?”
“Yes. She’s my client.”
The detective shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.” He turned and started to walk toward a door next to the receptionist’s window. “This way.”
Allison followed the detective through the doorway, down a poorly lit hallway and into a hundred-square foot office. Like the reception area, the room was painted drab green. Fluorescent lights cast a sickly glow in the windowless interior. A desk sat against the rear wall, covered by an over-sized computer monitor, stacks of files, and a half dozen reference books. The walls were bare of decoration. No pictures adorned the desk top, although a child’s crayon rendering of a man and boy had been pinned to an otherwise bare bulletin board on the wall over his desk. The only other furniture in the room consisted of a desk chair on wheels, two brown folding chairs and a filing cabinet. Detective Razinski sat in the desk chair and pointed to the two folding chairs.
Vaughn was barely seated when the detective said, “So tell me again exactly what happened. I know we took a statement, but I’d like to hear it myself.”
Vaughn took the detective through the events of that night from the time they arrived at the truck stop until the police were summoned.
When he was finished, the detective sat quietly, fingers strumming on khaki-clad legs. “How about before you got to the rest station?”
Vaughn looked startled. “Before?”
“Yes. Did you stop anywhere with Francesca Benini in between Ithaca and Pittston?”
“No.”
“What was her mood like on the drive?”
“We’ve been through this, Detective. I told the police when they arrived at the truck stop—”
“Tell it again.”
“She was quiet, but seemed fine. But hey, I don’t really know her, so I have nothing to use as a basis for comparison.”
The detective turned toward Allison. “But you met her before. How did she seem to you?”
“Like Vaughn, I don’t know her well enough to say. She seemed...reserved. But I couldn’t tell you whether her mood was depressed or suicidal.”
“You said depressed or suicidal, Ms. Campbell. What made you choose those descriptors?”
“The family. When I spoke to Simone Benini after Francesca disappeared, she said Francesca was depressed. She seemed...uh, concerned...that Francesca had done something to harm herself.”
Razinski stood, his mouth set in a grim line. He walked over to his desk and grabbed a file from the top of a short stack.
He sat back down, his expression never wavering, and pored through several pages from the file. He handed Vaughn a small stack of photographs. Head shots. All men.
Vaughn looked through them, one by one. “I don’t recognize any of these men.” He cocked his head. “Should I?”
“Just checking.”
He slid the pictures back in the file, made a few notations on a piece of notepaper stapled to the inside cover, and then looked up.
“What can you tell me about Tammy Edwards?”
Allison fought to maintain a neutral façade. The newspaper article should have alerted her that Razinski would ask the question. Still, she felt unprepared. But Vaughn was smooth as Italian gelato while he recited, again, the circumstances surrounding his farewell to the eighteen-year-old.
“There was nothing between you? No flirtation? No...interactions of a sexual nature?”
Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“And that was it, Mr. Vaughn. You said good-bye, she disappeared into the house, and you left?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Razinski’s words gave no comfort. Indeed, Allison was certain they were meant to instill the opposite. Silently, she admonished herself for not asking Jason to meet them here. He was at least a lawyer. With his experience in the DA’s office, he could talk the talk. And make sure they didn’t say anything incriminating.
Razinski placed his file back on his desk, adjusted the edges so they lined up with the corners of the desktop. “Do you have any travel scheduled over the next few weeks, Mr. Vaughn? Anything that will take you out of the country?”
Vaughn shook his head.
“Good,” the detective said. “That will be all for now.”
But Vaughn didn’t move from his chair. “Am I a suspect?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What about the travel?”
“Routine. If something changes, we may need to talk with you again. We want to make sure you’ll be reachable.�
��
Allison glanced from her friend to the police detective, not liking the tone of Razinski’s voice or the detachment in his demeanor. “How can we help the investigation?”
“There is no official investigation, Ms. Campbell. At least not at this point. Francesca Benini is an adult, free to come and go as she pleases. And Tammy Edwards is eighteen. As long as there is no suspicion of foul play—” he glanced ever-so-briefly in Vaughn’s direction “—there is no reason for the police to get involved.”
“Then why the need for today’s meeting?” Allison said.
“Routine. I wanted to tie up some loose ends, meet Mr. Vaughn in person, show him the pictures of local known felons to make sure he hadn’t noticed them in the area where either woman was last seen.” He clapped his hands together and started to rise out of his chair. “But I think we’re finished.” The phone rang. The detective said “just a minute” and picked up the receiver. “I see...yes, of course.” He fixed his stare on Vaughn. “What time? Interesting.” After another minute of uttering phrases that made no sense on their own, Razinski hung up the receiver.
“That was Simone Benini,” he said.
Allison’s heart raced. “They found Francesca?”
The detective shook his head. “No, unfortunately. She was calling about Francesca’s brother, Paolo Benini. He died this afternoon.”
Allison was speechless, the implications barreling over her like a tsunami. This afternoon. They had just been there this afternoon, and while Paolo was comatose, he’d been alive. The detective wouldn’t share details, but he made it sound as though Paolo had died in his sleep. Expected, perhaps. But her premonition, combined with the timing, made her scalp tingle, her legs go numb.
Another coincidence?
Allison looked at Vaughn. His face was a mask of indifference, but Allison saw the rigid posture and slight tremor in his hand that gave away his unease. He must be thinking what I’m thinking, Allison thought. We very well may have been the last people to see Paolo Benini alive.
