I didn’t have so many friends that I could afford to have even one of them go poof. Since I’d moved to the ’burbs I’d discovered who my real friends were. The party crowd in New York, the business acquaintances I’d kept on speed dial because they owed me a favor-those guys were gone. Lucy was the only one from my past who was more than the occasional drinks, e-mail, or Christmas card friend.
I had a hard time believing what Detective Winters had told me about missing persons in Connecticut. I preferred to think she was just a bitch on wheels with some as-yet-unknown agenda so I grabbed a Diet Coke from the minibar, powered up my laptop, and went online to do my own research. I soon learned everything Winters had told me was true.
There were more than one hundred thousand missing persons in the United States, seven hundred in Connecticut alone. And if you weren’t a child under the age of eighteen, or a senior, you could very easily just go poof. One poor woman in Connecticut was still so heartsick over her son’s disappearance that she’d been paying for a billboard with his picture on it for eight years.
Without evidence of a crime there was no state or local law addressing missing adults, only children or at-risk adults with diminished mental capacity or health problems. I didn’t think I could sell Lucy as diminished capacity, and her only health issues were that she’d now missed three krav maga workouts and pretty soon her roots would start showing.
In this neck of the woods, you had a better chance of getting a stolen car found than a healthy thirty-four-year-old woman.
Wait a minute, that could work.
In New York City a stolen car wouldn’t get much of a rise out of the police, but in Connecticut it was tantamount to stealing someone’s horse in the Old West. If Lucy’s car was found at a ski resort in Vermont, I would simply drive there and brain her for making me go through all of this. If it wasn’t, well, I’d deal with that if it happened.
Lucy shared an assistant with another producer. The few times I’d spoken with the girl she sounded like any one of the overworked twenty somethings I remembered from my former career-in the office by eight A.M., at her desk until eight or nine P.M., and on call 24/7 waiting for her first credit, her first break. Smart, ambitious kids who would gleefully step over their boss’s broken and bleeding body if it meant they’d be included in a programming meeting or get sent to the Sundance festival. I called Lucy’s office again.
As she was taught, the assistant picked up after three rings. I chose my words carefully. Lucy had asked me to call, she’d misplaced the keys to her rental car. Did the assistant have an 800 number for the rental car company? All the best lies are short and sweet. Once you start explaining too much you get into trouble. There’d be no long-winded explanation of how that wacky Lucy had lost the keys juggling a champagne bottle and her BagBorroworSteal purse in the hot-air balloon she’d taken off in with a handsome Australian pilot. Keep the lie short and sweet.
“It’s 1-800-YO-DRIVE.” Click. That was easy. Since I could no longer further her career, the assistant didn’t feel the need to chat with me any longer than absolutely necessary.
YoDrive was a small private company near Lucy’s office that extended special long-term rates to KCPS staffers. I’d used them myself back in the day. The next lie might be harder since a diligent employee could justifiably be worried about the company’s property and ask questions I didn’t want to answer.
I needn’t have worried. Remembering what a tiny office it was I intentionally waited until lunchtime to call, in the hopes that whoever answered the phone would be distracted-either by his takeout order arriving or because he was shorthanded at the desk. I was right.
The lying was coming easier now; I guess some skill sets you never lose. This time I was calling from a sister station in Massachusetts. I needed Lucy’s vehicle info and license plate number to make sure that she didn’t get towed when she arrived tomorrow and parked in our small visitors lot. It was weak, but I delivered my lines with just the right touch of boredom to suggest that I really was who I said I was. Never underestimate the ability of a disinterested employee to give you information.
Lucy was driving a white 2007 Subaru standard SUV with Rhode Island plates, 475 LMP. I’d simply report the car stolen. That way the police would have to look for her. Or at least her car.
I called it in to the local police telling them the last time I saw it it was at the Titans Hotel. I gave them my cell phone as a contact number. It was all I could do at the moment. The moment being one where I’d had three hours of sleep and finally started to feel it.
After a shower and some zzz’s, I’d try to see Bernie Mishkin again. Some of what Oksana had told me made me think that his investment opportunity was at the heart of a number of mysteries at Titans, and maybe even Lucy’s unexplained absence.
I went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and peeled off my clothes. Hands on sink, I stood there with the steam filling up the room, inspecting my face in the mirror. I looked worse than I thought I would.
After thirty they say sleep and sex are the best beauty secrets, and I wasn’t getting much of either. Having a seasonal business or job always sounds good to those people who don’t have one. They only think of the time off, not the time spent planning, the financial crunch, and the plain uncertainty of things you can’t control, like pests and the weather. I was getting a taste of what farmers must go through, and it was keeping me up at nights.
Lucy had been trying to nudge me back into the television business for the past year until, as she put it, I “got this thing out of my system.” But I had a five-year plan for Dirty Business. If I was still treading water in five years I’d give it up and go back to TV.
“Dream on,” Lucy had said. “I can hold your seat at the table for a while, but this next generation is carnivorous. I can’t stand still for a minute without half a dozen assistants breathing down my neck.”
That was the attitude that made me still cling to the possibility she was chasing down a story. But it was the likelier possibility that she wasn’t that was giving me the worried, haggard look I saw in the mirror. I splashed some water on my face and brushed my teeth. Mercifully the steam began to obscure my reflection. Just then I felt someone’s presence outside, in my room.
I covered up with a towel and quietly closed the bathroom door, pressing my ear against the door, straining to hear who it might be. With the shower on and the door closed I couldn’t hear a thing so I pushed the button on the doorknob and held the door with my left foot, against the intruder I was sure was just about to burst in. I reached out with my right arm and stretched to turn off the shower. Of course the towel fell. My reflection in the cloudy mirror showed a woman practicing yoga for spastics-sun salutation meets pratfall.
With the water turned off I definitely heard someone outside. There was nothing in the bathroom I could use to protect myself but I remembered that the lamp I’d knocked over the night before was just a few feet from the bathroom door. If necessary, it was thin enough and light enough for me to yank out of the wall and use as a club. As long as the intruder didn’t have a gun. If he had a gun the lamp probably wouldn’t work, but I had to think positive. I picked up the towel, unlocked the door, and cracked it open an inch. I heard something snapping. I opened the door another inch.