That night, we had to turn customers away from the early show. Donna and Artie tried to persuade the disappointed to come back for the late show by offering discounts and free drink coupons, and although we felt bad for them, it was a nice problem to have. Buzz was good; J.J. had gotten a small blurb in the Post’s Style section, sending scores of comedy seekers our way. If we were lucky, some of those customers would remember us next weekend, and the weekend after that, and the many weekends after that, too.

Before the show began, Freeman Easter, a friend of mine, found me in the green room trying to put the opening act at ease. With a parting, “Don’t worry, you’ll do great,” I excused myself and walked Freeman back to the office and closed the door. “Hey, man. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Planning to come anyway.” Freeman gripped my hand and shook firmly. Like he was used to doing it on a daily basis, unlike some of the comics I met who seemed to lack basic social skills. “How’s it going?” he asked, nodding toward the door. “Big crowd tonight. J.J. always brings ’em in, huh?”

“We’re not complaining,” I said. I’d first met Freeman about ten years ago when I was just starting out. He seemed to do open mics here, there, and everywhere, although he’d never aspired to rise beyond that level. He had some talent but lacked the drive. Loved his regular job too much to give it up. Artie and I had given him a standing pass to the club. Medium height, skinny, and dressed in a conservative dark suit with rimless glasses, he looked more like an accountant than a sharp-witted Fairfax County Narcotics detective.

“You sounded like something was up on the phone,” he said.

“Need your help.”

“What are buddies for anyhow?” he said. “Need a few good jokes?”

“Always, but that’s not why I called. A friend of mine’s gone missing,” I said. “Heather Dempsey. She was supposed to do a set here Wednesday night. Her big break as a solo act. Then right before her set, she disappeared. Haven’t heard from her since and no one I’ve spoken to has either.”

“She’s only been missing for two days?” He drew out the word missing.

“Yeah, but…”

He raised an eyebrow. “This unusual?”

I swallowed. No denying Heather was a free spirit. Lauren had recounted plenty of stories from Heather’s teenage years about her frequent “road trips,” a fact pounded home by her boyfriend Ryan. “Well, she’s done stuff like this in the past. But…”

“But you don’t think that’s what happened this time,” Freeman finished for me.

I nodded, knowing Freeman probably heard those exact words as often as I heard jokes involving priests, rabbis, and talking giraffes.

“I know you don’t want to believe it, but the vast majority of missing persons show up, sooner or later, unharmed. They’ve decided to go on vacation, or are involved in some kind of relationship hoo-hah, or go on a drinking binge.” He stopped and eyed me through his round lenses. “That possible? Drinking or drugs?”

I exhaled again and shook my head. “Listen, I can’t discount all of that. I mean, Heather’s an adult and she’s probably not the most reliable person in the world, so I guess it’s possible. But I don’t think that’s what happened here. Really. She’s changed since the accident. Matured. And she’s always taken her comedy very seriously.”

“Two days is nothing.”

I stared at him, lips pressed together.

Freeman sighed. “Who’d you talk to?”

“Boyfriend. Landlady. Called her on her phones. Left messages. No one’s seen her or heard from her.” I snapped my fingers. “Poof, she’s gone.”

He sighed again as he extracted a pad of paper and a pen from his breast pocket. “Okay, give it to me.”

I gave him Heather’s description, address, phone numbers—all the information I thought he’d need, including the all-important fact she was Lauren’s sister. When I finished, he closed the pad with a practiced flip and eyed me. “Any reason you didn’t call the parents yet?”

I nodded and shrugged at the same time, as if it were on my to-do list but I just hadn’t gotten around to making the call yet.

“Could be she’s there, hiding from the world, just chilling out.” When I didn’t respond, he let it go. “Okay. I’ll check around a bit. Talk to a buddy in Missing Persons. Maybe check out the morgues and hospitals. But nothing official gets done until someone files a report. Usually it’s a relative. Considering how you’ve described her, with her history, I gotta be honest. Nothing much is going to happen from our end. Certainly not without the parents getting involved and raising a ruckus. Even then…” Freeman shook his head. “I can’t be the one to call them. Wouldn’t want to freak them out, and besides, it’s really none of my ‘official’ business. Sorry, man. I’d like to help more, but…two days? That’s nothing.” He shook his head as he left the office, closing the door gently behind him.

I pictured Heather’s parents puttering around their stately Southern Colonial mini-mansion, William Dempsey fixing a drainspout while Kathleen Dempsey planted impatiens, a perpetual scowl on his creased, middle-aged face, a warm smile on hers. Before the accident, they were going to be my in-laws. My only living “parents.” At first, her Republican father resented the hell out of me, a liberal stand-up comic, but we’d achieved a sort of truce—he didn’t bother me and I didn’t bother him. Lauren’s mom, on the other hand, was a real peach.

Despite Lauren’s father’s overly protective attitude, we’d all gotten along pretty well, and Lauren often joked that she and I would be taking every vacation with them, especially after we blessed their lives with grandkids. Now, the thought of talking to them terrified me.

There was only one reason I hadn’t called yet, but it was a beaut. After what happened, William Dempsey hated my guts with the passion of a dozen religious zealots. In his eyes, I was the monster responsible for the death of his daughter.

_____

The late show also sold out, and by the time I helped Skip and the others clean up, it was after two o’clock before I got home and into bed. When my phone rang at four o’clock, I grabbed at it, fearing it was Freeman with bad news: He’d found Heather in a coma at some hospital, or worse, she’d turned up toe-tagged in a chilled drawer at the morgue.

But it wasn’t Freeman on the line, it was J.J. “Hey, Channing, my man. I need a big favor.” The way he yelled into the phone told me he’d been partying hearty since his show had ended a few hours ago.

“Do you know what time it is?” I spit the words into the phone. I’m sure he knew, but I wasn’t too sharp with my retorts on such little sleep.

“Late, man. Real late. Sorry. But I need your help. I did something I prolly shouldn’t have. Messed up, super-sized.” The words slurred together.

I rubbed my hand across my face and a cold shiver rippled through me when I didn’t feel the last three fingers. Their absence still stunned me sometimes. Would that ever stop? I brought the phone back to my ear and heard J.J. chanting my name in a singsong. “Chan-ning, Chan-ning, Chan-ning.”

“Cut the shit, J.J.” After one more feeble Chan-, his ditty petered out. “Where are you?” I asked.

“At the condo. Lissen up. I need you to come over. But be vewwy, vewwy careful.” J.J.’s voice had reduced to a whisper. “And bwing a hacksaw.”