Chapter 7

 

I woke before dawn with that feeling that I’d never been fully asleep. The past twenty-four hours still had a surreal feel. Yesterday morning I’d awakened with anticipation. The wedding and reception were just ahead of us and my main concern had been about feeding the guys and getting us all out the door on time. For one moment I relived that, almost capturing the feeling that I would walk into the kitchen and begin an ordinary Sunday. A sound from the living room cancelled that.

Ron was huddled into the corner of the sofa, wearing the same jeans and rugby shirt he’d put on last night.

“Did you even go to bed?” I asked, slipping my arm around his shoulders as I passed.

He shrugged. “Tried. No point to it.”

In the far corner Freckles stirred in her crate, giving an impatient whimper. I let her out and followed her to the back door, where she bolted to her favorite corner of the yard. I pressed the button on the coffee maker and when I came back through saw Ron in the same spot. His face was haggard, eyes bloodshot with huge bags underneath.

“I take it there’s been no call from the police?”

He shook his head desultorily.

“Let’s get some coffee in us and then we’ll go put those flyers out.” I splayed my arms to show that I was already dressed for the chill outdoors.

He stared out into empty space and I finally plopped myself beside him on the couch. “There are lots of things we can be doing, Ron. Sitting here doesn’t accomplish anything.”

My normally action-oriented brother sitting like a lump was really beginning to worry me. A sound came from behind me as our bedroom door opened and Drake emerged.

Talk to him, I mouthed, tilting my head toward Ron as I headed for the kitchen. Freckles had long since finished her business and was scratching at the door, and I saw the sky had lightened considerably. I tended to her desire for some kibble in a bowl, reached for three coffee mugs, and checked the bread box where a package of Danish pastries still looked relatively fresh. Within a couple minutes I had a tray loaded and carried the meager breakfast to the guys.

Drake had switched on the TV and a way-too-cheery ad was touting all the Christmas goodies to be had at one of the department stores.

“Come on, you two. We are not settling in at home today. We’ve got flyers to distribute and don’t forget Ben Ortiz was going to schedule a news conference so we can get the word out. Once everyone in Albuquerque is looking for Vic, we’ll find her.” My best upbeat voice barely made it through to them but the smell of coffee and pastry had at least grabbed Drake’s attention.

“According to police, thirty-six year old Victoria Morgan disappeared from her northeast heights home and hasn’t been seen in a day and a half,” came the voice from the television set.

All three of our heads whipped around to look.

“We’re here in front of the house where her fiancé, Ron Parker, is said to be staying …”

The rest of it was lost on me as I realized in horror that the house behind the reporter in the picture was, indeed, my own. I pulled back the edge of the drapes—yep, there were four news vans and bright lights aimed at the various reporters.

“… most likely suspect in her disappearance.”

Ron’s face had gone pasty gray, so I could pretty well guess the gist of the sentence I’d half missed.

The kitchen phone began ringing but I couldn’t tear myself from the screen and the news story with its unwelcome intrusion into our personal lives. Five minutes later it became apparent the news folks had used up their set of facts; they began rehashing the same information, trying to freshen it up by rearranging the order and person delivering it. But there was really nothing new to be learned. Drake didn’t respond to my request that we switch off the set, so I headed for the kitchen and picked up the phone to see who had called.

The mechanical voice told me I had two messages. Two? I swore it had only rung once, and we’d cleared everything last night. I pressed all the right buttons. “First message,” the voice said. A faint clatter, a rustle, the hiss of static. Not even the courtesy of informing me the caller had gotten the wrong number. “Second message.” This one came from Ben Ortiz, informing us that he’d scheduled a ten o’clock joint press conference with the police to give information about the case. It would be good for Ron to be there. We were to meet him at nine forty-five at his office for a short briefing. The address was a five-minute walk from the steps of police headquarters. I grabbed a pen and jotted down the details.

A tap at the back door caught my attention and I jammed the message slip into the pocket of my jeans. With the debacle out front, I didn’t take any chances. Peering through the sheer curtain at the kitchen door I saw it was Elsa.

“Come in,” I whispered, practically pulling her by the arm.

“You’ve seen them too?” she asked.

I merely clenched my teeth.

“Have you all had some breakfast? I made pancakes for Paul’s family. It’s easy enough to whip up another batch,” she said.

“That’s okay. We had a little something. No one’s very hungry anyway.”

“Mainly, Paul wanted to know if they should change their flight.”

I’d entirely forgotten about their plans. Had the wedding gone off without a hitch, we would have had breakfast together and then sent the Arizona group home.

“What time is their flight?” Normally I’m good with this stuff but at the moment my mind felt like mush.

“Ten o’clock.”

I did a little backward math and figured we ought to be heading for the airport in an hour or so. It wouldn’t leave much time for sticking up our flyers all around the area.

“I could—” Elsa started.

“No, I don’t want you doing it.” A woman whose recent driving experience only includes the grocery store and church? No way would I put her in the midst of the free-for-all the airport can be.

“Let me think. Drake can take Paul’s group to the airport. Ron and I are heading out now to do the flyers and then we have to meet the lawyer.” I didn’t elaborate on that part of it. “Don’t let anyone go out front until Drake has the car in your driveway. We cannot, cannot talk to these reporters.”

She started to open her mouth, thought about it—picturing Paul’s two kids, no doubt—and nodded. “I’ll keep them all inside, if I have to throw myself in front of the door.”

The mental picture of tiny Elsa spread-eagled to block the door made me smile, I realized, for the first time in awhile.

I worked out the logistics. Drake would need my Jeep for the four passengers and luggage, so Ron and I would drive the pickup. Ron’s very recognizable car would surely be noticed and followed by the reporters. Of course, that could happen to any of us. What a boondoggle this was turning out to be.

In the end, we sent Drake as the decoy wearing Ron’s normal Stetson and jacket. He dashed out to Ron’s red Mustang, hopped in and drove away. A couple of the reporters bit, jumping into cars and following. They would surely be disappointed when they ended up right back here in fifteen minutes, but the little window of time would let Ron and me make our break.

Stockier Ron sucked in his gut and put on one of Drake’s bomber jackets and ball cap with our helicopter company logo on it. We didn’t give Drake’s pickup much chance to warm up, and I only had to say “no comment” once before we were on our way. I don’t know how these news crews normally spend their days, but this had to be among the most boring and chilly ways to do it.

We headed first for Victoria’s neighborhood, scanning carefully to be sure her house wasn’t also a media target. Although the yellow tape remained over the front door, luckily there was not a van in sight. They must have gotten all the footage they wanted of the crime scene. I sighed and forced myself not to think of it that way.

Ron parked the truck a block off the nearest major street and we began taping flyers to light posts, bus stops, and any other unmovable object where people might pause a few extra moments. I covered six blocks east and four south, with Ron doing the same in the opposite direction. It felt like a meager effort. We really needed these all over the city. The television coverage might accomplish that—getting her picture and the story widely broadcast—and my heart became a little less hardened toward their intrusiveness. We couldn’t have it both ways, I supposed.

My phone bleeped at me from down in my jacket pocket. Ron. He’d finished his distributions about the same time so we agreed to head for our vehicle. We only had about twenty minutes to make the appointment at the lawyer’s office, which made me glad I’d convinced my brother to change into something a bit more reputable than his slept-in clothes. He’d even shaved for the occasion. I got to the truck first so I drove.

Ben Ortiz’s office sat on a side street about a block from the cluster of municipal buildings downtown, in an area that was once residential about a hundred years ago. Now, the small former houses that escaped demolition have become oh-so-cute restaurants and offices. The one we were looking for was a two-story upright box with brown siding, dark green trim, and a waist-high wrought iron fence around its postage stamp of a lawn. A narrow driveway led to the back where, presumably, the old backyard had given over to employee parking—our own office a half mile away has a similar arrangement.

For customers, there was the street and not much of it. Each narrow property did well to accommodate two vehicles. We had to go three blocks west and around a corner to find a spot. By now we were running late and Ben was waiting at the door when we approached. Sending us a look, he suggested that we talk as we walked toward the police station. The narrow sidewalk necessitated that Ron and the lawyer walk side by side, so I dropped back and barely caught the gist of their conversation.

Basically, Ortiz had prepared a written statement for Ron to deliver. “Don’t deviate from this message and don’t extemporize,” was one of the phrases I did catch. I gathered that I was to hang back, look supportive, and keep my big yap shut.

Ron attempted to read while walking, with a couple of stumbles due to old sidewalks buckled by ancient tree roots.

“I’m sure Detective Taylor will have something to say first,” Ortiz said as we approached the steps of the police department where a podium and scads of microphones waited. “Then I’ll give a brief statement to paint Ron as the devastated fiancé. Then Ron’s going to make his plea for help from the community.”

The first part went according to plan, anyway.

Kent Taylor, to his credit, remained very neutral in his words. He told the gathered crowd basically what we already knew. Victoria Morgan, on her wedding day, had disappeared from her home in the northeast quadrant of the city. There had been signs of a struggle. It was feared that she had been injured because she’d made no attempt to contact her family. Her whereabouts and condition were unknown at this time. He didn’t use the word ‘abducted’ but his message sort of left that impression. He gave the number of a special hotline which had been established and asked that anyone with information please call.

I stood where I could watch Ron during Taylor’s briefing. He was bravely trying to hold it together, his mouth clamped in a firm line to avoid trembling, his eyes straight ahead. I wished I’d taken the time to review his outfit a bit more closely. The jeans were rumpled and the plaid shirt was one he’d plucked from his overnight bag. My iron and I are practically total strangers but I could have run them through the dryer to take out some of the wrinkles. I sent him a tiny smile of encouragement.

Cameras clicked away as Ben Ortiz took the podium. I could only pray that the attorney’s vigorous reputation would work in Ron’s favor. I still wasn’t convinced that showing up this early in the game with an attorney was the best move. Wouldn’t my brother appear more innocent, less defensive if he simply got up there and spoke from the heart?

By the time he finished speaking, however, I had to admit Ben Ortiz’s words had gone a long way to explain Ron’s disheveled appearance and sleep-deprived face. Ron took a deep breath, clutched his prepared speech in his hands and stepped to the front. I scanned the crowd and didn’t see a lot of sympathy out there in the gang of reporters.

“Thank you for coming this morning,” Ron began. “As you may imagine, the disappearance of my fiancée has come as a shock to our family. We have heard nothing from Victoria since Friday night and we fear for her safety. We very much appreciate this opportunity to connect with the community and to ask your help in locating our loved one. Vic did not leave the house of her own free will, of that I am convinced. It’s not a case of a runaway bride. We were looking forward to our life together.”

Beside me, Ben Ortiz tensed. Ron must have gone off-script, but I had no clue what he’d said that the attorney didn’t like.

“Please keep Vic’s picture visible. Please let every citizen of Albuquerque—of New Mexico—know that we are searching for her, that we want her back. Even a phone call, anything to assure us that she’s all right.”

“Mr. Parker,” one reporter called out, “how is it that no one knew Ms. Morgan was missing until just an hour before the wedding? Did you know she was gone but withheld that information from the police?”

Ron’s mouth flapped open mirroring, I’m sure, my own astonishment. Ben Ortiz stepped up quickly.

“Since this is an ongoing police investigation, we cannot comment on details.” He took Ron firmly by the elbow and led him off the podium.

My mind spun. Wouldn’t it have been better to set the reporter straight? I’d arrived at Vic’s house exactly as planned a couple hours before the wedding and had immediately informed the police. Well, almost immediately.

I turned and followed closely behind Ben Ortiz, who led us inside the municipal building. Outside, Kent Taylor stood facing the crowd, hands up, apparently telling them the meeting was over.

“What just happened?” I demanded as soon as Ron, Ben and I had stepped into a small alcove.

Ben faced Ron, his face tense. “Didn’t I tell you to read the statement verbatim?”

“I said everything it said. Reading aloud always sounds wooden and fake.”

“There are reasons. You referred to her in the past tense. You were looking forward to a life together. Somebody’s going to construe it to mean things changed between you.”

Seriously? One word?

“And the runaway bride comment? Ron, that thought was never out there—now you’ve planted it. They’ll start looking for proof the two of you were unhappy.”

Ron’s expression closed. He’d heard enough. I took a deep breath and ran my hand down his arm.

“Let’s go.” I was trying to fix a map of the surrounding streets in my head, wondering the best way back to the truck without being waylaid by the media throng, when Kent Taylor walked into the lobby.

“Let’s talk a minute,” he said.

I braced myself for another lecture on what to say and not to say.

“You all can visit the hotline room anytime you want,” he told us. “We have people to man the phones, so don’t worry about that. Just saying—if you want to know what’s going on. I want all of you to have your phones with you at all times. Leads can come from friends and family as well as the 800 number.”

Ron and I both patted our pockets. “I’ve had this with me the whole time,” Ron said. “Vic will call me. I know she will.”

I wished he’d displayed the same emotion and sincerity outside a few minutes ago. It was nerves—I knew that. I just hoped everyone else could see it.

Taylor started toward the elevators and I caught up and tapped his shoulder.

“We wanted to see if we could get into Victoria’s business files, Kent. Ron felt we should notify her clients … let them know there might be delays in their projects.”

“Charlie, we picked up her calendars and current files as evidence. I have no idea where this will go. Once we’ve checked out the leads we need, we’ll release everything, but I have to warn you it may be awhile.”

“How about getting into her house? I just feel like … I don’t know … there might be something a family member would recognize as being of value. If nothing else, I should clean up the mess before she gets home.”

His expression was momentarily unguarded. Clearly, he believed there was a good chance Victoria would never come home. I swallowed hard. He turned and punched the elevator button. On the far side of the lobby I saw Ron and Ben Ortiz standing near a side entrance. I caught up with them and we walked to the lawyer’s office in silence.

The news conference was the hour’s top story on the radio as I started the truck.

“I can’t think straight,” Ron said.

“You need some rest.”

“I need to get busy. Let’s go to the office.”

“Ron—”

He shushed me and I drove. Luckily, it didn’t appear the media people had discovered our offices yet. The gray and white Victorian sat dark and quiet in weekend mode so I pulled down the side driveway and parked behind. I started coffee brewing, wishing we’d at least pulled through some drive-up and brought food with us.

Upstairs, I could hear Ron clumping around in his office, then the sound of canned laughter. As I approached, a commercial for laundry detergent blared, then the familiar voice of the noon newsman who promised an update on the sensational story of the missing bride. Great, Ron. Can’t we stay away from the damned television? I started to voice my opinion but the introductory music was already on and there was my brother’s face on the screen in his office.

“Our lead story this weekend, the frightening events surrounding a bride who never made it to her wedding, and the groom who wants the whole thing to go away.”

“What!” I stormed into the room and reached for the remote.

“Charlie, we have to know what’s being said.”

My gut churned as we watched. The edited film showed Ron stammering—his one hesitation—during the interview. His past-tense reference to Victoria was quoted intact. His expression seemed uncertain, his face haggard and unflattering in contrast to Ben Ortiz’s. The lawyer’s use of makeup made him look smooth and camera-ready. When the talking heads came on to opine on the subject, of course it was Ortiz’s past defenses of guilty-looking defendants which was brought up first. I thought I would throw up.