Edge of Midnight (7 page)

Two hours later she still wasn't home. He found Arlette's number in her address book.

The bitch herself answered.

“It's Mitch,” he said. “Let me talk to Cary.”

“Good evening to you, too, Mitch. I hope you're enjoying this beautiful evening.”

“Cut the crap. Let me talk to her.”

“Who?”

He took a hard hold on his temper. Arlette always set him off, the stupid bitch. She knew it, too, did it deliberately. “I need to talk to her.”

“Are you referring to Cary?”

“No other reason I'd call you.”

“She isn't here. Why would you think she would be?”

He clenched a fist, swallowing all the words he wanted to yell. “Where is she?”

“What do you mean, where is she? What have you done to her? You sick bastard, if you've hurt her—”

He hung up before he ended up ripping out the phone, and flopped on the couch. Fumbling for the remote, he clicked on the television. When his glass was empty he opened another bottle of wine, and saw there was only one left. Couldn't even keep wine on the shelf. He had to do everything, earn all the money, make all the decisions, do all the work. What did she do? Nothing. Read all the time. Couldn't even buy a bottle of wine so he could have a relaxing drink when he got home. Well, he had ways of showing her he wasn't pleased. When she got back, he'd show her a few.

Like some clown in a sitcom, he turned his wrist to look at his watch and spilled wine on his pants. Goddamn it! Brushing at the wet spot, he grabbed her address book again, looking for her sister's number. What was it, an eight-hour drive to San Diego?

The sister's ten-year-old son answered. “Hey, buddy, how's it going?”

“Good.”

“I need to talk to your Aunt Cary. Put her on, will you?”

“Aunt Cary? Is she coming to see us? Cool. She's fun.”

In the background, he heart Sybil's voice calling, “Who is it, Bobby?”

“Uncle Mitch, he—”

Apparently Sybil snatched the phone from Bobby, because the next voice he heard was hers. “Mitch, what's wrong?”

“Put Cary on.”

“She's not here. What's wrong? What happened?”

He told Sybil to have Cary call him when she heard from her and hung up. She had other friends. He should call and—

Bank.

Should have done this first. He went through all the shit of press here for this and press the fuck there for that and finally got the checking account balance. It matched the numbers in the checkbook. He had to do all the same nonsense for the savings account, expecting it to be seriously depleted. When he heard the figure, he rubbed the back of his neck. She didn't take any money. How far could she run with no money?

Idiot programs came and went on the television set, the news came and went. At midnight he thought he should do something. Stumbling on the stairs, he went up to the bathroom, took a swig of mouthwash and swished it around, spat it out. He tucked in his shirt, grabbed a jacket, and drove to the department.

“Hey, Mitch,” Waters said, “you just come from a long party? You look like shit.”

Mitch ignored the cretin and went in to the lieutenant.

“Evening, Mitch.” Lieutenant Vargas leaned back in his swivel chair and tossed his pen on the cluttered desk. “Something I can do for you?”

“Talk to you for a minute?” Vargas always told the men they could come to him any time about anything, but he was an impatient kind of guy and didn't really like it when they took him up on it.

“Sure. Have a seat. Got a problem?”

“Yeah.” Mitch parked his rear in a chair in front of the desk and rubbed an index finger over his jaw. Now that he was here, he didn't know how to get started. Gave him some idea of how it was to be on the other side of the desk. He didn't like it.

The lieutenant looked at him, waiting.

“It's Cary.”

“What about her?”

“Something's wrong.”

“You got a marital problem, take it up with a counselor or your priest.”

“No, it's…” Mitch wished his head wasn't throbbing so much. He couldn't think straight. “She's missing.”

Vargas let the chair tilt level. “Explain missing. You guys have a fight?”

“Nothing like that.” Mitch took in a breath and spilled it. “She didn't come home tonight.”

“You been drinking, Mitch?”

“Couple of beers is all.”

“Uh-huh. Where'd she go?”

“I don't know. I expected her to be home when I got off work and she wasn't. So I figured she'd be there any minute, you know? But she wasn't, and I waited, thinking maybe car trouble or something and she'd call.”

“You make a few calls, try to find her?”

“Called friends. Checked hospitals to see if an accident…” Mitch put his palms on the tops of his legs and rubbed up and down. “I gotta tell you, I'm worried.”

“Could she have gone to visit a relative, a friend?”

“Not without telling me.”

Vargas crossed his arms and looked at him, like the son of a bitch was doubting what he said. “Level with me, Mitch. You and Cary get into it and she took off?”

“Naw, nothing like that.” Mitch didn't bother to mention she'd made him lose his temper last night and, before he realized what was happening, he popped her one. “She would call, Lieutenant.”

Vargas studied him like he would a suspect he thought was lying, then yelled, “Manny!”

Sergeant Manfred stuck his head in the door. “You wanted me, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah. Mitch's wife is missing. Get started on it.”

Manny looked at Mitch, then jerked his head toward the hallway and walked off. Mitch followed. Having to tell his coworkers his wife was gone. How did that look? Like he was some wimp who couldn't even keep track of his own wife.

Manny went behind his desk and sat down. Mitch hooked a foot around the chair leg and dragged it closer.

“You want to tell me what's going on?” Manny said.

“I'm worried sick, Manny.” Mitch told him he expected Cary to be home at five.

Manny looked at his watch. “It's been seven hours. Why'd you wait so long? You guys have a fight?”

“No.”

“Come on, Mitch, this is me. If she got mad and walked out, you need to tell me.” Manny sat back, hands behind his head.

Mitch said nothing.

“Okay, I'm going to need it all. Start with her full name.”

Cary Secunda Black. Five-three, blond, and blue. Last seen 6
A.M
. Wearing old, white terry cloth bathrobe. Recent pictures. Make, model, and color of car. License plate number.

“Relatives?”

“Just the one sister in San Diego. I called her. Cary isn't there.”

“I'll get this started,” Manny said.

“Thanks.” Mitch drove home and got to work on the last bottle of wine.

At three
A.M
. he stumbled up to bed. The whole place reeked of her perfume, the blankets, the pillows. Hell, the air in the room.

*   *   *

Raging thirst and a pounding head woke him. He'd forgotten to close the curtains and the sun streamed in, pooling on the carpet and catching dust motes dancing in the air. Cary ought to clean this place better. Stupid bitch can't do anything right.

Cary!

He rolled over and sat up too fast. Made his head swim. The sheets and blankets were tangled, the other side of the bed was empty.

Head pounding like a jackhammer, he found aspirin in the medicine cabinet, threw two into his mouth, and cupped his hand under the faucet for water to wash them down. He showered, shaved, got dressed, and drove to work.

It wasn't until the end of his shift that Manny contacted him to say no progress so far, but they would find her.

 

8

Ida ducked into the locker room to check her appearance in the mirror. Uniform pressed, shoes shined, belt, cuffs, extra clips, baton, gun. Hooking her thumbs over the belt, she gave it a tug of adjustment, brushed her hair, shook it loose, and concentrated on getting her breathing under control. For the second time in two days she was told to haul ass into the chief's office. Life can turn on you in the blink of an eye. Two weeks ago she'd been on top of the world, sitting on a cloud with a rosy glow. Now the cloud was a black thunderhead.

She'd messed up good. Almost got Osey killed. Damn it, how could she? Six months into a new job and she was making a mangle of everything. Her father always told her she'd never amount to anything. Well, Dad, right again. She could be flippant all she liked, but the bottom line was, she loved this job. She even loved this town and she wanted to do good on her first job as a cop. How likely was it she'd find a job with another department after getting fired from this one? Maybe she ought to take off running before she got the boot.

Okay now, let's not get any stupider. So I made a mistake.
Two, actually
. Okay, two. Two tiny mistakes won't get me axed, will it? Her mind, that mind that stood her in good stead when it came to tests but had some defects when it came to making judgment calls, pointed out that these mistakes weren't tiny. Both could have been fatal.

Ida pulled in a breath and marched into the chief's office. Chin up, back straight. Any man named Rather who called his only daughter Ida was setting her up to be a fighter. Ida started fighting in elementary school when her peers fell all over themselves laughing at such witty comments as Ida Rather be at the movies, Ida Rather sit with somebody else.

“You're running through partners like Ex-lax,” Chief Wren said. “At this rate, they'll be nobody left.” She sounded more weary than angry. “Tell me what happened.”

“Right,” Ida said. “We responded to a call with a hostage situation. All we knew was that this guy Simon—”

Oh Lord, Jen's grandfather was at it again. Something had to be done.

“—was barricaded in a house on Ivy Drive, shouting crazy stuff and popping at anything that moved.

A little girl, a three-year-old, was inside with him. Another kid, twelve-year-old boy, lay on the ground in the front yard. Hard to tell how badly he was hurt. Leaking blood, but yelling, so he was still alive. According to him, Lundstrom came hobbling along with a rifle, yelled ‘There you are!' and shot him. Lundstrom snatched up the kid's little sister and carted her into the house.”

“Who else was in the house?”

“Nobody. They were all next door. Kids playing outside, Mom's in the kitchen drinking coffee. Osey positioned me behind a tree and instructed me to keep the back door under surveillance.” Actually he'd said to keep her eyes glued on it and holler if it opened. Then he proceeded to the front of the house. The kitchen window was open and she could hear the suspect inside, yelling and carrying on. “‘Rat going down a rat hole. That's what they do. Stinking rats down a rat hole.' I could hear the little girl crying and calling for her mommy. Then.…”

Boom!

The rifle shot shattered the hot air and had her ducking, even though she was on the other side of the house away from the action. She hoped Osey was okay. He didn't seem like he had the sense to step away from a speeding bullet. She listened, hoping she'd hear something that meant he wasn't dead on the ground. She eyeballed her surroundings and spotted another door in the side of the house.

They might have a seriously injured little girl inside. If she sneaked in that side door while the sniper's attention was fixed on the front …

She keyed her radio. “There's a side door. I'll see if it's unlocked.”

“Ida, for God's sake—” Osey faded away in static.

She darted from behind her tree to the house, then plastered herself against the wall next to the door. She waited. Nothing happened. With a steady hand, she reached to the side for the doorknob and gave it a twist. It turned.

Before she could take a breath, or think a thought, the door snapped inward. The little girl screamed.

A wild-eyed man, breathing hard, pointed the shotgun at Ida's forehead.
Oh, shit, I'm dead.

“Stinking Nazis! Never take me alive!”
Boom!

Smoke and fire singed her cheek. The noise deafened her. Osey, blood streaming down his head, yelled.

The shooter racked another cartridge in the chamber. She went for her gun. He swung the barrel around, aimed at her face. She froze. Osey bowled into her knocking her off the step.
Boom!
They fell in a tangled heap. The shooter bolted.

Osey scrambled to his feet. “Simon! Simon!”

Simon hared off. Osey yelled and took off after him. He was covered in blood. She figured he'd drop down dead any second. She fumbled for her radio to call an ambulance and took off after Osey. Raising her gun, she got a bead on Simon's back, took a breath and eased her finger around the trigger and—

“No!” Osey, turning back, snarled at her. “For God's sake, put it away! You're gonna get somebody killed!”

Simon cackled. “Fucking Nazis. Deserve to die!”

For an old guy he was pretty spry. He whirled and fired off another round.

“Private Lundstrom!” Osey yelled.

The old man faltered. “Who're you?”

“Corporal Picket. You saved us.” Blood ran down Osey's face.

Simon looked confused. “I did?”

“Don't know what would have happened without you.”

“Slippery bastards. One went in a rat hole. Got one.”

“Need a medic.” Osey went up to the old guy, put an arm across his shoulder, and sagged against him.

Simon staggered under Osey's weight, fumbled to get a grip on his injured comrade. Osey plucked the shotgun away and held it out behind him. Quick as a frog's tongue, Ida snatched it. Osey, moaning and carrying on, talked to Simon with lines straight out of a World War II movie.