About That Night (3 page)

He said okay, but even though she'd agreed to give him what he wanted, he didn't leave. Not right away. He stood there, frosted breath streaming out of his nostrils, as thick as cigarette smoke, and looked at her. Then turned and looked through the window into the living room.

“Maugham has it,” he said.

“What?”

“Your boyfriend.” Just the way he said it irked her. “He has the bracelet. Did you give it to him or what?”

“No.” Why would she do that? “What makes you think he has it?”

“I saw him with it.” He glanced at the living room window again, and this time Jordie followed his gaze. Derek was standing there, only half hidden by the curtain, peering out at them. “He's here tonight?”

“He's been here for a couple of days. His parents are out of town, and my mom said he could stay over.” She knew what Ronan was thinking:
Your mom never said I could stay
over. She never even liked to have me in the house.
What he said, though, was:

“Stay over? For how long?”

“Until his parents get back tomorrow afternoon.”

Ronan digested this. “Yeah, well, he has my bracelet.”

She let that ride—
my
bracelet, as if it still belonged to him.

“I'll look for it,” she said. “I'll give it back to you.”

Funny, it didn't occur to her to doubt Ronan when he said Derek had the bracelet. She isn't sure how she feels about that. On the one hand, as far as she knows and despite his many other faults, she is one hundred percent rock-solid certain that Ronan wasn't lying to her. On the other hand, what kind of person believes her ex-boyfriend's description of events when it flies in the face of the tale recounted by her current boyfriend?

The minute Ronan had left—after she'd watched him go, all the while wishing he would stay—she'd gone up to her room and checked the top drawer of her dresser, which is where she had put the bracelet after she and Ronan broke up.

It wasn't there.

So then, with Ronan's words still in her mind, she had gone downstairs and asked Derek if he'd taken it.

Accused him of stealing the bracelet from her room, in fact, and grilled him as if she were a cop and he were a thief.

He said he hadn't taken it, but did that put an end to it? Of course not. She'd let it eat at her for hours—for the whole length of a movie plus commercials—and then started in on him again. And he stuck to his guns:
I didn't
take it, the guy's an idiot, and by the way, you ruined the
(so-called) anniversary present I had planned for you.

So she did what any sane person would do if her ex-boyfriend showed up and asked for a gift back (right?). She tore her room apart looking for the bracelet. But she didn't find it. What did that mean? Was Ronan right? Had Derek taken it? And if he had, if he'd stolen it out of her dresser, why? She could understand—she would never forgive it, but she could understand it—if he was jealous that she'd kept something Ronan had given her. She could imagine him taking it and throwing it away—because if she were with, say, Ronan, and he was hanging on to something from an ex-girlfriend, that was what she'd want to do (whether she would actually do it was an open question), right along with wanting to know why he was keeping something like that (which Ronan, being Ronan, would probably never tell her). But to steal it and then take it to school where Ronan could see it? That didn't make sense.

She swings herself off the bed. It's two in the morning. Everything can wait. But she knows she can't sleep, not with Ronan's face dancing in front of her eyes, not with these feelings in her belly, the ones she hasn't felt in months. Instead, she starts to put everything away. She works slowly, methodically, scarcely giving a thought to the bracelet. Instead, she's thinking about Ronan. He drives her crazy the way he never quite opens up, never talks about what he's feeling—well, except to kiss her and hold her, and she knows for a fact that he loves to smell her hair. Whenever he did, whenever he buried his face in it, he almost always smiled. He liked to hold her hand when they walked to and from school—and anywhere else, for that matter. He liked to go to the library with her, and when he was there, he actually did his homework, which wasn't something you could always say about Ronan.

By the time she has everything returned to its place and still hasn't found the bracelet, she is imagining how upset Ronan will be when she tells him it's missing. Derek must have taken it. Because if Ronan says he saw Derek with the bracelet, it must be true. She hopes Derek hasn't done something stupid, like get rid of it. She's furious that he took it in the first place. Ronan would never do something like that, infuriating as he is in his own way. She'll get that bracelet back from Derek if it's the last thing she does. Then she'll give Derek a piece of her mind. In fact…she stops what she's doing. Oh, Jesus. She's going to break up with Derek. He isn't what she wanted after all.

Four

P
olice Lieutenant Michael Diehl, on leave for two months now, ever since his father-in-law died, jogs back up the hill, his heavy breathing sucking the frigid air deep into his lungs until they feel as frozen as his high-booted feet. The sky is thick with low-hanging gray clouds. It snowed all night, and it's going to start again soon. When it starts, it isn't going to stop for hours, maybe days.

Diehl's house—the one he moved into when he married Elise, the same house Elise grew up in and that was made over to her in her father's will—is just up ahead. But instead of turning in there, he veers right and runs—well, staggers—across to the foot of the Maughams' driveway. There's no trace of car tracks, but for all he knows they could have returned while he was out. He jogs up the snow-covered front walk and rings the doorbell.

No answer. He rings again. Still no answer. Okay, so they're obviously not back yet. Not that they would be much help. As he trudges back down the path to the driveway, he does what he should have done hours ago. He digs his cell phone out of his pocket and presses one of the pre-programmed numbers.

“It's Elise,” he says to the voice at the other end. “She's gone. Again.”

He listens to what the voice says, then goes inside. By the time a couple of patrol officers ring his bell, he's changed into dry clothes and has downed a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He knows the two officers—one on the job less than a year, bright, eager and ambitious; the other solid enough but never keen to climb the ladder, waiting for retirement and a pension that is less than five years away. He tells them how long he thinks Elise has been missing and where he's looked, and they diligently write it all down, asking a lot of questions, eager (especially the younger one) to make a good impression because, after all, he outranks them. In fact, he's their boss. He tells them everything he can think of—where he's found her before, where she likes to go on the days when she is able to express a preference, the places she used to frequent when she was a girl.

“She grew up right here in this house,” he says. “And people like her, people with her illness, sometimes the only memories they can dredge up are memories from a long time ago.”

“I heard that,” the younger patrol officer says. “I read an article. It was about Holocaust survivors who develop Alzheimer's. They freak out, and I mean really freak out, because all they can remember is being back in the camps.”

Diehl looks at the kid, impressed that he reads but at the same time sincerely hoping this isn't the kind of thing he'd say to a civilian whose loved one was missing.

Someone else rings the doorbell. Diehl goes to the door. It's Neil Tritt, and he's looking down.

“Looks like you need fresh weather stripping,” he says.

Diehl can't begin to imagine what he is talking about.

“You're leaking heat,” Tritt says. “The bottom of your door is frosted over.”

If it had been any other day or under any other circumstances, Diehl might have laughed. Tritt is a born detective. He notices things that other people—other detectives—don't see. Like now. He looks up from the door and sees the expression on Diehl's face.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Force of habit.”

“Come in.” Diehl bears no ill will. If anything, he's glad Tritt is here. He's grateful for someone he can really talk to. Tritt and Diehl came up at the same time. They patrolled together and made detective together. It doesn't seem to bother Tritt at all that Diehl is now his superior. They have the same easy, comradely relationship they've always had.

“Mike, how ya holding up?”

“It's cold out there.”

“Was she wearing a coat?”

Diehl shakes his head. “I checked. All her coats are in the closet.”

“Do you have any idea when she left?”

“Sometime between ten last night, when we went to bed, and eight this morning, when I woke up.” His face twists in anguish. “I can't believe I didn't hear anything. Usually, all she has to do is move and I wake up.”

Tritt lays a hand on his shoulder. “You look exhausted. You were probably worn out. I know I would be if I were in your shoes.” He turns to the patrol officers. “I've got some more guys coming. I want everyone out there looking.” Back to Diehl. “You got a recent picture?”

Diehl pulls out his wallet and extracts a head shot. “I had it taken last month at the mall. You know, just in case.” His voice breaks. Jesus, another couple of seconds, he thinks, and I'll be sobbing like a baby. What will Tritt think? What will the patrol officers think? That this thing has broken him, that's what. He's off for two scant months and, what do you know, there he is, falling apart at the seams. Well, they can think what they want. You do what you have to do.

“Get copies made,” Tritt says to one of the officers. “Make sure everyone has one. And make sure the lieutenant gets the original back. See that the local paper gets one and runs it. And the
TV
station. And remember—in fact, tell everyone—she may not answer to her name. That's right, isn't it, Mike?”

Diehl nods. Sometimes she turns her head when he says her name. The rest of the time, it's as if she hasn't heard. Or as if he's talking to someone else altogether. Which he might as well be, because she sure isn't the same woman he married. Not even close. Not only that, but he can't remember the last time she looked at him with genuine recognition or said his name.

The two patrol officers leave. Diehl sinks down onto a chair. The temperature has dropped precipitously since last night. Since she wasn't wearing a coat, she'll be in trouble—unless, of course, she's managed to find shelter. And that's assuming she's had the good sense to think about something as practical as shelter.

Five

I
t's three o'clock in the afternoon, and still nothing. In another couple of hours, the sun will have sunk below the horizon, and then it will be up to the Christmas lights to cast what illumination they can. Three police cars sit on the road in front of the house. Tritt stands next to one of them, giving Diehl the lowdown. Diehl has been out most of the day himself, after his brief warm-up. Tritt is going over all the places they've looked—some of them are the same ones Diehl himself checked—and probing for other places Elise might be.

“Honestly, I don't know,” Diehl says. “I feel like I don't know anything anymore. I thought I'd covered every place she's been. This town isn't that big.”

A gray Chevy Impala crests the hill and slows as it approaches. Diehl and Tritt both watch it. It's Richard Maugham's car. The driver's-side window whirs down as the car draws even with the end of Diehl's driveway.

“Everything okay, Mike?” Maugham asks.

“It's Elise. She's missing.” He jogs over to the car.

“Missing?” Marsha Maugham, slim and still attractive at forty-eight, leans across her husband, her brow furrowed. “In this cold? I hope she hasn't been gone long.”

“Since sometime last night or this morning,” Diehl says. “I'm not sure. She got out of the house while I was asleep.”

“Give me a minute to get changed and I'll help you look,” Maugham says.

“We've been out since this morning,” Diehl says. “Have a whole search party out.” He glances at Tritt, who nods. “We'll be at it again first thing in the morning.”

“We'll be there,” Maugham says. “I'll get hold of Derek. He can help too.”

“He's not home,” Diehl says. “I rang your bell earlier to see if you were home yet—you know, to see if you'd seen her.”

“He's been staying at his girlfriend's house,” Marsha says. “He'd rather spend time with her than go to visit his grandmother.”

“At his girlfriend's house, huh?” Diehl says. “Safe under her parents' watchful eyes, is that the idea? You sure he didn't sneak her over here last night?” He winks at Maugham.

“Well, we're assuming her parents have been riding herd on them,” Maugham says. “But I guess you never know.”

“Richard!” Marsha sounds scandalized by such a notion.

Maugham shoots her a look. “You're going to tell me your parents knew where we were all the time, never mind what we were doing?”

Marsha blushes. She glances at Diehl, clearly wishing he wasn't standing there.

Maugham is oblivious. “The minute I get hold of Derek, I'll ask him if he saw anything.”

“That'd be great,” Diehl says. “Thanks.” He watches as Maugham steers the car into his driveway, the garage door sliding up to receive them and then down again, swallowing both car and passengers. Lights go on inside the house.

Diehl jogs back to Tritt.

Six

J
ordie Cross listens to the first few words of the recorded message for the sixth time that day: “Hey, it's Derek. Leave a mess—” before pressing the Off button and tossing the phone onto her just-made bed. It's like a fever. Now that she's in the grips of it, now that she's made up her mind, it can't wait. She has to talk to Derek, the sooner the better. But this isn't the kind of thing she can say in a voice-mail message.