Blind Pursuit (10 page)

She hoped an angel, or somebody, was watching over Erin right now.

Her assistant, cutting roses and soaking them at a worktable behind the counter, looked up as she came in. “Any news?”

“I’ve got to go back to her apartment. A police detective is meeting me there.”

“A detective ...”

“Yeah, well, I thought it was time to get the professionals involved. Look, I’m sorry you had to handle Mrs. Garcia on your own.”

“She’s not so bad. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s already three forty-five. I’ll be involved with this for the rest of the day. Why don’t we close up now, and you can deliver the centerpiece to Antonio’s?”

“Antonio’s doesn’t need it till seven. I’ll close the shop at six-thirty, as usual, and drop it off on my way home.”

She was touched. “You don’t have to do all that. I mean, it’s beyond the call of duty and everything.”

“Just leave me the keys and get going. You’ve got more important things to do than talk to me.”

“Well ... okay.” She dropped the key ring on the counter. “Look, if any other local deliveries come up, use the messenger service. It’s better than leaving the place unattended.”

“I know, I know.”

“And if Euro-Flora calls again, tell them I double-checked the invoice, and I did order tulips.”

“Right.”

She hesitated. “You’re sure it’s no problem, running the store by yourself?”

“It’s a flower shop, Annie. Not a nuclear reactor. Now go.”

“I appreciate this. Really.”

As she was turning to leave, he said softly, “She’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

Caring words. She smiled at him.

“Thank you, Harold. Really. Thank you so much.”

He nodded, but he did not smile in answer.

That was the funny thing about her assistant.

Harold Gund never smiled.

18

Michael Walker hated cases like this.

He glanced at Annie Reilly, standing stiffly at his side in the elevator of the Pantano Fountains, watching the numbers change. He had a good idea of what he would be required to tell her before long.

In his thirteen years with the Tucson P.D., first as a young uniformed cop fresh from college, then as a detective working robbery-homicide, Walker had fielded countless missing-person reports. He knew every step of the dance he and Annie were in the midst of performing ... and how that dance would end.

He only hoped she would understand. The barely controlled anxiety that had frozen her in a pose of unnatural rigidity was not cause for optimism.

Unobtrusively he studied Annie’s reflection on the polished inner doors of the elevator. She was slender and petite, her skin glowing with a light suntan. A pale green dress accented her eyes and made a pleasing contrast with her loose red hair.

Standing beside her in the reflected image was a man in a brown, slightly rumpled suit jacket and a crooked gray tie, a man with close-cropped sandy hair the color of desert soil.

People told Michael Walker he looked like a native Arizonan, a true desert rat. He was long-boned and lean, and he moved with unhurried ease. His face was carved into the flat planes and sharp angles of a movie cowboy’s classic features, the skin stretched drum-head-tight over the bones. His unconscious tendency to squint produced a cluster of faint creases at the corners of his eyes.

Though he shaved every morning, by midday a shadow of beard stubble invariably would emerge, becoming obvious by late afternoon. Once aware of this, he had bought a cordless shaver, which he stowed in his desk or car, but on busy days like today, he found no opportunity to use it.

A cowhand, folks thought when they took note of his lanky form and narrowed eyes. One of the originals. Last of a dying breed.

Untrue. He was no great outdoorsman. Didn’t even like the desert’s summer heat and dryness, tolerated those conditions purely for the sake of the comfortable winters. Born and raised in Chicago, he had suffered through his share of ice storms and blizzards. His intention was never to shovel snow again.

So after four years at Chicago State, he’d moved west, ending up in Tucson. But a cowboy? Horses made him sneeze.

The elevator doors separated. “Her apartment is this way,” Annie said eagerly, leading him down the hall.

“Nice building.” Walker observed fresh paint on the baseboards, new carpet, polished fixtures. A luxury residential complex in a desirable east-side location. A top-floor unit here wouldn’t come cheap. “Your sister seems to be doing quite well.”

“Psychology pays. There are a lot of screwed-up people out there. Yours truly being a prime example.”

“Do you always put yourself down like that?”

Annie stopped before a closed door and fished a set of keys out of her purse. “I don’t mean to. It’s just that I’ve always felt that Erin and I are sort of a yin and yang. She’s everything I’m not, and vice versa. And she’s got her head on so straight, mine feels crooked by comparison.”

Walker smiled. “Well, it looks okay to me.”

Before exploring the apartment, he took a closer look at the front door. There was only one lock, a dead bolt. He saw no scratches on the jamb or faceplate, no indications of tampering.

Following Annie inside, he surveyed a spacious living room, tastefully furnished and exceptionally clean.

“Did your sister leave the lights on?”

“No. That was me. I must’ve forgotten to turn them off. Maybe I shouldn’t have even come here, huh? I might have contaminated the crime scene.”

Walker smiled at that. “We don’t know if it is a crime scene,” he said gently, “or even if there’s been a crime.”

He circled the room. The furniture and decorations appeared undisturbed. The entertainment center, stocked with expensive electronics, was untouched.

A sliding door framed a balcony. Locked. The glass intact.

Annie watched him expectantly, as if imagining that any moment he would release a shout of triumph and deduce her sister’s whereabouts.

No, he was not looking forward to the conversation they would be having in a few minutes. Not at all.

On the mantel was a framed photo portrait—two women, both redheaded, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing at the camera. One was Annie; the other, whom he recognized from her M.V.D. photo, was Erin.

Both were attractive but in different ways. There was an austerity, a cool and level seriousness, to Erin Reilly, despite her smiling face. Annie, by contrast, appeared mischievous, playful, something of a rascal.

Walker had seen her smile only in this photo. A pleasant smile. He remembered her saying that Erin was beautiful and she herself was not. He disagreed.

“That’s us,” Annie said, stepping to his side.

“Was it taken recently?”

“Last November. Around Thanksgiving. I remember we posed for it at lunchtime. The photographer kept coming on to us, and we pretended to be interested. We were in ... kind of a silly mood....”

Her voice trailed off as she came back to the present—the empty apartment, the missed appointments, Erin gone.

In the den Walker found a potted schefflera, shelves of psychology books and periodicals, a computer and laser printer. There were no printouts in the tray.

“Does she use the computer exclusively for business?” he asked Annie, who stood attentively in the doorway. It occurred to him that he sounded like an IRS agent.

“Mostly. She keeps a journal on it, though.”

“A personal journal?”

“I think so. I’m not really sure, actually.”

“Well, you might want to consider booting it up. Not now—when you’re alone. There could be some clue to her state of mind.”

“State of mind? You mean you think she ran off on her own? Voluntarily?”

“People do.”

“Not Erin.”

It was too soon to be talking about this. Walker didn’t press the point.

The bathroom was clean and scrubbed. “Her towels are dry,” Annie said from her vantage point in the hall. “The shower too.”

Walker had observed both details. He was more interested in the medicine cabinet. Two of the glass shelves were nearly empty. From what was left, he could make a good guess as to which items had been taken—toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, hairbrush, deodorant.

Not things a burglar would want. But Erin Reilly would take them if she were going on a trip.

On the top shelf, among the aspirin and the cold remedies, was a bottle of pills labeled TEGRETOL. He showed it to Annie. “Erin’s epilepsy medicine?”

“Yes. That’s what she takes.”

“I’m surprised she doesn’t carry it with her.”

“I thought she did. In her purse. Maybe this is an extra bottle.”

He checked the label again, then replaced the pills on the shelf. “Yes, it’s a recent refill of her prescription. She probably hasn’t run out of the previous batch yet.”

Bedroom next. The bed was unmade, sheets sagging in broken ridges like a cake’s melted icing. Nothing damaged, no sign of a struggle.

The jewelry box on the dresser was still crammed with necklaces and earrings. Two hundred dollars in emergency cash remained in the most obvious, even proverbial, of hiding places—the sock drawer. Her wristwatch lay on the nightstand.

“I hadn’t noticed that,” Annie said when Walker pointed it out.

“Does she have another watch?”

Annie stared at the small gold-plated Armitron. “Not that I know of. And she
always
wears a watch whenever she goes anywhere. She’s ... she’s very punctual.”

Walker digested this information without comment.

The windows were shut. Heat pressed against the panes. The locks had not been forced.

Last, he checked the closet. Empty hangers, many of them. Nothing in the laundry basket.

Slowly he nodded.

Annie observed the brief incline of his head and was instantly alongside him. “Find something?”

He saw it in her face, in the wide green eyes and pursed lips—the desperate hopefulness, the intense need for answers.

This was when she expected him to make his brilliant deduction, prove his criminalistic skills.
Do you see this speck of dust, Annie? It’s found only in the forests of southern Romania—thus proving that your sister was kidnapped by Gypsies
.

Something like that.

He didn’t answer at once. He took a moment to peer into the back of the closet, where two items of luggage were stored. A carry-on bag and a large suitcase. There was a space between them where another suitcase, apparently of intermediate size, had stood.

“How familiar are you with Erin’s wardrobe?” he asked.

“We trade clothes all the time.”

“Can you take a look at what’s here and get some idea of which items, if any, are missing?”

Annie registered disappointment. This was hardly the stunning breakthrough she’d anticipated. “Sure. I can do that.”

He waited while she took inventory.

“As best I can tell,” she said finally, “three outfits are missing.” Puzzlement had replaced worry in her expression for the first time.

“Items suitable for spring?”

“Two skirts and, I think, a pair of shorts. Three blouses, all short-sleeve. Oh, and a pair of boots. I don’t see her robe either.”

“Pajamas? Slippers?”

“She’s got several pair of each. I can’t be sure.”

“Some things were taken from the bathroom also. Toothbrush, comb—toiletries. And there’s a suitcase missing from her luggage set.”

Annie sat on the bed, her features suddenly slack. “You’re saying she packed a bag and left.”

“Looks like it.”

The slow shaking of her head was oddly mechanical, a robot’s programmed routine. “She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. I mean—it’s not like her at all.”

He stood near the bed, looking down on her, the red curls thick on her shoulders, her hands steepled in her lap. “In my experience,” he said, “no matter how well we think we know someone, there’s always a surprise lurking somewhere.”

“Not this kind of surprise. Not with Erin.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. But everything points to the conclusion that your sister went away on an unscheduled trip.”

“Without telling me—or anyone? Without even leaving a note?”

“It happens.”

“But she didn’t take her Tegretol. Or her watch.”

“She probably has enough of the medicine left from the last refill of her prescription. As for the watch ... Maybe she bought a new one you don’t know about. Or maybe she just forgot. Or she wants to get away from schedules and deadlines for a while.”

“Schedules and deadlines are her
life
.” He heard despair in her voice.

Walker hesitated, then sat beside her. The mattress springs creaked, and the Smith .38 in his armpit holster rubbed against his ribs.

“Maybe,” he said slowly, “she needs a temporary break from her life. All of us do now and then.”

“She flipped out?
Erin?
”

“That’s putting it a little strong. Look, Annie, it sounds to me as if your sister subjects herself to a lot of pressure. A place for everything and everything in its place. Never late for an appointment, never irresponsible, never out of control. It’s hard to maintain that kind of discipline day after day.”

“Not for her. That’s just the way she is.”

‘Then there’s this to consider. She’s a psychologist. The mental-health professions have among the highest rates of”—
suicide
, he nearly said, but checked himself—“burnout. Dealing with other people’s problems all day can get pretty grim. Erin simply may have needed some time off.”

Annie looked at him, and he saw stripes of wetness on her cheeks. “I talked to her on the phone yesterday. We made a lunch date. She didn’t sound depressed or overworked or stressed out. She was fine.”

“You don’t know what she might have been hiding.”

“We don’t hide stuff from each other.”

“Everybody hides something.”

“Not us.” Anger flashed in her eyes. He thought of gemstones catching the light. “We’re close. We’ve always been. Ever since ...”

The spark died then, and her eyes were glassy and cold.

“Since ...?” Walker prompted.

She gazed at her restless hands. “Since we were seven years old. We lost our parents, you see. We were orphaned together.”

Gently he touched her arm. “How did that happen?”

“Fire.” The word a whisper.

He didn’t know what to say. The question that came out of his mouth was safely factual and meaningless. “Was this in Tucson?”