Every Fifteen Minutes (21 page)

“No, I called the police and also left another message for Max, but I haven't heard from him, either.”

“I'll make dinner, and you try to chill out. I'm sure we'll hear from them soon.” Laurie gestured around the room. “What do you think of the place?”

Eric tried to rally, looking around the boxy two-bedroom on the first floor of a brick complex of low-profile, garden-type apartments. The living room/dining room was a large white rectangle filled with a dining set of dark wood that coordinated with a big tan sofa, oversized chairs, lacquered black bookshelves, and a matching entertainment case. There was a sisal rug, and two windows at the far end of the room that overlooked a tall green hedge meant to hide the parking lot. The windows had actual curtains, which was more than Eric could say for himself. Vibrant modern art lined the walls, with colorful abstract shapes that looked like Rorschach tests, but he kept that thought to himself. He answered, “The place is great.”

“Really?” Laurie flashed him an uncertain smile, and Eric realized that she wanted reassurance, a vulnerable side to her he hadn't seen before.

“Yes, I like the art. I don't have any art up yet.”

“Thanks. They're old-school Matisse prints. They're my favorite. Aren't they so pretty?”

“Yes.” Eric realized he'd inadvertently said the right thing.

“Do you want water or a gin and tonic?” Laurie walked into a pretty, clean kitchen with sunny yellow walls and butcher-block countertops.

“Just water, please. I have to keep my wits about me.”

“Okay.” Laurie opened the door to the refrigerator, which was stocked to the gills. Green kale, romaine, and beets in plastic bags stuffed the shelves, next to strawberries, blueberries, and plastic tubs of chopped pineapple and cantaloupe.

“Your fridge looks like a produce section. You have all this, for yourself?” Eric stopped short of asking,
why?

“Of course. I count, don't I? I love to cook.” Laurie gestured at the food comically, like a game show hostess. “What would you like for dinner? I can make salmon with dill, sole with butter and capers, or a nice, big salad.”

“Whatever's quickest and easiest.”

“A salad, okay? That'll be quickest.”

“Perfect. Great.” Eric glanced at the phone, and the time read 7:32. It had been almost an hour since Max had called him, and he couldn't imagine what must be going on. Maybe the police had been delayed in getting there or maybe they'd come and gone. Eric thought about Hannah, realizing that he might be too busy later to call her. “Laurie, do you mind if I make a quick call? I want to call Hannah.”

“No worries, go ahead.” Laurie finished pouring him a glass of water from a Britta pitcher and brought it over to him. “You can go in my girl cave if you want privacy. If you stay here, the reception is best by the door. I think there's a cell tower down or something.”

“Thanks.” Eric walked to the door, scrolled to Favorites, and pressed Call. The phone rang, then a recording came on saying, “This number is no longer in service. Please call customer service between the hours of nine and five, Monday through Friday.” Eric hung up. He must've dialed wrong or maybe it was the faulty reception. He pressed Hannah's number again, the phone rang, but again, it was picked up by the recording, which said, “This number is no longer in service…” Eric hung up, angry. “Unbelievable.”

“What's the matter?” Laurie looked over from the kitchen, where she was chopping romaine lettuce on a white cutting board.

“Hannah's phone's been disconnected. I think Caitlin is playing games.”

“Why would she do that?”

“We're fussing over custody. In fact, we're about to have a custody battle.”

“Whoa, I didn't know.” Laurie paused in her chopping.

“It just happened, I decided.” Eric's gut tensed. “I'm calling my lawyer. Bear with me.”

“Go for it.” Laurie resumed chopping.

Eric scrolled to find Susan's cell number and pressed Call. The phone rang but went to voicemail, and he left a message: “Susan, please call me as soon as you can. I think Caitlin has disconnected Hannah's phone.” Eric hung up, then scrolled back to Favorites, where Caitlin's cell number was still listed. He pressed Call, and the phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail. “Damn it!”

“She's not picking up?”

“No. We have to talk through lawyers now.” Eric rubbed his forehead, listening to his ex-wife's cheery outgoing message, which tonight was making his blood boil. When the beep sounded, he reminded himself to sound calm, for the record: “Caitlin, I'm trying to reach Hannah to say good night, like I do every night, but for some reason her phone has been disconnected. I'm sure this must be just a mistake. Can you please ask her to call me to say good night? Thanks so much.” Eric hung up, exhaling.

Laurie looked over. “You should have that gin and tonic.”

“No, I'm fine,” Eric said, getting his bearings. His marital issues paled in comparison to what was going on with Max. He prayed to God the boy hadn't hurt himself. “I don't know what's keeping the cops. Would your staff call you if he were brought into the ED?”

“Yes, I called and asked them to on the way here. The cops are probably handling the situation, they're pretty good in Radnor.” Laurie brought two blue-patterned plates to the table and set them down.

“I could call one of the higher-ups in the precinct.” Suddenly, Eric's cell phone started ringing. He looked down, didn't recognize the number on the screen, and answered it immediately. “This is Dr. Parrish.”

“Dr. Parrish, Officer Charles Gambia. We are at the Teichner residence on 310 Newton Road, in Berwyn.”

Eric recognized the address as Max's. “Yes, how's the boy, Max Jakubowski? Can I speak with him?”

“He's not here, Dr. Parrish.”

“What?” Eric asked, surprised.

“He's not here. His mother is here, and the body of the deceased has been taken away by representatives from the funeral home.”

“But where's the boy?” Eric felt more worried than ever.

“He wasn't here when we arrived. We did a walk-through but the house is clear.”

Eric's thoughts raced. “Does his mother know where he is?”

“No.”

“When did you get there?”

“We arrived at approximately 6:45
P
.
M
., Doctor. We were in the vicinity and came over directly.”

Eric pieced it together. So the police had gotten there quickly, but too late to stop Max from leaving. Still that was forty-five minutes ago. “Why did you wait to call me? Were you looking for him?”

“We've been dealing with the mother since then, Marie Jakubowski. She's in quite a state.”

“She must be, with her mother just having passed. Could I speak with her?”

“Uh, well—” Officer Gambia hesitated. “I'll ask her. She's right here.”

“Thanks.” Eric heard a commotion on the other end of the line, then the voice of a crying woman, saying something he couldn't understand.

“Dr. Parrish?” Officer Gambia said, back on the phone. “She doesn't want to take the call. Excuse me, but my partner and I have to go. We got another call.”

“Okay, but what about Max? Is there anything you can do to locate him?”

“He's not a missing person, so we can't put out an APB.”

“But isn't there anything else?”

“No. Check back later, give us a call.”

“I understand. Thanks.”

“Good-bye.” Officer Gambia hung up the phone.

Eric pressed End, his thoughts churning. He turned around to see that Laurie had set the dining-room table for a great dinner. In a wooden bowl in the center of the table was a huge romaine salad with sliced avocado, roasted peppers, and crumbled feta on top, next to a plate of crusty seeded bread and a block of butter. Beside one of the plates stood a glass of water and a tall, icy gin and tonic.

“Any luck?” Laurie rested a hand on the table, eyeing him with concern.

“No.” Eric felt a twinge of regret, but he had to go. “Dinner looks amazing, but will you forgive me if I can't stay?”

 

Chapter Twenty-five

It was dark by the time Eric reached the warren of half-stone split-level homes in the downscale, seventies-era development, and he cruised up a curved street that had no streetlamps, dark except for the lights, flickering television sets, and glowing computer monitors inside the houses. He pulled up opposite Max's house, parked, and cut off the ignition, scanning the scene.

Max's house was two stories tall and so low-profile that it was barely visible behind the wildly overgrown hedges. A dark Toyota sat parked in the driveway; it had to belong to Max or his mother. The house had no outside light fixture, but the glow of the curtains told him that someone was home.

Eric got out of the car, pocketed his keys, and hurried across the street, walking up the driveway. He reached the small porch in front of the house, which had a narrow roof that did little to shelter a few white PVC chairs, a tattered beach chair, and a grimy white ashtray shaped like a cigarette that read Butt Out! There was a large picture window in the front of the house, but the curtains were completely drawn, though he could hear the sound of a television inside.

He knocked on the weathered front door and waited a few minutes, but there was no answer. He knocked again, harder, then waited again. He wasn't worried about whether coming here constituted a boundary violation; on the contrary, now that he feared Max was suicidal, Eric had an obligation to inform his mother of that fact. Abruptly the door opened to reveal the outline of a short woman in a bathrobe, whose features he couldn't see because she stood in silhouette. He assumed it was Eric's mother. “Mrs. Jakubowski?”

“Yeah. I'm Marie.”

“I'm Dr. Parrish, a psychiatrist who's been treating your son Max. Please accept my condolences on the loss of your—”

“What psychiatris'? I don't know anything about a psychiatris.'”

“May I come in and talk with you, about Max?”

“Okay.” Marie pulled the door open, edging backwards unsteadily, trailing the hem of her bathrobe, and Eric stepped inside the house. The air smelled like chilled cigarette smoke, and in the light, he could see in Marie the telltale signs of an alcoholic: jowly cheeks, watery bloodshot blue eyes, deep-set lids at half-mast, and broken capillaries on her cheeks and nose. She was probably in her late forties but looked a decade older.

“Marie, I'm concerned about Max. He's not here, is he?” Eric glanced around the small living room, with the curtains shut tight on the front window and covering the top half of another window, which held a rattling air conditioner. An oversized brown couch sat pressed against the paneled wall next to a brown plaid recliner, matching a faded brown-patterned rug. Brown and blue prescription bottles cluttered a heavy end table, which also held a full glass ashtray, dirty plastic cups sweating circles onto the wood surface, and an open bottle of Smirnoff's. Eric sensed the house was otherwise empty, because the rooms beyond the living room were dark and quiet.

“No, he's not here. Like I
told
the cops, he's not here. He's gone, vamoosed, see ya later, alligator.” Marie slurred her words, her gaze unfocused, and Eric, who had seen so many impaired patients in the ED that he was almost as good as some of the police at accurately assessing the level of alcohol impairment, placed her at twice the legal limit. He doubted she'd be able to understand him, but he had to try anyway.

“Marie, I came because I'm worried about him. I'm very concerned that in the aftermath of your mother's death, he may try to harm himself—”

“Are you really Max's psychiatris'? Who pays for
that
?” Marie snorted. “Don't tell me, lemme guess. My
sainted mother,
right?”

Eric was appalled, if not completely surprised, by her reaction. “Yes, your mother did pay, but do you understand what I'm telling you? I'm telling you that Max could be suicidal. It's important that we find him, right away. Was he here when you were here?”

“Yeah, until I tol' him to call whoever and get the damn commode and bed outta the room.” Marie made a vague motion, flapping her hand at the room in general. Her blue chenille bathrobe fell open, revealing that she was nude underneath, but the prospect was hardly appealing. “I didn' wanna look at a
toilet
in the damn living room, every time I come in the damn house. I'm the lady of the house, but they never treated me that way, especially him, and he started yellin' and he lef', he ran right outta the door, just took off without another word, just like his dad, you know what they say about the acorn and the tree.”

Eric felt a pang of sympathy for Max, imagining the boy grief-stricken and his mother talking about toilets. “Do you have any idea where Max could be? Any places he liked to hang, like Starbucks, the library, the mall, anything?”

“Starbucks? Are you kidding? God knows where he goes, ever. Only place in the mall he ever goes is that damn video game store. You wanna know where he is, ask my mother. Oops. Oh, right.” Marie cackled, a darker echo of her mother's mischievous cackle. “I tell you this, those two were peas inna pod, and she took
good care
of him in that will of hers. She always told me she wasn't leaving me
a dime,
it was all going to him.” Marie frowned suddenly. “Now, what kinda thing is that to say to your only daughter, your
only child
? You're the psychiatris', isn't that
toxic
? That's a
toxic person
right there. Same with the life insurance, she already told me he was her beneficiary. The only way
I
get any money is if he
dies.
”