Finding Claire Fletcher (16 page)

Stryker raised his head in acknowledgment as Connor leaned against the edge of the desk, waiting for Stryker to finish his call.

When the detective hung up he took a moment to disentangle himself from the phone cord, muttering expletives under his breath before grinning at Connor. “Hey Shoot-em-up, what are you doing here so early on a Saturday? Thought you desk jockeys went fishing on the weekends.”

“Cute,” Connor said. “Where’s the wife?”

“Fuck you, Parks,” Stryker said without malice. He bobbed his head toward Boggs’ desk. “Fucker’s doing some family shit this weekend. Left me to follow up on these damn witness statements. It’s all right though. I’m saving the real combative ones for him. What’s up?”

Connor pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I need a last known,” he said, handing it to Stryker. On it Connor had written the name of the woman who had owned a blue Pontiac Parisienne station wagon and lived in Dinah Strakowski’s neighborhood in 1995. “That’s where she lived ten years ago. I need to know where she is now.”

Stryker placed the sheet on his desk and turned to his computer. “Irene Geary,” he said, manipulating the mouse with small but swift movements. “You might get more than one—name isn’t real common like a John Smith or something, but there’s probably more than one. You want to search the whole country or just the state?”

“Let’s start with the state,” Connor said.

Stryker worked silently and quickly, absorbed in the task. His hands worked as if they were extensions of the computer. Connor grinned as he watched. Stryker was the division’s technology guru. Short but stout and well-muscled from a daily regimen of running and weightlifting, Stryker looked more like he belonged in front of some trendy bar serving as a bouncer or acting as bodyguard for some important public figure than behind a computer.

But the rest of the guys came to him when their own computer skills failed them. If anyone could find what they were looking for, it was Stryker. Connor could have done the search himself, using his own computer, but he knew Stryker would have an address within minutes whereas it might take Connor a couple of hours to get the desired information from his own temperamental computer.

“Two in the state,” Stryker said. “What the fuck are you grinning at?”

Connor laughed. “Nothing. It’s just that you’re gonna make a damn fine receptionist someday.”

“Fuck you, Parks,” Stryker said. He printed out the names and addresses and widened his search to include the rest of the country.

Connor pulled the printout from Stryker’s printer tray and looked over the other man’s shoulder. “The Internet?” he said. “Jeez, Stryke, I could have done that.”

Stryker grinned. “No you couldn’t. You dumb shits are lucky you can get a computer to boot up, let alone navigate the Internet. It’s always, ‘Stryke, I can’t find this,’ or ‘Stryke, this file won’t come up’ or ‘Stryke, my computer took a shit.’ I oughta give seminars. That way I could spend more time cracking down on shit-wad perps instead of doing everyone’s goddamn work for them.”

“Yeah, we’re so lucky to have you,” Connor responded.

Stryker printed out another sheet of paper. “Fucking Internet white pages baby,” he said appreciatively. “Now I’m gonna use another database to see if I can get a social security number to go with that vehicle registration, and we’ll just see which one of these Irene Gearys is the lucky winner.”

Connor waited, tapping his fingers against the edge of Stryker’s chair.

Fifteen minutes later, Stryker had a winner. The Irene Geary that Connor was looking for now lived in Arizona. Stryker printed out her address and phone number and handed it to Connor.

“I’m gonna start keeping a jar on my desk for tips,” Stryker said. “Least you fuckers can do is give me a little extra scratch for all the shit I find for you.”

Connor smiled as he walked to his own desk. “Here’s a tip, Stryke,” he said. “Don’t piss in the wind.”

As Stryker threw back his typical response, Connor mouthed it along with him. “Fuck you, Parks.”

Stryker was all bark and no bite. Most of the guys in the division bantered with each other crudely and traded cruel insults in jest. Inappropriate humor and affected pit-bull personas were their strongest defense mechanisms. When you had to look on all of the grievous sins that human beings committed against one another day in and day out, finding a way to cope with it, however crass, became a priority.

Connor settled behind his desk and booted up his own computer, which he was far more adept at handling than Stryker surmised. It took him another hour to run a full background check on Irene Geary. She had no criminal record, although she had been arrested twice before moving to Arizona—once for shoplifting seventeen years ago and once for disturbing the peace shortly thereafter. Neither arrest had resulted in charges being filed. She’d also been involved in several domestic disputes in which various boyfriends were charged with beating or harassing her, all of which took place prior to 1995, when presumably, she was living with the man who would later abduct Claire Fletcher.

She had one child, a daughter named Noel, who, according to the records Connor found, would now be twenty-three years old. Connor found one local listing for a Noel Geary and jotted it down next to the contact information he had on Irene.

He phoned Irene Geary first. He would have preferred to drop by in person, which would give her little opportunity to give him the brush-off if she was at all apprehensive of discussing a ten-year-old relationship.

“Who is this?” A female voice that cracked under the strain of years’ worth of smoking too many cigarettes snapped at Connor after he said hello.

“I’m trying to reach Irene Geary,” Connor said.

“Yeah, who wants to talk to her?”

“My name is Connor Parks,” Connor replied. “I’m a detective with the Sacramento City Police Department, Major Crimes Division. I need to ask you some questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

Connor heard the flick and hiss of a lighter, followed by a deep, sucking breath and heavy exhale. “Ms. Geary, did you once reside at 1653 Larkspur Road?”

Another drag on the cigarette. Then, “Yeah.”

“You lived there from 1992 to 1996, is that right?”

“I moved out of there in 95,” she said. “What is this about?”

“In ’95,” Connor said. “What happened that precipitated that move?”

“Whose business is that? You tell me why you’re calling or I’m not saying squat. How do I know you’re a real cop?”

Connor offered her his badge number, the name of his captain and the phone number for both the city police and his own extension. He instructed her to call the information line for the police department and confirm that he was indeed a detective there.

Instead she said, “I had a problem with a tenant. I left. Took me awhile to get rid of the house. That it?”

“Can I have the name of that tenant?” Connor asked, excitement spiraling up from his gut.

“Don’t remember,” she said.

“Do you have some written records of that?” he asked.

“No,” she said flatly.

“What was the nature of your problem?” he asked.

“Don’t remember,” she said again.

“Ms. Geary, does the name Claire Fletcher sound familiar to you?”

“Claire who?”

“Claire Fletcher. Have you heard that name before?”

“Don’t think so,” she said.

Connor would have had a better read on her had they been face to face, but she didn’t sound as if the name struck a chord. “Ms. Geary, Claire Fletcher is the name of a woman that we think may be in grave danger. We’re investigating the possibility that your former tenant may have something to do with her disappearance.”

There was a long silence. “You don’t even know his name,” Irene Geary said. “How do you know he’s involved?”

“I can’t discuss the details of the investigation, but it is very important that we find out everything we can about this person,” Connor said. “Are you still in contact with him?”

Irene Geary coughed and spluttered, hacking like a veteran smoker. “No,” she said. “No way. I told you, we had a problem. I never saw or heard from him again. I don’t know anything about any woman or anything else. Is that all?”

“Just a few more questions,” Connor said. “Did you allow your tenant use of your Pontiac Parisienne station wagon in 1995?”

“Look,” she groused. “I told you I don’t remember. I’m done talking. Now leave me alone and don’t call back.”

Abruptly, Irene Geary ended the call, leaving Connor with the sound of a steady buzzing dial tone pressed against his ear.

Connor redialed her number three times, but she did not answer, nor did an answering machine pick up.

When I hit road, I turned right. I didn’t know where I was going. I was not experiencing conscious thought. I was numb and eerily calm, as I had been since I took on the part of Lynn, the pet who wore pretty clothes, slept in a bed unchained, and asked for books to read.

I drove several miles. Cars passed in the opposite direction, and it seemed strange that I should be out in the world, seen even fleetingly by others and that nothing happened. There were no shouts, no pointing, and no masses of people rushing to my rescue calling, “There she is! That’s the girl who was kidnapped! Call the police.”

I didn’t exist anymore, and that realization left me hollow. There were signs on the road that alerted me to the fact that I was a mere ten miles outside the city I had called home for the first fifteen years of my life. I pulled into the first place I saw, which happened to be a bar. Glowing neon signs promising various brands of beer bracketed the door. I got out, still with no particular plan in mind, the careless, ignorant fingers of the world that no longer saw or looked for Claire Fletcher scraping the last of the tissue from the hollow place inside me.

I walked in and took a seat at the bar. There were maybe ten people inside. Some playing pool, some at the end of the bar engaged in a secretive conversation with the bartender. I sat for some time, the cool smoky air rubbing my arms lightly. I did not notice the single form nursing his beer at a corner table until he came to sit next to me.

He smiled at me, and the sight almost knocked me off my stool. My throat closed up with the realization that I had not looked at a single face besides my captor’s and Sarah’s in two whole years.

He was young and slightly overweight with shaggy brown hair and wide brown eyes. His smile was kind and a little nervous. Shy, I realized. He extended a hand.

“Hi, I’m Rudy,” he said.

“Claire.” The voice seemed to come from somewhere just behind me, startling me. I shook his hand.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he said.

“I don’t get out much.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Okay.”

“What would you like?”

I looked at the beer in his hand. “Whatever you’re having is fine,” I said.

He smiled again and signaled the bartender, who hardly glanced at me and returned to the conversation at the end of the bar almost before he set the beer down in front of me.

I picked it up. It was wonderfully cold in my hand. “Thank you,” I said.

“No problem.”

I drank almost all of it in a single gulp. Rudy put his hand on my wrist, laughing. “Hey,” he said. “Slow down.”

Some of it dribbled down my chin and I swiped it away with the back of my hand. “Sorry,” I said.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “I just don’t want you to get sick is all.”

I nodded.

He studied me. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

I drank more slowly after that, and he bought me another beer and then another. He talked, and I surfed on the sound of his voice. A new voice, a different voice, a kind voice. His laughter suffused every part of my body. I closed my eyes, and my body cooed as Rudy’s voice reverberated through me.

He told me about his life, his parents, his job, and how he had dropped out of college last year and taken a computer repair job at a small office just miles away. Occasionally, he asked me nondescript questions about myself, like where I was from, had I ever been here or there, which I answered monosyllabically when possible.

I stood up to use the bathroom and swayed from the alcohol. When I returned, Rudy’s face was lined with concern. “Claire,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” I said again. “I just—I haven’t had anything to drink for a while.”

“Then you definitely shouldn’t have anymore,” he said. He placed another bill on the bar and gently touched my elbow, guiding me toward the door.

The air outside was hot and thick. The parking lot spun a little.

“Did you drive here?” Rudy asked, glancing at the vehicles in the parking lot.

“No,” I lied.

“Well, can I give you a lift home?”

I looked at him for a long time. “No,” I said.
I don’t have a home
, I added silently. “I want to go somewhere with you.”