Pieces of the Puzzle (10 page)

Thursday, December 9

XWEH

Friday, December 10

Deliver PT 2:00

Saturday, December 11

Airport 8:30

These were the missing days from the desk calendar. In a few hours, Scott would realize how valuable these clues were, but
right now he was pissed off and more than ready to tear his hair out.
Don’t hate me.
What the hell did that mean? If Helen wanted to help him, she should’ve stayed, should’ve told him everything a long time
ago.

He leaned over, put his head against the wall. More than anything he wanted to be home with Cynthia but he no longer felt
worthy of her love. He’d done things that he swore he’d never do with another woman. It didn’t matter that he was coerced
or drugged, what mattered was that deep down he enjoyed Helen’s games.

He was sick. Sick. There was no other explanation.

Miami, Florida
Tuesday, 11 January

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long time.

He knew someone was there because he heard breathing, then finally Glen replied, “Clear blue sky.”

He told Glen about finding the missing calendar pages, the two cryptic messages and the reference to the airport, but didn’t
say how they came into his possession. “Do you think the boys in Analysis can make something of that?”

“You’ll know when I know.”

“How long will the Apollo search take?”

“It’ll take some time. I’ll make sure they make a clean sweep. Wellmen or Johnson—Johnson, right?”

“Johnson, yes.”

“We’ll find it if it’s there. Give me a call back in a few hours.”

“I need some help with a credit card search on Jessica and Helen. All purchases in the last few—”“Get to a fax. You’ll have
everything you need.”

“I’m outside a 7-11, I’ll get their Q-fax number—”“Scott, there’s one thing I have to ask. Is your guest still with you?”

He was suddenly glad he wasn’t on a video phone. “In the car, why?”

“Good. Get me that fax number.”

He switched the phone to his right ear. “How is Cynthia?”

“Stronger. Her father has made arrangements for private nurses. He wants her home and not in a sterile hospital. Says confidently
the smell of her room, the house, will bring her back. I believe him. The doctors say there’s no explanation as to why she
hasn’t come out of the coma.”

“I’m going to get this bastard, Glen, if it’s the last thing I ever do.” He hung up the phone.

Ten minutes after he called Glen back and gave him the fax number, the Q-fax at the 7-11 came to life. Two hot dogs and a
Big Gulp later, a thirty-page fax had finally finished printing. It was Jessica’s credit purchase history for the last ninety
days. A minute later, the fax came to life again, this time it printed a single page containing Helen’s purchase history for
the same period.

After poring through Jessica’s purchases looking for purchase patterns, Scott decided to focus. He spent two days piecing
together what he was sure was the last month of Jessica’s life, from the purchase of a handgun on the eleventh of November
to the final purchase of two peach cobblers on the first of December. It seemed her life lay on the motel bed, written on
little scraps of paper organized by day and week.

Jessica had sixteen major credit cards, eight department store cards, and three gas cards. She charged everything from a pack
of gum to an eighteen-hundred-dollar designer dress. She ate lunch at Alfredo’s every Thursday. Four bills for $32.08.

He went to Alfredo’s. “I’m Ms. Wellmen’s accountant. I need to finalize the year end. Was that a party of two—business lunch?”
“No, that was a party of one.” “J. Wellmen, right?” “Yes, spaghetti and marinara. Extra sauce. Don’t deliver the espresso
until the plate is gone.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure. No cream. No sugar. Ten-dollar tip. Wellmen.”

Through other purchases, Scott followed Jessica up the coast on two weekend getaways. Three fill-ups. A stop for supper in
Palm Bay. A breakfast, a lunch, and a supper at a tiny restaurant on the outskirts of Summer Haven. Two fill-ups. A stop for
brunch in Palm Bay.

On Fridays, if she was melancholy, she bought a Big Gulp and a box of Twinkies, charged it to Visa Platinum. Ed from the 7-11
attested to the fact that she never ate it. Rather, she purchased it, Ed consumed and Jessica watched. They talked until his
shift ended. Never anything more than the weather, the news or his family. Jessica mostly listened while Ed told her about
his three daughters, five sons and eighteen grandchildren. Jessica was a good listener, or at least that’s what Ed said.

Every day. The pattern of every day of her life was before his eyes. On Wednesday afternoons, twice a month, she went to Piedro’s.
She got her hair done and sometimes a manicure. She spent an average of fifty-two dollars a week on groceries, which she charged
to a card that she didn’t use for anything else. She charged gas at Texaco, except for her weekend trips. Those charges went
to Chevron.

Every day. Every day of her life was before his eyes.

On the other hand, Helen had one credit card, MasterCard.

Not platinum, not gold, just a plain old ordinary credit card with a five-hundred-dollar limit. In December, she had used
the card only once: A charge to T & T Towing when her jalopy broke down. The car was still at the garage where the tow truck
left it.

Tom, the owner of the garage, told Scott, “You can get the car back if you pay the repair bill.” “How much is it?” “Twenty-six
hundred.” “Dollars?” “Yep, repairs ain’t cheap, you know.” The car in Scott’s estimation was barely worth its weight in scrap
metal.

Scott asked, “Can I check the car? I think my wife left some things in the back seat.” The owner told him, “Sure, when you
pay the twenty-six hundred you can do whatever you want.” “Did she ask for these repairs?” “Sure, got it right here in writing.”
It was a note scratched on a cocktail napkin:

Fix this piece of shit car when you get achance. Call
me if it’s under amillion. 555-8125.

Helen

Scott told Tom, “Enjoy your investment,” and slipped the cocktail napkin into his pocket when old Tom wasn’t looking.

So now after a second long day of running around Southeast Florida, he was back to the scraps of paper organized neatly on
a cheap motel bed. Helen, the single piece of paper and a napkin on the pillow. Jessica, the meticulously separated heaps
occupying the rest of the bed.

He was staring at the cocktail napkin from Pete’s Bar & Grill when he thought of Glen—Glen, who he hadn’t called in two days.
He would’ve called Glen right then if it wasn’t for the phone number Helen had scrawled on the napkin. It wasn’t the number
to Helen’s apartment, Jessica’s apartment or either of Jessica’s office phones. Whose phone number was it? And why did it
catch his eye now when he had looked at it a dozen times?

The number was to a cellular phone. The phone belonged to Jessica Wellmen and the phone bill was sixty days past due, so the
phone company had disconnected service. He found that out in two phone calls and fifteen minutes. He offered, “I’ll pay the
bill if you’ll send me an audit of calls for the last three months. How much is owed?” “Six-hundred eighteen dollars and fifty-three
cents.” “Six hundred dollars? That’s outrageous. There has to be a mistake. How long will it take to get the phone audit?
“Seven to ten business days.” “Seven to ten days? Are you kidding me?

Who do I have to talk to to get that now?” “You can talk to my supervisor but it ain’t going to do you no good.”

On a hunch Scott decided to drive out to Pete’s Bar & Grill. He needed to wind down and perhaps he could find someone there
who knew Helen and Jessica. Pete’s Bar & Grill was in West Palm Beach, on the beach. The music was a blend of calypso that
wasn’t really reggae. The crowd, mostly tourists. And Pete was a permanent fixture behind the bar. Pete was a gator, one big,
stuffed alligator.

After two Mai Tais, nonalcoholic, he showed the picture of Jessica and Helen to the bartender. “Seen either of them?”

The bartender continued mixing a drink and didn’t look in Scott’s direction. “Not that many regulars, not a local hangout.”

“You didn’t look at the picture.”

“I don’t need to.”

Scott edged an Andrew Jackson across the bar.

The bartender didn’t take the money, but did glance at the picture. “Everyone’s looking for a pretty lady tonight. I see lots
of pretty ladies.”

Scott pushed the picture and his glass across the bar. “Take a closer look. I’m not a cop. I’m a friend.”

“Isn’t everyone… Here’s your drink. My recommendation is drink it and leave.”

Scott put the picture into his pocket. “How’s the food here?”

“Go upstairs and find out, I’m not the cook.”

Scott registered the sudden chill, took his drink and filtered into the crowd. It was nearly ten. The band was starting to
play louder. The dance floor had expanded and moved toward the sand. The tourists were swaying and bobbing their heads. For
a Friday night, Pete’s was hopping.

He didn’t plan on leaving right away. He wanted to watch the bartender for a while. The bartender had seemed agitated and
protective, especially if Helen and Jessica were just another pair of pretty ladies. And if that were the case, why didn’t
he take the twenty?

He moved out to the shadowed beach and leaned against a palm tree. The bar was visible only intermittently through the gyrating
crowd. He found the beat of the music strangely piquant. The lyrics didn’t seem to make much sense. The lead singer was no
Garth Brooks. But he thought maybe that was the point.

He listened and watched. The hours slipped away. Slowly the crowd thinned out. The music got quieter. Eventually, all that
was left of the mammoth array of cars that had been lining the beach and filling the parking lot were a handful of vehicles
belonging to the employees of Pete’s Bar & Grill, and Scott’s rented convertible.

The bartender seemed to be finished washing glasses. Scott stood and wiped the sand off his buttocks, but didn’t go toward
the bar. Two bouncers and most of the band were now occupying the stools along the bar. He decided to make his way to the
parking lot and his car. There he’d wait for the bartender. Midway up the sandy hill from the beach, he got a clear view of
the vehicles near the lot. Only five now. A panel van. A pickup. His convertible, and two others. As he walked into the lot,
he thought maybe there was a sixth car parked behind the panel van. And then as he moved closer, he knew there was no maybe
about it. Even in the poor lighting of the lot, he could see the color of the car was red. It was a red T-bird, and not just
any red T-bird. It was the smashed-up red T-bird he had rented in Tampa.

The car was locked and unoccupied, but that didn’t bother him. He knew in that moment that Helen had been here and he was
making headway.

He went around to the driver’s side door, reached through the broken window and unlocked the door. Unfortunately, other than
a crumpled bag from McDonald’s, the car didn’t offer many clues. The mileage on the car, 12076, was the biggest clue to where
Helen had been. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the original mileage.

Remembering the rental car paperwork in the glove box, he found what he needed. The original mileage before he left Tampa
International was 11551. Almost three hundred miles to Miami Beach, a trip to Boca Raton, a trip to West Palm Beach—about
a hundred and fifty miles unaccounted for.

There was a trunk release in the glove box. He pushed it, heard a click. The trunk slowly opened. He was almost afraid of
what he might find but checked anyway. He grinned, and in a way was pleased, when he looked into the trunk and found it was
empty.

He went back to his car, which was parked along the road adjacent to the lot. While he waited for the bartender, he got out
the Florida state map and drew three lines. One seventy-five miles north of West Palm Beach, one midway along the Florida
Keys, and the last one at Fort Myers.

He searched with his hands across the map, city by city, working east, south, then north. Fort Myers was a long way off, and
seventy-five miles even by the best of routes left him in the middle of nowhere. The same was true about the Keys: Key Largo
wasn’t that far, Marathon was too far. He worked his way north from West Palm Beach and finally came to Palm Bay. Palm Bay
was one of Jessica’s stops on her weekenders.

Maybe Jessica had done more than eat in Palm Bay? Maybe there was a connection to Helen? Maybe Helen believed Jessica might
have gone off on one of her weekend jaunts? He thought about this, but didn’t have time to dwell on it. He heard voices, then
saw shadows mounting the hill to the lot. He slipped down in the convertible’s front seat. The voices came closer and closer.

He twisted the rearview mirror so he could watch them get in their vehicles. The bartender got into the pickup by himself.
The members of the band piled into the panel van and the two bouncers got in separate cars.

The pickup was the last to leave the lot. He waited to follow, but as the pickup started past him, the driver hit the brakes
and wheeled in front of the convertible. The bartender emerged from the pickup wielding a baseball bat.

He yelled, “Come on, you S.O.B.! You like to hit women, try me on for size!”

Scott stepped out of the car. A moment later the panel van and the two other cars returned. The bartender grinned and slapped
the baseball bat against his hand.

Scott raised his arms with open hands and circled as the bartender circled. “This is a mistake. I’m a friend of Helen’s. I’m
trying to find her.”

“Well, she don’t want to be found, now does she?”

In a moment, it was eight against one. He put his back against the convertible, took a deep breath. He could have pulled out
his guns and ground this to a quick standstill, but he didn’t. He waited.

He took another deep breath, told himself to remain calm, and more importantly, to look calm. He could put a bullet in each
one of them, but would that help anything?

He said, “You have me mistaken with someone else. All I want to know is where she is?”

“She doesn’t want to be found,” yelled the bartender as he took a swing at Scott with the baseball bat.

Scott jumped back to get out of the way. “When was she here?”

“No business of yours.”

They edged closer, closing Scott in a tight circle. The two bouncers had baseball bats like the bartender. One of the band
members had a tire iron.