Social Death: A Clyde Shaw Mystery (17 page)

“She’s missing, Clyde.” His voice was serious.

“Missing as in she’s on some yacht in the Caribbean or missing as in she’s dead in a ditch off the New Jersey Turnpike?”

He hesitated. “I can’t comment further.”

“Can’t you give me something?”

“What do you think I just did?”

“I need more than that.”

Panda heard the desperation in my voice. “You OK?”

“I’m hanging on by a thread.”

There was a long pause. “Frank Uffizo just filed a missing-person report on behalf of the family. You didn’t hear it from me.”

I showered Panda with a million thanks and hung up.

I texted my team to meet back at the van after they were done with Vanessa, then I emailed Georgia’s executive producer and Diskin to let them know we had to alter our game plan.

The missing-persons report was a good start. But I wasn’t done yet. First I called the task force’s information officer and told them what I’d heard. Predictably, they refused to help. Since Rachel Rockwell wasn’t under twenty-one, they didn’t have to abide by federal laws and report the case to the National Crime Information Center, nor did they have to confirm to me, or any other network, that the family had indeed filed such a report.

No problem. If there was one thing I knew about missing-persons cases, it was that family members welcomed media attention. I found Frank Uffizo’s number in my call history and pressed send. Michael Rockwell wouldn’t go on air, but Rachel’s parents might. Especially if they knew media pressure could get their daughter reclassified from person of interest to missing person. Uffizo didn’t pick up, so I left a message. “All I want is to provide Rachel’s family with a public forum so that they can get the word out about her as quickly as possible.” And because I knew how Uffizo’s mind worked, I added, “They can still do the
Today
show tomorrow morning. No one over there is going to fault them for wanting to get a jump on the coverage, and Georgia’s the best you can do in her time slot.” Then I told him I was going to report the missing-person angle whether he confirmed it or not. “You’ve got a sympathetic producer, here, Frank. If I were you, I’d jump on this.”

I stuck my phone back in my bag and gazed up at Rachel’s home. It was made of limestone, with an inward-curving façade divided by three Corinthian columns. Like the other homes on the street, it was secured behind ten-foot hedges and wrought-iron gates. The B-roll of the neighborhood would illustrate the high level of wealth of its inhabitants; we’d let
schadenfreude
do the rest.

All the other networks would be doing the same regurgitation, but thanks to Panda, and barring a massive double-cross from Uffizo, we’d have an exclusive on the missing-person report filed by Rachel’s parents. I grabbed a pen, banged out a script for Alex, and waited for him and Jen to call in from Vanessa’s house.

Fifteen minutes later, I had him on the line. “She’s on her way in to the studio,” he said. “No breath mints required.”

I updated him on the missing-persons report and read him his new script. He didn’t say anything. No thank you. No good job, Clyde. “Well?” I asked.

“Well what?”

“If you have something to get off your chest, just say it,” I huffed.

He sighed. “I’m just wondering which network is going to get to interview Rachel’s parents.”

I knew what he was saying—that my scoop was meaningless, that the real coup of the day was landing her parents’ first interview and that I was incapable of delivering it.

“I don’t like being on a losing team, Clyde.”

“Neither do I, Alex.”

I slammed open the van’s door. It was ten past five and there were still several hours before we were due to go on air. I headed down the street, hoping to hook up with Jen and work the streets with her. I walked about a quarter of a mile before I came around a bend and realized there was a large, undeveloped parcel of land situated directly behind Rachel’s house.

I called Dino and asked him to meet me where I stood. We’d go together, get some footage of the backyard, and maybe knock on the back door. With any luck, Rachel’s parents were in there with the kids, and I’d be able to appeal to them directly to do an interview with Georgia
.
Screw Alex.

I waited for a few minutes before I started getting antsy. Through the trees, I could just make out an oversize yellow umbrella, the kind people put up poolside. I decided to move in for a closer look while there was still sunlight, and pushed away some low-hanging branches. I had to step carefully to avoid tripping on tree roots, but as I got closer to the Rockwells’ house, my heels began to sink deeper into the soil.

I heard a fallen branch crack, and called out, “Dino, is that you?”

“No such luck,” said the voice behind me.

T
he figure came closer, close enough that I could make out the tall, muscular build and slicked-back head of hair. “What are you doing here?”

Michael Rockwell pointed to his house. “Same thing it looks like you’re doing. Trying to get in there. Only I’m not trespassing.”

Perspiration beaded on my forehead and trickled down my sides. “Am I trespassing? I didn’t know I stepped over the property line.” I glanced behind me. There was no sign of Dino. “And if this is your house, why don’t you just use the front door?’ I asked Rockwell.

“Too many reporters. But I’m actually really glad to see you. It’s Clyde, right? Like a man. Not Cornelia. I made a few calls after you left my office. Your cousin didn’t have particularly favorable things to say about you. Jack Slane, either. But he did give me some rather memorable visuals.” Rockwell took a step closer.

It was darker than I realized, the sun falling fast behind the trees. I turned to run, but I was too slow. Rockwell held me by my wrist. “Let me go,” I yelled as loud as I could, trying to wrest myself free. But he was too strong.

He pulled me to him, growling into my hair. “You think just because you’re a woman, I won’t take you down?”

I stopped squirming. “Is that what you said to Olivia? Did you kill her?”

“Clyde!” Alex and Dino’s voices carried through the wooded lot. Rockwell let me go, and without another word, took off for the house.

Alex and Dino reached me a second later. I could barely speak, but I managed to point to Rachel’s house. “Roll tape now,” I instructed Dino.

Dino aimed his camera and gave me the thumbs up. I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding and sank to the ground on my heels. Alex squatted down next to me. “Christ, Clyde. You’re shaking,” he said, wrapping his arms around me, hugging me tight to him, my face buried into his chest, until the trembling stopped. “Can you stand?” he asked.

I nodded, looked up at Dino. “Did you get it?”

Dino grinned. “Full three seconds. The asshole broke in through his own back door.”

Back at the van, Alex poured me a cup of coffee from his thermos and told everyone what happened. Jen wanted to call the police on Rockwell, but I assured them I’d do it myself once Alex’s package was done.

But then my phone rang.

It was Frank Uffizo.

Rachel’s mother and stepfather were ready to talk.

I called Georgia to let her know we were going to have to once again re-jigger the rundown for that night’s broadcast. We finished shooting Alex’s package in front of Rachel’s home, and hightailed it back to the bureau to get ready for the arrival of Roseanna and Vernal Hart. I asked everyone to keep an eye out for Michael Rockwell, but none of us saw him again that night.

The interview almost didn’t happen. At the eleventh hour, Uffizo demanded we keep any discussion about Rachel’s sexual orientation off the table. Georgia refused and Uffizo threatened to walk, but I wasn’t about to lose my exclusive to his cronies at NBC. While Georgia kept Uffizo busy in Conference Room B, I barricaded the Harts in the green room and convinced them that the
Today
show and every other network were going to demand total access, and the only difference between answering questions now or the next morning was ten hours, ten hours they didn’t have to wait to tell the world about Rachel’s disappearance.

Georgia pulled rank on Alex and demanded that she do the interview with the Harts; Alex was given the Vanessa Cox interview as a consolation. I overheard him grumbling a little, but he knew the score.

We opened the show with the Harts. After an intro, the camera panned wide to Roseanna, a generously shaped woman with her daughter’s long black hair and wide-set eyes, and Vernal, Rachel’s stepfather. He held up a picture of Rachel, tears forming in his deep-set eyes.

Georgia introduced the couple. “Ms. Hart, can you tell us why you waited this long to file a missing-persons report with the police? It’s been five days since anyone has seen or heard from her.”

“We thought… hoped… she would come back home.” Roseanna’s voice was so soft, her mic barely picked it up.

In my earpiece, I could hear Jon Wallace, Georgia’s EP, yelling at the sound techs in the control room to raise the volume.

Georgia’s face remained placid despite the cacophony of voices in her left ear. “Has Rachel disappeared before?” she asked.

Roseanna shook her head. “She would never leave her children.”

Georgia softened her expression. “I know this is such a personal question, but what can you tell us about Rachel’s relationship with Olivia Kravis? Is it true they were lovers?”

“We knew nothing about what she and—” Roseanna faltered. She looked to her husband.

Vernal put down the photo of Rachel. “We love Rachel no matter what. We just want to know that she’s safe,” he said stoically.

Georgia glanced down at her notes. “Your daughter’s husband filed for divorce amid reports of infidelity. She was, according to sources, sleeping with her personal trainer at the time. Did you know anything about that?”

Roseanna shifted in her seat. “No.”

Georgia looked incredulous. “She never talked to you about another man?”

“No.”

Stymied, Georgia flipped to another notecard. “Did Rachel ever seem worried about her safety? Did she worry that Michael would hurt the children?”

“As far as we know, he never laid a hand on her or the boys,” Roseanna replied.

Georgia leaned forward. “Did he ever threaten to?”

Roseanna opened her mouth to speak, but Vernal beat her to it. “Actually, yes. He did.”

The color drained from Roseanna’s round face as she turned to face her husband. Vernal had gone off-script, putting his and Roseanna’s access to their grandchildren in peril. To go out on such a limb, Vernal had to believe that Michael could be responsible for Olivia’s death and his stepdaughter’s disappearance.

“Mr. Hart, what do you mean by that?” Georgia asked.

“Before they separated, Michael once told her that if she ever crossed him, he’d make sure she’d pay for it in blood.”

Roseanna’s shoulders shook as fresh tears cascaded into her lap. Vernal Hart regarded his wife sadly before turning his weathered face back to Georgia. “All we want is for Rachel to come back home.”

Only time would tell if they’d ever get their wish.

Thursday

Thursday

A
t eight o’clock on Thursday morning, I opened the green-painted gate to the Peter Detmold Park, narrowly missing a head-on with a golden retriever. The dog brushed against my leg instead, throwing me off balance and making me spill the two coffees I’d brought for my sit-down with Panda. He didn’t have a dog of his own, but his mother, who lived in one of the condos overlooking the East River, had a ten-year-old Dachshund he’d walk for her when her sciatica was acting up.

“How’s Dax?” I gestured toward the little dog. He was chasing a Jack Russell with a tennis ball in his mouth.

“Forget Dax. How are you?”

“I’ve been worse. Did you see
Topical
last night?”

“No, but I got an earful about it this morning from Ehlers.”

“He had to have known Rachel’s parents were going public.”

Panda ran over to clean up after Dax, flipping the plastic baggie into a green waste bin on his way back to me. He sat down on one of the benches and motioned for me to join him.