Time of Departure (8 page)

“That was him on the phone.”

“Why did Hastings's name even come up?”

“Detective Geiger attended the scene outside my building, remember?”

I made the connection. “Right. Lipinski's Man Friday.”

“The fact that Hastings resurfaced in Gainesville the same week those two girls were found at Bronson has generated some talk in the squad room. Cops always say they don't believe in coincidences, and I have to say, Claire, neither do I.”

The old coincidence trap, I thought. Nobody ever bothers to break it down. There are different kinds of coincidences, and some of them are just that—coincidences, and nothing more. Others … okay, maybe not.

And, in this case, I had to admit—

Sam's phone rang. He answered, listened, and said, “Put him through.” He handed the receiver to me. “It's Terry Snead, for you.”

“Hi, Terry.” I listened to him for maybe thirty seconds without saying a word. For the last fifteen of those seconds, I had my eyes locked on Sam's. When Terry finished, I said, “Thanks.… I'll call you.… Yes, I definitely will. I'm with him now,” and hung up.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Do you want the latest development or the latest coincidence?”

“Use your discretion.”

“Okay. The latest development is that Terry brought in a consultant dentist, and she identified the smaller skeleton using dental records. As he suspected, it's Amanda Jordan. But still no luck on Jane Doe.”

“Okay.” He waited.

“The latest coincidence is that Terry called CID twice, asking them to find the missing girls' dental records. While they were still searching through the boxes, Marc Hastings showed up at the morgue and handed him photocopies of the dental charts for six of the missing girls.”

 

10

It was getting late and I still hadn't touched that stack of urgent messages and files on my desk. I'd been spending the past few hours rereading the eight missing person files Marc Hastings had left for me. In fact, I had read each file twice and committed their dismal chronology to memory:

1.
Ina Castaño
—age 21—last seen on April 2, 1977. She left her mother's home to work an evening shift at Denny's and vanished.

2.
Constance Byrne
—age 20—last seen on July 8, 1977. Her roommate told the police that Ms. Byrne's car wouldn't start, so she had decided to hitchhike to Cedar Key, an hour's drive from Gainesville, to visit her mother. She never arrived.

3.
Catherine Brady
—age 25—last seen on October 28, 1977. The third-year veterinary medicine student left her apartment to visit her boyfriend, who had been hospitalized after a motorcycle accident. She never arrived at the hospital.

4.
Patricia Chapman
—age 24—last seen on December 24, 1977. The hospital phlebotomist disappeared after filling in for a coworker on a Christmas Eve 4
P.M
. to midnight shift. Her car was still parked in the hospital's staff lot.

5.
María Ruiz
—age 23—last seen on February 13, 1978. The single mother of one lived in Hawthorne, but worked in a flower shop at a strip mall a few miles west of Gainesville's city center. She disappeared after locking up the shop just after 9
P.M.

6.
Pia Ostergaard
—age 30—last seen on March 1, 1978. The Miami journalist was in Gainesville to investigate the disappearances. She vanished on her way to meet a colleague for dinner at a restaurant near her hotel. The investigators suspected that she had been targeted for abduction because of her work.

7.
Victoria Chan
—age 22—last seen on March 19, 1978. The UF coed left her apartment early one morning for a regular morning run and was never seen again.

8.
Amanda Jordan
—age 24—last seen on April 22, 1978. Ms. Jordan worked as a bank teller. She vanished while walking a distance of three blocks from her mother's residence in Newberry to the home of a girlfriend who was holding a bridal shower in her honor.

I admit I choked a bit when I read the file on victim number 7. Victoria Chan had been jogging around Lake Alice, following, I imagined, the same route that I had retraced earlier that day.

I sat at my desk, twirling a strand of my hair. Despite my misgivings—despite my smoldering hostility toward the man—I couldn't stop thinking about the mysterious Mr. Hastings.

I felt a jolt of pain. I was so engrossed in my thoughts, I'd twisted the strand of hair right out of my scalp. I cursed aloud and picked up the phone. I dialed the number I'd found on a Post-it note stuck to the last page of the magazine article. At my request, Eddie Carlyle had already checked the number, so I knew I was calling a cell.

He answered on the first ring. “Hello, Claire. I've been expecting your call.”

“I'm getting a little tired of being a foregone conclusion.”

“Maybe it's fate.”

“I doubt that.” I sharpened my tone. “I've been strongly advised to stay away from you.”

“By your boss.”

“That's right.”

“But you're calling me.”

“Yes. I want you to explain to me why I should ignore his advice.”

“It would be easier to show you.”

*   *   *

The address was a loft apartment not far from the U of F campus. It was dark when I arrived. I parked on the street and locked my car. I walked to the building. There was a keypad console next to the main entrance. Before my finger could locate the correct button, the lock buzzed. I entered the lobby, took the elevator, and followed the numbers to his apartment door.

I was about to knock when the door swung open.

Hastings was standing there, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, pleated slacks, and a complacent expression.

Okay, maybe not complacent, but a bit too satisfied. I remained where I was and said, “This feels like a big mistake.”

He smiled. “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.”

“Sounds like something you read on a bumper sticker.”

“It is.” He moved aside. I hesitated, and then I stepped into the apartment.

It was more spacious than I'd expected. Straight ahead was a modern kitchen, and to the right a stylish living room. A short corridor leading off the far end of the living room hinted at bedrooms beyond.

I followed Hastings into the living room. One entire wall was covered by bookshelves and an entertainment center. A curved nautical-style staircase led to the floor above.

“They said you moved away years ago.”

“I did.”

“And this?”

“I moved back.”

“When was that?”

“Two months ago. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“I have an '83 Margaux.”

I blinked. “You have a what?”

“A bottle of Château Margaux, vintage 1983. I thought you might join me in savoring that noble year.”

I felt my knees go weak. Memories washed over me. Second year at Harvard. The handsome constitutional law instructor I had fallen for during the fall term. The sparkling intellect and the lean body that seduced me. The passion for French wines that charmed me. The thrill I felt when I drained my meager savings to buy him a
Premier grand cru
birthday present … and the devastating pain and humiliation I felt when the snake accepted the wine, kissed my cheek, and dumped me for Rosalie Webb, one of my classmates—a slattern with cheerleader looks and sensational breasts who'd been pretending to be my friend.

I glared at Hastings. “Okay, what's your game?”

“There's no game, Claire.”

I raised my voice. “Damned right there's a game! Who the hell are you?”

“I'm the best friend you'll ever have.” He must have sensed that I was about to turn on my heel and leave, because he cleverly settled into a soft chair and said, in the kindest tone, “Do sit for a minute.”

Fuming, I dropped onto the near end of the sofa.

“I'm very happy you came,” he said, “and it is important that you stay.”

“How could you know about the Margaux?” I demanded. My voice was shaking.

“Let's just say I spoke with someone from your Harvard class.”

“Who?”

“I'd rather not say, but I was also told that you almost failed the year because of that particular swine.” As he spoke, his eyes went hard, as if it were him and not me who had been betrayed.

I looked at him in wonder. What he said was true. Assistant Professor Robert Vance, the teacher I'd been so naively infatuated with, had ended our relationship two weeks before final exams. Instead of pushing the bastard out of my mind and bearing down on my work, I'd allowed my emotions to destroy my concentration. The result was predictable—I blew two finals. I'd spent the summer beating myself up for my stupidity and preparing for the rewrites. One thing the experience taught me was never to let up and never drop my guard. Some of my fellow students started referring to me as a “gunner”—college slang for someone who is obsessed with achievement and devoid of a meaningful social life. I didn't care. I scored a perfect GPA in my final year and graduated third in my class.

As it turned out, “gunner” pretty much described the habits of my working life ever since graduation.

I realized Hastings was still talking.

“What did you say?”

“I said I know something else about Professor Vance. Something you may not know.”

“What?”

“Six months after you graduated, he dumped the Webb girl. Six months after that, he impregnated a first-year student. Unfortunately for him, she was not only the daughter of a federal appeals court judge, but her family was staunchly Catholic besides. The girl kept the baby and nailed Vance with a paternity suit. He lost the case, and his teaching position. I suppose the word went out, because not even a regional college would hire him. Right now he's practicing out of a storefront in Cleveland.”

I was finding it difficult to sustain my anger. Improbably, this man's quirky company was strangely comforting. I heard myself saying, “Château Margaux 1983 … a bottle from that year would have to cost three or four hundred dollars.”

“Double that. I was lucky … a friend owed me. I've been saving it for your visit.”

That last comment got my attention. I leaned forward. “Let me get this straight. You've been studying me? Researching me?”

“Correct.”

“And prying into my personal life?”

“To some degree. I'm sorry.”

“You don't look sorry.”

“Okay. I'm not. You're a fascinating woman.”

“Thank you, but let's get that off the table right now. You're too old for me.”

He blinked, and then gave an odd smile. “I accept that.”

The smile had arrived a beat too late. Behind it was something else. Thinking back, I realize that it wasn't just pain that I'd detected in that fleeting instant. Most of us carry some level of pain—that accumulating burden of our misjudgments, our transgressions, and our regrets that seem to dog us throughout our days. This was something deeper.

But I wasn't paying attention. All I could think about was that the man sitting across from me wearing that silly Hawaiian shirt had been peering into the darkest corners of my life.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You showed extraordinarily good taste in your choice of wine, if not your choice of lover. You were a struggling student. You probably emptied your bank account to buy that bottle. When I heard the story, I decided you at least deserved a taste of the classic grape you had paid for.”

“That's not an answer.”

“I know.”

My mind blanked on a comeback. The left side of my brain was still sounding the alarm. It was telling me to stand up and walk out the door. But some other part of me, something more than pure logic, something more complex, was telling me to stay.

After a few seconds, I heard myself say, “Open the bottle … and show me why I'm here.”

 

11

“It's up here.”

Marc Hastings mounted the curving staircase two steps at a time, carrying an uncorked bottle of vintage claret and two crystal wineglasses. Even though I had already witnessed him thrash a much younger man in the parking lot next to Sam Grayson's building, his speed and agility surprised me.

From the layout of the apartment, I expected to find one—or at the most, two—bedrooms on the upper floor. Although I was still wary of the man's manipulations, he'd given me no reason to suspect an imminent sexual assault, so I followed him up. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs and a single door. He waited for me, then opened the door, reached inside, and flicked on the lights. He stood aside to allow me to enter first.

I wasn't wrong about it being a bedroom. But I wasn't right, either.

What was once a master bedroom had been converted into an office. An office with a difference: the entire space was outfitted to replicate a law enforcement incident room. In the center was a long rectangular worktable with two chairs on rolling casters. One end of the table's surface was covered with photographic enlargements, most of them in color. To the left of the entrance was a solid-looking hardwood desk with a left-hand return. It was set up with a telephone, a laptop computer, and a laser printer. Heavy drapes covered what I assumed to be sliding glass doors allowing access to one of the balconies I had noticed from the street. Glancing to the right, I spied a dry erase whiteboard sitting on a wheeled aluminum frame. Doorways led to an en suite bathroom and a walk-in closet.

On the opposite wall, straight across from where I stood, was a long bookshelf. Its shelves were almost completely filled with black binders. Without saying a word, I crossed the room. Behind me, I heard the clink of glasses, followed by the sound of the wine being poured. I ran my fingers along a row of binders, randomly reading the printed labels on their spines.