Disturbance

THIRTY

Frank Harriman knew something was wrong even before he pulled into the driveway. He had caught a drug-related shooting case just after four in the morning, one that had seemed as if it would be relatively straightforward but had kept him busy until nine o’clock that evening. His mind had been on the case as he drove home, until his house came into view and he saw that Irene’s car wasn’t in the driveway or parked anywhere nearby. The house was dark. As he opened his car door, he heard the dogs barking in excitement-but they weren’t inside, they were in the backyard.

He went inside, calling her name, turning on lights, letting the dogs in, and greeting Cody as well. He checked his phone again to see if she had texted a message about being late or left a voice mail-nothing. He looked for a paper note on the counter, didn’t find one, and saw that, even though Cody had his usual dish of kibble out of reach of the dogs, the dogs’ big stainless steel bowls were up on the counter-they hadn’t been fed. His anxiety kicked up a notch. Even if she hadn’t been able to get home, she would have called Jack to ask him to take care of them.

Frank told himself not to jump to conclusions and called her cell phone while he was measuring out dog food. It went immediately to voice mail.

He listened to the messages left on their answering machine. Nothing from Irene.

Ethan Shire was catching a catnap on the couch in his office when his cell phone, which he had set to vibrate only, began buzzing, causing it to walk its metal back along the top of the glass table he had set it on, making more noise than if he had just let the sucker ring.

He nearly just slapped it off but saw the caller ID and answered groggily. “Irene? What’s up?”

“Ethan, it’s Frank. I guess if you thought Irene was calling she’s not there with you.”

“No-she went home a long time ago. She’s not there?”

“No. She doesn’t answer her cell phone.”

“Maybe the battery’s dead. Or she dropped this new one, too.” He laughed, but Frank didn’t join in.

“Maybe. When did she leave?”

The worry in Frank’s voice finally brought Ethan more fully awake. He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Late afternoon-not exactly sure what time. Hang on, I have a beautiful view of the parking lot; let me take a look.”

The window was narrow, and the lighting in the parking lot wasn’t the greatest, but Irene had an unwavering habit of parking under one of the lights. He let out a breath of relief. “Her Jeep’s here, Frank. I fell asleep, and she must have come back here while I was napping. Let me look around the offices and I’ll call you back.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll stay on with you.”

“Sure. No problem.”

But as Ethan made his way through the station, it became clear she wasn’t there. He questioned the staff who were still there.

“Last time anyone saw her, she was with Lydia,” Ethan said to Frank.

“Thanks. I’ll try her next.”

Ethan hung up, sat for a moment, then got his jacket and keys. Irene Kelly and Frank Harriman were, as far as he was concerned, family. Closer to him than any of the losers in his own family had been, in fact. He wasn’t going to sit in an office if Frank needed help finding Irene. On his way out to his car, he called Ben Sheridan.

Despite the maître d’hotel’s best efforts, Frank, Ben, and Ethan got past him and interrupted the dinner Lydia and Guy St. Germain were enjoying at the exclusive restaurant in the Cliffside Hotel.

Guy saw them first, and he came to his feet as the men approached. “Frank? Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “Irene didn’t come home this evening, and I can’t reach her by cell phone.”

Lydia, accurately reading the pained look on the maître d’s face, said, “We just finished. Let’s talk outside, okay?”

The maître d’ accompanied them to the door and started to apologize to Mr. St. Germain, one of his best customers, but the gentleman replied that he would have been far more upset if his friends had not been allowed to speak to him.

He paused, as the others moved ahead of him, and added, “Did I ever tell you how I learned of this restaurant?”

The maître d’ admitted he had not.

“Detective Harriman and his wife, Irene Kelly, recommended it.”

As he watched them leave, the maître d’ felt a headache coming on.

After hearing Lydia’s story, Frank exchanged a glance with Ben Sheridan, the only one of the group outside the Cliff-side who was staying calm. Or appearing to. Frank appreciated that, in part because it reminded him that if he didn’t also stay calm and keep control of this situation, he’d never get the information he needed. Even as he thought this, Ethan began badgering Lydia.

“You’re sure you didn’t hear his name?”

“Of course I’m sure! I’d tell you if I knew.”

Frank intervened. “I know you would, Lydia. Do you think Irene knew who he was?”

“Absolutely. He was definitely someone she knew and felt comfortable with,” Lydia said. “I think she might have known him from that astronomy story she worked on. They made some kind of joke about it. But maybe not, because he wanted to talk to her about a missing person case. Didn’t set off any alarm bells for me-he was polite and charming, even invited me to join them. But I needed to get home, because Guy and I were going out here tonight.” She bit her lower lip. “I can’t say why, but I just find it hard to believe he wanted to hurt her.”

“He may not have. He might have told her his story and that’s all there is to it. But I need to find out who he is and when he last saw her so that I can try to find out what happened after they met.” Frank looked down at his notes. “Tall, blond, good-looking man in his thirties.”

“Yes-early thirties. Short hair. Green eyes. Neatly dressed-a dark blue suit and lighter blue tie. White dress shirt. Muscular build, but not like a bodybuilder or wrestler. Just in good shape. Looked as if he spent time outdoors.”

“He approached on foot? You didn’t see him get into or out of a vehicle?”

“Right. In fact, he didn’t really approach us. Irene saw him walking down the sidewalk near the station, waved to him, he waved back, and she went over to talk to him.”

“And from there they walked into the Fireside?”

“Yes, that I’m sure of. I did wonder if I should go with her anyway, but I watched them and there was really nothing that made me feel worried. She was totally at ease.” She hesitated, then said, “Frank, I’m so sorry. If anything has happened to her because I didn’t insist that she drive straight home or-”

“Lydia, I’d love to believe that anyone could ‘insist’ she do anything. This isn’t your fault, and I don’t even want to assume that something bad has happened to her. She may be perfectly fine. I just need to find her.”

“What can we do to help?” Guy asked.

“For the moment, there’s probably not much more you and Lydia can do, but if I can find some security camera footage, I may need to get Lydia to confirm that I’m looking at the right guy.”

“Call us-don’t worry about the hour. I don’t think we’ll be getting much sleep tonight.”

“Do you want us to wait at your house?” Lydia asked. “In case she calls or comes home?”

“If you don’t mind-”

“Of course not!”

“I’ll call Jack and ask him to let you in. He’ll probably want to wait with you.”

“We have security cameras outside the station,” Ethan said. “I can look through the footage. I should have thought of that earlier.”

“I can help you with that,” Ben said.

“There’s a branch of the Bank of Las Piernas near there,” Guy said. “Its cameras will have a good view of the street. All of our cameras transmit images to our main office.”

“Can you get a look at the video?”

“Security reports to me, and that office operates twenty-four hours a day. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Lydia, you can take my car to Frank’s house,” Ethan said. “I’ll get a ride back with Frank and Ben. Is that okay with you, Frank?”

“That’s fine with me. Let’s get going.”

It felt good to have a plan, Frank thought. Good to be taking some action. Something to fight the undertow of worry, pulling him toward his worst fears.

Frank caught some luck, if you could call it that, at the Fireside.

The place was busy, and a band was playing loud enough to make conversation nearly impossible. The band took a break, but Frank’s conversation with the bartender was constantly interrupted as he served his customers.

The bartender, at first reticent, soon became convinced that Frank was not an irate husband of a cheater but a man sincerely worried that his wife was in danger. This conviction was brought home to him, perhaps, after Frank called the manager over, showed him his badge, and said that although he wasn’t working a case, he could get some people in here who would be working one, and do it before closing time.

“Talk to him,” the manager said to the bartender. “Use the office. I’ll cover for you here.” To Frank, he added, “I’m doing you a favor, so please don’t take all night, okay?”

Before Frank could reply, the bartender said, “Should I give him the phone she left?”

“Sure. It’s in the lost and found drawer. You have the key, right?”

The bartender assured him he did.

As Frank followed the bartender to the small back room, he fought down the despair he felt at learning Irene had left here without the phone. All the scenarios he had imagined, trying to rationalize why he hadn’t heard from her-she had gotten caught up covering a story, she had seen an old friend and lost track of time, she was feeling hemmed in and just decided to go AWOL for a few hours, even the ones in which she was hurt but in a hospital, cared for and just not yet located-all those fantasies collapsed.

In the relative quiet of the office, the bartender took another look at one of the photos Frank carried of her and said, “Yes, that’s her. She and a big blond dude came in here at the beginning of my shift. I didn’t think they were lovers, if you’re worried about that.”

“I’m not, but tell me what makes you say so.”

“In the first place, he was expecting someone else to join them. I overheard him say he had a friend on the way. But mostly, well, they weren’t loverlike. I mean, at first I thought she was this good-looking cougar or something, ’cause she was older than him, but she wasn’t flirting with him, and he wasn’t flirting with her. That’s straight. It was almost like it was just a business discussion, him doing most of the talking. Which is probably why she ended up drinking so much more than he did.”

“What?”

The bartender explained that the lady had downed the better part of a pitcher of margaritas and was none too steady on her feet when they left.

That wasn’t like Irene at all, especially not if she was working on a story, or thought that was the purpose of meeting with the unknown man. One drink, maybe. A pitcher of margaritas? No way. She didn’t drink them more than once in a great while-she wasn’t that fond of tequila.

“She was walking on her own when they left?”

“He was helping her, but yes.”

“How did he pay for the drinks?”

“Cash.”

“Have you seen him in here before?”

“No.”

Frank coaxed as complete a description of the man as he could out of the bartender. “You have security cameras,” Frank said, glancing toward a pair of monitors.

“Sure, but you have to talk to the boss about that. And quite honestly, they aren’t worth shit. I mean, take a look at what it’s showing you now.”

He was right, they were definitely grainy, and shifted from location to location every few minutes. “Anything will help,” Frank said.

“Okay, when we’re done here, I’ll ask him. Are we done?”

“In a minute. Did anyone else approach them or talk to them?”

“No-although he got a call while he was picking up the pitcher.”

“You remember his side of the conversation?”

“Something about making a delivery. I didn’t listen in.”

“Male or female caller?”

He rubbed his chin. “It’s weird, but I’d say it was a dude. Just his tone of voice when he was talking. But I didn’t hear any names, so that’s a guess.”

“What kind of mood was he in?”

“Mood?”

“Excited? Nervous? Happy?”

“No, not happy.” He shrugged. “Not a troublemaker. Couldn’t say more than that.”

He stood up, went to a paper-cluttered counter, and unlocked one of the wooden drawers beneath it. He took out a small plastic bag with a phone in it, the baggie marked with the date and time it had been left.

“I guess I should ask for some way to prove this is hers,” he said.

Frank took out his phone, hit the speed dial for Irene’s number. “It’ll play a few notes from a jazz standard,” he said. The phone in the bag rang.

“Ella?” the bartender asked, handing it over.

“Yes,” Frank said.

“‘All the Things You Are’?”

Frank nodded.

The bartender studied him for a moment, then said, “I’ll ask my manager to come back here and look through the video for you. Can I have him bring a drink back?”

“No, no thanks. Thanks for your time.”

“No problemo,” he said and left just as the band started to play again.

After his first look at the video, Frank called his partner. He had hesitated to disturb Pete, who had looked forward to a rare evening at home with Rachel. But Frank knew this was no longer something he could pursue without the department’s knowledge, and he wasn’t going to insult Pete by not letting him in on what was going on.

“Did the thought ever cross your mind this evening,” Vince said about an hour later, “that we should have been called in on this right away?”

“Vince…,” Reed said wearily. He turned to the manager of the bar. “Frank said you have the video cued up for us?”

The office was hot and stuffy now. The four detectives, Rachel, and the manager crowded around the monitor. The manager pressed a remote, and the screen showed a tall blond man standing at the bar, paying cash for a pitcher of margaritas and then filling two glasses while at the bar, then apparently asking the bartender for some limes. As the bartender turned away to put a few lime wedges in a small dish, the man’s right hand moved over one of the glasses.

“Right there,” Frank said.

“Yes, I see it,” Rachel said.

“I don’t know,” Vince said.

“Keep watching,” Pete advised.

Frank nodded to the manager, who sped the recording up until it showed the “couple” leaving the bar, the man guiding Irene and supporting her with an arm around her waist as she stumbled her way out.

Vince looked back at Frank with raised brows.

“Don’t say it,” Rachel warned.

“I wasn’t going to remark on the fact that they looked awfully cozy,” Vince said. “Just wondering if she was over-served.”

Frank’s phone rang. The others watched and listened, but all he said was “Thanks, we’ll be right over.”

“She showed up?” Vince asked.

Frank looked at Reed, ignoring Vince. “Guy St. Germain has isolated some footage taken from the bank across the street that shows them going into and out of the Fireside. He’ll show it to us in his office.”

The images from the bank were much clearer, although taken from a distance that made it hard to see faces.

“Not close enough to identify him,” Guy said, “but it’s obvious that by the time they reach the car, she’s hardly able to stand.”

“She’s definitely drugged,” Rachel said. “Irene has a hard head. Two margaritas would never make this kind of mess out of her.”

Guy stopped the playback as the brown Ford Escape drove up the street toward the bank.

“Good shot of the plate there. I’ve got the number for you.”

“Thanks, Guy,” Reed said. “This is a real help.”

The plate was stolen, taken off a van that had been parked at a repair shop. The alert went out to the media about the missing Las Piernas reporter, the description of the man who was a “person of interest” in the case. Lydia sat down with the police artist so that a drawing that looked something like the man would be ready in time for the morning news broadcasts.

Frank went home, thanked everyone for their help, and tried to think of a way to ask them-as politely as possible-to leave, so that he could smash something to pieces and do it without an audience. Then Ethan’s phone rang.

Frank glanced at his watch. It was after three in the morning.

Ethan listened, gave a series of orders, then hung up and said, “Holy shit-Quinn Moore has been shot. They’ve got him in the ER at St. Anne’s.”