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Chapter 20

After the gingerbread was consumed, Tom took Liz’s hand and led her back to her car. As he gave her a hug, Liz realized he was never the first to end an embrace. When they broke apart, he added his drawing to a plastic bag containing the point-and-shoot camera and handed the bag to Liz. Taking it, Liz gave Tom a kiss and made sure she was the last to end it before getting into her car.

Thankful the snowfall was less intense, Liz wound her car through deep snow to the well-plowed Massachusetts Turnpike. Her route from Newton to Boston took her past her own little house. The winds of the snowstorm had formed drifts around it. They had also given the billboard—which read, “Maksoud Motors: We always go the extra mile!”—a frosty whitewash. Liz remembered Tom would be changing the billboard’s advertisement soon, since Old Man Maksoud had hired the space for end-of-year car sales only. It was only a few days until January 1st.

As was usual during a daytime snowstorm, the Banner’s parking lot was a mess. It was nearly impossible for a plow to work there with so many employees’ cars to maneuver around. Snow spilled into Liz’s boots as she walked from her car to the building. Inside, she shook off her coat and went straight to the photo department. René’s broad smile told her he’d snapped Kinnaird and was eager for the front-page placement of that photo.

“The doctor says he’ll call you around 4:40,” René said taking the point-and-shoot camera Liz handed him. “These things are a bitch to take apart,” he said, “but I’ll do my best. I’m on overtime in ten minutes. Will I be able to claim the overtime, or am I doing you a favor?”

“Um hm,” Liz said, looking into the plastic bag the camera had been in. She saw it contained Tom’s drawing and an airmail letter addressed to Ellen Johansson, postmarked from Heathrow Airport, London, December 18.

“What do you mean by ‘um hm’, Liz? Which is it, pictures for a story that will run or another of your speculative ventures?”

“It’ll run,” Liz said, listening to the radio that was always turned on in the photo department.

“World reporter Mick Lichen and Erik Johansson of Newton were both arrested after allegedly assaulting one another at the latter’s home today,” the announcer said. “According to jogger Sy Eliot, who witnessed the incident, Johansson shook a ladder Lichen was standing on when he discovered the reporter peeking into his daughter’s bedroom. The reporter fell to the ground, breaking his left leg in the process. But that didn’t stop Lichen from striking out at Johansson. According to Eliot, Lichen wrapped his arms around Johansson’s leg, causing him to fall to the ground. Erik Johansson is the husband of Ellen Johansson, the librarian who went missing from her Newton home December 18. The incident raises the question of how far a reporter may go to get his story. Even before he dragged Johansson to the ground, was Mick Lichen a law-breaking trespasser and voyeur, or was he a professional going the extra mile to get a job done? For analysis, tune in tonight at ten to WLTR’s Letter of the Law program.”

Certain the World would report on what Lichen saw, Liz knew she had two stories on her hands, and it wasn’t even an official day at work for her. Looking at the clock, she decided to postpone conferring with Dermott McCann. If she told him about the blood types and the drawing on Veronica’s wall, he would surely put another reporter on one of the stories. She wanted them both. Not only that, but she was the only one who had a hope of speaking with Veronica herself to find out about the kite-flying episode. With the news meeting that would decide what stories would be given precedence in the paper just two and a half hours away, Liz decided to take a chance on covering both. Heading down the ink-stained hallway to her car, she phoned Olga Swenson and told her she wanted to see her in advance of reporting some important news. Naturally agitated after learning of her son-in-law’s arrest, the older woman nonetheless consented to see Liz at her Wellesley home and gave her driving directions to the place.

Back in the Tracer, Liz headed west on the Massachusetts Turnpike, listening to news radio as she drove. The back of her billboard was still lit with “MERRY XMAS LIZ” spelled out in lights. Allowing herself a fleeting smile, she listened carefully as the radio announcer reported more breaking news in the Johansson case.

“‘We have evidence two people were injured in Ellen Johansson’s kitchen,’ Newton police chief Anthony Warner told WLTR-News today. Two days after the Newton librarian and mother of one went missing, leaving bloodstained cookie-making ingredients on her kitchen counter, police confirmed the blood belonged to the missing woman herself. Now, Warner revealed, analysis of swabs taken from the kitchen floor area indicates another, unknown person was also injured in that kitchen.”

“Shit!” Liz exclaimed, thinking she’d lost her scoop. But then she realized WLTR did not have the whole story. Only she and Kinnaird knew the probable identity of the second injured party. She had to believe the doctor would not share his information until she reported it and turned in the cigarette butts to the police. Still, the timing of the WLTR report was a disaster in the making for her. As soon as she got off the turnpike onto Route 16, she pulled over and phoned the city desk.

“I know who the unidentified bleeder may be,” she told Dermott McCann without preamble.

“Then where the hell are you? I realize it’s your day off, Higgins, but were you waiting to be back on the clock tomorrow to tell me?”

“What do you think?” Liz shot back. “Ask DeZona if you want proof I’ve been on this all day.”

“Since when do you report to DeZona?”

“Look, Dermott, I don’t have time to argue with you. Just trust me on this one. While I verify one more piece of information, save me a four-inch front page story with a twenty-two-inch jump and a front page teaser for a ten-inch piece on Page Three.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me . . .”

“Liz Higgins, star reporter, if you want to know. I’ll see you in about an hour and a half.”

Liz pushed the button to cut the call on her cell phone and drove on to the Swenson residence. Thanking Providence, she caught sight of Veronica playing in the yard before she reached the house. Turning off her headlights and parking her car out of view of the house, she approached the child on foot.

When she saw Liz, Veronica flew to the reporter. “Did you do it? Did you find my mommy?” she asked.

“Not yet, Veronica, but once again, you can be a big help.”

“I can?”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t you need your detective pad?”

“I’ve got it right here,” Liz said, looking around as she pulled the notebook from her bag. “Oh, Veronica. I see you’ve made a super snow fort. It would also make a great private eye office, if you lived in the North Pole.”

Veronica smiled. “Let me show it to you.”

Sitting on a block of snow that served as a chair, Liz took out a pencil and held it poised over a new notebook page. “You should hang a few pictures in your fort, Veronica. Your daddy showed me a great one you drew of your family that he has hanging in his office.”

“That’s a baby picture!” Veronica said disdainfully. “It’s not very good. I drew that when I was little!”

“In first grade?”

“No. That was in kindergarten. I remember because we only got one box of crayons then. I used up my purple crayon before Thanksgiving and I couldn’t have another one.”

“You must like the color purple!”

“Oh yes. It’s my favorite color, still!”

“In that picture your dad has in his office, you drew a purple tie on your daddy.”

“That’s because I love purple and I love my daddy. When I was little, I always used to draw him with a tie. You wanna know why? Because he used to let me pick the tie for him to wear every morning.”

“Every day! Wow! You were such a good help to your dad. Some dads like to wear something different on weekends. Does your daddy usually wear a tie even when he’s not at work?”

“No, Liz. He hardly ever wears a tie when he’s raking leaves or things like that.”

“What about if you do something fun together, like flying a kite? Would he wear his tie then?”

“One time he did wear a tie when we flew my kite. It was my purple kite!”

“Were you in kindergarten then?”

“I don’t know. I remember it was funny, though. My daddy was trying to run with the kite and his tie kept hitting him in the face.”

“It must have been very windy!”

“Yes, it was!”

“Veronica, I hear you have Madeline wallpaper in your bedroom. Is that right?”

“Yes, but I’m tired of it.”

“Do you remember if you were in kindergarten when it was put in your room?”

“Maybe. My mommy let me write on the wall. That was so cool.”

“She was in kindergarten then,” Olga Swenson interrupted. “Why are you sitting outside in the cold?”

“I was showing her my private eye . . . ,” Veronica began.

“Her private, fully furnished snow castle!” Liz interrupted. “Do you know, my mother used to let me put candles in my snow forts. I could never, ever light candles in the house, but my mother used to light some for me in my snow forts.”

“Don’t give the child ideas!” Olga snapped. “Indoors or out, she might get burned.” Olga hustled everyone inside. After she’d settled Veronica with hot chocolate in the den, she listened as Liz explained the blood evidence she planned to report on.

“No, I never heard Ellen talk about a taxi driver. It must be some madman. Do you think he harmed my daughter?” Grasping at straws, Olga added, “That blood they found—do they know how long it was there? Maybe someone got hurt while they were investigating the scene.”

This line of conversation came to a dead stop as Veronica flew into the room announcing, “They arrested my daddy!!”

“I told you to watch the video, not the regular television!” Olga scolded, then changed her tone. “Oh, dear Veronica, forgive me for scolding you. It’s just that I knew the police were asking your daddy questions and I wanted him to tell you about that himself. They only want him to help them find your mommy.”

“But they said the police arrested him! When people get arrested, they go to jail! Everybody knows that!”

“Please, Liz, allow me to talk with my granddaughter,” Olga said, nodding her head in the direction of the door.

“Of course. I’ll let myself out,” Liz said. “Goodnight.” Looking over her shoulder she saw that Olga’s eyes were haunted, red from crying, but she mustered a soothing voice on her granddaughter’s behalf.

“Sometimes the reporters get it wrong,” she heard Olga tell Veronica. “The police can come and drive someone in their car to their station to help them. That’s not the same thing as being arrested.”

Walking to her car, Liz thought honesty would be a better policy, but she could not fault a loving grandmother for cushioning her grandchild from these harsh realities. Before making her drive, she phoned Lucy Gray at the library and asked her if Ellen had any old drawings by Veronica pinned up at her desk. Lucy said she did, and verified that one portrayed Erik wearing an outsized tie. Lucy promised to meet Liz at the library door with the drawing.

The rush-hour traffic was terrible, but Liz made it to the library and then the newsroom by 5:30. Lines had been up for well over an hour, and McCann was edgy at setting aside significant space to be filled by an absent reporter.

At her desk, Liz found she had missed Cormac’s 3:15 phone call, but at least he’d left a message. “Don’t worry about fetching the evidence, Liz,” he said. “I turned it in to the authorities myself.”

So, he didn’t trust her to do what he considered the right thing.

“From my experience, I know you will need these facts,” Cormac continued on her voice mail. After providing his job title and university affiliation and some details about the bloodstain analysis, he added, “I hope this is adequate because I’m going to be out of reach this evening.”

“Yeah, sure!” Liz muttered.

Reading the assignment sheet, Liz saw she’d been given slots for 24-inch and 8-inch stories. Her over-long requests had worked. McCann had cut them to the story lengths she’d hoped for. The first was assigned to run on Page One with a 20-inch jump running on Page Three, along with the 8-inch related story. But there were question marks next to it. Liz knew the only way she could erase them was to deliver the news, so she got right down to writing it.

When she’d filed the articles electronically, she found DeZona, gave him the lead story’s slug, and told him to mark the photos of Kinnaird and the file photo of the bloodied kitchen with matching information. Then she handed him Veronica’s drawing. “Can you scan this for me?”

“I recognize the style,” DeZona said, handing Liz prints of the pictures Tom had taken. Apparently in order to fill the frame with the drawing, Tom had shot the photos at close range. Designed to be used at a distance, the cheap flash had washed out Veronica’s pencil drawing in every one of the close-ups. But, apparently as an afterthought, Tom had taken a picture of the whole room.

“When I looked at that shot with a magnifying glass, I figured you’d need this,” the photographer said, handing Liz an enlargement. “Not a pretty picture,” he said.

“Not when you see this. Take a look at the tie. Veronica always drew her dad wearing an oversized tie. Freud might make something of that, but not me. Read all about family ties in tomorrow’s Beantown Banner!”

“‘FAMILY TIES.’ Not a bad headline, and it looks like you’ve got the art to back your story, too. Great job, Higgins. I gotta hand it to you,” Dermott McCann said, standing in the doorway to the photo department. “You made front page, with a lead and a teaser. Take the day off tomorrow. I’ve got Dick working on the Social Security angle. He’s got the contacts. Even if it’s a dead end, we’ve got to report what the government knows about this Hasan’s work record.”

Leaving the newsroom, Liz wondered if she could ever take a day off while a little girl counted on her to bring home her missing mom. Tired as she was, when she arrived home, she made another phone call to Jan Van Wormer’s Workshop, only to find the voice mail still jammed. Ali just had to be found. Two mysterious Middle Easterners connected to one missing woman were two too many. Their connection to Ellen demanded explanation.

“Wait!” Liz said aloud, startling her cat. “There are not just two but three people in Ellen’s life with ties to the Middle East.” Pouring a glass of Chardonnay, flipping on her gas fireplace, and pulling her afghan over her lap, Liz settled down in her armchair and opened the airmail letter addressed to Ellen.

18 December 2000

My Dear Ellen,

How can I ever express how marvelous it was to meet you at last! Such a strange experience it was, don’t you agree, to meet for the first time someone who has been your bosom companion for two decades? I am glad I need not struggle to describe such a feeling, because I know you, my dear friend, have experienced it, too.

Here I sit, in Heathrow Airport, wishing I could actually lie down during this tedious time they call a layover. As my English instructor would say, “I feel frightfully shattered!” I think in America you would say, “exhausted utterly.” In my part of the world, I would say, “Jiddan ta~bana,” which means, “I am very tired.” (I write it down for you knowing you are making a study of my language. How pleased and surprised I was to hear you greet me in my own tongue when we met in New York.)

I suppose the strangest and most wonderful thing about meeting you in person (I keep returning to the indescribable—I just can’t help myself!) was the opportunity to be looking into your eyes as you spoke. This, I think, was especially important regarding the confidences you shared with me. During my flight to this airport, I was unable to sleep, so I gave much thought to what you told me and I am of two minds about it. I have no doubt that I admire your courage, my dear friend. But I feel just as convinced that you are opening a Pandora’s box. I know you have told me there is relief in putting things out in the open, but I feel in my heart some things are better left with the lid on. Particularly, if they might be monstrous.

Still, dear Ellen, you may count on me to support you no matter how you decide to proceed. Perhaps if you take the path I would not choose, you shall prove me wrong and win liberation for yourself in the process. But what will happen to your family, your mother, if you seek that liberation? You must think how they will fare when you are not in what you called the “circle” anymore.

Perhaps, even now, you have already flown that circle. I sincerely hope not. Such decisions must be considered carefully and at great length. I regret I shall be world-hopping for the UN again, with no fixed address for several months, but I shall look for your letters when I return to my home in September. I hope they shall bear the familiar postmark, “Newton, Massachusetts,” on the outside—and happy news within.

With my love and friendship,

Nadia