Look Again

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, Ellen's wardrobe was back on autopilot, and she slipped a down coat over her jeans-sweater-clogs trifecta. Her hair was still wet from the shower, her eye makeup only perfunctory. She felt raw and tired, gone sleepless after a night of quality dwelling.

"You're leaving early?" Connie asked, shedding her coat by the closet. Bright sunlight shone through the window in the door, warming the living room.

"Yes, I have tons of work," Ellen lied, then wondered why. "He didn't have a fever this morning but he slept badly. I still wouldn't send him to school."

"We'll take it easy."

"Good, thanks." Ellen kept her back turned, grabbed her bag and the manila envelope, then opened the door. "I told him good-bye. He's playing in bed with his Legos."

"Ouch."

"I know, right?"

"Looks like the snow's holding off," Connie said, cheery.

"See you, thanks." Ellen went to the door and left, catching a glimpse of the babysitter's puzzled expression through the window, then she pulled her coat tighter and hit the cold air, hustling across the porch and toward the car.

Ten minutes later, she reached the two-story brick building behind Suburban Square and pulled up at the curb in front of the sign that read PROFESSIONAL building. She'd called Karen Batz's office from her cell phone this morning, but no voice mail had picked up, so she'd decided to drop in. It was on the way to the city, and she was hoping Karen would see her. Even a feature reporter knows when to be pushy.

Ellen grabbed her bag and the envelope and got out of the car. She walked down the walkway and went inside the blue door, which they kept unlocked. There was a colonial-style entrance hall with a hunting-scene umbrella stand, and she opened the door on the right, which read, LAW OFFICES, and went inside. She stood, disoriented, for a minute.

Karen's office was completely different. There was a navy carpet and a paisley couch and chairs she didn't remember from before. The huge bulletin boards blanketed with baby photos had been replaced by beach-and-surf scenes and a mirror framed with fake seashells.

"May I help you?" a receptionist asked, coming out of the back room. She was about sixty-five, with red reading glasses and her brown hair cut short. In her hand she held an empty Bunn coffeepot, and she had on a cardigan embroidered with stick-figure skiers and a long corduroy skirt.

"I was looking for Karen Batz," Ellen answered.

"Her office isn't here anymore. This is Carl Geiger's office now. We do real estate."

"Sorry. I called Karen's old number, but they didn't pick up."

"They should disconnect the line. I keep telling them to, but they don't. You're not the first one to make this mistake."

"I'm a client of hers. Do you know where she moved to?"

The receptionist's eyes fluttered briefly. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Batz passed away."

"Really?" Ellen asked, surprised. "When? She was only in her forties."

"About two years, maybe a year and a half ago. That's how long we've been here."

Ellen frowned. "That would be right around the time I knew her."

"I'm so sorry. Would you like to sit down? Maybe have some water?"

"No, thanks. What did she die of?"

The receptionist hesitated, then leaned closer. "Frankly, it was a suicide."

Ellen felt stunned. "She killed herself?" Memories came back to her. Karen's desk had photos of her three sons. "But she was married, with kids."

"I know, such a shame." The receptionist turned toward a noise from the back room. "If you'll excuse me, I should get ready. We have a closing this morning."

Ellen was nonplussed. "I wanted to talk to her about my son's adoption."

"Maybe her husband can help you. I've directed her other clients to him." The receptionist went to the computer and hit a few keys, the bright monitor screen reflected in her glasses. She pulled a pen from a mug, then scribbled on a piece of paper. "His name's Rick Musko. Here's his office phone."

"Thanks," Ellen said, accepting the sheet, which had a 610 phone number, the Philly suburbs. "Do you have the address?"

"I'm not authorized to give that out."

"Okay, thanks."

Back in her car, Ellen was on the cell phone to Karen's husband before she pulled away from the office. It was only 8:10, but a man answered the phone.

"Musko here."

"Mr. Musko?" Ellen introduced herself and said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm, er, was, a client of Karen's. I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Musko said, his tone cooler.

"She helped me adopt my son, and I had wanted to speak with her. I have a question or two about-"

"Another lawyer took over her practice. You should have gotten a letter. I can give you his information."

"I just wanted my file. Does he have the files, too?"

"How old is the case?"

"It was about two years ago." Ellen winced at the coincidence of timing, but if Musko noticed it, he didn't miss a beat.

"I have the dead files in my garage, at the house. You can come by and look for your file. That's the best I can do."

"Wonderful. When could I come by?"

"I'm busy this month, we have a project at work."

"Please, could it be sooner? This is important." Ellen heard anxiety thin her voice, surprising even herself. "If I could just come over this week? Tonight, even? I know it's short notice but I won't make any trouble for you, I'll just go out to the garage and find it myself."

"Tonight?"

"Please?"

"I suppose the housekeeper can let you into the garage. Her name's Wendy. I'll call her."

"Thanks so much. I'll be there by six." Ellen prayed Connie could stay late.

"Make it seven, then the kids will have eaten. Look for the U-Haul boxes in the garage. Wendy will show you. You can't miss them." Musko gave Ellen an address, and she thanked him and hung up, then typed it into her BlackBerry.

As if she would forget it.