Missing Persons

26

Raoul’s voice, when he wanted it to, carried no echoes of his childhood in Catalonia. I’d never given much thought to whether or not the tonal charade required much of his energy or attention. I’d always assumed that he could move back and forth between the American and Catalonian accents effortlessly, the way that a skilled actor does Kerry one minute and New Jersey the next.

Raoul said, “Back up. When did all this start? When did she call you?”

I heard echoes of Barcelona, and of worry, in his perfect English. I supposed that I was hearing the Barcelona only because I was hearing the worry. The caller ID unit by the phone told me that Diane’s call to me from the craps table had come in exactly forty-seven minutes earlier.

“Forty-five minutes ago,” I told Raoul.

“So she’s been out of touch less than an hour?”

“Right.”

“That’s not a big deal.”

I’d been doing the same comfort calisthenics. But I clearly remembered the intensity of Raoul’s barely contained outrage while Jaris Slocum was holding Diane hostage in the backseat of the patrol car after Hannah Grant’s death, and I remembered how resistant he’d been to any reassurance at that time. I knew that all the fret-yoga he was doing to convince himself that the current circumstances were some version of ordinary wouldn’t, ultimately, do him a bit of good. Diane being out of touch for forty-seven minutes in the current circumstances required explanation.

And when I told him what I knew, I knew he’d agree with me.

“Raoul? Do you know why Diane went to Las Vegas?”

He spent a couple of heartbeats mining the apparent innocuousness of my question for innuendo before he replied, “She likes it there. She missed her chance last month when… you know.”

“Do you know why she went now?”

There it was again. The shrink’s “precipitating event” question.

Why now?

Raoul was one of the brightest people I’d ever met. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to make sense of the bare glimpse he was getting as he strained to see where it was that I was leading him.

“She told me that a patient’s mother was there. In Vegas. Somebody she wanted to talk to about a case. That was her excuse, but she really wanted to play craps and the mountain casinos have a five-buck limit. Small bets bore her.”

“It wasn’t one of her patients’ mother she was planning to talk to, Raoul.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The patient whose mother is living in Las Vegas? That patient wasn’t Diane’s; it was Hannah Grant’s.”

I could hear his breath blow hard against the microphone. “And you knew this? You knew that was why she was going?”

It was an accusation. His unspoken words were “And you let her?” I felt his finger pointing at me physically, felt it mostly in my gut. I could no more have stopped Diane from going to Las Vegas than I could prevent January from being colder than July. But that didn’t matter to Raoul, not then.

“She told me she was thinking about it, about going to Vegas to talk with this woman. But I thought she was just being provocative with me. You know how she is. I didn’t think she’d really go.”

“Diane always does things that other people don’t think she’ll do. It’s who she is.”

It was another accusation. And it was right on target. “I wish I’d listened to her. I’m sorry.”

Raoul had no time for my mea culpas. “Had she talked to this person, yet? This mother?” he asked.

Before I replied I used a moment to recall the specifics of my last conversation with Diane. “When we talked, she told me that she’d found her, tracked her down. I don’t know whether or not she actually spoke with her. I think that’s what she was going to tell me when she got outside. She said it was important.”

“You know what patient it is, don’t you, Alan?”

My impulse was to hesitate, to cover my ass. To my credit, I didn’t. I mouthed a simple “Yes.”

“You know who the mother is, too?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to tell me.”

“You know how this works.”

Raoul was the husband of a psychotherapist. Spouses of mental health professionals know the rules. He said, “This is Diane we’re talking about. You are the one who had better know how this works.”

I tried to deflect him, to steer him back to the current crisis. I said, “I don’t even know where’s she staying. Where do you stay when you’re there?”

He took a deep breath. “I try not to go at all if I can help it, but where faux Italian is concerned I prefer the Bellagio. The fountains are… something. She’s at the Venetian,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “She likes the canals. I take her to Venice, I take her to St. Petersburg, I take her to Amsterdam; it turns out the canals she likes best are inside some vapid casino in Las Vegas.”

“I’ll try her room and call you back.”

“You’ve tried her mobile?” he asked.

“A few times.”

“Merde.” I recognized the move from Catalonian to French. The man could curse in more languages than anyone I knew. He never cursed in English, however. Not in my presence.

“It’s probably nothing.” I didn’t believe my own words. I said it because it was just one of those things that people say in circumstances like those.

While Raoul was still on the line, I pulled Lauren’s cell from her purse and punched in Diane’s mobile number. After three rings someone answered.

A female voice, not Diane’s, said, “Yeah? Who is this?”

Speaking into both phones simultaneously, I said, “Hold on a second, Raoul. Someone’s on her cell.”

“Go on,” he said. “Allez!”

The voice on Diane’s phone demanded, “Who’s Rule?”

The lilt of the woman’s voice triggered some clinical trigger in my brain. Instinctively I went into therapist mode, specifically I went into psychiatric-emergency-room therapist mode. My voice calmed, my hearing sensitized for the unexpected. Psychologically speaking, my weight was on my toes; I was prepared to change directions in a heartbeat.

“This is Dr. Gregory, may I speak to Dr. Diane Estevez, please? You answered her phone.”

“Well, she’s not home.” The woman laughed. “No one’s home. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Not being home? This is about as far from home as I get. So there.”

I considered the possibility that I’d dialed Diane’s number incorrectly and that I was simply being confused by the lottery of errant connection. Then I heard the familiar frantic calliope riff of a slot machine jackpot and I knew that what had happened wasn’t a simple wrong number. This woman was in a Las Vegas casino and she was holding Diane’s phone in her hand. Why?

“The phone you’re holding belongs to a friend of mine. Do you mind if I ask how you got it? Did you find it?”

“The doctor? It belongs to the doctor? Rule? Dr. Rule?”

“Yes.” I let it go. I didn’t want to try to explain to this woman who Rule, or Raoul, was, or wasn’t.

“Well,” she said. “I would guess he’s out playing golf.” She laughed again. Her cackle was sharp and high-pitched-the yelp of a distressed tropical bird. You wouldn’t want to be sitting in the vicinity of this woman in a movie theater during the screening of a half-decent comedy.

“That’s pretty funny,” I said in a voice intended to convey that, against all odds, I found her act cute. “But I’m actually being serious. Where exactly did you find my friend’s cell phone? It’s important. She’ll want to know when she… thanks you.”

“I’m playing slots. Two machines-I always play two machines. It was in the tray on the left when I sat down. Or is that the right? I get my lefts and my rights mixed up, especially when I’ve been drinking, and I’ve been drinking. Who the heck are you?”

I played the doctor card. “I’m Dr. Gregory.”

“You out playing golf, too?” She laughed again. I had to hold the phone six inches from my ear to provide a cushion from the intensity of the din.

Diane had dropped her phone on the way out of the casino. That was the explanation for everything. That was why she hadn’t kept her promise to call me back as soon as she was outside the casino. That was why she hadn’t been answering my repeated calls to her cell phone.

Simple. “You’re in the casino at the Venetian?”

“You wanna bet?” She laughed. “Or, I… wanna bet. I guess I’m the one who’s betting.”

“What’s your name?”

“Michelle. You know about Harvey Wallbangers?”

“A cocktail, right?” I reminded myself to be patient. Corral her, I thought, don’t lasso her.

“Ver-y good. Nobody here knows how to make ’em. Nobody. I order one and I keep getting Tequila Sunrises. Can you imagine? I don’t like the red stuff, I like the yellow stuff. In the tall bottle? You know what I’m talking about?”

“How many have you had?”

“Three, or… not-no, four.” She paused. “Four. Not counting this one. Oops, this one’s almost gone, too. Do you know how hard it is to make any money playing nickel slots? Well, it is. Even if you max your bets, and I do sometimes, I really, really do, it’s like… when you win you still just get… well, nickels. Is that fair?”

“So you’re playing nickel slots at the Venetian?”

“I am.”

“Are there any casino employees around, Michelle? Maybe right behind you? Somebody in a uniform, someone making change or… serving cocktails, or something? An attendant?”

“Yep, there’s one right there-how’d you know? Is there a camera on me? Am I like on one of those TV shows or something?”

“Could you please give my friend’s phone to the person who works for the casino? Tell him I would like to speak with him?”

“Her.”

“Her. Fine.”

“Here,” she said to somebody, possibly the casino employee, but certainly not to me. “Some doctor named Rule or… Gregory or something lost his phone while he was playing golf. Here, you take it, go on. I don’t want it anymore. I need more nickels.”

A heavily accented voice-Caribbean? Jamaican?-said, “What you need, ma’am? Change?”

And that was the end of that call.

“Raoul, you still there?”

“Of course.”

“Diane doesn’t have her phone with her. Some drunk woman in the casino found it, just turned it over to a casino employee. The call died. I’ll try calling back again in a minute. Diane must have lost her phone.”

“At the Venetian?”

“That’s what the woman said.”

Raoul said, “I’ll call her room. Keep your line open in case she calls you.”

“Of course. Raoul, I’m sure it’s okay. There will be a simple explanation for this.”

He’d already hung up.

Diane had lost her phone. Raoul would call her hotel room and find her sitting on her king-sized bed lambasting somebody from hotel security about the casino’s inefficient lost-and-found procedures. That’s what I was telling myself. No big thing.

In my heart that’s what I didn’t believe. As innocuous as the events sounded-a friend failed to keep a promise to call another friend for less than an hour-my heart told me that something sinister had occurred.

You really need to hear this, she’d said. Diane would have found a way to call.

I tried Diane’s cell one more time. Without even a single ring, my call was routed to voice mail. I left a simple message, “Hey Diane, it’s Alan. Still trying to reach you in Vegas. Give me a call. I’m getting a little worried. Raoul is concerned, too. Call him.”

I surmised that the casino employee who possessed Diane’s phone had killed the power and that Diane’s phone was programmed to send power-off calls to voice mail.

I walked down the hall to find Grace and Lauren asleep together on our big bed. One big spoon nestled protectively around one little spoon. I adjusted the comforter so that it covered both of them, flicked off the lights, took the bedtime volumes away from the pillows, and kissed them each on the head before I retraced my steps back to the kitchen counter. I’d carry Grace from our bed into her room later on.

The phone chirped in my hand. I caught it after half a ring.

Raoul. He said, “She’s not answering. Quin merder.”

It was my turn to curse. I’m not multilingual; I said simply, “Shit.”