Missing Persons

64

I tried to stretch out my calves a little more as I pondered Sam’s challenge and watched him disappear down the dusty lane. I was just about to go back inside when the square front end of an approaching car came my way. It stopped a hundred yards or so down the road, in a little turnout on the soft shoulder.

The car was the GM sedan I’d seen earlier. The sun had crested the eastern horizon and was reflecting off the windshield. From my vantage point I could tell the car was pale yellow. The hood ornament clued me in that it was a Cadillac.

I stuck my hands in my armpits to warm my fingers, and I waited.

A man climbed out of the driver’s seat, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and began walking toward me.

Bob Brandt.

Even at a hundred yards I recognized the denim jacket. My thought? Thank God you’re alive.

“Somebody’s been in my house,” he said when he got within fifty feet. His voice was pressured. He didn’t say hello.

So what else is new?

“I know,” I said. I’d come to the conclusion that it was Doyle who had trashed Bob’s place, but I kept the guess to myself.

“Did you read my stuff?” he asked.

That’s why Bob was at my house: to chastise me for breaking his trust and spilling his secrets. That was fair-I had broken his trust and spilled his secrets. “Hi, Bob,” I said, reframing things, at least for a moment. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“Why?”

Bob’s “why” was a classic schizoid question, but perfectly sincere. His disorder left him with only the most rudimentary concept of “concern,” at least the person-to-person variety.

“I hadn’t heard from you, thought you might be in… danger.”

“Oh.” He played with the notion for a moment before he added, “I went somewhere. Do you know what’s going on? Who was in my place?”

“Are you okay?”

“Tired. Drove all night.”

“Are you here by yourself?”

He turned his head and looked back at the Cadillac, as though he needed to check to be sure. “Yes. What’s going on? Did you read my stuff? I told you not to. You must have seen my note.”

“Like I said, I got worried. Anyway, I think you wanted me to read it. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given it to me. We can talk about it.” It was shrink talk, but it also happened to be true.

“I was just getting started. It’s just a story.”

“The tunnel part is real.”

He swallowed, and his eyes started their disconcerting shimmying. He spit a solitary word: “So?”

Bob’s retort was schoolyard bravado, nothing more.

“How can I be of help right now?” I said, trying to sound therapeutic.

He seemed surprised by my offer. After a moment, he said, “That’s a good question.”

He stepped back, literally and-I feared-figuratively. Instinctively, I sought safer ground for him. “Is that your car?”

His eyes found the Caddy and lingered there. “It’s my mother’s.”

Your mother’s? Was Bob being sardonic? I couldn’t say. “You like it?”

He’d returned his attention my way, but was looking past me toward the distant turnpike. Finally, he said, “Lots of power. Good cruiser. Cushy. Only fourteen K on it.”

“Not as cherry as your Camaro,” I said.

“Close,” he said. “Pretty close.” He made an unfamiliar popping sound with his lips. “Maybe you can help somebody… I know.”

“A friend?” I asked. Please tell me Mallory’s okay.

Emily chose that moment to erupt; she’d apparently just realized that her homeland security had been violated and that a stranger was on her doorstep. Her fierce barking-even though it came from inside the house-caused Bob to retreat a few steps.

“She’s fine,” I said.

“I don’t like dogs. You know that.”

I didn’t think I knew that. “She’ll stay inside. Bob?” I waited until I thought I had his attention. “The police are looking for you. They want to talk with you about Mallory. I think you should get a lawyer and go see them. I can put you in touch with someone.”

“Sheesh,” he said, and did his little half head-shake thing.

I experienced an odd sense of relief that I’d finally lit on something I could share with Sam. I said, “You should know that whatever you decide to do, I’m going to tell the police you were here.”

He was puzzled. “Is that some… rule? You have to tell?”

“No. It might even be breaking some rule. It’s what I think is the right thing to do.”

He nodded. “That’s what I did, too. What I thought was the right thing.”

“You could be in danger. Doyle’s dead.”

“No, he’s not.”

Okay. I didn’t see a point in arguing. “The police need to talk with you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’ll be fine then. Let me put you in touch with an attorney.”

My phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket and checked the screen: Sam. I said to Bob, “Excuse me. This will take just a second.” I turned away, putting a dozen feet between us. “Yes,” I whispered into the phone.

“I passed that DeVille on the way out of your neighborhood-the one we saw during our jog. Had a funny feeling, so I ran it. Expired tags, but it’s registered to somebody named Verna Brandt in-”

“I know.”

“He’s there?”

“Yes.”

“A deputy is on the way. I’ll be right behind them.”

I turned around. Bob was almost all the way back to the Cadillac. “Don’t,” I yelled.

He jumped in the car, spun the sedan in the dirt as though he practiced the maneuver on weekends, and was gone within seconds.

A huge gust of wind whooshed from the west. I didn’t sense it coming and the blunt force of the gale almost blew me over. When I finally caught my balance I looked toward the mountains the way somebody might look to check the identity of somebody who just sucker punched him. My conclusion? The forecast Chinooks had definitely arrived; the slopes of the Front Range were already haloed in snow that was being whipped off the glacial ice of the distant Divide.

I braced my feet and tried Sam on his cell, but didn’t get an answer. I waited until the sheriff’s deputy and Sam drove up, told Sam what had happened, and wished I could start the day all over again.

Lauren was planning to hang out with Grace on Saturday morning and then the two of them were going to do some clothes shopping at Flatiron. Later in the day, winds permitting, they were planning a mother-daughter “tablecloth restaurant” visit someplace Gracie kept insisting was a big secret. I spent the morning hoping to hear from Raoul or Sam. Didn’t. I filled the time writing a couple of reports that were long overdue, and did a few chores around the house before I cleaned up, hopped in my car, drove the few miles west to my office, and prepared to see Bill Miller.

I wasn’t looking forward to the visit, and half hoped he would bag the session because of the Chinooks.