“Well, she didn’t disappear the twenty-first. She disappeared the twenty-fifth,” the woman said, tearing up again.
“And today is the twenty-seventh,” April murmured.
“We thought you had to wait forty-eight hours,” she said quickly. She dabbed at her eyes.
“We thought we’d hear from her,” the husband corrected.
“Well, there is no rule about that. How old is she and where does she live?” April asked.
Maybe this Ellen Roane didn’t fit into any of the categories they could investigate. People didn’t understand not everyone who disappeared was missing. Over eighteen, people could go where they wanted, without fear of being looked for, harassed, picked up somewhere by the FBI. Married people who had just had enough took off all the time. They couldn’t go looking for every missing spouse.
There had to be some mitigating evidence: The person was over sixty-five or had a handicap of some sort, or had a history of mental illness; or else some indication the person was endangered.
The mother chewed on her upper lip to control herself. April felt her panic and sympathized. This didn’t look like too happy a scene. The daughter might just have run away. It was bad luck for the parents, but it happened.
“Seventeen,” the mother said after a second of hesitation.
April nodded. Okay, anybody missing under eighteen had to be investigated, punched into the system. “Okay, where does she live?”
“She goes to Columbia. She lives in a dorm there.”
“That’s not in this precinct. She has to be a resident of this precinct,” April said slowly.
April thought it over. Could she send them Uptown and wiggle out of this? Probably not. Sergeant Joyce had told her to handle it, and not just because she was the only one available.
“You’re sensitive,” Joyce had said with a smile that made it sound like sensitive was not such a good thing to be.
“Your daughter is under eighteen. That means we can put her in the system. I can do that for you. But do you have any reason to believe Ellen’s in danger?” April asked.
“Oh, God. What does that mean?” the woman cried.
The man turned to her angrily. “It means the FBI and every police headquarters in the country will be looking out for her. Is that what you want?”
“She wouldn’t go anywhere without telling me,” the woman insisted. “We’re very close. Very, very close. Yes, I know she’s in danger.”
“What makes you think so?” April asked gently. “Does she have a boyfriend who threatened her? Was anyone bothering her? Girls sometimes go off with a friend for a few days. Most people turn up.”
It was Saturday. College girls went away for the weekend. Tough life.
“She might have gone away for the weekend,” April said.
Jennifer Roane shook her head. “I feel it. I just know. I know her. She wouldn’t do this to me.”
“Is she having any problems at school, any reason to want to get away?”
Both parents shook their heads.
“She is an excellent student. A sweet, beautiful girl, never been in any trouble,” the father said firmly. “She’s never caused us a moment’s worry.”
He shrugged as if to say they were probably making too much of it.
April darted a look at him. “What about family problems?” she asked.
“We’re separated, if that’s what you mean.” He looked at one of his highly polished loafers. “But I don’t think that has anything to do with it. Ellen’s taking it very well.”
The woman started to cry again. “I don’t believe for a minute Ellen is taking it well. I hardly got a word out of her the last time we spoke. How can she take it well when everything she was told her whole childhood turned out to be a
“Shut up,” the man said coldly.
“I’ll need a picture of her,” April said, “and the phone numbers of her friends.” She looked at her watch. She wasn’t impressed by the case, didn’t for a minute think this girl was in trouble. But she couldn’t take a chance. They couldn’t ever, ever take a chance and let it go. She told the Roanes she’d start working on it right away.
She had three days to file a report, and seven days to keep the case. If they hadn’t located the girl by then, Joyce could get rid of the case, send it Downtown where it would be filed against the day something came up that fit the description.
All this went through April’s head automatically as the Roanes left the squad room. At the start of every case she always made lists of what she had to do. Sometimes at night she went over and over them, terrified that she might have left something out that would cost somebody their life.
First stop Columbia, a hell of a way to get to college.
Before April took off, she called the nephew of the DOA she and Sanchez found that morning. The Medical Examiner’s office were always impatient to get rid of them. If she didn’t find someone to claim the old guy soon, they’d bury him in Potter’s Field. No answer at the nephew’s. She packed up for the night, certain she’d have a lead on the girl to tell the parents by morning.
5
“Jesus!” A wave of dizziness surged over Jason. He reached for the wall to stop himself from staggering at the second shock from his wife in less than two hours.
Emma was in the laundry room of their apartment when he got home. She was wearing a black tank top and bicycle shorts, and she was running on an expensive treadmill that hadn’t been there when he left.
Drops of sweat glistened on her neck and chest. The skin of her midriff was winter pale. He turned toward the kitchen, then looked at her again, stunned. If anything, she was more beautiful in real life, and seemed farther away from him than if she were a stranger he had never seen before.
“Hi.” She turned to him, surprised to see him, smiled her dazzling, thousand-watt smile, and slowed the machine to a walk before getting off.
“I didn’t expect you for hours in all this fog. How did it go?” She reached out to him.
He shook his head, speechless. The only thing he could remember about Toronto was the anxiety, the premonition he had that something was not right with
In patients and friends with marital problems he always looked for what was missing in the relationship, not for what was there. If passion was missing, if humor was missing, if warmth and life were missing, then he worried. Bickering and nagging were often signs of life, useful outlets for the unwelcome, and sometimes frightening, ambivalence that was part of every love relationship. Jason had always felt it was fine that he and Emma didn’t bicker. She didn’t like confrontation. It was a cultural thing.
“Sorry. I’m sweaty.” Emma backed off at his apparent rebuff.
Emma didn’t nag, either. She didn’t tear out her hair in violent rages, or throw the plates around. When she was troubled or in pain, a Protestant coolness settled over her and she went to another place in herself to think it out. He had always thought hers was not a bad way to deal with the vicissitudes of life. Cooling out was certainly easier than temper tantrums to live with. Pretty stupid of him to take it easy because it was easier.
Jason had no illusions about the common failing of his sex to mistake outward calm in a woman (or anyone else for that matter) for inner peace. But in his case there was more to it than insensitivity. Managing intimacy was a tricky job, and he deeply believed both partners needed space and privacy. He would never have intruded on Emma, probing for trouble when none was expressed, but clearly he should have.
He colored slightly. “No, no. It’s not the sweat. It’s the—” He shook his head, still unable to believe what he had seen her do on the screen.
“Oh, the treadmill,” she said. “Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart. I paid for it myself.” She dabbed at her face
