Abandoned

“Something happened yesterday, Mr. Hollister,” Alan says. “Do you remember what day your first wife went missing?”

“Heather?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollister thinks about it, still sweating away. “Um … let’s see. It was after her cardio class. Middle of the week. Wednesday. Yes. Wednesday. Why?”

“Where were you at the time?”

A flash of anger passes over Hollister’s face, but he answers without hesitation. This is solid ground for him. “I was at home.”

“What were you doing at the time?”

Hollister’s quiet, remembering. “I was watching a movie. My sons were asleep. I was watching … Dirty Harry.”

Alan smiles. “Clint. My man. What’s your opinion? You think he was better as an actor or a director?”

Burns gives me a sideways look. I ignore him. He doesn’t know what Alan’s up to. I do.

Hollister seems as mystified but answers. “I think he’s better as a director. I love the Dirty Harry movies and the westerns, but he really came into his own as a director.”

“I agree. Which do you think is his best movie? As a director, I mean?”

Hollister considers it. Of course, the fact that he’s answering any of these questions at all makes me almost certain he’s guilty. The guilty, when confronted with an interrogation situation, jump at any chance to bond. They think being friendly will make us trust them more. Hollister is too desperate to be liked by Alan to wonder why the subject is Clint Eastwood.

“Mystic River, I guess.”

“Your wife Heather was found alive.” Alan shifts gears without bothering to acknowledge Hollister’s answer.

You could hear a pin drop. Hollister stares at Alan. He swallows once, a huge, nervous gulping, like a gagging fish. “She was found?” he finally says. “W-where?”

I frown. Found? Not found alive? Odd choice of words.

“She was pushed out of a car into a hotel parking lot. My colleagues and I were attending a wedding there. We think he chose that location because of its proximity to a large group of law enforcement.”

“Large group? What do you mean?”

Again, Hollister’s questions are very, very strange.

“Almost everyone attending was either FBI or LAPD.”

Hollister looks away. His eyes find me and then dart in another direction. He’s sweating more profusely now. I peer closer. Sweat stains have actually appeared on the underarms of his shirt.

“Wow,” he manages. “I don’t know what to say. This is kind of shocking.”

Kind of?

He points a finger at Burns, and his face twists in righteous indignation. “See! I told you I didn’t kill her. You kept persecuting me, but she’s alive. She’s fine.”

My mouth almost falls open. “I wouldn’t say she’s fine, sir. We think she’s been held in isolation for eight years. She’s in a psychotic state. Fine? I’m not sure that’s the best selection of words.”

I sense Alan’s eyes on me, warning me off. I rein myself in.

“You’re right,” Hollister says, holding a hand up in commiseration. “I’m sorry. I feel like a pinball in a pinball machine right now. It’s just …” He puts his hands together between his knees and looks down at them. “Eight years is a long time. When Heather disappeared, it nearly killed me. Then I was accused of being the one responsible for her disappearance and maybe her murder.” He looks at Burns. “I know you were just doing your job. I apologize for my outburst.”

“No problem,” Burns says, playing along, though I can sense his tenseness.

“Where is she?” he asks. “Is she injured? Can I see her?”

All the questions now that he should have asked from the start.

“She’s still being examined,” Alan says. “So far, she doesn’t show any signs of permanent physical harm, but her mental state is another matter. The doctors would prefer that she have no visitors right now.”

I’m always amazed at how simply Alan can change his mode of speaking. In normal situations, he’s very easygoing. A little bit of slang at times, a peppering of profanity. Man on the street. Now he sounds so formal, almost stilted.

“I understand,” Hollister says, agreeing a little too quickly for my taste. “Do you have any idea yet? About who might have done this to her?”

This is the question he really wants answered. Alan waits, letting the pause hang a little too long as he stares at Hollister. “No,” he finally says. “I’m afraid not. We’re hopeful that Ms. Hollister can shed some light on things when she is ready to start talking again. If she’s ever ready.”

Hollister leans forward, ever so slightly. It’s an almost imperceptible eagerness. “And?” he asks. “Do you think she’ll ever be ready?”

God, I marvel. Either this guy is the world’s worst liar or he’s still too shook up to get his bearings.

Again, that too-long pause from Alan. He lets it go long enough now that one of Hollister’s eyes twitches with tension. “That’s an unknown at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Hollister replies. He smiles again, that awful, desperate grin. “Does anyone want a beer?” he asks. “I sure could use a beer!”

It’s utterly incongruous. Alan takes it in stride.

“We can’t, sir, but thank you. We’re almost done with what we came to find out—I mean, to do here. If I could just ask you to be patient a little while longer.”

Alan’s “slip of the tongue” was anything but. Hollister’s eye twitches again at the words find out.

“Uh, okay,” he says, staring at Alan. His mouth sounds as though it’s filled with cotton, overdry.

“Is there anything you can think of that might help us, sir? Heather’s reappearance is obviously a new development. Has anything happened in your life recently that might correspond to that? Has anyone contacted you, emailed you, left strange messages?”

“No, nothing like that,” Hollister says.

“Anything at all you can think of?”

“No, I’m afraid not. That’s the strange thing. Three days ago, everything was like it always is. Now everything has changed.”

This is the truth. I can hear it in his voice. The problem is, again, in his choice of words. Three days ago is too long a window. Heather showed up yesterday.

Alan nods in sympathy. “That’s how it goes sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes we’re sure we have all the bases covered, and then we make a mistake.”

“Uh-huh,” Hollister agrees, staring at Alan with a kind of dreadful fascination.

“Mr. Hollister, you have two sons, don’t you?”

“Yes. Avery and Dylan.”

“How do you think they’re going to react to this?”

“I have no idea.” Douglas Hollister’s affect has changed. His eyes have gone colder. His voice is flat. Why?

Alan’s picked up on this as well. “Mr. Hollister, where are Avery and Dylan right now?”

“At a friend’s.”

Alan stares at the man and I know something is up. For the first time since we’ve arrived, he breaks eye contact with Hollister. He looks at me. He is very, very troubled. He turns back to Hollister. “Let me just confer with my boss for a few moments, sir, and then we should be out of your hair. You and Detective Burns can catch up in the meantime.”

Hollister eyes Burns dubiously. “Yeah. Sure.”

Alan gets up and walks me into the kitchen. “We have a problem,” he says. “What?”

“He’s lying about Avery and Dylan being at a friend’s. Why? Who needs to lie about where their kids