Or maybe that nervous chatter
’
s function had been to create static, noise to cover up
—
poorly
—
a lie. About what? A somebody still more appealing than Ivan sounded
—
a TGIF quickie en route? At least that would show a little
…
a little something.
She stood, deeded the phones to the answering service and frowned at the need to delay her weekend
’
s start in order to get the message
—
Davies
’
, not Ivan
’
s
—
to Billie. She suspected the postponement meant he
’
d opted for a quick and silencing payoff that would dissolve the job before it began, which thought did not brighten her mood.
She looked into Billie
’
s cubicle as if it would yield clues to its occupant
’
s missing-in-action status, but all she saw were three files lined up on her desk. Three? She
’
d only been on the one case. She looked at them, puzzled, then laughed. Faux files. The imaginary dossiers they
’
d drawn up. The girl was pathetic.
And as if the word
pathetic
triggered recognition, she realized where it was Billie must have snuck off to, why she
’
d lied. Emma didn
’
t know whether to laugh or cry. Billie hadn
’
t gone to a lover
—
not even to the supermarket. She
’
d been afraid to admit she was going to Penny Redmond, to try
—
futilely
—
to make up for the insults life had handed the girl and her brother.
Well, then
…
what was the number there?
She picked up the one actual file, ruffled its pages and shook her head in amused despair. A puzzlement, that Billie. So intent and intense
—
look at her notes. So afraid she
’
d miss something important that she recorded everything to the point of tediousness. Did anybody have to know when Penny Redmond last baby-sat for some woman named Sally? She wasn
’
t
missing,
didn
’
t need a
“
last seen
”
or worse,
“
last baby-sat at.
”
Or that she showed Sunny Marshall some necklace thing
—
a heart with
“
VUX
”
written on it. And next to that, in the margin, three arrows pointing at the heart. One said:
GREEK.
The second:
Jewelry call?
And the third:
SCRIPT.
VUX?
But in the end, she
’
d found the girl, which was what mattered. Not in the expected manner, not without mess and bloodshed
—
but that wasn
’
t Billie
’
s fault.
She tried the Redmonds, but got only their voice mail, Arthur sounding oily. She hung up, put the folder back in its precise formation with its make-believe kin and dialed Billie
’
s cellular.
“
The mobile number you are calling is not currently in operation or it is out of a
—
”
Emma slammed down the receiver. She wasn
’
t out of range
—
hadn
’
t driven into the High Sierras. She was in San Rafael playing idiot Samaritan and her phone was off, damn her!
She took a deep breath. Okay. She
’
d page her and wait. If Billie didn
’
t call back, and quickly, then there
’
d be a phone call to her later on
—
one that connected
—
to suggest that she find someone else to drive insane.
She
’
d give it ten minutes. Not one second more. The girl was eating into her weekend. Enough was enough.
She dialed the pager and began her countdown. And wondered why she
’
d never seen Greek letters that looked like they could spell.
“
VUX.
”
She looked at the notes again,
“
Script,
”
she said.
“
She wasn
’
t talking about a script, was she?
”
She made a phone call on the second line.
“
Reference desk, please,
”
she said.
*
Billie felt in a frantic trance. She kept the dark blue car in sight, although shortly after she
’
d turned the corner and begun to follow it, she
’
d realized that Penny was not its driver. The head she saw behind the wheel was close-cropped. Adult male. If it weren
’
t for the license plate, she
’
d have given up the pursuit as a mistake.
It had taken two or three blocks more before she was able to find a position in a lane beside his, from which she could see more of his face.
Harley Marshall. The Talkman. He
’
d said he was going for a run.
She was worried at first that he
’
d see her
—
then not worried at all. Who cared? She wanted
—
would
—
demand an explanation. What logical reason could he have for driving the Redmonds
’
car? She
’
d seen the Jaguar, for God
’
s sake. She
’
d seen this car in the Redmonds
’
garage. And where were the children?
He couldn
’
t be going to retrieve them because they couldn
’
t have gotten anywhere far on their own. Wouldn
’
t have even if they could.
She thought about calling the police, but didn
’
t know what she
’
d be reporting. I see the wrong person driving a car, Officer. Where, they might well ask, was the crime in a neighbor
’
s borrowing wheels?
Then Emma. She needed to talk to Emma even if Emma ranted and raved and screeched about this. She reached with her right hand for her phone and turned it on, dialing the office number in a series of frantic stabs while she kept her sights on the dark blue car.
The exchange answered, promised they
’
d be in touch with Emma.
“
Say it
’
s an emergency!
”
She wondered if it was one even as the words came out. But the service meant that Emma had gone for the day, maybe for the weekend. Who knew when she
’
d decide to call in for messages? And it wasn
’
t going to do any good to insist this was an emergency
—
Emma had pretty much told the service that everybody considers their need an emergency, and weekends, particularly Friday evenings, were sacrosanct. People who might really need her knew to tell the service to beep her.
She could do that. She kept forgetting about the thing. Nobody used it to reach her, anyway. But she had it. Thank God. She reached for the phone again, and punched in Emma
’
s pager
’
s number.
And froze. What was the number for her to return? What was Billie
’
s cellular phone number? She glanced down, turned the phone over, examined it even though she knew the number was not on it. She
’
d barely ever used it, never had to tell anybody its number, and it had plain and simply fallen out of her mind. There was a way to bring it up, buttons to punch, but what were they?
Had she written it down anywhere? How could so much depend on such a stupid thing?
She needed to pull over, think this through, make her mind work the way it was supposed to, the way it usually did, but then the blue car might get away altogether. Thank God for Friday-night commute congestion. He couldn
’
t move too quickly, which was lucky for her
—
Her pager buzzed. She nearly wept with relief.
*
Emma stood tapping her foot, waiting. Finally she sat down at Billie
’
s pitiably neat and insignificant desk. There wasn
’
t anything worth snooping through in here, only those files she kept as souvenirs. Maybe she was afraid of forgetting what was available on the computer. Emma flipped open the one about the dog-groomer. There, next to the notes, in the careful hand, underlined, was the CD-ROM source. That must be why she was clinging to them. She opened the one about the radio fellow. Excessive notes again. Everything. What a worrier. Did she realize that in a few weeks, this would all be second nature to her? Look at this:
elim.
‘
Illogical
’
poss
—
e.g., a Marshall b.
’
35 too old, one b.
’
92, too young, lvs. Harley.
Why write that down?
Reg.vote Rep. in Nev. (prob would be in Ca., too?) Mar. Rec. on disk e.g., Harley m. Genia Ann Christophe, 1989 (so track thru maiden name, too?) L. V. No div. Rec. Maybe CA
—
by County.
Those rich-kid schools of hers had taught her that more is better. Jeez, but they
’
d forgotten to say that thoroughness was different from clutter. The real, the necessary, and irrelevant junk all tossed in there together.
She looked at her watch. Six more minutes. Her eyes wandered back up the page filled with the small, tidy script. Genia wasn
’
t the current Mrs. M, was she? She opened the Redmond file and found it, as, of course, she knew she would. Sunny. Genia
’
s nickname? Except
—
here it was. Married five years, three children (boys), aged four and two-year-old twins.
Love at first sight
—
she even wrote that. Emma shook her head. The girl
’
s mind was an open pit
—
ready to receive whatever was thrown in. Trash, treasure, dead bodies
…
Genia Christophe. She looked at her notes on her call to the library. Genia. Gamma, that looks like a
“
v
”
when written. Christophe. Chi, that looks like an
“
x
”
and Mu, for Marshall, in the middle like a proper monogram. Mu, that
’
s written like a
“
u.
”
VUX.
Four minutes. Might as well use them. She looked at Billie
’
s meticulous entry about Genia Christophe, looked at the length of Harley
’
s marriage. Considered looking under Marin County for a divorce record for the first Mrs. M, but decided not to waste the time. Nevada was where they
’
d lived. Nevada was the place for
“
quickie
”
divorces, not California, where property had to be divided and all manner of mess delay, and conflict occurred. Why move to the difficult state to split?
Then she changed her mind. She would use the data bank after all. Not, however, for divorces. It was births, not dissolutions, she was after, and more
’
s the pity.
Thirty-Three
Billie pulled the beeper off her belt and
held it in a shaky right hand while she drove. The blue car headed down congested Second Street, onto San Pedro Road, then stopped, caught in traffic. Every commuter had suddenly craved food, and the lines into the full parking lots around Trader Joe
’
s and Whole Foods resulted in standstill chaos. The better to read the beeper, then.
And the number to call was
—
her own damned home! Disappointed anger was immediately replaced by panic. Ivan wouldn
’
t page her except in an emergency. She pictured Jesse
—
then stopped, willing the awful images away as she punched in her number on her phone and held her breath until she heard Ivan
’
s
“
Yes? Hello?
”
“
What
’
s wrong? What
—”
“
Why you aren
’
t here? Your boss says you were coming home. I told you, I am sorry to inconvenience but Robin, the girl from my history class
—”
“
Ivan, stop talking, this is
—”
“
You understand she is waiting right now. I tell her I would be
—”
“
IVAN!
”
He putted to a stop.
“
I
’
m sorry
—
honestly, but something happened on the way home and would you
please
call the office, right now, this instant
—
no, call Emma
’
s cellular. This is an emergency
—
tell her to call my phone. Tell I didn
’
t use my beeper because I can
’
t remember my phone number, but she has it in the office. No
—
don
’
t tell her that
—
you
have it, repeat it to her.
”
Why hadn
’
t she thought of him? Her mind was all flying trash.
“
Pray God she hasn
’
t left.
”
“
I just talk to her. Something for you about Tuesday and a factory
—”
“
Ivan
—
now! I
’
m in big trouble!
”
That would do it
—
an external threat trumped romance.
“
I
’
m in danger!
”