If You Were Here (22 page)
Authors: Alafair Burke
S
usan had her fair share of dalliances, and Will Getty was on the list.
Neither of them flaunted that fact, but McKenna wasn’t blind. She had been the one to introduce them. She remembered the night.
McKenna didn’t know Getty well yet. It was about four months before the Marcus Jones shooting. He was one of the lifers, already handling major crimes. She was only four years in, handling drug cases but beginning to eye more serious assignments.
She had worked late, as usual. When she left, Getty was also heading out. It began with chitchat in the elevator.
“Not that I’m monitoring you or anything, but I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve seen you leave the office. I was starting to think you lived here.”
“That’s a hologram to fool people into thinking I’m actually working.”
“I’ll deny it if you ever tell anyone I said this, but take it easy. You don’t want to burn out before you get to the fun stuff.”
“Duly noted.”
They stepped out on the ground floor.
“You heading to happy hour?” he asked.
“I am heading to
a
happy hour but not the
office
happy hour.”
“Another piece of unsolicited advice: spend less time at your desk and more time drinking with your coworkers. Friendships matter.”
“Trust me. If you knew how much I drank my first two years in this office, you’d sign me up for the liver transplant waiting list.”
“Ah, but that’s when you were just a baby ADA, playing with the other kids. We career guys know how it works. Most of the newbies are here for a couple years of trial experience, then jump ship to make some dough. We don’t bother getting to know people until they’ve been around a while. Now you need to jump in with the older generation. Graduate to the lifer crowd.”
“Can you seriously tell me that hanging with the lifer crowd is any different than the usual scene in this office?”
“Did you really just use the word ‘scene’ to describe the DA’s office?”
“You know what I mean. The war stories. Who crushed which defense attorney at trial. Who hauled out the most badass line during plea negotiations. Everyone’s always trying to out-macho each other.”
Wincing, he started to offer a retort but stopped himself. “Yeah, that does sound familiar, doesn’t it?”
“At least when I play, I do it with people who don’t talk shop all night.”
He looked at his watch. “They’re probably all gone by now. Damn, I could use a drink. I had a cooperating codefendant retract his confession on me today. Total nightmare.”
“Well, my happy hour’s just getting started. You should come.”
“Nah, I’d be crashing.”
“No such thing.” She explained the concept of Susan’s monthly the-more-the-merrier gatherings. “Seriously, you should come. It’s my chance to convince you that I do have a life outside this office.”
She could tell he was on the fence. She pressed him. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you’d have fun. And you did say you needed a drink.”
“Sold.”
Susan had been delighted to see McKenna arrive with a guest in tow—a decent-looking male guest, to boot. Despite McKenna’s assurances to Getty, she had not enjoyed much of a life beyond work recently. After a long dry spell, she had met Jason Eberly (aka Nature Boy) two weeks earlier at a city bar event, but it was nothing serious. And it never would be, because McKenna would meet Patrick at the next Bruno happy hour.
In typical Susan fashion, she wasted no time jumping into the gutter once Getty broke away to the men’s room. “I knew you wanted a faster track to trying homicides, but sleeping with your boss? A bit unseemly for you, dear.”
“Not funny, Bruno. That’s how rumors get started.”
“He’s single, right?”
“To my knowledge.”
“And he’s not technically your boss.”
“No, but he could be down the road.”
Though the conversation could have ended there, Susan went on. “You’re absolutely certain you’re not interested? Hundred percent?”
“A hundred and ten percent. Nothing good comes from interoffice romance.”
When Getty returned to the table, Susan moved her chair a hair closer to his and laughed at his jokes with a little more enthusiasm. McKenna had seen the transition before. And she could tell Getty liked it.
Four months later, Scott Macklin would shoot Marcus Jones, and Getty would select McKenna to assist with the grand jury investigation. She would wonder at the time whether she got the assignment because of her hard work or because she’d inadvertently gotten him laid.
She wouldn’t really care. She had a homicide—the sexiest kind, an officer-involved shooting. Her career was finally starting. And then it ended. And Susan was gone. And now McKenna was wondering if it was all because she had bumped into Will Getty on that elevator.
T
hanks anyway,” McKenna said to the nice reading lady. “Thanks for everything.”
The woman hadn’t found any record of a conviction for the final name McKenna had asked about. There was only one person who could provide the information she needed.
McKenna couldn’t get cell reception in the file room, so she took the elevator up to the ground floor of the courthouse. Gretchen answered on the third ring. “I told you I don’t want to be involved.”
Stupid caller ID. Given how their last encounter ended, it was a wonder that Susan’s sister had picked up at all.
“It’s one question, Gretchen. I promise. You said you almost got prosecuted federally when you were arrested, but you worked out a plea deal for a state conviction with rehab and probation.”
“It’s all ancient history, McKenna.”
“You said the case was pending for a while, but you got the deal just a couple of months before Susan disappeared?” There was no record of Gretchen’s conviction in New York County, which meant she had gotten her record expunged—a lenient outcome considering the severity of the initial allegations.
“Glad you were listening.”
Damn, she was a bitch. “Do you know if a local prosecutor was involved?”
“Sure. My attorney did a full-court press. Finally found a guy willing to make a call to the feds—someone Susan knew. I was surprised she didn’t go to you. She must not have wanted you to know.”
McKenna didn’t have the kind of network that a more experienced prosecutor would have. Like Getty had said, sometimes the job was about the friendships you’d made. The question was how close a friend he’d been with Susan before she disappeared.
“Was the prosecutor a guy called Will Getty?”
“My record’s supposed to be clear. How did you know?”
T
he night Susan and Getty met couldn’t have been a one-night stand if Susan had reached out to Getty for a favor four months down the road. Maybe they’d had something resembling a relationship. If Getty was involved in covering up the Marcus Jones shooting, Susan could have found out about it.
A beep-beep from her phone notified McKenna that another call was coming in. She assured Gretchen that there was no record of her drug case and ended the call.
“This is McKenna Jordan,” she said.
“Ms. Jordan. My name is Mae Mauri. I’m a physician at New York Family Medical.”
“Is this about Patrick?” She started rushing toward the courthouse exit, hoping he was conscious. Hoping she could finally talk to him.
“No, I’m—” She sounded confused by the question. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I contacted your former employer for your number.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m waiting for some very important news about the health of a family member.”
“Of course. But I believe you’re looking for Susan Hauptmann. I may have information you’ll be interested in.”
T
he receptionist at the front desk of the New York Family Medical practice greeted McKenna with a warm smile and a soft, soothing voice. “Good morning. You’re here for a wellness visit?”
McKenna felt like she was checking in for a spa appointment. “I’m here to see Dr. Mauri. She’s expecting me.”
“Of course. Are you a new patient? I usually recognize everyone. I’ll just need your insurance information.”
“No, I’m not a patient. It’s a different kind of appointment. Please, if you could just tell Dr. Mauri I’m here. McKenna Jordan.”
“No worries. I’ll let the doctor know.”
No worries.
When did that ridiculous sentence become an acceptable thing to say to another person? As far as McKenna could tell, the phrase was used most frequently when there was, in fact, a reason to worry, and almost always by the very person who was the source of the current worry. This annoying woman had no idea what worries McKenna was harboring.
The woman returned. “The doctor’s ready for you,” the worry-free, calming voice instructed. She led the way to the doctor’s office.
Dr. Mauri rose from behind her desk to shake hands. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to tell you more over the phone, Ms. Jordan.”
“I’m sorry I was so insistent. Someone close to me is in the hospital right now. I’m— Well, let’s just say I’m juggling a lot.”
“I gather. At least, based on the little I know. I met my niece last night after the theater. She’s an intern at
Cosmo
. She was telling me how difficult it is to make a career in print media, and as an example, she told me about your recent departure and the ensuing controversy on—is it called Twitter?”
McKenna nodded. Apparently the receptionist’s insistence on a calm demeanor came from the top. The way Dr. Mauri had worded it, McKenna’s professional implosion sounded like any regular day.
“In any event,” the doctor continued, “my niece became quite enraptured with your story and its apparent connection to a missing woman. Then she asked me whether I remembered anything about the disappearance of Susan Hauptmann. She’s nineteen years old, so for her, ten years ago is like the Ice Age. She caught me off guard with the question. I had no idea that the missing woman she kept talking about all night was Susan.”
McKenna had been hoping to get more information out of the doctor in person, but so far the woman still hadn’t confirmed the basics of what McKenna suspected. She tried another tack. “I was Susan’s roommate and one of her closest friends. I already know she was your patient.”
Dr. Mauri looked relieved. “If only all of my patients gave so much care to their own health. Annual physicals, no smoking, regular exercise. Most people insist that they eat healthy and work out, but I can tell—well, my point is: Susan was a real delight. Very gregarious, with that salty sense of humor; our conversations often went beyond the narrow confines of doctor-patient treatment. I think it’s fair to say I knew her.”
“You said you might know something relevant to her disappearance?”
“Given my situation, I was hoping that perhaps you had seen the police file and could confirm that anything I might know was already considered a part of the investigation.”
McKenna had not seen the doctor’s name in Scanlin’s file, or anything related to Susan’s physical health. She took a guess. “She had an appointment with you, not long before she disappeared.”
The doctor smiled politely.
“Look, I know you’re restricted by privacy laws, and I respect that. How about this? I’m not asking about any individual patient. I’m interested, hypothetically, in what may have happened
if
you had a patient disappear.”
“Without using names, let me say that
if
I ever had a patient go missing, it was twelve weeks after she was scheduled for an office visit. I assumed when I saw her name on my calendar that she was coming in for her annual physical because she was about due for one. But my assistant alerted me that the appointment was actually forty-nine weeks after her last annual, meaning it was too early for her insurance company to cover it. They’re sticklers about that. I called the patient to suggest rescheduling, but she told me it was important. I thought, well, even my healthiest patient has finally gotten sick. But when she came in, she wasn’t
sick
.”
But she’d been
something
. “She’d been assaulted? Victimized somehow?”
No response.
“She was pregnant?”
Dr. Mauri smiled again. “Let me just say that by the time most unmarried women come to me for a pregnancy test, they have already taken multiple home versions and are looking for a different result.”
“This particular patient wouldn’t have been happy about the news.”
“I’m always careful not to say anything loaded when I deliver the results, because many women have no idea how they’re going to feel about an unplanned pregnancy until they’ve had a chance to digest the reality of the situation. So I simply tell them that the test is positive and ask whether they have questions. That’s usually my first indication of what direction the woman is leaning.”
“And did this hypothetical patient have questions?”
Dr. Mauri pressed her lips together. McKenna had crossed whatever line the doctor had drawn for navigating this conversation.
“What types of questions do you think a single, pregnant woman might have?”
As much as she was beginning to doubt how well she’d known Susan, Susan had always made her views on the most obvious subject very clear. Susan would not terminate a pregnancy.
“Paternity,” McKenna said. “She wanted to know whether you could determine paternity.”
Dr. Mauri gave a small nod.
McKenna did the math in her head. She had introduced Susan to Will Getty four months before the Marcus Jones shooting, which was six weeks before Susan disappeared. Getty could have been the father.
“She would have been close to four months pregnant when she disappeared.” It was only as she said the words that McKenna remembered Susan drinking club soba at a happy hour.
My thirties are gaining on me. Got to take off some L.B.s before I turn into a Fatty McFat.
If Susan knew that Getty was involved in a cover-up, and she was pregnant with his child, that might explain why she would leave New York. Whether she liked it or not, Getty would have parental rights. She’d spend her entire life permanently connected to him.
“Did the patient happen to say anything about who she thought the father might be?”
“I’ve already stretched quite a bit on what I should probably say, Ms. Jordan. But when a patient asks about a paternity test—”
“It means she had multiple sexual partners. I need to know who they were.”
“I don’t know,” the doctor said sadly.
“When Susan first went missing, you never thought to tell anyone about Susan’s pregnancy?”
“Of course I did,” she said. “I must have called the police three different times. But no one ever called me back. I eventually gave up, assuming that they must have already heard the news from someone else. When my niece told me you were looking for Susan, I needed to make sure it hadn’t slipped through the cracks.”
Scanlin had said that the police tip line had been overwhelmed with harebrained, bogus, and wackadoo calls. He’d also pretty much admitted that he had done a crappy job on the case. Dr. Mauri was making that clear.
As McKenna walked through the doctor’s calming lobby back to the real world of honking cars and bus fumes, she tried to black out the images that had been flashing in her visual cortex for the last two days. Susan catching Patrick’s eye with that sexy sideways smile—her go-to man-eater move. Patrick responding. Susan whispering in his ear,
McKenna doesn’t feel like this, does she?
Stop it!
She replaced the imaginary images with a real one: Patrick in a hospital bed.
Just because Susan was unsure about the father of her unborn child didn’t mean that Patrick was one of the contenders. It was as Dr. Mauri had quietly confirmed: Susan got around.
Sometimes beliefs came not from facts or proof but from faith. McKenna had always had faith in Patrick. She would choose to have faith in him now. He was going to survive. He was going to wake up, he was going to be okay, and he was going to have an explanation for everything.
In the meantime, she needed to make another trip to the courthouse.
