Look Closely (17 page)

“Dad…” Again I faltered, unsure what to ask him first. “Why didn’t you ever—” How hard it was to form a single coherent question from al those battling in my head.

My father gave me another nod.

“I need for you to tel me—”

“Time for the meeting,” Amy said, sticking her head in the door. “Everyone is already in the conference room.”

I exhaled. “I’l be right there.”

Amy left, and my father leaned forward in his seat. “What is it?”

I shook my head. This wasn’t the time or the place. I couldn’t start and finish this conversation in five minutes.

“Nothing.” I rose from my chair. “I need to get to that meeting.”

My father stood, too. “You’re sure?” His forehead creased with worry, a look that meant he was concerned about me, that he probably wouldn’t sleep tonight.

Whenever I’d had a rough spot in my life, or at least what I perceived as rough at the time— like when Rob Bradshaw asked someone else to the prom or when I failed to make law review by only a few points—my father got that look, and he wouldn’t sleep for days until I was over it. I would hear him walking around the house at night and the soft murmur of the TV. In the morning, I would find him in his study, the stacks of work tel ing me he had been at it al night. He wasn’t the type of parent to try and solve my problems. He offered advice if asked, and held my hand if I wanted, but he fretted and paced and stayed awake until I was back to normal. I hated to see him like that, hated that I caused his reaction, and yet his reaction was a silent gesture of love. I knew he would worry about me now. He would lay awake at night until I asked the questions or told him I was fine, but this time, the thought of his worry didn’t bother me as much. In fact, maybe it was a good thing, because it would force me to ask him the tough questions in order to erase it. Things would have to come to a head. It was time.

I told him I would find him later, and he left my office with those worry lines stil crossing his face.

“Are you trying to kil me?” Magoo Barragan said as I walked into the conference room. Magoo, an olive-skinned man with wavy, dark brown hair, was standing by the buffet table with the four other attorneys that made up the cyber-law department. They were al choosing from the sandwiches and saladsAmyhadordered.Unlikemyoffice,thisroom had a view of the river.

Outside the glass, the sun gleamingoffbuildingsmademewishIwasbackon the stretch of sand behind Long Beach Inn rather than breathing the artificial air of a sealed room.

“Magoo,” I said in a jokey, plaintive voice. “You know I love you, so why would I want to kil you?”

He carried a sandwich to the table. “Then what are you doing giving me the Your New Home dep in Delaware
and
dragging me into this McKnight monstrosity?”

I’d left him a voice mail earlier, official y asking him to help on McKnight.

“I need you desperately,” I said. I put the files down on the table and walked over to the buffet.

“Yeah, yeah,” I heard Magoo say behind me. “Al the women in this firm need me.”

As I helped myself to a turkey sandwich and a scoop of pasta salad, I greeted the other attorneys. El is Radwel , a tal , African American man two years out of law school, was loading his plate ful of food and said, “Hey, Hailey,” through a mouthful of potato chips. El is was an excel ent lawyer and an even better writer. I knew the McKnight trial would require extensive motions and briefs, so normal y I would seek his help, but El is’s wife had recently given birth to their first child, and I felt bad asking too much during this time. McKnight was going to require some very late nights.

I talked with the three other associates, trying to decide who would be the best to help on the case. Michel e Headly, or Mickey as we cal ed her, was the youngest of the bunch, coming up on her one-year anniversary at the firm. A beautiful, fair-skinned woman who didn’t seem aware of her good looks, she was eager to take on any work, but I needed someone with a little more experience. That left Natalie Decker, a true New Yorker with a very serious demeanor, or Jim Siderski, a jovial, footbal -loving guy. I preferred Jim, since we would al be spending a lot of time together, and Jim tended to make things fun, but Natalie had extensive intel ectual-property experience that would be invaluable. As I picked up a fork—real silver here at Gardner, State & Lord no plastic stuff—I asked Natalie to help out.

“Whatever,” Natalie said, sweeping her blunt-cut hair out of her face. That was Natalie’s reaction to everything: whatever. It seemed that after living in this city al her life, nothing could impress, nothing could shock.

That decision made, I took my seat, and after we chatted, I briefed them on the McKnight case, the work that Magoo, Natalie and I would need to do in the next month and the overflow of cases the others would have to pick up. With the exception of Natalie, they al jumped in with suggestions and insights, and I came out of the meeting feeling as if we had a plan. It would be crazy, but we would get it done.

Back in my office, I cal ed Beth Halverson at McKnight headquarters to update her, then closed my door.

“Amy,”Isaidovertheintercom,“canyoutakemy cal s for a while? I want to get some work done.”

I turned off my ringer. I didn’t like lying to Amy, but I wasn’t about to tel her that I was trying to track down the brother I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years.

I had already cal ed Santa Fe information when I was at the Long Beach Inn. Now I logged on to the Internet. I typed the name Singer into the online Santa Fe phone book and found that the Singers took up almost a whole page. There were listings for David Singer, Don Singer and Dierdre Singer, but no Dan.

Next, I ran a people search on the Internet and came up with a list of twenty-one Daniel Singers around the country. Of course, there were probably many more that didn’t appear on that list for one reason or another, but it was a place to start. I printed it out and began to cal each one. I reached a number of unhelpful people who hung up shortly after tel ing me that I must have the wrong person. A few times I got voice mail, and listened to the voices of the men who identified themselves as Daniel Singer. Most I could rule out because of certain accents or a gruffness that told me they were much too old to be my Dan. On the few that might be possibilities, I left a message with my name and office phone number. My brother would recognize the name, and I couldn’t believe he would ignore me after al these years.

Once I had gone through the list, I felt no closer to finding him. I doubted somehow that he was one of the men I’d just cal ed. I sat stil at my desk, thinking over the possibilities. He had been in New Mexico the last time he wrote Del a, and for some reason, I felt he might stil be there, far away from the Midwest. I pul ed up the Santa Fe phone book on the Internet again and began to go through the Singer listings once more, this time cal ing each one, no matter what the first name, to ask if they were related to Dan Singer. Many weren’t home and the ones who were didn’t know a Dan Singer with sandy-blond hair who’d be in his late thirties.

Ihadcal edmorethanhalfoftheSingersinSanta Fe and was about to give up, but I made myself finish cal ing the rest of the list.
Follow every avenue, everylead.Lookundereveryrock.

Myfatherhadtold me this when I first started practicing, when every case seemed too difficult to handle. Keep fighting, hewouldtel me.Youhavetosimplykeepslugging.

So I did. There were two listings for S. Singer. I cal ed the first one and reached an older woman who was anxious to be helpful and clearly lonely.

“I don’t know any Daniels in my family,” she said, her voice wavering, “but I knew a David. He was my brother-in-law.”

“Okay, wel , thanks for your time,” I said, but the woman wouldn’t let me go.

“IfanciedDavidmorethanmyLouisifthetruth betold,”shesaid.“Nevertoldanyonethatbefore.”

I doubted that. I listened to another minute of the woman reminiscing before I excused myself.

A few more cal s, I decided, looking at the silver clock on my bookshelf. It was five o’clock already. I needed to do a few more hours of work before I met Maddy for dinner. I dialed the number for the other S. Singer.

Afterfourrings,awomananswered,outofbreath.

“Hi,”Isaidquickly,goingintothesamespielI’d been giving everyone. “My name is Hailey, and I’m looking for someone named Dan Singer. Late thirties, sandy-blond hair, grew up in Michigan—”

The woman laughed, a harsh sound. “Did he meet you at a bar?” Her voice had a tired, resigned quality to it.

“Excuse me?”

“Is that where he met you? A bar or something?” the woman said.

“Oh, no.” My thoughts bounced from confusion to elation that I might have found someone who knew Dan. “I didn’t meet him. I mean, I have, but it was a long time ago. But—”

“Doesn’t matter,” the woman said, cutting me off. “It’s not important. What is important is our daughter, who he was supposed to pick up on Saturday, over two weeks ago. Did you know he had a daughter named Annie?” The woman’s voice bordered on angry.

“No.Ididn’t.I—”Istoppedshort.
Saturday,over two weeks ago.
The night Caroline disappeared.

“Wel , he does,” the woman continued, “and she’s stil waiting for the bastard to cal . So if he didn’t cal his daughter, do you think he’s going to cal you?”

“Look, I’m an old friend from the Midwest,” I said. I spoke fast, not wanting her to hang up. “I haven’t seen Dan in a very long time. If you could just give me his phone number, I’l make sure to have him cal Annie when I find him.”

“He’s hopeless. Don’t waste your time, girlfriend.”

“It’s not like that.” I could hear the pleading tone in my voice. I was desperate now for some real information. “If you could just let me know his address even.”

“He’sinAlbuquerquenow.Andifyoufindhim, youcantel himhe’sanasshole.” Andshehungup.

I replaced the phone on the receiver, my head buzzing. Dan hadn’t shown up two Saturdays before, the same day Caroline disappeared. And I wasanaunt.IhadanieceinSantaFenamedAnnie.

15

I pushed through the crowd at Veronica’s, one of my favorite restaurants in the neighborhood, a dark, cozy place decorated with wood and warm colors of wine and mustard.

“A Stoli and tonic with lemon,” I said to the bartender, throwing my jacket over a tal stool.

I was early, but I wanted to get a drink, to sit silently at the front bar for a moment. I knew when Maddy got here, there would be no quiet. These regrouping sessions, as Maddy and I cal ed them, were the closest thing to therapy I had in my life. Maddy would spend hours with me deciding whether I should cut my hair one inch or two, whether I should shop for a condo or continue to rent, whether I was real y depressed or just had PMS. I would do the same for her. She was the nearest thing to a sister I had found.

The minute I sat down, though, with my back to the door, I felt uneasy, as if I could be watched without knowing it. I tried to convince myself that the feeling I had lately of being observed was just paranoia from my overloaded mind. But I couldn’t shake it, so I moved from my stool to another at the end of the bar where I could see Maddy when she came in. Or anyone else.

The bartender slid a thick, frosted highbal glass in front of me. I took a long sip, letting the cool bitter of the vodka and the sweet tang of the citrus slide down my throat. After my drunken night in Woodland Dunes, I swore I would never drink another drop of alcohol again, but like other such promises, it had fal en away.

I stared down at the dark wood bar, thinking about the woman on the phone who’d clearly been my brother’s wife or girlfriend. She’d said that Dan hadn’t picked up his daughter last Saturday, the same day Caroline disappeared from Charleston. She hadn’t heard from him since.

When I cal ed Albuquerque Information, I had received a listing for Dan Singer in that city. I copied the number down, as wel as the address, and I cal ed the number at least ten times, but there was no answer. Not even a machine.

I was scared suddenly, more scared than I had ever been. It was as if I’d just realized that for my whole life I had stood on sand that was packed hard. Not a solid-rock foundation, but one that al owed me to walk and go about some semblance of a normal life. But after rummaging into the past, the sand had blown about and disappeared, until I felt there was precious little to stand on anymore. If I didn’t have my father, my love for him, my belief in his goodness and judgment, most of that remaining foundation would be gone. It left only Maddy and whatever I had inside me.

I heard a cal and saw that Maddy had entered the bar. I swiveled on the stool and fel into her hug. I held on longer than usual.

“You al right?” I heard Maddy ask, her words muffled by my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said, releasing her.

“You’re sure?” Maddy’s hazel eyes squinted as if trying to read my face. Her dark curly hair was pul ed back, a few tendrils escaped at the sides of her face. She wore a lilac suit, cut snug to show off her curves.

“Let’s get a table. I’l tel you the whole saga.”

We ordered two entrées—the sea bass and the mushroom risotto. I launched into the story, tel ing Maddy briefly about the McKnight arbitration, then moving on quickly to the weekend in Woodland Dunes.

When I got to the part about getting drunk with Ty on Saturday night, Maddy held up her hand. “Okay, first things first. We’re getting you off the vodka right now and switching to wine.”

Maddy flagged down the waiter, and ordered a bottle of Chardonnay.

“The next issue,” Maddy said, leaning forward on the table with her elbows, “is this Ty person. Let’s talk about him.”

I groaned. Maddy was the dating queen of New York. She was forever giving me hel for not going out with enough men.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You told me twice he was cute,” Maddy said, pausing to okay the bottle of wine the waiter proffered. “And he sent a tray with wine and cheese to your room with a nice little note that I bet you read at least three times.”