Pitfall (7 page)

“Explain.”

Parker curled his lip sardonically; not easy with those mouth-horns. “Raven’s the original cockeyed optimist. Always looking on the bright side. She tries to hide it by coming off as a tough, little hard case, but she always considers it her duty to lift a customer’s spirits.”

“Is her manner offensive?”
Like yours, maybe?

“No.” He shook his head. “But she can take the most innocuous comment you might make about, say, the weather or something, and turn it straight into some speech about how wonderful life is.”

Sarah Cahill sounded like a very nice person. Parker, though, was a jerk.

His voice rose into a mocking falsetto.
“Isn’t that sky something! Beauty’s all around, if you’ll only look! Like they say, stop and smell the roses!”
He dropped back into his normal speech. “It grates on my nerves, let me tell you. But other than that, she’s a good kid.” He took another pull of java.

I stared at him, trying to get my brain to re-engage. His crack about the sky … A memory was rising.

With an almost physical effort I forced it back down, and cleared my throat. “Did Raven, uh, Sarah ever discuss things of a private nature with you or her co-workers?”

“Private? Like what?”

“Like anything. Her life, what her plans were, did she ever want to get married, that kind of stuff.”

“Not with me. Probably not with anyone else here, either. I keep my people hopping, if you know what I mean.” Parker’s chuckle was harsh. “They earn their money.”

What a jackass. I sure wouldn’t have wanted to work for the guy.

“Okay, let’s try this. Has Sarah been acting in an unusual manner recently? Anything about her strike you as peculiar? Or has she been the same as she always has?”

“No, just pretty much good old Sarah. Nothing strange.”

I kept drilling him. “Have you or anyone here noticed anything out of the ordinary these past few days? Before Sarah went missing?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean has anyone approached you or your staff that you know of? Anyone who seemed hinky?” Besides you, that is. “Has anyone here been acting differently? Have there been deliveries from companies you’ve never heard of? Weird phone calls or faxes, anything like that?”

“No to all of that.”

“Is there anything else you can add to my understanding of her?”

“Nope.”

I pointed back out into the dining area. “What about Pat?” I took a shot at the gender. “Think she might know something?”

“He.” Pat was a he? Good God. “And I doubt it. Pat’s only worked here since this morning. The owner needed somebody to replace Raven, and I mean like now.”

“So there’s nothing more you can add.”

“Nope. The girl was in here Friday for inventory at eight, took a lunch at eleven, and clocked out at three forty-five.” He spread his crab-like hands. “That’s all I can tell you.”

I gave a slight shrug. “Not a problem. You’ve been a help, but I really do need to talk to the owner.”

“Bill Harrison. Sure you can talk to him, but like I said, he won’t get in until three. But I’ll let him know you’re coming.” He took another sip of his coffee. “And good luck. I’d love to see you win this one instead of the cops.”

I’ll just bet you would, Speed Racer.

Leaving the restaurant, I shook my head in disgust. Talk about a useless trip. Earlier Harrison had given me both his phone numbers, and after trying them, each had gone straight to voicemail. Plus it hadn’t gotten any cooler out here. By that time it had to have been at least ninety-five degrees, and heading up. Another day of Cincinnati cooking under a slow broiler. Even Raven—and it was becoming easier to think of her that way—would have had a hard time saying anything good about this weather. Unless she wanted to talk about hell.

I glanced up at the unforgiving whiteness. It was like staring into an immense inverted china bowl baking in a kiln.
Yeah, wasn’t that sky something…

And in a sudden rush that tore my heart open, my mind harked back to Megan.

Chapter Eight

M
egan Nash and I first met eighteen years ago during my rookie year on the Cincinnati police force. I was in the state capitol that day, working on what had started out as a local internal affairs drug problem. The festering had escalated by degrees, finally leading to a ring that stretched all the way to the statehouse. Through a roundabout set of circumstances the district captain, as well as Sergeant VanDerBeek and I, were required by the state attorney general to give our depositions. We weren’t under suspicion, but one of the cops involved, a guy who’d been recruited by Sarge nine years earlier, was. That’s why Sarge was there. I’d had dealings with the officer too, and so was involved as well. 

Between us city cops, our Madison County brethren, and the staties, the jurisdiction in the situation had turned into a real mess. Everybody concerned was scrapping over the guy—let’s call him Dirty Dan—like wolves around a deer carcass. It seemed to take forever. But a half-day of testimony later the ruling was made that it was state business after all. And that was fine with me; after four hours of giving my deposition to the assistant AG, even I was ready to confess. Anything to get out of that room.

At twelve o’clock straight up the attorney general closed his folder and dismissed us. And that was that. The Cap, Sarge, and I had been given a full day off with pay to attend to this. Now here we were, done at noon.

The other two decided to redeem the time, hanging around the AG’s office while they renewed old acquaintances, but to a twenty-one-year-old cop like me, staying inside on a pretty day talking crime with old people sounded too much like jail. So I left.

Walking around town, I gawked at the buildings. By that time I’d been a Cincinnati resident for nearly five years, but I was still fascinated by tall structures, like those making up the skyline of Columbus; considering my hometown, that wasn’t hard to understand. To me any intersection consisting of more than a church, a gas station, a general store, and a feed-and-grain co-op was Big Stuff. 

So there I was, strolling down the sidewalk in my freshly starched blue serge uniform, head up like the archetypical rube I was, when I nearly ran right into a woman.

Face reddened in embarrassment, my apologies were effusive. As I jabbered on, I wondered if she thought I was some kind of an idiot in a rented costume. But it didn’t matter what she thought; I had to do it. My dear old Pappy had always told me to “suck it up and take it” whenever I fouled up as a kid, which to him was all the time.

Bracing myself for the worst, I fully expected a torrent of well-deserved criticism from this lady, but it never came. Instead she laughed, a lilting, musical sound.

And I can pinpoint that exact moment as when I fell in love.

She was young, around my age, tall and willowy with alabaster skin. In all honesty I really can’t say she was beautiful. Striking was the word, blessed with sculpted cheekbones and doe-brown eyes. Cascading past her shoulders flowed thick, wavy, honey-colored hair that looked good enough to eat. It had come loose on one side, hanging over the left part of her face, giving her a saucy mien. With a shy grin she reached up with slender, delicate fingers, securing it once more with a clip.

She’d told me not to worry about it, and we fell into an easy rhythm of conversation. After exchanging names—she told me hers was Megan Nash—one thing led to another, and we ended up having lunch on the patio of a nearby outdoor pizza parlor.

“Look at this weather today.” Her smile was dazzling as she put her salad fork down. “Isn’t that sky something?”

Hard as it was to tear my eyes away from her, I could only agree.

The canopy overhead really was amazing that day, a clear and dazzling blue. At my request Megan gave me her phone number, and I used it. A lot. That led to additional trips to the capitol, more lunches, and then dinners and shows (and a gasoline bill half the size of the national debt). A year and a half later, we were married, and she moved to Cincinnati.

And two years after that, on Christmas Eve, had that ridiculous hillbilly farsight crap I’ve obviously been cursed with been operational, it might have made all the difference in the world. That was the night the three of them—Megan, my baby girl Colleen, and our unborn son, Benjamin—died when a drunk driver ran them down as Megan and my daughter were crossing the street. My wife had been doing some last minute holiday shopping. For me.

Because not only was it Christmas Eve, it was also the night of our third wedding anniversary.

The ordeal is forever seared into my mind. My partner and I arrived on the scene to find another pair of Metro cops already there. One glimpse of the victims’ tattered clothes told me all I needed to know. It was my family.

In my grief-stricken state it took both burly officers plus my partner to physically restrain me. I’d wanted to scoop up my wife and daughter, clutch them in my arms and hold them tight, protect them, guard them, fix it somehow—even though I knew better.

They were both DOA.

Later at the hospital, the doctors said there was nothing they could have done. Megan and Colleen’s skulls had been crushed, and Ben had been much too small to survive on his own. He died in the pediatric ICU five minutes before I arrived.

I’m shackled to my past; I know that, and there’s no getting free. I was raised in the Bible Belt, and know all about the sweet by and by. I have no idea if it’s true, but I hope with all my heart it is. My Granny was a Christian, and so was I—minimally—until too many missions in too many hellholes finally burned it out of me. I don’t know, maybe I can come back my faith some day, if Granny’s prayers are still working; as I said, I hope so.

What I do know is I’ll never get back what I’ve lost, not on this earth. Megan and I had always planned on a big family for the future; now, there was no future. It was gone like forgotten tears, like paper in flame.

I couldn’t stop their deaths then, nor the deaths of my men ten years later that bloody night in Iraq. But there’s no way I’ll ever again lose anyone else on my watch. Wherever she was, I was going to get Sarah Cahill home to her parents; bank on it.

And after Reynaldo Parker’s wisecrack about the sky, woe betide anyone who tried to stop me.

Chapter Nine

I
grabbed a thick burger and curly fries for lunch at my local chew and choke, and then checking my battered, old Army timepiece on my left wrist, I saw it was time to head back to Milford once more to meet The Embers’ owner, Bill Harrison. I’d missed him again earlier on at home and on his cell, using a burn phone I’d purchased, so I called the place itself.

After speaking with a young woman at the dinner theater to set up my time with Harrison, I then called Jacob Cahill. As I brought him up to speed, I nearly asked him how he was doing, thankfully catching myself at the last second. I knew exactly how. His only daughter was missing; how did I expect him to feel? He did sound excited I was going to meet Sarah’s other boss. I was looking forward to it too. So far this investigation was stuck across the tracks; maybe I’d find some answers with the owner.

I listened to some oldies rock on the radio as I used the drive time for introspection, mentally making snide remarks about the cheesiness of the songs in an attempt to stave off my growing sense of doom. As I drove, a few things were clear, but only a few.

One, the Brighter Day Clinic was a front for something else; I’d have bet Smedley on that. A man like Manfred doesn’t sweat rivers for nothing. Two, Mrs. Blutarski was a real-life Nurse Rached, minus the charm. Three, Sarah’s place of employment, The Embers, was a throwback to the seventies. Four, its manager, Reynaldo Parker, was a metal-headed fascist. And five, his server Pat had less sexual identity than David Bowie.

Not much collating for a morning’s work.

Once there, and again walking inside, I stopped and looked from side to side. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, including Reynaldo Parker. I was about to clear my throat and call his name when I heard someone call hello.

I turned. Behind the bar stood a young blond woman, maybe in her early twenties. She smiled hopefully as I walked up. “Mr. Wiltz?”

“That’s right.” I recognized her distinctive voice as the one that had given me the directions here. The plastic badge on her shirt showed her as one Mary Tischler. That made me feel a little bad for poor Pat, since he only had his first name on his ID. Maybe getting your last name listed was a seniority perk. “I believe we spoke on the phone earlier.”

She brightened and gave me a full hundred-watt smile. With her upturned nose, slight build, and perky, can-do attitude, I figured her for a former cheerleader. “You’re the one who’s looking for Sarah, right?”

I guess Cahill hadn’t wanted it to be a secret. “That’s right.”

“Thank God somebody’s finally doing something.”

“You know her?”

“Sarah’s like my little sister.” Her face clouded. “If anything’s happened to her …”

“One thing at a time, all right? I believe Mr. Harrison’s expecting me.” I pointed past her toward the small hallway I’d walked down earlier today, and to a closed door opposite Parker’s. “Would that be his office?”

“Yes it is. Let me buzz you in.” She picked up her phone and punched a button. “Ben? Mr. Wiltz is here. Yes, I will.” She put it back down. “Go on in, Mr. Wiltz. He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks.” I walked around the counter and came up to the door, and gave it a couple of small raps. A pleasant, well-modulated tenor voice on the other side invited me in.

Entering the office, I gave it a quick glance. It wasn’t nearly as big as Jacob Cahill’s back at Prestige Industries, but nice nonetheless. At any rate, it was much better than Parker’s. The same oak motif carried through, although in here the carpet was muted beige.

As Harrison stood up from behind his large, walnut desk and came around to greet me, I inwardly nodded. Unlike Parker and his crude ways, to me Harrison looked like a man who’d own a dinner theater.

He stood shorter than I am, but was graced with erect posture. In his forties, blond, and light complected, he was dressed in tan chinos and a light-blue, Oxford dress shirt. With his open, seemingly honest face and close-set brown eyes bracketing a freckle-sprayed snub nose, truth to tell Ben Harrison looked a little like Mickey Rooney re-cast.

We exchanged pleasantries, and he indicated a smallish task chair on casters in front of his desk. Once I was seated, he pointed to a black mug sitting on his blotter. On its side was the familiar white, half-mask logo of the musical,
The Phantom of the Opera
.

“Coffee?” he asked. “It’s fresh.”

“Yes, thanks.”

He punched a button on his desk phone. “Mary, would you bring some coffee for Mr. Wiltz, please?”

“Sure thing, Ben.” She sounded as chirpy over the wire as she had in person. “Cream and sugar?”

Harrison raised his eyebrows at me in question.

I shook my head. “Black is fine.”

He still had his finger on the button. “Did you get that, Mary?”

“Yep. On its way.”

Releasing the button, Harrison folded his hands next to his mug. “She’ll have it for you in a minute. But fair warning, you might not like it. We’re doing a dress rehearsal today, so the chef’s off, and the cast is taking turns making it.” He smiled. “Show people may enjoy drinking coffee by the gallon, but by and large they’re a disaster at making it.”

“Mary said she and Sarah are close. Are they both in the latest production?”

“Yes. Over the past year we’ve put on road show versions of
Evita
,
Rent
,
Annie
, and now this.” He indicated his mug. “Most of the same cast has remained for them all.”

About that time Mary entered with a steaming green mug. Handing it to me, I was a little disappointed it didn’t have a
Phantom
logo. She left, and I saw him take a sip of his and wince. “Oh, that’s nasty.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” Sitting the mug down on the desk, I pushed it away. Far away. “I had enough rotten coffee in the Army to last me for years.”

“The Army?” Harrison did the same with his. “When were you in?”

An innocuous enough question, I suppose. “11 April 1996 to 12 November 2007.”

“Over ten years. That’s a fair amount of time. What unit did you serve in?”

I leaned back. “The 101stAirborne. Why?”

His eyebrows went up. “Wow, the Rangers. I’m impressed.”

That’s fine, I thought. But I’m not here to impress you.

“What was your MOS? From your size, I bet it was a tough one.”

He was referring to my military order of specialization. And what was all this to him? But I answered anyway; I was proud of my time in.  “18 Alpha. Captain.” I shook my head. “I still can’t believe it’s gone.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“Not much. You writing a book?”

Harrison chuckled, his face turning red. “Sorry. I guess I’m just naturally nosy. Blame it on my entrepreneurial background. You don’t mind talking about it do you?”

“Not at all.” Up to a point.

“Good. So how’s civilian life working out for you?”

I had to hand it to him. I’ve had Psy/Ops cross training, and know when I’m being worked. But he was so smooth it was almost painless. “Not bad.” Now it was my turn. “Were you ever in the service?”

“I was. My glorious hitch was spent in the Signal Corps.”

That was easy enough to check, if it came down to it. I shifted my weight. “Listen, Mr. Harrison, I need to know how much Jacob Cahill has told you.”

“Not a lot. Just that Sarah’s been missing since last Monday afternoon.”

“Is there anything you can add to my understanding of her?”

“Maybe. Most of the group considers me as a rather fussy but open-hearted uncle. Sometimes they confide things to me.”

“Jacob mentioned a guy named Ted Larch. Do you know him?”

“Yeah, Ted’s a good one. Does our lighting. And he’s flat nuts about Sarah.”

“But Jacob said it wasn’t mutual. True?”

“Yes. I suppose she’s just not ready to settle down with one man yet.”

Cahill had told me the same thing. I stroked my chin, whiskers rasping; I really needed to stop buying cheap razors. “In your opinion, does Larch have anything to do with her disappearance?”

Harrison pulled back, giving me a look. “Wow, you really cut right to it, don’t you? Are you normally this blunt?”

“Some days it’s worse. Call it a character flaw.” My gaze remained unbroken. “So do you?”

He was shaking his head even as I asked. “Nope. You’re way over in the next county on this one. Ted’s had similar crushes on no less than three of our young ladies here in the last year alone. In each case he’s fallen as hard for them as he did for Sarah.”

“You’re saying I’m off-base?”

“Completely. I think he’s just lonely.”

That remained to be seen. “Is there a chance I could talk to some of Sarah’s co-workers? They might be able to shed some light on this.”

“More than a chance. How would you like to meet them, right now?”

That surprised me. “They’re here?”

“We’re doing a dress rehearsal this afternoon, with Sarah’s understudy. Right this way.” He pushed up from his desk and headed toward the door.

I fell into step behind him as we left his office and went down the hall, turning left and back into the showroom proper. Once there, I saw the stage was cluttered with a big set showcasing what looked like hell as imagined by Dante. The house lights were up, and about thirty or so people in full gothic costumes stood around, talking in small groups. Only one chair was there, facing the group, and on it sat Reynaldo Parker. In his hand he held a thick bound document I assumed was the script.

Harrison’s voice carried, interrupting their chatter. “People, let me have your attention. This is Mr. Wiltz. He’s trying to get a line on Sarah.” The group instantly quieted down, all eyes on me. “I’m sure any help we can give him will be appreciated.”

I wanted to keep this as casual as possible, so they wouldn’t spook, but I needn’t have worried. The cast was staring at me in shining wonder, as if I was a new form of aquatic life.

“As Mr. Harrison said, my name is Sullivan Wiltz. I’ll be brief.” I repeated the same questions I’d asked before. They shook their heads no to each one.

Taking a new tack, I said, “Okay, then, which one of you is Ted Larch?”

They began muttering, and as one all heads turned to gaze on the poor unfortunate, who was standing at the back and squirming in exquisite discomfort like the accused warlock in a Salem witch trial. All he needed was a red neon arrow over his noggin flashing down on him screaming
I’m the guy!

My target was an average-looking dude, with big feet and wide football shoulders. Above a young, blank face his head was topped with a brown crewcut flat enough to carry a plate. If there was any drawback to him, I couldn’t see it. Maybe Sarah was too picky.

I looked at him in what I hoped was a kind way. “Ted, I understand you’d been dating Sarah. Is there any light you could shed on this?”

His mouth worked a moment before the words came. “M-maybe,” he said then. “I’m n-n-not s-sure.”

I was wondering what could have been making him so nervous when a skinny, acne-plastered dude standing near the wings sniggered. “C-calm down, Teddy. Th-they’ll k-keep the electric c-chair h-hot for you.”

Larch’s face glowed crimson.

I purposely kept my tone even. “Okay. You were saying?”

Again there was a pause before he spoke. “I l-like S-Sarah,” Ted mumbled at last. “W-we went out a f-few t-times. Th-that’s all. She d-didn’t care I’m j-just a lighting tech. She hardly ever n-noticed my st-st-stut …” With that his air ran out, and he trailed off miserably.

I glanced over at the crater-faced punk who’d popped off before. He was twisting his mouth around, clearly trying not to laugh at Larch’s handicap.

“How about you, Brad Pitt?” I put some of the intimidating snap I’d used in the service behind my words. “Anything to add?”

“No,” he muttered.

I gave him Scowl Number Five. “How’s that?”

“No.” A bit louder this time.

I shook my head. Twelve weeks of basic training at Uncle Sam’s expense would give this goober a whole new outlook on life. If he made it.

Harrison leaned a degree toward me. “Alan Hess,” he muttered with a nod at the smart guy. “One of the stage hands.”

Parker picked that time to throw in his two cents. “I don’t think any of my kids are going to able to help you with this, Mr. Wiltz.”

My kids? The universe was indeed an uncaring place if Parker started breeding.

Utterly ignoring him, I looked at the rest of them. “Sarah’s dad told me she’s pretty popular around here. Can any of you tell me anything that would help? Anything at all?” I waited patiently as they cleared their throats and shuffled their feet. 

I was about to prod them once more when a rabbity-looking redheaded young woman perched on a tall stool at the back of the stage slowly raised her hand.

“Yes,” I smiled encouragingly. “What’s your name?”

“Holly Weiss. I’m Sarah’s understudy.” Her voice was soft. “And I don’t know how important this is …”

“You never know.”

“Well …” She kneaded her hands in her lap. “Oh, I don’t know. We’re good friends. Sarah will kill me if I tell it now …”

“Come on, miss,” I prompted, quickly becoming exasperated. “Time’s a-wasting.”

“One night, a week or so ago,” Holly began, “Sarah told me what she was planning on doing. But she said I had to keep it a secret. Especially from her folks.”

“Which was?”

She remained agonizingly evasive as she ignored my question. “Thing is, now that’s she missing it’s okay to tell, right?” Any answer I’d give would only slow things down, so I said nothing, letting her get it out at her own pace.

Holly blinked back tears, silently begging for understanding as without meaning to I impatiently shifted my weight from foot to foot. “I mean, she could be … Oh, who cares now! Secrets!” Suddenly animated, she spat the words. “What good are they?”

The silence deepened, and I noticed by that time the whole room had gone mute.

Holly shook her head, her face downcast. “All right, Mr. Wiltz. I guess there’s no point …” Her voice sank to a whisper. “Sarah had been going to a free clinic.”

Of course I knew that, so I quietly studied the others for their reactions. They didn’t disappoint. Assorted mutters rose up from the group, even from Handsome Alan.

Holly rushed her words, looking around at everyone. “She told me she was going to be helping people. More people than you could ever believe. And she said that was only the start.”

The start? I’d seen the place, and knew it wasn’t much. The start of what?

Holly twisted her hands in her lap, like she was strangling a chicken. When she spoke again, her words coated my spine with ice. “Sarah said what she was getting ready to do … it would change the world.”