Rubbed Out (3 page)

T
he State Tower Building was constructed in the thirties. It would make a great movie set. It still has the marble paneling, the carved wooden ceiling, and the art deco lamps that define the architecture of that period. Unfortunately, Paul's office doesn't follow suit. It has a jerry-rigged feel to it. Definitely not the kind of place that would inspire me to spill my guts out, but I guess I'm in the minority because he does a pretty good business.

I walked through the waiting room with its lone picture and pushed open the door to the main office without bothering to knock. Today the place smelled of pepperoni pizza. Other days it smells of fried chicken or meatball subs. That's one of the things I like about Paul—he's not a health food nazi.

Paul was sitting at his desk fiddling with his computer. The wheels on his chair squeaked as he turned to look at me.

“What if I'd been with a client?”

“But you're not.”

Santini looked like what he was: an ex-cop. He was heavyset. Big hands. Beefy features. Going to seed around the middle. What was it that had attracted me to him? Not his looks, that was for sure. Maybe his air of confidence. Maybe that's what I'd liked about George. God, just the thought of George made me want to reach for a cigarette. I wondered how many patches you could wear without getting sick. I took a deep breath and thought of other things.

The desk, the file cabinets, the couple of pieces of bad art on the wall, the run-down sofa, and the chairs hadn't changed since the last time I'd been there. Add in Paul's license, computer and printer, and the coffeemaker, and you had the sum and substance of his furnishings. The only thing new was the spider plant, and that was dying. I pointed to it.

“Maybe you should try plastic.”

“I'll take it under advisement. You gonna take off your jacket or what?”

I realized I still had my ski parka on. I unzipped it, threw it on the sofa, and sat down in the chair next to his desk.

Paul leaned back in his chair and rested his right calf on his left knee. “So how are things going?”

“They're goin' the same way they always do.”

Someone was yelling at someone on the sidewalk outside.

“They put a food pantry near here and then they wonder why no one comes downtown,” Paul said. “By the way,” he added. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. I like a man who gives me compliments.”

“We should get together.”

“We are.”

“That's not what I mean.”

“I know.”

Paul tilted his chair back even further, folded his hands, and rested them on his belly while he regarded me. “You see George recently?”

“Why? What do you care?”

Paul picked at a nail. “Just making conversation.”

“How about we stick to business?”

“Fine. If that's the way you want it.”

“That's the way I want it.”

He straightened up, turned around, and reached for a folder that was lying on his desk. “I'm surprised you got the message.”

“I am too. You're not on Manuel's favorite-person list.”

“I spend nights worrying about it.”

“You should be nicer to him.”

“I've known lots of Manuels. Sooner or later they all end up in the shit pile.”

“Maybe they wouldn't if you gave them a chance.”

“People make their own chances.” Paul opened the folder and took the top page out. “Feel like earning a little extra cash?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Something simple. Walter Wilcox. His wife's gone missing. I thought maybe you'd be interested in finding her for him.”

“Why don't you want it?”

“Always suspicious. Because I'm up to my neck with an insurance fraud scam and I don't have the time. Being a nice guy, I thought of you.”

I didn't say anything.

“Go over and talk to Wilcox, see what he has to say.”

“Fifty-fifty split?”

Paul grinned. “I can find someone to do it cheaper.” “But then you wouldn't get to see me.”

“True.” He handed me the paper. “Everything you need is on it. After you talk to Wilcox, we can discuss the case over a drink at my place.”

“Don't you ever stop?”

“No. Not until I get what I want. That's why I'm a success.”

“Because you wear women down?”

“You shouldn't be so negative. You should give things a chance.”

“I have.”

“Not really. You don't know what you're missing. I was just hitting my stride.”

“I'll call you after I speak to Wilcox.”

Paul shrugged. “Suit yourself. But remember I'm always here for you. I'm not asking you to change, like some people I could mention.”

“You mean George?”

“I didn't say that. You did.”

“Good-bye, Paul.”

The wheels on Paul's chair gave out with another squeak as he shifted position. “Hey, you can bullshit me if you want, but don't do it to yourself.”

I grabbed my jacket and went out the door. The elevator was slow coming. While I waited for it I took out my cell phone and called Wilcox's number.

I was in the middle of leaving a message on his answering machine when he picked up. He sounded distraught, but then most people would in his situation. We set up a meeting for the following afternoon.

It was snowing as I left the building. Big fat flakes fluttered down, blotting out the sky and whitening the streets and the cars. I closed my eyes, lifted my head up, and stuck out my tongue. Spots of cold hit it and dissolved.

As I drove home, I thought about Tiger Lily. Then I thought about Zsa Zsa. We hadn't been out for a long walk in a while. Maybe I'd take her out to the field behind Nottingham High School. She liked that. And I got a kick out of watching her root around in the snow and scare the deer mice out of their winter nests. When it happened, it was always hard to tell who was more surprised, Zsa Zsa or the mice.

I
t was snowing as I drove over to Walter Wilcox's office. We'd gotten six inches since last night and, according to the weather forecaster, were due for six more by this evening. The roads were gray with churned-up slush, but the houses, streets, and lawns were a pristine white.

Wilcox's office was located over on the north side of Syracuse, four blocks before the farmer's market. I'd passed by the building hundreds of times but had never really looked at it closely until now. It was an undistinguished, narrow, two-story rectangular affair constructed out of brick that someone had painted blue. But they must not have primed the walls correctly because the paint was flaking. It made the walls look as if they had a bad skin disease.

A dusting of snow covered a white stretch limo parked outside the front door. It was one of those big ones, the kind with the double wheels in back that was large enough to transport a football team. Mostly, they come out on the roads in the spring when the kids have their proms. For some reason they've always reminded me of millipedes. I wondered what it was doing here now as I studied the placard on the building wall.

Wilcox's office was located on the bottom floor of the building, while the upstairs was taken up by a real estate firm. I wiped the slush on the bottom of my boots off on the mat in front of the door and went inside. The receptionist glanced up from the pile of papers in front of her. She was an older lady with a haircut her stylist should have been shot for committing and a sour expression on her face.

“Yes?” she said, obviously annoyed at having me interrupt her work.

“Robin Light. I have an appointment with your boss.”

“He's on the phone. He'll be out soon,” she said and went back to her sorting. Miss Graciousness.

“Do you know his wife?” I figured that as long as I was here, I might as well get started on the job.

“Of course I know Mrs. Wilcox.” The receptionist removed a staple from a set of papers and began separating them.

“Was she in a lot?”

“No.”

“You two chat when she was here?”

The receptionist peered up at me over her reading glasses. “I'm busy. I don't have time to chat.”

I tried a different tack. “I like the limo outside.”

She didn't even bother looking up, just continued with her sorting.

“Is that how your boss goes to court?”

No response.

“Are you always this loquacious?”

“Not when I have work to do.”

I stood there for a few more minutes waiting for her to say something, but she didn't—obviously she could withstand my penetrating stare—and finally I gave up and took a seat. The chair was impossible to get comfortable in. I tried distracting myself with the magazines on the table, but they were all
Field and Stream,
and old ones at that, and after leafing through them in a desultory fashion and wondering why anyone would want to do the kind of stuff they were writing about, I leaned back and studied my surroundings.

The cheap fake-wood paneling on the walls made the waiting room look like a sixties den. The brown shag carpet cemented the impression. And I thought they didn't sell it anymore. Or if they did, they shouldn't. The pictures on the walls, the kind you buy at one of those art stores in the mall, were on the same aesthetic level as the carpeting. The plants were plastic. This place was even worse than Paul's.

Given the decor, I figured Wilcox wasn't charging his clients a lot. Or if he was, it certainly wasn't going into the furnishings. On the other hand, he had enough cash lying around to hire Paul, and Paul didn't come cheap. Maybe Wilcox just had a bad sense of design.

Five minutes later Wilcox came out. He had the look of a drinker. He clasped both of my hands in his. They were unpleasantly moist. So were his eyes. He was a small man with a squarish face, a jawline that was beginning to soften, and a pronounced stoop to his posture that pooched his stomach out, making it look bigger than it already was.

His suit was cheap and ill-fitting, and his hair looked as if someone had gone over the top of his head with a thresher, but he had an expensive watch on his wrist, an item that must have set him back at least six figures, and expensive shoes on his feet. When he opened his mouth, his teeth looked stained and uneven.

My grandmother had always said you could judge a person by their shoes, but that was because Rolexes were before her time.

“So,” he said as he led me into his office and closed the door. “Paul tells me you're going to find my wife.”

“I'm going to try,” I replied. “Hopefully, people will be more helpful than your secretary.”

“Martha is protective.”

“I would have chosen the word rude myself.”

Wilcox shrugged. “Maybe, but I couldn't get along without her.”

I changed the subject. “I take it you've been to the police?”

He nodded.

“And?”

“And they said there's nothing they can do. My wife isn't a minor. She hasn't committed a crime. No one's abducted her. All of which is true. But I'm concerned.”

He drew his breath in as he indicated I should sit down on the plain wooden chair next to his desk. After I had, he sat in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles.

I took a pen and notebook out of my backpack. “Why is that?”

“Why, indeed.” Walter Wilcox clapped his hands together softly while he tried to decide what to say. I waited. A minute later he began to talk.

“Recently my wife began seeing a therapist. A psychologist. She hasn't been the same since.”

“In what way?”

“She's become agitated.” Wilcox bit his lip. “This man . . .” He gave the word a twist.

“The pyschologist . . .”

Wilcox nodded. “. . . claims that my wife Janet was sexually abused as a child. Says that's the root of all of her problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“That's the thing.” Wilcox flung out his hands. “I didn't think she had any. I mean, any more than the ones everyone has. Like last year, she went to a family reunion back home. She got some sort of twenty-four-hour stomach bug. But this psychologist told her it was her body's way of telling her she'd been abused.”

“She told you this?”

“Yes.”

“And that upset her?”

“Terribly. It's like she's become a different person. Maybe it's the pills she's taking.”

I interrupted. “Which are?”

“Prozac and . . . I'm not sure about the other.”

He looked at me for a comment, but I didn't say anything.

“All I know,” Wilcox continued, “is she flies into these rages. She cries. She gets anxious. And the worst of it is, I don't think this abuse thing is true.”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Yes. And I wish I hadn't.” He rubbed the furrow between his eyebrows with his thumb. “She began screaming and yelling. Telling me I was part of the problem. Telling me I was just like her uncle. I left and came to the office. I had to. I just wanted to give her time to calm down, you know?”

I nodded encouragingly. It's something I'm good at.

“When I returned, she was gone.”

“How did you know that she'd left?”

He frowned. “What do you mean, how did I know? It was obvious. Her car was gone. And she'd packed her suitcase.”

“What did she take?”

“Some of her clothes. I'm not sure what exactly. I don't pay much attention to that sort of thing.”

I could have told that from the way he dressed. “What else?”

“Her makeup. Hairbrush. Toothbrush.”

“Did she take a lot of money with her?”

“Not that much. Two thousand dollars.”

Two thousand dollars was enough to allow her to go somewhere, but it wasn't enough to live on. “Does she have another source of income?”

Wilcox shook his head. “Frankly,” he continued. “I'm afraid she's suicidal. She's been talking a lot lately about life not being worth living. I don't want to have to . . .” He shuddered.

“I see. Can I ask why she went to this psychologist in the first place?”

“My daughter suggested him. Janet wanted to lose weight, and she hadn't been able to. She got on the Internet and that's when she decided that she was an emotional eater, so that's why she went to see this man. God, I wish she hadn't. I told her I liked her the way she was. I told her it didn't matter, but we were going to go to a wedding in six months and there was this dress she wanted to wear . . .” Wilcox's voice trailed off. “There were going to be some people there she hadn't seen in a couple of years. I guess she wanted to impress them.”

“This must be hard on your daughter.”

Wilcox nodded. “She feels terribly guilty.”

“Can I speak to her?”

Wilcox made a vague gesture with his hand. “I'm not sure what her plans are. Exactly. Outside of the fact that she's going back to New York City soon.”

“Perhaps I can speak to her before she does.”

“Be my guest.” Wilcox wrote down a number on a piece of yellow paper, tore it off the pad, and gave it to me. “She's staying at a friend's. But I just got off the phone with her. Stephanie hasn't heard from her mother either.”

“Perhaps she can tell me something that would help.”

Wilcox looked doubtful.

I pressed on. “Does your wife have any siblings?”

“No. She's an only child.”

“Parents?”

“Both died a few years ago.”

“Cousins?”

“I'll give you their names, but all they do is exchange Christmas cards.” Wilcox leaned forward slightly. “Aren't you going to take notes?”

“When I need to, I will,” I assured him. So far I hadn't learned anything worth writing down. “Do you have any idea where your wife would have gone?”

“None. She's a homebody.”

“Would her friends know?”

“She really doesn't have any.”

I let that one go.

“Did she have a favorite place?”

“She likes the rose garden in Thornden Park in the summer. Did you know it's one of the ten best in the country?”

“No. I didn't. Was there someplace special you two went when you vacationed?”

“We haven't taken a vacation in years.”

“Someplace she fantasized about going?”

Wilcox looked blank. I guess fantasy didn't count for much in their lives.

“Like Paris? Rome? San Francisco?”

“I don't think so. She didn't like to travel.”

I didn't point out that she was traveling now.

“Did she take your name when she married you?”

“Yes.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Lyons.”

I wrote that down.

“Why is that important?”

“Your wife might decide to start using it again.”

The phone rang.

“She'll get it,” Wilcox said, indicating his secretary.

It rang twice more before Martha picked it up.

“I'm sorry I can't tell you more,” he said.

“Do you have a picture of her I can have?”

“At home. But it's two years old.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. I'd like you to do something else for me as well. I'd like you to sit down and give me a list of people she knows, the name of her doctor and the psychologist she's going to, as well as the name of her college and high school. I need the license plate number of the car she took. Her Social Security number. Her credit card bills, old phone bills, her favorite restaurants, places she likes to go to, places she's always wanted to visit. In short, the more stuff you can tell me about her, the better my chances are of finding her.”

“I'll have everything by tomorrow morning,” Wilcox promised, looking up from the list he'd written down.

I stood.

“So you'll find her?” he said.

“I'll certainly try.”

The limo was gone when I walked out the door. I decided someone in the real estate firm upstairs must have been closing a big deal.