Where's Ellen? (Mystery) (MPP A JOE MCFARLAND / GINNY HARRIS MYSTERY Book 1)

CHAPTER 1

“
H
i, hon, I’m back,” yelled Steve as he entered the side door into the mudroom between the kitchen and the garage. Carefully removing his wet sneakers on the mat just inside the door, he thought how enjoyable the run was that morning.
Finally
, the Ohio winter, which had dragged into April, had given up the fight. Although still chilly outside, Tuesday was going to be a beautiful early spring day. All the snow was gone, the frozen ground had turned soft and muddy, and the smallest of buds were showing in the maples. The birds were chirping, and it was already light out.

As he walked into the kitchen, his wife, Ellen, waved to him with one hand while holding her cell phone tight against her ear with the other. As a senior executive at a large, worldwide technology firm, Ellen was often on the phone with colleagues and subordinates from almost any place in the world at almost any time of day or night. Steve waved back and made his standard hand signals to Ellen: index finger pointing upstairs, followed by holding four fingers up, followed by air-writing the letter “S.” As if he really had to tell Ellen where he was going. For the 10 years of their marriage, with the exception of heavy snow days and a few days of flu, every weekday morning Steve would return from his 30-minute jog and head upstairs to Shit, Shave, Shower and Shampoo.

Steve usually completed these personal tasks and got dressed within 20 minutes so that he could join Ellen for a quick breakfast. Given her hectic work schedule, her activities during that same 20-minute period were equally programmed: make coffee, pour juice, place bread in the not-yet-turned-on toaster, put butter and jam on the table, and then follow up on any urgent e-mails or voice mails that had arrived overnight.

As Steve, fully dressed for work and carrying his suit jacket over his arm, came back downstairs and was about to enter the kitchen, he said, “OK, El, let’s eat.” He got no response and, when he entered the kitchen, he didn’t see her. Contrary to Ellen’s fastidious nature, which at times seemed anal to Steve, spilled coffee was pooled around her cup. Her briefcase, with her laptop, smartphone and keys on top of it, was on the counter, the briefcase corner soaking in the spilled coffee. This wasn’t like Ellen.

“Ellen?” yelled Steve. He dropped his jacket on one of the kitchen chairs and checked all four bathrooms and peeked in the laundry room. Nada. No Ellen on their recently refinished rear deck, where she often went for a few minutes of serenity before the start of her hectic day. Steve rapidly walked to the garage; her empty car sat just where she had parked it the previous evening.

Trotting outside, he quickly walked around the house and up the street, but saw nothing unusual. He rushed back inside.

“Hello, Vicki. This is Steve. Is Ellen there?” asked Steve, having dialed Ellen’s best friend, who lived just a few blocks away.

“No, she isn’t. And ‘good morning’ to you, too, Steve. Why would you think Ellen would be here this early, especially on a work day?”

Steve tried to keep his voice natural and calm, but his worry came through loud and clear.

“I came downstairs and she’s not here. Her car and her briefcase and her phone are still here. Even her keys are here. I figured she might have walked over to your place. Any idea where she might be?”

“I have no idea. I’ll call Linda and Terry right now and I’ll let you know if I learn anything. Please call me back when you find out where she is.”

“I will. And thanks, Vicki.”

Steve was now close to panic. His mind was racing in a thousand directions, but nothing made any sense to him. Ellen had never left without telling him. And it was totally out of character for Ellen to leave spilled coffee on the counter for more than two seconds, much less with her briefcase sitting in it. “Ellen! Ellen! Where are you? Are you OK?” yelled Steve as he irrationally ran through the same rooms that he had checked only a few minutes earlier. He quickly rechecked the garage, the backyard and the street and then ran back inside. Knowing it was still too early to reach Ellen’s executive assistant or any of Ellen’s co-workers at her office, Steve instead picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

“Help me! Please!”

“Yes, sir. Please tell me what the problem is.”

“My wife is missing!”

”Sir, please give me your name and address and tell me how long she’s been missing.”

“About 20 minutes.”

“Sir, did you say ‘20
minutes?’ ”

“Yes.”

“Sir, normally the police don’t get involved until someone’s been missing for at least 24 hours.”

“But you don’t understand. She wouldn’t just go off like this without telling me! She’s a senior executive at Tycon Technologies and she wouldn’t just not go to work.”

“Sir, I can arrange for a detective to come see you, but it will have to be on a non-priority basis. It may be a few hours before someone gets there.”

“But this is an emergency! Her coffee’s on the counter!”

“Excuse me, sir. Would you please repeat that?”

“Christ! We’re wasting time. I said her coffee is spilled on the counter. Ellen would never leave without wiping that up first. And her work stuff is here!”

“Sir, as I said, we can send a detective to talk with you but only on a non-priority basis.”

“That’s bull! She may be hurt or in danger. I need help now! Let me speak to your supervisor.”

“Sir, there’s no one else here at this time of the morning. My supervisor doesn’t get in until a little after 8.”

Damn! This is what I pay all those frickin’ taxes for?
said Steve to himself. “Dammit. Don’t you understand what I’ve been saying? I need help. And I need it now.”

“Yes, sir. I do understand. We’ll get someone to you as soon as we can.”

“OK, I’ll be here. Please try and get someone here as quickly as possible.”

“You still need to give me your name and address, sir.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Steven Sanders. And my wife is Ellen Sanders. We live at 14 Oak Knoll Drive here in Jasper Creek.”

“OK, Mr. Sanders. Please be patient. We’ll get someone to you as soon as we can.”

“OK. Please. Please hurry. Hurry!”

CHAPTER 2

“
A
w, shit, not again!”

“Take it easy, Joe. What’s got your fanny in an uproar this time?” asked Ginny.

“You know exactly what. I’ve been here almost two years now and it’s always the same old crap. Either I’m told to sit in my little corner here, shuffling useless papers or I get assigned to some half-assed case.”

“Half-assed case? Isn’t it a little early in the process to reach that conclusion?”

“Not for me. Jeez, a wife is missing for all of one whole half hour. Big deal. Most likely, she went out for a loaf of bread or she slipped off for a quickie with her lover.”

Walking out into the small parking lot behind the PD, detectives Joseph McFarland and Virginia Harris gave a silent look and nod to each other, both of them acknowledging the pleasures of the first sunny day in several months. They didn’t need to say anything to each other. They both took their sunglasses from their pockets at the same time and put them on. As they headed to their car, Ginny didn’t respond immediately to Joe’s earlier comments; she knew that there was at least some truth to Joe’s complaint about how the department had treated him. Since he had joined the department, she’d seen how his behavior had led to some hostility, often unspoken but still obvious, among other officers and the chief.

“Joe, you know as well as me that you’re part of the problem.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Joe, unsuccessfully trying to hide a grimace.

As Joe started the drive to the Sanders’ house, Ginny continued, “You’ve admitted to me several times that you’d never win the Mr. Congeniality contest here. You’ve bitched to me that your evaluation reports describe you as ‘not having integrated well with the rest of the team.’ ”

“Yeah, but that’s not all on me. It’s a two-way street.”

“Joe, we’ve talked about this before. You kept explaining to all the members of the department, from the newest patrolman up to the chief, the ‘right way’ that things should be done. And in your mind, the ‘right way’ was only the ‘Chicago PD way.’ Needless to say, all of that advice wasn’t always gratefully or gracefully received.”

“Yeah, well, some people just can’t handle constructive criticism.”

“Maybe. But you’re going to the other extreme. Not saying anything much more than ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good night’ to anyone in the department doesn’t help.”

“OK, Ginny. I’ll concede that point.”

Since Joe had been assigned to replace Ginny’s retiring partner several months earlier, Ginny had learned enough of his background to understand why he came off the way he did. Part of it was his independent spirit, his unwillingness to agree with someone merely to be agreeable or to “integrate.” Ginny admired this strength in him, despite others seeing it as cockiness.

Ginny also knew that another part of Joe’s attitude, a large part, was a result of his having come into the Jasper Creek PD with a burden that would have crushed most other men. He had not revealed this to her in a full, “here’s-my-story” narrative. He had only alluded to it, then bit by bit filled her in on his past, some of it coming forth in longer, painful stretches, as they were on their way to assignments or during long, quiet stakeouts. Joe’s background was big city, both as a kid growing up and resisting the pressure of so many of his peers, and as a Chicago cop, starting on the beat in the same rough Southside neighborhood where he’d come of age. In time, he’d been promoted to Vice Squad detective, then to Homicide. He told her the painful part only when their relationship had grown from just partner to partner and friend: Eight years ago, his wife and young son had been killed by a drunk driver. Joe had become severely depressed, eventually leaving Chicago and moving to Jasper Creek, where he knew and was known by no one, to try to restart his life.

Ginny’s background was very different. Brought up locally, she started as a clerk in the Jasper Creek PD right after high school, became a patrol officer when a position opened up a few years later, and then was named detective about four years before becoming Joe’s partner. Short, especially when standing next to Joe’s 6-foot-4-inch frame, Ginny didn’t look strong, but she was wiry and very fast. Although she had not attended college, except for a few specific police-related courses and seminars, Ginny was loaded with common sense and street smarts.

“Can we get back to this case now?” Ginny asked.

“Sure. In fact, I never left it. I still think it’s probably a big nothing.”

“You may turn out to be right, but I still think it’s too early to think anything. Let’s see what the husband has to say. Then we can take it from there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Ten minutes later, the dark blue Crown Vic pulled up in front of the Sanders’ house and parked. It was 10:15 a.m.

“Pretty snazzy house,” said Ginny as she unbuckled her seat belt and started to open the car door.

“See, you should have become a big-shot corporate executive instead of a cop,” responded Joe. “Then you could have a mega-house like this, too.”