Long Lost

  The driver did. She started down the street. I've been to London only a few times so it wasn't like I knew the area, but this wasn't Karen Tower's address. Terese stood on the corner. The sun was starting to get strong. She shaded her eyes. I waited.

  "This is where the accident happened," Terese said.

  The corner could not have been more nondescript.

  "I haven't been back here."

  I saw no reason that she should have been, but I said nothing.

  "I came off of that exit ramp. I took it too fast. A truck floated into my lane right around there." She pointed. "I tried to turn away but . . ."

  I looked around as if there might still be some telltale clue a decade later, strange skid marks or something. There was nothing. Terese started walking down the street. I caught up to her.

  "Karen's house--well, I guess it's Rick and Karen's house, right?--it's down the roundabout on the left," she said.

  "How do you want to handle it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you want me to go alone?" I asked.

  "Why?"

  "Maybe I can get more out of her."

  Terese shook her head. "You won't. Just stay with me, okay?"

  "Sure."

  There were dozens of people already at the house on Royal Crescent. Mourners. I hadn't really considered that, but of course. Rick Collins was dead. People would come by to comfort the widow and pay their respects. Terese hesitated at the foot of the outside steps, but then she took my hand firmly.

  When we first entered, I felt Terese stiffen. I followed her gaze to a dog--a bearded collie; I know because Esperanza has the same kind--curled up on a mat near the corner. The dog looked old and worn and wasn't moving. Terese let go of my hand and bent down to pet the dog.

  "Hey, girl," she whispered. "It's me."

  The dog's tail wagged as though it took great effort. The rest of the body stayed still. There were tears in Terese's eyes.

  "This is Casey," she said to me. "We got her for Miriam when she was five years old."

  The dog managed to lift its head. She licked Terese's hand. Terese just stayed there, on her knees. Casey's eyes were milky with cataracts. The old dog tried to get her legs under her and stand. Terese hushed her and found a spot behind the ears. The dog still twisted her head as if she wanted to look into Terese's eyes. Terese moved forward so it would be easier. The moment was tender and I felt like I was intruding.

  "Casey used to sleep under Miriam's bed. She would get low and scratch her way underneath and then she'd turn around so just her head was sticking out. Like she was on guard duty."

  Terese petted the dog and started to cry. I moved away, shielded them from anyone's view, gave them their time. It took Terese a few minutes to put herself back together. When she did, she took my hand again.

  We headed into the living room. There was a line of maybe fifteen people waiting to pay their respects.

  The whispers and stares began the moment we stepped fully into the room. I hadn't thought about it, but here was the ex-wife who had been gone for nearly a decade showing up at the home of the current wife. It would make tongues wag, I guess.

  People parted and a woman dressed smartly in black--I assumed the widow--came through it. She was pretty, petite, and almost doll-like with big green eyes. A touch of Tuesday Weld, to quote a Steely Dan song. I didn't know what to expect, but her eyes seemed to light up when she saw Terese. Terese's too. The two women smiled sadly at each other, the kind of smile you give to someone you adore but wished you were seeing under better circumstances.

  Karen spread her arms. The two women embraced, holding each other, staying very still. I wondered for a moment what sort of friendship these two women shared and figured that it had probably been something pretty profound.

  When they finished the embrace, Karen sort of gestured with her head. The two women started out of the room. Terese reached back and grabbed my hand, so I went too. We headed into what the British probably called the "drawing room" and Karen closed the pocket doors. The two women sat on a couch as though they had done it a thousand times and knew their exact spots. No awkwardness.

  Terese looked back at me. "This is Myron," she said.

  I put out my hand. Karen Tower shook it with her tiny one. "I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

  "Thank you." Karen turned back to Terese. "Is he your . . . ?"

  "It's complicated," Terese said.

  Karen nodded.

  I pointed back with my thumb. "Do you guys want me to wait in the other room?"

  "No," Terese said.

  I stayed where I was. No one was sure how to go on, but I sure as heck wasn't going to take the lead. I stood as stoically as I could.

  Karen cut right to it. "Where have you been, Terese?"

  "Here and there."

  "I've missed you."

  "I've missed you too."

  Silence.

  "I wanted to reach you," Karen said. "And explain. About Rick and me."

  "It wouldn't have mattered," Terese said.

  "That's what Rick said. It happened slowly. You were gone. We started spending time together, for companionship. It took a long time before it became more."

  "You don't need to explain," Terese said.

  "Yeah, I guess not."

  There was no apology in her voice, no waiting for forgiveness or understanding. They both seemed to get it.

  Terese said, "I wished it ended better for you both."

  "We have a son named Matthew," she said. "He's four years old."

  "I heard."

  "So how did you hear about the murder?"

  "I was in Paris," Terese said.

  That made Karen react. She blinked and backed up a bit. "That's where you've been this whole time?"

  "No."

  "Then I'm not sure I understand."

  "Rick called me," Terese said.

  "When?"

  Terese filled her in on Rick's emergency phone call. Karen's face, already something of a death mask, lost even more color.

  "Rick told you to come to Paris?" Karen asked.

  "Yes."

  "What did he want?"

  "I was hoping you might know," Terese said.

  Karen shook her head. "We haven't been talking much lately. We were going through a pretty bad spell. Rick had become withdrawn. I was kind of hoping it was just because he was onto a big story. You know how he got then?"

  Terese nodded. "How long had he been like that?"

  "Three, four months now--since his father died."

  Terese stiffened. "Sam?"

  "I figured you knew."

  "No," Terese said.

  "In the winter, yeah. He took a bottle of pills."

  "Sam committed suicide?"

  "He was sick, something terminal. He kept it from us, for the most part. Rick didn't know how bad it had gotten. I guess it got bad at the end so he decided to speed up the inevitable. Rick went into a funk, but then he started in on some big new investigation. He would disappear for weeks at a time. When I asked where he was, he'd snap and then he'd be sweet, but he wouldn't tell me. Or he'd lie about it."

  Terese was still trying to get her bearings.

  "Sam was such a sweet man," Terese said.

  "I really never got to know him too well," Karen said. "We only visited him a couple of times, and he'd gotten too ill to come over here."

  Terese swallowed, tried to get herself back on track. "So Sam commits suicide, and Rick buries himself in his work."

  "Something like that, yeah."

  "And he wouldn't tell you what he was investigating?"

  "No."

  "Did you ask Mario?"

  "He wouldn't say."

  I didn't ask who Mario was. I figured Terese would fill me in later.

  Terese continued now, back on a roll. "Do you have any idea what it was Rick was working on?"

  Karen studied her friend. "How well hidden were you, Terese?"

  "Pretty well."


  "Maybe that's what he was working on. Trying to find you."

  "It wouldn't have taken him months."

  "You're sure?"

  "And even if that's what he was doing, why would he?"

  "I'm trying not to be a jealous wife here," Karen said. "But I would think something like a father killing himself might make you question your life choices."

  Terese made a face. "You think . . . ?"

  Karen shrugged.

  "No chance," Terese said. "And even if you thought Rick was trying to--I don't know--connect or woo me back, why would he tell me it's an emergency?"

  Karen thought about that. "Where were you when he reached you?"

  "In a remote spot in northwest Angola."

  "And when he said it was urgent, you dropped everything and came, right?"

  "Yes."

  Karen spread her hands as if that answered everything.

  "He wasn't lying to get me to Paris, Karen."

  Karen did not look convinced. She had looked sad before we entered. Now she looked deflated. Terese glanced back at me. I nodded.

  It was time to kick this up a notch.

  Terese said, "We need to ask you about the accident."

  The words hit Karen like a stun gun. Her eyes shot up, and they looked dazed now, out of focus. I'd wondered about the use of the word "accident," if she would understand what Terese meant. Clearly she did.

  "What about it?"

  "You were there. At the scene, I mean."

  Karen didn't reply.

  "Were you?"

  "Yes."

  Terese seemed a little startled by the answer. "You never told me that."

  "Why would I tell you? Strike that--when would I tell you? We never talked about that night. Not ever. You woke up. It wasn't like I was going to say, 'Hi, how are you feeling, I was at the scene.' "

  "Tell me what you remember."

  "Why? What difference could it make now?"

  "Tell me."

  "I love you, Terese. I always will."

  Something changed. I could see it in her body language. A stiffening of the spine maybe. The best friend was slipping away. An adversary was coming to the surface.

  "I love you too."

  "I don't think a day goes by that I don't still think about you. But you left. You had your reasons and your pain and I got it. But you left. I made a life with this man. We were having problems, but Rick was my whole world. Do you get that?"

  "Of course."

  "I loved him. He was the father of my son. Matthew is only four. And someone murdered his father."

  Terese just waited.

  "So we're in mourning right now. I'm dealing with that. I'm dealing with trying to keep my life together and protecting my child. So I'm sorry. I'm not going to talk about a car accident from ten years ago. Not today."

  She stood. It all made sense and yet something in her tone sounded oddly hollow.

  "I'm trying to do the same," Terese said.

  "What?"

  "I'm trying to protect my child."

  Karen had the stun-gun look again. "What are you talking about?"

  "What happened to Miriam?" Terese asked.

  Karen studied Terese's face. Then she turned to me, as if I might offer a glimmer of sanity. I kept my gaze steady.

  "Did you see her that night?"

  But Karen Tower didn't reply. She opened those pocket doors and vanished into a pack of mourners.

  16

  WHEN Karen left the drawing room, I walked around to the desk.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Snooping," I said.

  The desk was rich mahogany with a gold letter opener that doubled as a magnifying glass. Slit envelopes stood vertically in antique holders. I didn't feel great about this, but I didn't feel terrible about it either. I took out my BlackBerry. The one Win gave me had a pretty good camera feature. I started opening envelopes and taking pictures.

  I found credit card statements. I didn't have time to go through them all, but all I would need is the account numbers anyway. There were phone bills (that interested me) and energy bills (that didn't). I opened the drawers and started rifling through the contents.

  "What are you looking for?" Terese asked.

  "An envelope that says 'BIG CLUE INSIDE.'"

  I was hoping for a miracle, of course. Something about Miriam. Pictures maybe. Short of that, I had the bills, the credit card, the phone numbers. We should be able to get some information from that. I hoped to find a day planner, but there was none.

  I stumbled across a few photographs of people I assumed were Rick, Karen, and their son, Matthew.

  "Is this Rick?" I asked.

  She nodded.

  I didn't know what to make of him. He had a prominent nose, blue eyes, and dirty blond hair that landed someplace between wavy and unruly. A man can't help it--he sees an ex, he sizes him up. I started to do that and then I made myself stop. I put the pictures back where I found them and continued my search. No more pictures. No blond daughter he'd kept hidden for years. No old photographs of Terese.

  I turned and saw the laptop on the matching credenza.

  "How much more time do you think we have?" I asked.

  "I'll stand guard by the door."

  I flipped on the MacBook. It came up in seconds. I clicked on the iCal icon on the bottom. His daybook came up. Nothing in the past month. On the right, there was only one To Do note. It read:

  OPAL

  HHK

  4714

  I had no idea what that meant, but the priority was listed as High.

  "What?" Terese said.

  I read off the To Do and asked her if she had any idea what it meant. She didn't. Time was still a factor here. I debated e-mailing the iCal contents to Esperanza, but that might get noticed. Then again, so what? Win, of course, had several anonymous e-mail addresses. I sent copies of the data on both the calendar and address book to him. Then I went into the Sent file and deleted them so no one would see.

  Ain't I clever?

  Here I was, rummaging through the belongings of a man who'd recently been murdered while his widow and son mourned in the other room. I felt quite the hero. Maybe on the way out, I should kick good ol' Casey.

  "Who is the Mario you two talked about?" I asked her.

  "Mario Contuzzi," Terese said. "He was Rick's best friend and assistant producer. They worked on everything together."

  I looked up his name in Address Book. Bingo. I plugged both his home and cell number into my phone.

  Again with the clever.

  "Do you know where Wilsham Street is?" I asked.

  "It's walking distance. Does Mario still live there?"

  I nodded and dialed Mario's home phone number. A man with an American accent answered and said, "Hello?" I hung up.

  "He's home," I said.

  I hope the amateur detectives out there are taking notes.

  "We should head over."

  I quickly opened up iPhoto. There were plenty of pictures but nothing that stood out. I couldn't e-mail all of them out. That would take forever. The pictures were normal, which is to say, heartbreaking. Karen looked happy next to her man. Rick looked happy too. Their faces beamed as they held their son. IPhoto has this feature that allows you to put the cursor over an Event and the pictures fly by in a rapid slide show. I watched the MATTHEW IS BORN! Event and FIRST BIRTHDAY and a few others. Again heartbreakingly normal.

  I stopped at one very recent shot under DAD'S SOCCER FINALS. Rick and Matthew were in matching Manchester United soccer uniforms. Rick had a big smile and held his son close to his side. The sweat was dripping off him. You could almost tell that he was out of breath and ecstatic about it. Four-year-old Matthew huddled against him, wearing goalie gear--the oversize gloves and that little black eye makeup--and trying to look serious, and I thought that this kid will now grow up without that smiling father and I thought about Jack, another boy who had to grow up without his father--and I thought about my own fat
her, how much I loved and still needed him, and then I closed the file.

  We slipped toward the front door without saying good-bye. I looked behind me and spotted little Matthew slumped in a chair in the corner. He was wearing a dark suit.

  Four-year-olds don't belong in dark suits. Four-year-olds belong in goalie uniforms next to their dads.

  MARIO Contuzzi answered the door without asking who it was. He was thin and wiry and reminded me of a Weimaraner dog. He jabbed a narrow face in Terese's direction.

  "You have some nerve."

  "Nice to see you too, Mario."

  "I just got a call from a friend at Karen's. He says you popped in unannounced. Is that true?"

  "Yes."

  "What were you thinking?" Mario's head snapped toward me. "And why would you bring this asswipe, of all people?"

  "Do I know you?" I asked.

  Mario wore those tortoiseshell glasses I always thought were trying too hard. He was wearing suit pants and a white dress shirt that he had been in the midst of buttoning. "I don't have time for this. Please leave."

  "We need to talk," Terese said.

  "Too late."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He spread his arms. "You left, Terese, remember? You had your reasons, maybe. That's fine. Your choice. But you left and now that he's dead you finally want to have a little chitchat? Forget it. I have nothing to say to you."

  "That was a long time ago," she said.

  "Precisely my point. Rick waited for you to come back. Did you know that? For two years, he waited. You were distraught and depressed--we all understood that--but that didn't stop you from shacking up with Mr. Basketball here."

  He pointed at me with his thumb. I was Mr. Basketball here.

  "Rick knew about that?" Terese asked.

  "Of course. We thought you were devastated, vulnerable maybe. We kept an eye on you. I think Rick hoped you'd come back. Instead you go off to some little island for a private orgy with Hoop Head."

  He pointed at me with the thumb again. Now I was Hoop Head.

  Terese said, "You were following me?"

  "We were keeping an eye on you, yes."

  "For how long?"

  He didn't reply. Suddenly his sleeve needed to be unrolled.

  "How long, Mario?"

  "We always knew where you were. I'm not saying we discussed it anymore and you've been at that refugee center for the past six years so it's not like we checked all the time. But we knew. That's why I'm surprised to see you with Bozo the SuperJock here. We thought you dumped this meathead years ago."

  He waved his thumb in my face again.

  "Mario?" I said.