I was sweating.
I went down the hall to the bathroom cubicle and splashed cold water on my face. It made me feel better, helped to reshape my thinking. Jumping to conclusions... you ought to know better than that. Benefit of the doubt, innocent until proven guilty. Remember when you thought she was having an affair with one of her bosses? Nothing to the Jim Carpenter thing, was there? Big false alarm, right? Same thing here.
She didn’t lie and Barney didn’t lie: half-truths, exaggerations, misconceptions. She’d been at Henry the Eighth’s with a client, she’d kissed him on some impulse or other — that was all there was to it. Worked late, stopped for a drink, nothing wrong in that, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it because she felt guilty about neglecting me or didn’t want me to get the wrong idea. What was the sense in making myself crazy over a minor incident, an innocent misunderstanding?
Goddamn Barney and his frigging needle...
The telephone was ringing when I walked back into the office. Good — get my head back into business. James Keverne? No, a small surprise: Walter Merchant.
“I’ve been wondering,” he said, “how you’re making out with your investigation.”
“Yes? Why is that, Mr. Merchant?”
“Curiosity.”
“You told me yesterday that you’re over your ex-wife.”
“I am. But I do have a certain vested interest — those un-cashed alimony checks of mine. Have you found out yet why Nedra didn’t cash them?”
“She hasn’t been around to cash them,” I said. “She vanished three and a half months ago. Suddenly and without a trace.”
Silence.
“Early May,” I said. “Sometime around the ninth.”
“Jesus,” he said in a hushed voice.
“You have any idea what happened to her?”
“Me? Good God, how would I know? I told you, I haven’t seen Nedra in nearly a year.”
“You also told me you hadn’t been in touch with her in six months. But you called her house at least twice recently and left messages on her answering machine.”
“How did you—” He cut that off and I could hear him suck in a heavy breath. “Never mind that. All right, I called her. I wanted to find out why she hadn’t cashed those checks. Now I know the answer.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“It didn’t seem like much of a lie. I suppose... well, I didn’t want to get involved in whatever mess she was in. Mess I thought she was in at the time — some kind of triangle situation. This... her disappearing... that’s a whole different can of worms.”
“Yes, it is. Any theories?”
“No. I wouldn’t want to speculate. I just hope—” Another heavy breath. “Three and a half months is a long time to be missing without a trace.”
“You probably know her better than anybody. Is she the type to go off by herself, hole up somewhere for that length of time? For any reason?”
“No,” Merchant said. “Not Nedra. The only two things she cares about in this world are men and her work. She wouldn’t quit either one for four days, let alone nearly four months.”
“Would she give up her work here for a man? Go off with him, start fresh in another location?”
“No.”
“You’re positive? People change in five years.”
“Not Nedra.”
“Do you know a man named Eddie Cahill?”
“Cahill... no. Who’s he?”
“An ex-con who harassed her so badly two years ago she got a restraining order against him.”
“Not one of her lovers? I can’t imagine Nedra taking up with an ex-convict...”
“Probably not.” I described Cahill. “Familiar?”
“No. I don’t know him.”
“Nedra never told you about the harassment?”
“I wish she had.”
“Annette Olroyd. You know her?”
“Who?”
“Olroyd. Annette Olroyd.”
“The name’s not familiar.”
“How about Aunt Louise in Lubbock, Texas?”
“Nedra’s aunt, yes. But if you think Nedra went to see her, or she knows what happened to her, you’re wrong.”
“Why is that?”
“They aren’t close; they hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years when Nedra and I were married. They never even talked on the phone. Cards on birthdays and Christmas, that was all. The woman must be in her eighties now. Besides, Nedra hates Texas.” Sardonic little chuckle. “I think one of her less successful conquests was a Texan.”
“The abbreviation ‘Thorn.’ — does that mean anything to you? First part of a word or name like Thornhill or Thornbridge, possibly.”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“She had a spare key hook in her desk marked T-h-o-r-n period. The key is missing too.”
“A man’s name?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“I can’t help you. It’s meaningless to me.”
“If anything occurs to you,” I said, “anything at all that might help me locate her, will you let me know?”
“Yes, of course. You are looking for Nedra, then? I mean, that’s why you were hired?”
“Not initially. Now... yes, I’m looking for her.”
“The police — have they been notified?”
“No. No one’s filed a missing persons report yet.”
“Good God, why not?”
“Only one person had any real knowledge that she’d disappeared until I found out last night, and he wasn’t in a position to report it. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Then I’ll do it,” he said grimly.
“You can if you like, Mr. Merchant. But you said yourself, three and a half months is a long time. The police aren’t going to be able to follow a cold trail any better than I can — and I’ve already got a running start.”
“If you find out anything definite, then what?”
“That depends on what I find out. If I think the police need to be brought in for any reason, I’ll notify them myself. Immediately.”
“And me? Will you notify me, too, as a favor?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Anything definite.”
“Yes.”
“All right. We’ll leave it that way for now.”
I held the disconnect bar down, the receiver tucked into the hollow between my neck and shoulder, and fished out my notebook and then tapped out Annette Olroyd’s number. A dozen rings, no answer. Aunt Louise in Texas? There didn’t seem to be much point in contacting her, after what Merchant had told me. Let it go for now.
I cradled the receiver and sat listening to the sounds of silence.
Kerry, I thought.
No, I thought — and got up and got moving.
Dr. Philip Muncon’s offices were on the corner of Sacramento and Spruce streets in the Laurel Heights district. Upscale neighborhood, this, a mix of residences, small businesses — antiques shops, boutiques, trendy restaurants — and medical and professional services. Some of the various doctors were housed in the California Pacific Medical Center, others in converted Edwardians and Queen Anne row houses.
Muncon had the entire upper floor of his narrow Queen Anne. It was not exactly a posh layout, but you knew as soon as you walked in that his services would not come cheap. Wall-to-wall carpeting, comfortable furniture with an abundance of pillows, muted color scheme; at least a pair of consultation rooms and a private office, in addition to the reception area; and a smiley male receptionist with the most perfectly styled hair I’d seen on a person of either sex.
The doctor was with someone — the receptionist used the word “client” — but the session would be finished in another fifteen minutes. I sat and waited and wondered what it would be like, coming here one or more times a week for ten years to air your troubles and have them analyzed down to the minutest detail. I couldn’t imagine it. The whole concept of therapy was foreign to me. I could understand why some people might need short-term counseling, somebody to help them get at the root of a particular problem — but I was not one of them. Too self-aware, too in touch with my weaknesses and shortcomings. I either solved my problems on my own or devised compromises so I could live with them. A shrink might have said that that was a self-delusional attitude, but I was not about to pay one hundred dollars-plus an hour to hear him say it, so it was a moot point. Call me a benign agnostic where therapy was concerned. I might not believe in it for myself, but I respected the ones who sought help when they needed it. Too many of society’s ills could be laid at the feet of those who didn’t.