Exit Row (4 page)

B
ACK AT THE
apartment, Fiona drank more coffee. She didn't think she could face writing about the perils of poisoned lipstick, but she reminded herself that she didn't have the financial luxury of not working. She was much too scattered to concentrate on her serious project, a series of guidebooks to destination cities. Her first,
Paris's Brightest Lights
, had already been accepted by a publisher, and she was starting work on
New York's Best Apples
.

The second book would detail the restaurant with the best cappuccino, the salon with the cheapest haircut, the friendliest Irish bar, and so on. She and Lee had planned a trip to sushi bars later this week. Living right in Brooklyn would make it easy to research the city. But how could she do it without him?

Meanwhile, Karl's idea was a good one. Fiona got a yellow-lined pad from her desk to make notes. True, there were three million people on Long Island, but like DNA, everyone had left traces of who they were.

The easiest was the editor whose author was reading at a mystery bookstore last night. How many of those could there be? Checking her laptop, Fiona found only one in Suffolk County, over in Sayville. She could call, but she was suddenly too restless to stay in the apartment any longer. It was not that long a drive.

A
T TEN O
'
CLOCK
, Fiona reached the Black Cat Bookshop, a large Victorian house with a black wrought-iron fence and black shutters. Orange paint on the front window announced a “Back-to-Ghoul sale.”
Cute.
She wondered if she should use the ghost-shaped brass knocker, but it was a store, after all, so she turned the knob and walked in, stopping in a foyer that was papered with author-signing announcements.

A bony woman in a blue-striped sundress was kneeling on the bare wooden floor, removing books from a carton. She turned and grinned at Fiona. “More goodies! On the other hand, more bills.”

Fiona laughed.

Then something stirred on the counter, and she turned quickly. It was the largest cat she had ever seen, stretched out next to the cash register. Black, of course, and wearing a red collar with rhinestones. “My God!”

The woman nodded. “The owner. Twenty-eight pounds and counting. Was there something specific, or did you want to browse?”

“I'm looking for a true-crime book that just came out. It has ‘blood' in the title,” she said, proud that she had remembered.

The woman put back her head and laughed. “Honey, they all do. Can you tell me anything else about it?”

“How about a college professor killing a student? The president's daughter or something.”

“You mean
Examination in Blood.
What a shame you weren't here last night; we had an author reading.” She pushed herself up and moved toward the counter. “We may still have a few copies put aside for people who couldn't make it.”

Fiona felt her heart jump. “The author was here?” Did that mean the editor had picked her up in the city after all?

“Not exactly.” The woman was now fishing under the wide oak counter. “Her flight was delayed, so her editor came instead. Kind of odd, but she read from the book. A real ham! She couldn't give many details about the writing of it or sign autographs, but it was better than nothing. Aha!” Triumphantly she brought out a book with a black and red cover, a dust jacket with a photograph of a smiling family jaggedly torn in half.

Fiona hesitated. Considering her finances, she really shouldn't buy a hardcover book. But the woman felt like a kindred spirit, and the cat, who was watching her with wise yellow eyes, probably needed the money. “Okay, great. You wouldn't happen to have the editor's number, would you?”

The brown eyes narrowed. “Actually, I think I do. But why?”

“I'm getting the book for my mother. If I could arrange to have it inscribed when the author arrives, it would mean the world to her.”

“Oh, of course! Let me track it down.”

It was an interesting lie. Her real mother had drowned herself when Fiona was two, and her aunt—her mother's oldest sister, Karen Jensen—was not a reader. Her passions were the Lamb's Tongue Community Church and the Jasper County Fair. A tale of bloody body parts would be just the ticket.
“To Aunt Karen—Enjoy!”

But looking down at the lurid cover, she felt a frisson of guilt. She really needed to get back to Iowa for a visit. They had tried to do their best by her. It wasn't the Jensens' fault that she had always wanted to leave.

B
ACK IN HER
car, Fiona called the number the bookshop owner had given her.

“Hi there!” The answering machine voice was perky. “You have reached the estate of Rosa Cooper. I'm either at the gym or out doing good deeds. If you have my office number, you can reach me there. But do leave a message.”

That was the woman. Fiona left a message, then wondered if she might be at the airport right now, meeting Susan's plane. Or at the gym.

What next? She decided to go back to her apartment. There was always the chance Lee had called, and it would be easier to try to reach the other people from there. With a last look at the haunted bookstore, she slipped her phone in her bag. As she did, she realized she had stopped checking it for a text from Lee.

S
ETTLED ON THE
green velour sofa, Fiona checked her laptop for “Swimming Pool Maintenance, Suffolk County.” There weren't as many results as she had feared, but far too many to call. Yellow pad in hand, she began a list. She could discount Irish names; he had definitely been Italian. She also did not bother writing down the numbers of large companies or those with cute names like Blue Enchantment or Pools-R-Us. That didn't seem like the man she had met.

Next she considered the geography. She discounted locations in the Hamptons. Too pricey for someone who thought he would never be able to retire. Too close to the Nassau County line, and he would have just used LaGuardia. But everywhere else was fair game.

She was connected mostly to voice mail asking her to leave a message and promising to call right back. She did get a receptionist once. “DiPenna Pool Service.”

“Hi. I'm trying to reach someone who was at MacArthur Airport yesterday to meet his daughter. I can describe him for you.”

“That's okay. Sal doesn't have any daughters.”

“Okay, thanks.”

An hour after she had made the last call, her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“This is Dom Basilea. You called me about being at the airport yesterday?”

Thank God.
“I was one of the people waiting. Black bicycle shorts, chartreuse shirt?”

“Oh, right. Did you find out anything?”

“Did your daughter get in?”

A hesitation. “Not yet.”

“Well, my boyfriend didn't either, and I'm really worried. And she didn't call?”

“No, but I think I know what happened. Coral was visiting my wife in Taos—she's staying at this artist's colony—and she was supposed to be leaving on Sunday for Mexico. I think she may have taken Coral with her.”

“Would she do that? Is she Mexican?”

“Huh? No. She's just a little crazy. But she's headed somewhere I can't reach her.”

“And she wouldn't let you know?”

“Like I said . . . Listen, I gotta get back to work.”

“Okay, but will you call me if your daughter gets in? And was on that flight, I mean?”

“Sure.”

A
S SOON AS
she hung up, the phone rang.
Lee.
Lee, thank God! She grabbed for it. “Hi!”

“This is Rosa Cooper. You left a message?”

“Oh. Yes.” She wouldn't let herself feel the terrible letdown until that call was over. “I'm Fiona Reina from the airport.
The Eccentric Traveler
?”

“Oh, yes. The pretty one.”

Pretty?
She supposed so. Growing in Lamb's Tongue, where Scandinavian blondes were the standard, Fiona's straight dark hair and olive skin were not valued. People thought her eyes—light gray but with a black circle around the iris—were weird. Aunt Karen had seemed unhappy when her breasts came in early and full, as if it were not quite decent.

“I was wondering if your author ever got here.”

“Susan? No, she didn't. She hasn't even called, which isn't like her at all!”

The sound of drums in the background. Fiona realized it was her heart. “But what could have happened?”

“I don't know, but I can't understand it. This is something she's wanted for years. What author wouldn't?
Good Morning America
! We had to jump through hoops to—do you realize what it takes to get on a show like that? She was deliberately flying in early so she could rest up beforehand.”

“And it's tomorrow morning? Maybe she'll still make it.”

“Your lips to God's ears. Airlines are so crazy these days. All these hubs and layovers instead of just plain flying.”

“I'm calling Day Star as soon as their offices open to see if Lee was on the flight. And I talked to that pool guy. He hasn't heard anything from his daughter either.”

“Why don't you try the FAA, their offices in Denver, just to make sure? Any irregularities have to be reported to them. Let me know what you find out.”

It only took a minute to find the number for the Denver office, but after she called, she was shifted to three different extensions.

“My name is Fiona Reina,” she told the last voice wearily. “I'm calling from New York. I need to know if there were any problems with planes yesterday.”

“I'm sure there were.” The voice was male and good-humored. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, something in your area. Between Taos and Denver. Or Denver and New York.” She felt stupid. Nobody had suggested any problem with the planes.

“You're talking about a problem with a scheduled flight? Why do you want to know?”

“I'd heard something might have happened. I'm not a journalist or anything,” she said quickly. As soon as she said it, she realized that was not true. Not an
investigative journalist, anyway.

“I'll take a look. It's all public record. But you're not talking about a small private craft, two-seater, anything like that.”

“No, more commuter sized. Like a Day Star shuttle?” My bad, leading the witness.

“Ah, Day Star.
That
bunch of cowboys. These little guys, they're a menace in the air. Buy up those old boats and don't update shit! Uh—sorry about that.”

“It's okay.”

“Let me see what they were up to yesterday.” Silence while he checked. “Tucson and Phoenix, routine. Denver, made an emergency landing to their own airfield. Fixed whatever it was, but came in an hour late. No disasters though. If anything happened, we'd know about it right away.”

But would they?

T
HE CALLS TO
schools for disabled children in Suffolk County went rapidly. As soon as Fiona murmured something about calling from social services, people were anxious to help. Not exactly true, but she wasn't doing it for fraud or criminal purposes. She soon had a phone number for Maggie Farley, mother of Derek.

The woman who gave it to her sighed. “A really sad situation. No hope of change, but she won't give up; she keeps trying all these therapies for him that she can't afford. As I'm sure you know.”

Fiona murmured something, then clicked off and pressed in the number.

“Yes, hello?” There was the sound of a plaintive wail in the background. Probably Brenda.

“Hi, Maggie? This is Fiona Reina. From the airport yesterday?”

“Yes, hi! Did your boyfriend ever get in?”

“No. What about your father?”

“Not yet.”

“I talked to the FAA, and they said that the plane from Taos had a little trouble but finally landed. Late.”

“Well, that's good. That it got there, I mean.”

“Aren't you worried? About your father?”

“A little. But he might not even have made the plane.”

“Isn't there anyone you can check with?”

“I could call the complex where he lives. But I think it will all work out.”

“I hope so. I'll call you back if I find out anything else.”

“You could stop by.” She sounded as though she would welcome the company.

F
IONA WASN
'
T SURE
she wanted to find the backpacker. She already had three. Still, his friend might have landed and know something about Lee and the others.

The challenge would be tracking him down. All he had said was that he was into computers. No . . . computer science. That sounded more academic. Could he be affiliated with the university? She went to the Stony Brook University site and accessed the Computer Science Department. After scrolling down the faculty photographs to the end, she was disappointed not to see anyone who looked like him. Hard to imagine him dealing with students anyway.

She was about to leave the page when she saw other headings—Affiliated Faculty, Research Faculty, Emeritus—and clicked on those instead. She found him under “Researchers,” with a smile so charming she almost passed him by. Greg Sanderson. His areas of interest were everything from algorithms to web accessibility. Once she had his name, she was able to get a phone number from whitepages.com. She hoped he hadn't decided to go off to Portland anyway.

The phone was picked up after three rings. “What?”

“Greg Sanderson?”

“Who's this?”

“I was one of the people waiting at the airport yesterday. Fiona Reina? I was wondering if your friend ever showed up.”

“If he had, I wouldn't be talking to you, would I? I'd be on the face of Mt. Katahdin.” Still, his tone was good-humored.

In
the face of, more likely. “Did you hear from him?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions? Come to that, how did you find me? I didn't give you my name.”

“The information superhighway is a wonderful thing. Why I'm calling is, no one else has heard from the people we were waiting for either. Don't you think that's odd?”

“Well, it's only been a day, Fiona.”

He had glommed onto
her
name pretty fast.

“You want me to keep you posted?”

“Sure.”

“D
AY
S
TAR
A
IRLINES
. Priss speaking.” The voice was warm and not young.

Fiona heard it as the voice of someone experienced, someone who would understand. “Hi, Priss. My name is Fiona Reina. I'm calling about a flight yesterday morning, a flight from Taos to Denver? I wanted to find out whether someone was actually on the flight.”

“And you are? A relative?”

“Not exactly. It was my fiancé.”

A perplexed silence. “But, Fiona. Surely you understand that we can't just give out information like that over the phone. We don't know who you are or why you want it. Or whether the passenger would even want you to know.”

“Of course he'd want me to know! And I want it because he never arrived. I haven't heard from him since he was about to board.” Yet even as she said it, she knew she sounded like a jealous lover tracking down someone who had escaped her clutches. “He texted me right before he got on the plane, so I know he was planning to fly.”

“I'm terribly sorry.”

“What if I came to your offices? Would you tell me then?”

A pause. “Where are you calling from?”

“New York. Is there anyone else I can speak to?”

“They'll only tell you what I just did. It's a firm company policy.”

“You mean you can't even tell me if he was on the plane or not? I find that hard to believe!”

“I know what you're saying, and I'm sorry. But you could be a private detective, and he could sue us for divulging his whereabouts. And you can't fax us proof that you're a relative, because you aren't.”

“Not yet.” Part of Fiona knew that the law had to agree with their policy. But why were they being so inflexible? “Okay, fine. Thank you.”

You haven't heard the last of me.

Her final call was to Rosa Cooper.

“Hi, it's—”

“Oh, Fiona. I'd hoped you were Susan. She was on the phone with me twice Saturday about what she should wear for the show, she was that excited. Anyway, after you called me, I called the Santa Fe police. They had someone stop by her house, though they couldn't legally enter the premises. They said the house looked normal, no break-ins, and nobody answered when they knocked.”

“Did you try the hospitals?”

She laughed. “I'm very thorough. No joy there.”

“I tried the hospital in Taos last night,” Fiona confessed. “Just in case. But no one like Lee had been admitted.”

“What did the FAA say?”

“That's what's interesting. They don't think very highly of Day Star and their equipment. Evidently it's some fly-by-night outfit. They had to stop and refuel or something in the middle of the flight! And they got to Denver late. None of the other passengers that people were waiting for have arrived or called. Something happened during that hour, I know it!”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. But maybe they wouldn't let some of the passengers get back on.”

“Hmm. The fact remains, they
are
missing. Maybe we should get together and decide what to do next.”

“You think so? I mean, I can't just sit around not knowing anything.”

“Give me the other numbers; I'll set something up.”