Housebreaking (24 page)

A moment later the boy got out.

The rain picked up, a sudden slap on the windshield, like a sheet of glass falling. The car beside him clattered to a start, then backed out of the parking lot, its lights illuminating the tennis courts for a moment, then sweeping across the woods.

Andrew reached into the backseat, grabbed the container of antibacterial wipes, and cleaned himself. As he buttoned his pants, he realized his wallet was missing. He checked his suit coat, his overcoat, the seat, the floor.

Nothing, of course.

“Stupid,” Andrew said aloud. He used more of the wipes, soaking his groin. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

He started the car and drove off.

* * *

BACK DOWNTOWN
, he had the security guard cut him a new swipe key. He went up to his office and got his personal file out of his desk. He kept photocopies of the entire contents of his wallet, the front and back of each item, and the telephone numbers of his credit card carriers. In twenty minutes he'd canceled the credit cards and ordered replacements. Then he telephoned the three national credit-reporting organizations and placed a fraud alert on his name and social security number. Next he notified the Federal Trade Commission on their website. He didn't keep a copy of his social security card in his wallet, so he wasn't particularly concerned about identity theft, but he found it calming to go through these procedures. The Russian boy would get nothing—a few twenties, no more.

Only one more call to make: the cops. If somehow the Russian boy did manage to break into his accounts, Andrew would need a police report for insurance purposes. Plus, he knew, Audrey would ask,
Did you call the cops?

He took the elevator down to the lobby and went into the bar, nearly empty now. He recognized the bartender, the same man who'd been on duty earlier.

“I lost my wallet,” said Andrew, “when I was here earlier.”

“You sure it happened here?”

“I had it when I came in. I gave you a twenty for the drinks. I was sitting next to a guy who said he was a salesman from Iowa. Maybe he was a pickpocket. Who knows?”

“Yeah, I remember that guy. Well, no one turned in any wallet to me. But let me check with the manager.”

Andrew watched the bartender out of the corner of his eye as he went into the dining area and conversed with a man in a blue blazer. He came
back, shaking his head. “Tequila, right?” the bartender said. “How about one on the house?”

“Actually, a Heineken would be great. And a steak if you're still serving. Medium rare.”

The cop showed up an hour later. Andrew went through the same rigmarole, again mentioning the salesman from Iowa. What had he said? That they shared the same color scheme in men's fashion? Andrew wondered now if that were some kind of come-on. Had the salesman been trying to pick him up? Jesus, he thought. Was he giving off some kind of vibe?

The cop closed his notepad. “I'll let you know if anything turns up.”

“I'll need a copy of that report for my insurer.”

“Call the station tomorrow. I'll have it ready for you.”

“I'd appreciate that,” said Andrew.

His tasks complete, he enjoyed the last of his steak and ordered a piece of blueberry pie for dessert, feeling strangely satisfied.

* * *

AS SOON AS
he walked into the living room, Audrey jumped up from the couch and barked, “Where have you been? I've been calling you all night.”

He set down his briefcase and took off his raincoat. “Battery must be dead. What's up?”

“Emily hasn't come home.”

He checked his watch. “It's eleven o'clock. What's her curfew?”

“What happened to you? You look awful.”

“Someone stole my wallet at the hotel bar after work. I took a client there for a drink—”

“I'm worried about her. She's supposed to be home by ten.”

He wanted only to ease into the tub and let the hot water rise around him. “She goes out every night. She probably just lost track.”

Audrey picked up the phone. “Here. You try. I've called her twenty times already.”

“Are you saying you haven't talked to her at all today?”

“She left a message this afternoon saying she would get a ride home after school. After that, nothing.”

“If she's not home by the time I finish my bath, we'll call the police. Okay?”

“They won't do anything,” she said. “You have to wait twenty-four hours to file a missing person report.”

“No. That's just something you hear on television. You can file a report on a juvenile anytime. The sooner the better, in fact.”

“Then let's call now.”

“You're that worried?”

“Why are you arguing with me?”

She was on the verge of tears, her hands clenched. Andrew found it doubtful that anything had happened to Emily. She'd missed curfews and disobeyed them many times before. He was confident she would be home any minute with some excuse. Emily was an excellent liar.

He sat at the kitchen table and dialed the police station on the regular business number, asking for the officer on duty.

A half hour later a policeman arrived at the house, a suburban cop, wide around the middle, with a receding hairline.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

He smelled like coffee and fast food. He stood in the front hallway with a black clipboard, scribbling onto a report form. Every so often he touched the radio microphone attached to his right shoulder and spoke into it.

“Okay,” he said, after Audrey finished. “So you last saw her when you dropped her off at school this morning?”

“Yes.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Blue jeans,” said Audrey. “Black cardigan over a frilly black undershirt. Black leather boots.”

“Does she take any medication? Anything she can't go without, like insulin?”

“Just some antidepressants,” said Andrew.

“Is she depressed?”

“Who isn't.”

“How about boyfriends? Anybody new?”

“I couldn't tell you,” said Andrew. “We just moved into town two months ago, so all her friends would be pretty recent.”

The cop asked for a picture of Emily. Audrey came out of the bedroom with the eight-by-ten frame they kept on the dresser: Emily and Daniel in the backyard at Cos Cob with their arms around each other.

“Is this her boyfriend?”

“That's her brother.”

“Could she be with him?”

“No.”

Andrew smelled chewing tobacco on the man, a scent he recognized from his dorm room days. Had they interrupted his nightly routine, sitting alone in his patrol car with his tin of tobacco? Would the policeman do anything to investigate, or would he just return to his cruiser?

He handed Andrew his card. “I'll put out a radio broadcast on the missing person. If you hear from her, give dispatch a call. I'll be in touch if I learn anything. Otherwise the detective will contact you tomorrow morning to follow up, as soon as he comes on duty.”

Andrew thanked the man and showed him out.

During the hours of waiting that followed, he and Audrey sat in the den, the TV playing. The rain plinked against the windows and roof. Every time a car passed on the street, Audrey would rise in response to the sweeping sound, like a wave coming to shore.

“Relax,” he said. “We would have heard something by now if anything happened.”

“I can't relax.”

“You know Emily. She can be reckless.”

“That's why I'm worried.”

A dark dawn. When the cab pulled into the driveway, Andrew pulled back the curtain and watched from the window as his daughter got out and walked up the path with her head bent against the rain.

He shook Audrey, who had fallen asleep on the couch.

“She's home.”

Emily came through the kitchen door. Her hair was tangled. She looked sleepy and childlike.

Audrey met her in the hall. Andrew expected hysterics, but his wife's exhausted voice came out calm and sad: “Why are you doing this to me?”

* * *

HE GOT UP
after a few restless hours in bed. He tried to fall back to sleep but his body refused to comply, attuned as it was to getting up at 7:00
A.M.
After a while he dressed and had breakfast and wandered from room to room in the silent house, trying to find something to occupy his attention: the newspaper, the sports channels, a book Audrey had left on
the couch:
Eat Pray Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia
. His wife and daughter remained in their beds, neither making a sound.

His phone rang around eleven. It was Sampson, offering a rematch.

“What about your pal from the airport?”

“Long gone. Well? Do we have a game?”

Well, indeed. Andrew felt sluggish from lack of sleep and slightly hung­over. But some exercise might clear his head. Better than loafing around the house in his slippers, he figured. He looked out the window: The weather had cleared.

“Same place?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sampson. “Dinner and drinks are on me this time.”

“Absolutely not. We'll play for it, like before.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Although I'm thinking of a different bet.”

“For what?”

“I'll tell you later,” said Sampson. “Meet you at the courts in an hour.”

Andrew slipped into the bedroom and got into his tennis clothes. From the bathroom he took a bottle of Advil and a tube of menthol cream. Audrey snored softly, a lump under the comforter.

In the den he massaged the gel into his upper thighs to warm the tendons, all the way to his butt and down to the backs of his knees. He popped two capsules. No way would he pull up lame again, not today. He'd felt that same thrill before a college match, when he'd played number one, and the same certainty that he could not be beaten.

This time, he did his stretching exercises before leaving the house, concentrating on his hamstrings and Achilles tendon. He didn't want Sampson to see him going through these old-man labors, on his back, his legs in the air. Let Sampson wait on him for a change.

As he began his sit-up routine, Emily wandered into the room. “Oh,” she said, nearly stepping on him. She rubbed her eyes.

“Rough night?” he asked.

“Understatement.” She stepped around him and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She chugged a full glass then refilled it. As she passed him on her way back, he grabbed her foot. “You could have phoned. Your mother was—”

“Let me guess. Worried sick.”

“I was going to say concerned. But your version is probably more accurate.”

“I doubt it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “She called the police. They put out a missing person report.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. The cop left his business card on the kitchen table if you want to see it.”

She groaned. “How embarrassing. Is my name up on some billboard?”

“What do you think?”

She sighed and sat on the couch in front of him. She took a slow sip of the water. “Actually I couldn't,” she said. “Call.”

“Come on, Emily. Make an effort. Keep your phone charged.”

“That wasn't exactly the problem.”

He continued with his sit-ups. “Try a little harder next time, okay?”

She grabbed his feet and held them. “You're supposed to stay flat. And don't wrap your hands behind your head like that. You're doing a 1980s sit-up. Calisthenics have evolved since then. Hold your arms out in front of you instead.”

“The eightes were my heyday,” he said, exhaling heavily. “You're right. It's harder this way.”

“Feel the burn,” she said. “What's with the early abs?”

He grunted instead of answering, lunging toward her. He didn't want to say “tennis” because the word would summon Daniel—the marathon weekend matches they used to play in Cos Cob, first to win five sets. They would play for three or four hours, if no one was waiting for the court. Sometimes Audrey and Emily would come along on their bikes to watch for a while. Emily would play ball girl, crouching by the net and chasing after errant serves, while Audrey would sit on the bench with her straw hat covering her face, reading a paperback. Both of them rooting for Daniel.

“I've got a match,” he said, finally, not wanting to lie to her. He watched her faint smile fade. Was it disloyal to return to tennis, now that he was gone? She seemed to think so. She released his feet and picked up her glass.

“Have fun,” she said, getting up.

“Do you want to come along? Get some fresh air? You can take my car back if you get bored. I can catch a ride—”

“Stop,” she said. “I'm going back to sleep.”

He got to his feet and filled a couple of water bottles in the kitchen, one with electrolyte water, the other with a sports drink. It was a summerlike Saturday, absurdly warm for the last weekend of October, but he took along a fleece pullover, knowing it would turn cool later in the day.

At the park, he wheeled around the fruit loop, empty at this time of day. He pulled up next to Sampson's convertible. His rival was alone on the far court with his shirt off, practicing his serve in the sun. His chest, Andrew noticed as he approached, was hairless, his skin a pale pink. All he'd brought, again, was his racket, Andrew noticed. His service motion was effortless, almost lazy, textbook in its perfection—front foot angled diagonally toward the court, back foot parallel with the baseline, the ball rising from his fingers without spin, seemingly floating on the air, awaiting the racket.

After his follow-through, Sampson glanced up and offered an easy smile, and at that moment, Andrew knew the strategy he would use and, indeed, how the match would play out. He would prolong the match into the late-afternoon hours, when the sun would dip low onto the horizon and the wind would rise and Sampson would grow tight-muscled and chilly in his thin T-shirt. Andrew would draw out rallies, moving Sampson from side to side, using drop shots and lobs, even if it meant losing a few points. He would extend their warm-up session, even—anything to wear down Sampson, to get him into that fifth set, where Andrew's will would carry the game and Sampson's effortless grace would break down with exhaustion and lack of proper hydration and his perfect strokes would drift long in the wind.