Live and Let Die (13 page)

“He’s got to be hitting her. I really think this could be some kind of domestic situation,” Cindy said.

“You really think so?”

“You saw that movie, what was it, with Julia Roberts? Enemy something? Remember, if she didn’t have things exactly the way he wanted them, he’d beat the shit out of her?”

“Oh, God, you’re right. This sounds exactly like that movie. We should go to the police.”

Cindy nodded her head slightly as she continued to pump her arms and search for the final surge of adrenaline she needed to finish the last two miles.

Cindy looked over at Mira. “You could go. You’ve known her longer.”

Mira snorted. “Have you forgotten the bloody locksmith story?”

“Oh, right. Still, though… ”

The two women continued jogging for a few moments, the only sounds they made being raspy breaths.

“Maybe it’s like you said,” Mira finally wheezed. “She’s not all there and he’s trying to protect her.”

“I don’t know,” Cindy said, defeated. “I just don’t know.”

The two women kept jogging down the trail, unsure of what to do about Paula.

I
t was as Maureen said; a box full of odds and ends. A small black lampshade; an alarm clock, some books Sondra knew must have been Tracy’s; an umbrella; a few old purses. It wasn’t until she had taken everything out of the box that Sondra noticed one last book at the bottom. She reached in and picked it up, turning it over in her hands. It was red silk with a swirling, gold Asian-inspired design and a lock across its opening.

She flashed back again—that last journal ended three months before Tracy died.

“
This
must be her last journal,” Sondra said, turning the book over in her hands. Was this the one Maureen said had been stuffed in a garage panel?

Sondra searched to see if there was a key for it and found none. After looking around her room for something to use to pick the lock, she finally resorted to slamming the hotel hair dryer on top of it several times before it busted open.

“Whatever works,” she mumbled as she carried the book back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Sondra flipped back to the front of the book and began to read.

The first words stopped her.

I made a mistake.

“Oh, God,” Sondra whispered as she licked her lips, afraid of what she would read next.

“I feel like Phillip lied to me. When we were dating, we talked about having children and he said nothing would make him happier. So now, here we are, three months into our marriage and I asked him what he thought about trying to have a baby in another year, year and a half. And he fucking freaked out.

He said it was way too soon to be thinking or talking about this and why was I bringing this up and that he’d been thinking about it and he really didn’t want children after all. I was stunned. I mean, I thought that’s what we both wanted. He SAID that’s what he wanted. And now this??? I feel like I got sucker punched.

Later passages revealed jealous rages, obsessive behavior, temper tantrums, crying fits, and Tracy’s growing disillusionment and downright disgust with the man she’d married.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I pictured a long and wonderful life with this man, of growing old together but now… it’s time to look for the exit row. I suggested counseling. All that got me was crying and begging and ‘I love you’s’ and please don’t leave me, he just needs me, not a shrink. He’s driving me fucking crazy. Every day is a new drama. It’s not like when we first met. He hangs on my every move. It’s almost like… like he can’t function without me. He calls me constantly, questions everything I do. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s been snooping through my diary. I didn’t see him, but the way it was turned in my nightstand drawer… I don’t know; it just didn’t look right. I didn’t dare confront him about it, ‘cause God only knows what kind of havoc would have rained down on my head. To be on the safe side, I bought this new one and am hiding it in a panel in the garage he doesn’t know anything about. I don’t know what happened. It was never like this.

Yesterday, I had lunch with Cicely and didn’t hear my cell phone. So by the time I got home, he was furious, accusing me of having an affair and telling me what a liar I was. I checked into the Park Hyatt and turned my phone off. I turned it back on and he’d left me fifty messages. FIFTY. I CANNOT live like this.

Sondra put down the diary, stunned. Her mind whirled like a vigorously shaken snowglobe. And like a snowglobe, the bits of fake snow began to settle down inside Sondra’s brain and the scene became clear.

Phillip.

Tracy.

Tracy was leaving Phillip.

And that’s why she’d told Jack she was unhappy.

Not because there was infidelity.

Because she wanted out of her miserable marriage.

She flashed back to those awful days after Tracy had been found. Phillip, so broken up over his wife’s death. Phillip, so guilty that he’d been gone when she disappeared. Phillip, so supportive of Sondra and her parents during and after the funeral. Phillip, weeping about how he didn’t know how he would go on without Tracy.

“He lied,” Sondra whispered. “It was all a lie.”

H
e had spent hours practicing in front of the mirror. They always looked at the spouse first and he had to be convincing when they questioned him. He had written down a list of questions they might ask him on a yellow legal pad and rehearsed his answers in front of his reflection.

“Mr. Pearson,” he said aloud in a voice a good three octaves lower than his own. “When did you say the last time was that you spoke to your wife?”

Phillip took a deep breath and said in a shaky whisper, “Saturday. We talked Saturday.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“Um, I don’t know. I told her how the conference was going; I asked what she’d done that day. She told me she was going jogging and would call me when she got home.”

Okay good. Good tone, the definite sound of a worried husband who was still holding out hope that his wife would be found alive and well.

“Was that something she did often? Jogging, I mean. At night?”

Phillip cast his eyes down and looked back up at his likeness in the glass. “Sometimes on the weekends, yes. Not late at night. She works nights during the week. But occasionally she goes jogging on a Saturday evening before we go to dinner or a movie.”

That was a lie, but no one would know any different.

“And the last time you talked to her, what was her mood?”

Phillip shrugged in confused disbelief. “She was fine. Her usual happy self. Tracy is a very upbeat person.”

For good measure, he wrung his hands, but not too much. He didn’t want to seem too nervous, tip them off that something was up. Just enough to seem worried, but not suspicious.

“What’s her jogging route?”

“Usually down by the lake, right along Belmont Harbor, up to Oak Street Beach.”

That was good. It wouldn’t seem weird when she was found along the lakefront.

“Mr. Pearson, what was your marriage like?”

“God… we’re basically still newlyweds… we’re happy… we have a good marriage… ” Dissolve into tears, but don’t overdo it. Don’t want too seem phony. And refer to her in the present tense. That was key.

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your wife?”

Give incredulous laughter. “God. No. Everyone loves Tracy.”

Fight back the tears as you think about the fact that her life could be over. Wring hands some more.

“Please, you have to find her. It’s cold and she could be hurt… hungry… alone. Please. Please find my wife.”

Let his voice tremble ever so slightly on that last bit. Hold the gaze of the detective and then ask feebly if they were through; he wants to get back to passing out flyers around the neighborhood.

The detectives would give him a sympathetic smile and nod. Of course, they would say. We’ll let you know if we have any more questions. He would put on a brave face and usher them out the door. The detectives would compare notes on his demeanor, check his alibi and determine that he had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance. Phillip straightened up and smiled.

This would be so easy.

C
indy sat inside her silver Honda in front of the police station for a good thirty minutes, still trying to talk herself into going in. The more she thought about it, the more something just seemed so…
wrong
with Paula; she couldn’t get over her neighbor’s wackadoo behavior. Cindy would never forgive herself if Paula really was in danger from her husband and she could have done something to stop it and didn’t.

Taking a deep breath, Cindy grabbed her bulky brown leather purse from the passenger seat floor and slung it over her shoulder as she stepped out of the car. She pushed open the heavy glass door and strode up to the desk sergeant with false bravado.

“Excuse me.”

“Yeah,” the sergeant replied, never looking up from his computer screen.

Cindy pursed her lips. “I’d like to talk to someone about my neighbors.”

“What about ‘em?”

Cindy went to answer then stopped herself, not sure what to say. Well, the wife mops her driveway and is terrified of not having enough Sweet ‘N Low? Cindy shook her head at how goofy it all sounded and focused her gaze once more on the bored face in front of her.

“My neighbors who live across the street. I think the husband might be hitting the wife.”

The desk sergeant looked up, bored. “Have you seen him strike her?”

“Well no, but—”

“Ever heard them get into any violent arguments, or seen any bruises on her?”

“No… ”

“So what is it,
exactly,
that leads you to believe he’s abusing her?”

Cindy shifted in her brown leather flats, feeling even more foolish than when she’d walked in. “I mean nothing specific, just a feeling.”

“Ma’am, unless you actually witness an assault, there’s nothing we can do. And besides, she would have to be the one to press charges.”

“You’re telling me you’re just going to sit there and do nothing?”

The sergeant held up his hands as if to ask what Cindy expected him to do. “Ma’am, like I said, unless you actually see something, our hands are tied by the law. If you do see something, call us, we’ll pay them a visit.” The phone rang and the sergeant turned away from Cindy and began to dispense more by-the-book-cynicism to yet another helpless citizen.

Cindy stood in front of the sergeant for a few moments more before finally letting out an exasperated sigh and walking out of the police station.

H
e had known they were watching him. But he had been prepared for the scrutiny. When his in-laws had flown in and were staying at the house, he would sit in the living room clutching one of her sweaters. When he heard them approach, he would comment quietly that he hoped she wasn’t cold before he would break down in tears. His mother-in-law would rush over and comfort him, murmuring that she would be found, that she would be alright, they just had to keep believing, keep the faith. His father-in-law would paw his shoulder in an attempt to disperse quiet strength. Finally, he would say he was okay and how much he appreciated their being there.

He stopped eating in order to give himself a gaunt appearance and took caffeine pills at bedtime, leading people to assume he was struggling with endless sleepless nights. It had worked. Everyone the police questioned all said the same thing; he was extremely distraught, working round-the-clock to spread the word. Coupled with his alibi… no one would ever suspect a thing. Sometimes, he felt guilty, but he would swat it away like an annoying gnat. After all, the most important thing was that no one ever figured out the truth.

T
hough she was half-white, Sondra had been blessed with some booty. However, it wasn’t doing her any good at the moment, as the hard wooden bench she was sitting on pressed uncomfortably against her tailbone. She crossed her legs for the umpteenth time that afternoon, wondering how much longer she would have to wait. Sondra had skipped meeting Cicely at the station after the revelation of what was really going in her sister’s marriage; she was simply too drained to leave her room. So she’d ordered up a hot fudge sundae and spent the night not watching a “Law and Order” marathon. It was now morning and Sondra had told Cicely she would be by later.

“Miss Ellis?”

Sondra looked up at the mention of her name. A tall woman with a badge, short dark hair a boxy, sand colored silk blouse and matching pants, was standing in front of her.

“Detective Wallace?”

The woman held out her hand to Sondra. “Yes. Good to meet you.”

Sondra gave a small smile. “I wish I didn’t have to meet you.”

Detective Marion Wallace gave her own wan smile. “Well, let’s hope our time together is brief. Right this way.”

Marion took long strides towards the back of the station house as Sondra lollygagged behind her, absorbing her surroundings. She’d never been to a police station before and was fascinated. Junkies, prostitutes and thugs filled the waiting room; some screaming profanities as they protested their innocence, others slack-jawed and glassy-eyed as they sat slumped over in the hard metal chairs waiting for who knew what. She wondered what stories lurked behind the sad, droopy gazes. Sondra shook her head and caught up with the detective.

“Tell me,” Marion said as she gestured to a chair in front of her desk, “what can I do for you? You really didn’t say much when you called.”

Sondra cleared her throat. “I understand you were the lead detective looking for my sister, Tracy Ellis.”

“I was.”

Sondra leaned forward, propping her elbows on the edge of the gray metal desk. “Well, I was hoping you could fill in some blanks for me.”

Marion clasped her fingers together in front of her. “I’ll do what I can.”

Sondra took a deep breath and plowed through. “According to a friend of Tracy’s, the last time anyone talked to her was my brother-in-law on Saturday evening?”