She's Not Coming Home (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Matt stared at
the screen, wondering for a moment if his heart was ruling his head; if, because he wanted Ruth back so badly, this was a case of auto-suggestion or something. He blinked; looked again. Yes, it was her. With his Toyota. With
their
Toyota.

He checked the date on the bottom right corner of the screen. Did a quick calculation in his head. Yes, it was the date the Toyota disappeared from the bank parking lot. The time: almost five-thirty. Another calculation: the last time he saw the car was when he parked it just before nine that morning. Depending on when it was taken, there would have been plenty of time to drive it here.

He sat back, rubbing his eyes: he was tired. Then he tried to figure out how she had gotten hold of the car. He had the main set of keys, kept on the same key ring as the front door keys. Instinctively, he felt his pockets for them. But the spare set: he frowned as he thought through what might have happened to them.  The first day Ruth disappeared, he checked the keys and they were upstairs. He was sure of that. But after the car had gone, when those two police officers called round, the keys had gone. At first he assumed he had been mistaken, but the more he thought about it, the more positive he got. The keys had definitely been taken between those two days. He shook his head: it must have been Ruth. She must have gone somewhere the night she failed to come home, and the next few nights; returned home during the day when she knew he would be out and taken the keys. What the hell was she playing at? And where had she gone those first nights?  If they had had a fight, and not come home, then Gail’s place would have been the obvious choice. But they had not had a fight; in any case, this was a different situation, and Gail didn’t know where Ruth was either. So she maintained.

Gail. Ruth’s closest friend. If Ruth was up to something, Gail would know and deny all knowledge to him if Ruth asked her to. And - Matt began to nod his head as he thought this scenario through – when Gail called round the other night, she went to the bathroom before she left. She could have taken the keys then, if Ruth had told her where they were.

‘Jesus, pull yourself together,’ he said aloud, realising how paranoid he was becoming. He leaned forward in the chair and clicked on the play/pause box again. Ruth walked away from the car, stopped and looked around the parking garage, briefly looked back at the car, then walked out of the picture. Matt clicked on the fast forward button and watched the next couple of minutes, but Ruth did not return to the car.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Matt jumped as the super returned to the office.

‘Er - yes,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder.  He did consider asking if he could take a copy, but decided there would be little point. ‘How long are these pictures kept for?’ he asked. ‘Do you erase them after a while?’

‘After a month,’ the super replied. ‘Why?’

Matt shook his head. ‘No reason. Just wondered.’ He needed to get back to the police with this, so a month would give them plenty of time to investigate.

The super gave him an
about time you left
look; Matt got the hint.

‘Well, thanks very much,’ he said, getting up. ‘I do appreciate it.’

‘Right.’ The super shuffled over to his chair. He looked down at the screen, moved the mouse and the image of the Toyota was replaced by the screensaver, a picture of a topless brunette. ‘You can find your way out, can’t you?’

‘Sure, no problem.’ Matt did up his coat, left the super in his office, and walked back down to street level. He looked up at the sky once he was back on the sidewalk. Through the light from the streetlamps, he could see the night sky was heavy with cloud. Snow was beginning to fall and it was now bitterly cold. He began the walk back to the hotel. He contemplated calling his parents or even Lieutenant Weber to tell them, but decided it was late, he was cold and tired, and he would wait until morning. After breakfast he would pick up the Toyota from the police pound, and drive over to the Cape.

In the hotel reception, he exchanged smiles with the receptionist and headed for the elevator. As he waited for it, he looked around. There was the sound of men’s laughter coming from the bar. He paused a moment; as the elevator doors opened with a ping, he decided to visit the bar before going up to his room.

The hotel bar was not small, but not the largest he had seen. Three suited men, clearly in New York on business, were standing at the bar laughing. It was two of these men he had heard just before. Another businessman was sitting at a table over in the far corner of the bar, engaged in quiet conversation with a girl half his age. He had his hand over her shoulder; she had a hand on his knee. 
PA or hooker?
Matt speculated. A middle aged man was sitting alone at another table, reading a newspaper. Matt bought a whisky and soda and sat down at an empty table. A large screen television was on the wall just across from Matt. He took a mouthful of his drink and looked up. Playing on mute, it was a football match: the New York Giants against the San Francisco 49ers. Although not a follower, Matt assumed this must be a rerun: he was pretty sure the SuperBowl was due anytime, and this looked like an ordinary game.

Matt took another look at the furtive couple in the corner, and decided she was a PA; a hooker would be dressed differently. He looked around for an old newspaper or something to read. He noticed at the other end of the bar there was a small alcove in which were situated two computer screens. There was a small sign above them, advertising internet access. He took his drink over. Underneath the sign was a smaller notice stating that the charge was five dollars for fifteen minutes. He could purchase time at reception. He wandered over to the desk, waited until the receptionist had finished dealing with a couple who were checking in, and then paid ten dollars for half an hour access. She gave him a receipt with a code number. Sitting down at one of the screens, he typed in the code when prompted and got access. A small countdown clock at the foot of the screen told Matt he had 25 minutes left. Matt snorted; somebody can’t count, he thought.

He searched for his own ISP and got into his email account. It had been a few days since he had last checked his mails, and there were ten, eight of which he was able to delete immediately.  The ninth was from Nathan’s kindergarten about forthcoming fund raising events, and the tenth was from his insurance company, reminding him that his house insurance was due for renewal on 1
st
March.

He then signed into his online banking account, and checked the transactions on his account. Maybe if Ruth was still in New York, she would have used an ATM….

Slightly disappointed, he saw his balance was the same as when he had last checked. He checked his wallet; he would need to visit an ATM himself in the morning.

Then he logged onto the Boston Globe’s online pages, not looking for anything in particular. He had long stopped checking here for news of Ruth, although he was due an update from the Missing Persons Unit.

Nothing in the news headlines section caught his interest. He went back a couple of days; he thought he would check for anything here about the Watanabe woman. Despite Lieutenant Weber’s indifference, he was still certain she was the person he saw in the pub with Ruth’s boss, but could never prove anything.

He spent the next ten minutes idly browsing, until the little timer showed 3 minutes left. He logged off, finished his drink, and went back to the elevator. Once in his room, he got ready for bed, and, in contrast to the previous nights, went straight to sleep.

*****

Also in contrast to previous nights, he slept until seven forty-five the next morning. Surprised he had slept in so late, he leapt out of bed and into the shower. Once out of the shower, he called room service to order breakfast, only to be told he needed to have called by midnight, so would have to take breakfast in the bar. Slightly annoyed, he dressed and called his parents. His father answered.

‘Morning, Dad. It’s Matt.’

‘Morning, son. How are things?’

‘Listen Dad, I’ve got some news.’

‘Hold on, I’ll just get your mother.’

‘Okay.’ Matt raised his eyes to the ceiling.

A moment later his father came back.

‘Matt? Your mother’s gone out. Taken Nathan somewhere I’ll bet. Shall I tell her you called?’

‘Yeah, okay,’ Matt said resignedly. ‘Tell her I’ll call again later.’

He hung up and went downstairs to breakfast. Afterwards, he packed what personal effects he had into the Duane Reade bag and went back downstairs to check out.  Stepping out onto the street, he took his bearings, and decided to take a brisk walk up to the car pound. The snow he noticed as he left the parking garage had left about an inch on the sidewalks. Already the road was clear, and some premises had already cleared the snow from outside their frontage.

A couple of blocks later, he stopped outside an HSBC branch. There was an ATM on the corner. Matt felt he kept a pretty close eye on his account balance, but always double checked the balance before he had an ATM withdrawal. As he checked the balance this morning, he gasped as he saw the account was two hundred dollars down on the night before. He looked around, as if one of the passers-by had taken the money. He withdrew his intended amount of one hundred, put the cash and card into his wallet, and looked around. Then half ran, half walked back to the hotel, where he bought another fifteen minutes internet time.  Logged into his online banking account and checked the transactions.  Sure enough, there had been a $200 withdrawal at 07:58 that morning. He began to breathe heavily and rubbed his forehead. It must have been Ruth. He had his card; unless her card had been stolen, in which case surely the thief would have taken the $500 maximum from the ATM, it must have been her. A few days back, he had considered stopping her card as a way of smoking her out, but never gotten round to it. In any case, he was not sure if the bank would agree to it, as it was a joint account after all.

There was a reference number by the withdrawal, in blue and underlined. Matt clicked on the link and saw where the withdrawal had taken place.

It was Banco Santander S.A., 45 East 53
rd
Street.

Matt sat back in the chair. His heart was beating fast again. So –

Ruth
was
in New York.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Matt sat back
in his chair. He was not sure how he should feel right now. A sense of relief that she was still alive, apparently. Relief on Nathan’s behalf, too. Anger at her because of what she had done to him and their son. Curiosity as to what was going on, and why. Curiosity about Ruth Dubois and her connection with his wife. And a determination to get to the bottom of it all. Should he drive back to Boston, go see Lieutenant Weber and hand over everything, leave it all to them? Go home and wait by the phone?  No way.

The little clock showed he had seven minutes left, so he went to Google Maps and entered the address. He found the location: on 53
rd
, between Madison and Park. He checked the street view: nothing out of the ordinary, just a run of the mill New York street. He contemplated getting a subway up there, but decided there was little value doing this. No way was he going to just bump into her there.

He went to Reception and bought another thirty minutes of internet use. He searched for newspapers in Rochester, NY, and found three. Merely because it was the first entry, he went to the
Rochester
Democrat and Chronicle
. At the foot of the Home page he clicked on Paid Archive. In the search screen, he typed in Ruth Dubois, and in the date range the last three years. Five entries came up on the screen, one of which referred to a fatal highway accident. Next to this summary there were two files for Matt to click on. One was to obtain a free summary; the other was for the entire article, for which there was a fee.  Matt clicked on the paid article file, and got another screen requesting a $3.95 fee for the whole piece. Matt entered his credit card details, and momentarily the entire article filled the screen.

The circumstances of the crash were virtually as Elisabeth Dubois had related: it was raining heavily, and there was construction work going on at the time. The driver of the car, a Ford Mustang, somehow lost control, skidded off the road and careered straight into the wall of an overpass. The speed limit on that stretch of highway was twenty-five at that time, but the police spokesman said the estimated speed was at least fifty. On impact with the overpass, the fuel tank ruptured and the car exploded. The spokesman said it was a miracle no other vehicle was involved.

Matt sat back and took in what he had read. He found his eyes were welling up. There was no reason for him to be upset; after all, he knew that this was not his wife he was reading about. Nevertheless…

He wiped his eyes and read further down the article. It was his understanding, from newspaper articles, television and the movies, that in situations such as this, a victim was generally identified by their dental records. Not so in this case. The heat caused by the explosion was so great that the entire body was burnt to a crisp. The police had estimated that the temperature of the blaze was in excess of 600 centigrade, or 1100F. The article went on to say that DNA is destroyed at 400 degrees, so identification could not be made that way. However, by some strange twist of fate, her purse had been thrown from the car in the explosion. The bag had been badly burnt; all the personal items destroyed, except for the drivers licence, which, although badly damaged, had only been partially destroyed. It was a New York State licence, and the piece of the licence containing the ID number had survived. At least, most of the number. The top right corner of the photograph had survived. With this surviving information, the police were able to identify the victim as Ruth Dubois. The Mustang was registered to an Ira Dubois, who was identified as the victim’s father.

Matt glanced at the foot of the screen. His time was almost up.  He logged off and walked back out to the street. So what Elisabeth Dubois had told him was confirmed. Time to go to the car pound and drive back home. As he walked back up Fourth Avenue, he called his parents again. No answer.  His mother and Nathan must still be out, and his father must be occupied.

After forty-five minutes of brisk walking, he arrived at the pound. He went through a wire gate, then pressed an intercom at the door to a single storey building.

‘Can I help you?’ a woman’s voice rasped from the speaker.

‘My name’s Matthew Gibbons. You’re holding a car of mine which was recovered. A Toyota.’

There was a loud buzz and a click as the door was unlocked. Matt pushed it open and went inside. Just beyond the door was a high counter, not dissimilar to the ones at his office. A uniformed policewoman was sitting on a high chair behind the counter.

‘Help you?’ she asked casually.

‘Yes,’ said Matt. ‘You’re holding a car of mine. It was stolen a few days back and was found in a parking garage here.’

‘Licence number?’

Matt gave her the number and she checked her computer screen.

‘Drivers licence, please, and registration documents?’

Shit
, Matt thought. ‘Sorry, I only have my drivers licence.’

‘No, I can only… Hold on.’ She read something on the screen. ‘Oh, there’s a note here confirming your ownership.’

‘Is there?’ Matt asked, surprised.

‘Yeah, a Lieutenant Weber from Boston PD called. Spoke to my Sergeant. Said you’d be coming. You know the Lieutenant?’

‘In a way. He’s dealing…. He’s my guardian angel, you might say.’

Ignoring his quip, she called out, ‘Harry!’

A male officer came out through a door, holding a paper cup of coffee. She turned round to him. ‘Bay 5C. The Toyota.’

‘Come this way, please, sir.’ The officer led Matt outside. He took him along two rows of various vehicles until they came to his Toyota, parked between a Mazda and a vehicle Matt didn’t recognize.

‘Here we are, sir,’ the officer said, looking the car over. ‘You’re lucky. It was found undamaged.’

Matt felt in his pocket and took out his keys.

‘Don’t bother,’ the officer said. ‘It was found with the keys still in the ignition.’

‘That’s weird,’ said Matt.

‘Happens sometimes. When cars are just abandoned.’

Matt climbed in and started the ignition. The tank was almost empty. He wound down the window and asked the officer where the nearest gas station was. The officer gave him the directions and walked back to the building. Matt drove out of bay 5C and stopped at the barrier by the exit. Momentarily there was a buzzing sound and a section of the chain link fence slid open. It slid shut after Matt passed.

The nearest gas station was an Exxon Mobil outlet on Flatbush. Matt filled up, and after paying, pulled over next to the air tower. Switched off the engine and dialled his parents’ number. His father answered.

‘Oh, Matt it’s you. Where are you, son?’

‘I’m still in New York. I’ve just picked up the car, and I’m about to -’

‘Matt, I, er - look, speak to your mother, will you?’

His father left him holding. Matt frowned: his father sounded different this morning.

‘Matt, where are you?’ asked his mother. Her voice sounded shaky.

‘I’m still in New York, just about to start the journey back. Mom, I’ve found out that -’

‘Matt, listen. Something’s happened. It’s Nathan.’

Matt sat up. ‘Nathan? Why? What’s happened?’

‘We’d been into town. We got back an hour or so. I left him playing in the yard.’

‘Mom, what’s happened?’

His mother’s voice started to quiver as she spoke.

‘We can’t find him anywhere.’