Missing

Ellie spoke for the first time. “Ron was staying at the Doral Beach Hotel. He called me from there on Sunday night.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “What time was that, Ellie?”

“I don’t recall exactly. I was reading when the phone rang and I didn’t pay much attention. Maybe nine o’clock my time? Ron mentioned he was about to go to bed.”

“That would make sense. Nine here is already eleven o’clock in Miami.” Harry reached automatically for his pen, then decided this wasn’t the moment to be scratching down notes.

“Ron was fine when we spoke,” Ellie said. “I’m sure he’s still fine.” Her tone of voice dared Harry to contradict her.

Harry cleared his throat, which seemed to have developed a permanent frog. “Apart from you, Ellie, the Miami police haven’t been able to find anyone who spoke to Ron after eight-thirty eastern time on Sunday night.”

“Why is that such a big deal?” Megan’s petite frame vibrated with the force of her frustration. “If there wasn’t an accident—if there’s no body—why do the police believe Dad might be dead? I thought adults could go missing for weeks without law enforcement taking any interest. Dad’s been out of touch for less than thirty-six hours. Why are the cops making a mystery out of something so trivial?”

There was no way to avoid describing the gruesome crime scene, so Harry did his best to lead them there gently. “Your father checked into the Doral Beach Hotel around seven on Sunday night. I guess he called down to room service and ordered breakfast for six-thirty the next morning—”

“That would be for yesterday morning,” Megan clarified. “Monday, right?”

“Right.” Harry nodded. “Ron also made arrangements with the hotel parking valet to bring up his rental car at seven-fifteen on Monday morning. He told the valet he needed to be at the airport by eight because he was taking the ten-thirty flight to Mexico City and security clearance for international flights eats up so much time these days—”

“Did Dad tell you he was going to Mexico City?” Megan asked her mother, cutting across Harry’s painstaking explanation. “You didn’t mention to me that he was leaving the country.”

Ellie blinked. “What? Oh, yes. Ron told me he had important meetings arranged in Mexico City. He expected them to last four or five days. I have the name of his Mexican hotel written down somewhere….” Her gaze wandered around the room, as if she expected the note about Ron’s hotel to materialize out of the ether.

“Did Dad say when he would be coming home from Mexico?” Megan asked.

Ellie focused her attention on her daughter with visible effort. “No, he didn’t specify an exact time. He said he had to stop off in Chicago to report on his meetings and check in with his business partners, but he hoped to get back here by the end of next week and he’d confirm later. I never expected to hear from him yesterday when he was traveling.”

Megan’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why would Dad go to Mexico on business? He always claims there are so many opportunities within the States that there’s no need for him to go overseas.”

“This was something new,” Ellie said. “He’s looking into an investment opportunity for an old friend from college. Something like that. I don’t know the details.”

“We never know the details,” Megan muttered. “Dad’s great on sticking to the big picture and leaving everyone to guess about the rest.”

I’ll just bet the bastard left them to guess, Harry thought angrily. As for Ron’s excuse that he’d be stopping off in Chicago to brief his business partners—what a load of bullshit. Talk about the wisdom of hindsight! If only people around here had known earlier what the son of a bitch was really up to.

Ellie ignored her daughter’s comment. She turned her gaze toward Harry, but her eyes were blind, as if she looked inward to some unshared memory. “I expect Ron will be calling any minute now. He probably changed his plans at the last minute. You know how he does that.” Ellie subsided into silence again, her finger still tapping against her throat.

Megan bit her lip, visibly choking back the urge to crush her mother’s hope that the two of them could expect to hear from Ron at any minute. “Did my father actually catch the flight to Mexico?” she asked. “Is that why there’s so much confusion? Maybe Dad has gone missing in Mexico and there’s a communications problem with the police there?”

The poor kid looked so damn hopeful. Harry shifted from one foot to the other, easing the stress. None of them had thought to sit down, as if shock had deprived them of the ability to make ordinary movements. “No, that’s not it, I’m afraid. The police down in Florida are sure Ron never left the country. Screening is intense on international flights these days and the cops are one hundred percent confident your dad hasn’t flown out of the country.”

“Then maybe he was delayed in Miami,” Megan suggested. “Or he might have been called to an urgent meeting somewhere in the States—”

“That seems real unlikely. Let me explain why the cops in Miami are worried.” Harry gulped in much-needed air. “Here’s what happened. The room-service waiter arrived with Ron’s breakfast at six-thirty yesterday morning as requested but nobody answered the door. Eventually, the waiter got one of the maids to open up your dad’s room. They immediately realized something was wrong.”

“Why?” Megan demanded.

“One glance was all it took to see that there had been a struggle,” Harry said, deciding they needed to know the unpleasant truth. “The phone was ripped out of the wall and smashed. The TV was damaged. Several pieces of furniture had been overturned and there was blood in several places. Most of it smears near the bed.”

“A…lot of blood?” Megan asked. The hostility had vanished from her voice, replaced by stark fear.

“Enough blood that everyone was immediately worried for your dad’s safety,” Harry admitted. He chose not to tell either of the women that a quick preliminary test showed the blood had come from at least three different people, suggesting a minimum of two attackers and a brutal fight. Or it was possible that the blood might have come from one attacker and two victims, raising the embarrassing possibility that Ron Raven hadn’t been sleeping alone.

That was an avenue Harry definitely didn’t want to explore with Ron’s wife and daughter. He hurried on with his explanation. “Even before the hotel security staff could initiate a search of the premises, they had word from the parking valet that your father’s rental car had gone missing. The valet was afraid the car had been stolen since they still had possession of the keys, but the car itself was nowhere to be found.”

“Why did they assume the car had been stolen?” Megan asked. “My father could easily have had a second set of keys.”

“But he didn’t,” Harry said flatly. “The Miami police have checked with the rental company. They only gave your father one set of keys. Besides, the car has already been found. It was abandoned in a restaurant parking lot close to the ocean, about ten miles from the hotel. There was a set of keys left in the ignition.” Keys that had been polished to a high gloss, obliterating any possibility of fingerprints. Keys that were so shiny it seemed likely they’d been cut within the past twenty-four hours.

“There were more blood traces in the trunk of the car,” Harry said when neither woman spoke. “The evidence suggests pretty clearly that a body had been lying in there.”

“In the trunk of the car?” Megan asked, her voice very small. “Oh my God.”

Harry gave her hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry, Meg. Real sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Except that it clearly wasn’t okay. Struggling to regain control of herself, Megan cast a quick glance toward her mother. Ellie’s face was paler than the first snow in winter, but she met her daughter’s eyes and delivered a ghastly caricature of a smile.

Realizing that her daughter was temporarily silenced, Ellie finally managed to look Harry right in the eyes and issue a challenge. “Just because there was a body in the trunk of Ron’s rental car doesn’t mean the body was Ron’s.”

“That’s true,” Harry said with admirable restraint. He didn’t point out that if the blood wasn’t Ron’s, then he was soon likely to be considered the fugitive suspect in a murder case.

“It could be anyone’s blood in that car,” Ellie persisted. “Miami has a big problem with drugs, doesn’t it? I just read an article the other day about all the cocaine that’s still coming in from South America, despite the millions of dollars our government is spending in an effort to stop the drug runners. It could have been some drug lord who got shoved in the trunk of Ron’s car, for all we know.”

Harry didn’t bother to comment on the improbability of Ron Raven disappearing at the precise moment as drug dealers stuffed somebody else’s dead body into the trunk of his rental car. “The investigators in Miami have sent blood samples to the crime lab for testing,” he said diplomatically. “They’ve ascertained that the blood in the hotel room and in the car trunk is from the same person, so we do know that much. But they plan to run more tests, of course. Unfortunately, the labs are always overworked and understaffed and the forensics will take time, even though the Miami cops have put a rush on it.”

Megan was a smart woman and would normally have wanted to know how the crime lab was going to identify the blood as belonging to her father given that he wasn’t available, alive or dead, to provide a sample for comparison. Since neither of the women picked up on the problem, Harry decided he could wait another few hours before mentioning that he would need a DNA-test swab from Megan, or from her brother, Liam. With that, the lab would eventually be able to determine with near hundred percent certainty whether or not some of the blood in the Miami hotel room belonged to her father.

Harry finally crossed to Ellie’s side and did what he’d been wanting to do from the moment she walked into the room—touch her. He took her hands and rubbed his callused thumbs gently over her knuckles. They were very small hands and he felt a sharp tug in his gut.

He drew in a breath that was embarrassingly shaky. “I’m sorry, Ellie, but it’s not looking good for Ron. I have to be honest with you, the cops in Miami have listed Ron missing, but it sounded to me as if they were searching for a body. We can hope, of course, but the state of Ron’s hotel room suggests that he is either injured or…dead.”

And if the bastard turned up alive, he’d better not come into Stark County or Harry would personally kill him.

Ellie made a small, choked sound of distress and the tears finally began to flow. She fumbled in the pocket of her jeans for a tissue and wiped fiercely, but the tears kept coming back.

Megan, her own eyes brimming with tears, tried once again to comfort her mother. “Come and sit down,” she said. “Mom, your hands are freezing. Do you want me to light the fire?”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Ellie blew determinedly. “I’ll be all right, Megan, but don’t fuss. I can’t…handle people hovering over me right now.”

“Why don’t we leave your mother alone for a couple of minutes,” Harry suggested to Megan, relieved that Ellie had given him such a perfect opening. He’d been wondering how the hell he was going to separate the two women long enough for him to tell Megan the rest of what needed to be said.

Megan shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave Mom—”

“Yes, it is,” Harry insisted. “I expect Ellie would like some tea. It’ll warm her up. Help me make some, Megan. I’m a coffee man myself and I do a lousy job with tea bags.” Harry knew he was babbling again, but he was desperate enough to grab Megan’s hand and almost drag her toward the kitchen.

“Harry, no! Whatever she says, Mom shouldn’t be alone—”

“Come with me,” he said, speaking into Megan’s ear, his voice low but his tone leaving no doubt that he was giving an order, not making a suggestion.

Megan finally realized that there was more bad news to come and her resistance ended. As soon as they were safely in the kitchen, she swung around to confront him.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is it you don’t want Mom to hear?” She swallowed. “Do the cops suspect Dad was with another woman? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

She was on the right lines, but still miles away from the scummy truth. Here goes, Harry thought. Now, dammit, I have to tell her the rest of it.

Two

May 2, 2006, the Windemere, Lake Shore Drive,

Chicago, Illinois

Detective Sergeant Franklin Chomsky had been with the Chicago police for twenty-two years, which gave him enough seniority that he rarely got called on to do the crap stuff anymore. It must have been at least six years since he’d last been dispatched to deliver a notification of death. However, this particular notification was a doozy, and the people involved were sufficiently prominent that he’d been fingered for the job.

“I need somebody who isn’t going to screw up,” the captain had said. “You’re it, Frank, so get going. You need to haul ass if you’re going to get to the Windemere before the TV crews arrive.

“The cops in Miami are sure the guy is dead, right?”

“He’s either dead or badly injured. If he’s injured, he ought to have turned up at a hospital by now, or been spotted by cops bleeding in an alley. There was one hell of a lot of blood in the hotel room. On the whole, the cops in Miami seem to believe he’s dead, but you can allow the wife to hope if you like.”

“I’ll give it to her straight. Lots of blood. Trashed hotel room. Luggage still in the room. No body. Prospects for finding a live Ron Raven not too great.”

“Yeah, sounds about right. And don’t forget it’s always possible that the wife is the person who offed him. God knows, she has a motive. Check out her alibi for Sunday night.”

Frank had changed his street clothes for a clean uniform and hauled ass as instructed. So here he was at the twin towers of the Windemere, one of the most upscale residential buildings in the city. The view of the lake from the higher floors must be spectacular, he thought, parking his squad car neatly between the No Parking signs. A million bucks for a one-bedroom on the ground floor and eight million for the penthouse, he figured. No wonder the captain didn’t want this death notification screwed up.

Frank made his way into the lobby and flashed his badge at the security guard who sat behind the reception desk. The guy wore a braided uniform that looked as if it had been dreamed up by a gay designer for a Princess Diaries knockoff.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Avery Raven,” Frank said, flashing his badge. “Official business. What number is her apartment?”

“Mrs. Raven’s residence is on the twenty-second floor, in our west tower.” The security guard peered down his long nose, not happy to have a lowly cop polluting his lobby, much less demanding admission to the inner sanctum.

“Great. How do I get to the west tower and Mrs. Raven’s residence?”

“The elevator lobby is to your right, over there. I’ll unlock the elevator so you can go up.” The guard looked pained at the need to make this major concession.

Frank checked the guy’s name tag. “Thanks, Steve.” He had dealt with humanity in too many different stripes, shades and indignities to be anything more than mildly irritated by a security guard with a poker up his ass and a bad smell under his nose. “You still didn’t tell me the number of Mrs. Raven’s apartment. I need it.”

“There isn’t a number,” the guard informed him. “Take the elevator marked West Tower to the penthouse floor. It opens straight into the vestibule of Mrs. Raven’s residence.”

Frank had seen apartments with their own private-elevator entrances on TV and in the movies, but he’d never actually visited such a place in person. This was going to be a new experience for him, in more ways than one. He hadn’t heard of Ron Raven or Raven Enterprises until today, but the captain claimed the company was some big-ass deal, generating a ton of tax dollars for the state of Illinois. Judging by the fancy place where the guy had lived, the captain was right. The property-tax dollars gushing out of this building probably paid the salaries of at least a couple of dozen cops.

Frank nodded goodbye to the security guard and crossed the gleaming floor to the gilt-trimmed alcove that housed the elevators. You could decorate a medium-size cathedral with the amount of gold leaf on the walls and ceiling, he thought, impressed against his better judgment. There were no buttons to summon the elevators, only a slot for key cards, but thanks to the security guard, the doors to the west tower elevator glided open within seconds of Frank standing in front of it.

“I’ll let Mrs. Raven know you’re coming up,” Steve said. “Can I tell her what this is about?”

“Nope. Just that it’s official business.” Even if the pompous little prick hadn’t pissed him off, Frank wouldn’t have humiliated Avery Fairfax Raven by broadcasting her personal business to the security guard. Although he wouldn’t be able to protect her privacy for long. Somebody in the Miami Police Department would have talked by now. There hadn’t been a juicy celebrity murder for at least a year, and this was so much better than a run-of-the-mill killing—a perfect story to whet the voracious appetites of the tabloids and cable news. He figured the Ravens had another hour or two at most before the media were all over the story.

The family-values talk-show hosts were going to have a field day, Frank thought cynically. As for the cable news outlets, they ought to be able to milk at least a week’s worth of moral indignation and high ratings out of this. Especially if the cops down in Florida didn’t manage to find the body. Then all the conspiracy theorists would ooze out of the woodwork, suggesting that Ron Raven wasn’t really dead, or that he’d been involved in some shady deal with the government, and the CIA or the FBI had eliminated him when he threatened to talk. Frank wondered why left-wingers always obsessed about conspiracies and right-wingers always obsessed about public morals. You’d think that every once in a while, something would come up that would cause them to switch obsessions, but it never seemed to happen.

Frank stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse. The doors closed with a discreetly muffled thud. Very nice, he thought as the dark mirrors reflected back a flattering image of him in his dress uniform. Even the elevator was designed to make the residents feel good about themselves. He felt a twinge of sympathy for Avery Raven when he realized it was quite likely she would soon find herself with no money and no home. He hoped she turned out to be a real bitch, so that he didn’t need to feel sorry for her.

He stepped out on the twenty-second floor and was greeted by a tall, slender, blond woman with huge blue eyes and boobs that were either a generous reminder from God of what he intended women’s breasts to look like or else a gift from one of the best plastic surgeons in the business.

Frank found himself momentarily speechless. Damn, but she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen outside the pages of a magazine. She was also not a day over thirty, most likely younger. For some reason, he hadn’t considered the fact that Avery Raven might be in her twenties.

He swallowed over the bad taste in his mouth. Fifty-six-year-old Ron Raven had apparently been getting it off with a woman almost three decades his junior, but that didn’t make a jot of difference to what he needed to do.

Concealing his distaste, Frank took off his uniform hat and tucked it under his arm. “Mrs. Raven? I’m Detective Sergeant Franklin Chomsky with the Chicago Police Department. I’m afraid I’m bringing you some bad news about Mr. Raven.”

The young woman’s polite smile vanished. “What is it?” Her hands tightened around the magazine she was holding—Gourmet Today, he noticed automatically. “Has something happened to my father? Has he been in an accident?”

Her father. Of course! This gorgeous woman must be Ron Raven’s daughter, not a snatched-from-the-cradle trophy wife. Jeez, he’d been on the job so long that his opinion of humanity had apparently sunk even further into the sewers than he’d realized.

Frank didn’t answer her questions. “May I come inside, Ms. Raven? That is your name, I assume?”

“Yes, I’m Kate Raven.”

“Is your mother home, Ms. Raven? I need to speak with her, if she is.”

“My mother got home a few minutes ago, as it happens.” She started to gesture him inside, then suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute. Show me your badge, please.”

He showed her his police ID and she read it carefully before standing to one side and letting him in. “I’ll get my mother, if you’ll wait here.”

Frank nodded to acknowledge the instruction to wait. Kate had conducted him into what he guessed must be the formal living room, a vast space defined by a vaulted ceiling, a marble floor and fancy columns that lined a hallway and hinted at more rooms fading off into the recesses of the apartment. A grand piano, a wall filled with books and a dozen pieces of antique furniture still left enough space to permit twenty or thirty guests to circulate around the room with no danger of knocking priceless knickknacks onto the ground. And as he’d guessed, the floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side did look straight out over Lake Michigan. The view was every bit as spectacular as he’d imagined.

How the other half lives, Frank thought, more amused than envious. Personally, he’d swap all these damn spindly legged antiques for a flat-screen TV and a couch where you could put your feet up in comfort to watch the ball game. Not to mention a table where you could stash a can of beer without wondering if you just destroyed five hundred years of polish.

He heard the sounds of two sets of footsteps approaching and he turned away from the view of the lake, focusing his attention on what lay ahead. Kate Raven came back into sight, followed by a woman who was equally tall and attractive, and looked no more than forty. This must be Avery Fairfax Raven. Clearly, since Kate was her daughter, Avery was older than she appeared—late forties at the very least—but she’d aged real well. From what he’d observed on the job, the rich nearly always did.

In her youth, Avery must have been as stunning as her daughter. She was still a beautiful woman, with light brown hair, smooth cheeks, sensuously full lips and a forehead devoid of wrinkles. She either had fabulous genes or generous injections of Botox and lip collagen kept her blooming. She was wearing a cream silk blouse, tailored chocolate-brown slacks and a single strand of pearls—presumably her definition of a casual outfit for an afternoon at home. His wife wouldn’t get that fancy for a funeral, Frank thought wryly.

“Detective?” Avery Raven’s voice was low and musical with a charming hint of a Southern accent. Everything about her appearance and manner breathed aristocrat. She paused a few feet away from him, outwardly composed. If he hadn’t been a cop for so many years, Frank would never have caught on to the fact that she was clasping her hands to prevent them from shaking.

“I’m Avery Raven,” she said. “My daughter indicated you need to speak with me, Mr. Chomsky.”

Frank wasn’t surprised that she had remembered his name. In the movies and on TV, the rich rarely noticed the little people. But in his experience, the classier and more educated a person was, the more likely that they had the ability to file away personal details with a precision that rivaled his computer on one of its good days.

“I’m real sorry to intrude, but I’m afraid I have bad news to report.” No point in beating about the bush.

Avery’s cheeks lost a little color but she exhibited no other sign of alarm. “Kate said you have information about…my husband.”

“It’s about Ronald Howatch Raven,” he agreed. “Mr. Raven’s Illinois driver’s license showed this as his home address.” His Wyoming license, of course, told a different story, but Avery wouldn’t pick up on the subtle distinction. Not unless she knew the truth about Ron Raven, which seemed unlikely. Frank was keeping in mind his captain’s warning that this woman had motives to kill Ron Raven, but if she was the murderer, he’d eat his best uniform hat.