Part 14 (1/2)

”Which friends?” Jordan asked.

”The football guys. Russ and Kevin Oliphant...” Her face went into a brief spasm of distaste. ”He let himself go. Big-time.”

”Did Mr. Swansea talk to anybody? Dance with anyone?”

She tapped her fingers against the countertop. ”Different girls.”

”Which girls?” asked Jordan.

More tapping. ”I was running around a lot last night, so I can't really swear to any of this. Kara Tait, I think. Um. Lisa Schecter. That's her maiden name, I'm not sure what her married name is. She hyphenated. Oh, and I thought I saw him talking to Valerie.” She raised her shoulders in a shrug. ”So maybe I'm wrong. Maybe everything's fine with the two of them. Val's a meteorologist now. She's on TV.”

”On TV,” Jordan repeated as his cell phone started buzzing. He excused himself, stepped into the foyer, and lifted the phone to his ear. ”Yeah?”

”Chief? You told me to call you if we got any 10-57s,” said Paula. She paused. ”Missing person reports.”

”Right. Did someone call one in?”

”Yes,” said Paula. Jordan braced himself for the words ”Daniel Swansea,” but Paula said, ”It's Adelaide Downs. Her next-door neighbor's reported her missing.”

Jordan pulled his coat out of the closet where Christie had hung it, pointed at the door, then waved at her before telling Paula, ”I'm on my way.”

THIRTY-TWO.

By the time Jordan rolled up to Crescent Drive, it was just after six and already dark. The sky was dotted with stars; a brisk wind rattled the tree branches as Addie's next-door neighbor, Cecilia Ba.s.s, came thumping down her front steps to meet him. She was an aged party with a wrinkled neck, a hawklike profile, and stringy gray hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She frowned at his badge, her bony, veined hands protruding from the cuffs of her floor-length down coat. Her legs were bare, traced with bulgy blue veins. Her feet were jammed into fur-lined boots, and she had a four-p.r.o.nged metal cane in one hand.

”I understand there's a problem?” Jordan said once she'd handed his badge back.

”My neighbor is missing.” Mrs. Ba.s.s raised her cane and swung it toward Addie's darkened house, narrowly missing Jordan's nose. ”Adelaide Downs of Fourteen Crescent Drive.”

”For how long?”

”Since four o'clock this afternoon. Perhaps earlier. Four o'clock was when I called and got no answer on either her home phone or her cell.” Mrs. Ba.s.s swung open her door and led Jordan into a warm, cluttered, book-lined living room that looked oddly familiar. It took him a minute to place it, but finally, he realized that he'd seen the room-the red-and-white fleur-de-lis wallpaper, the heavy wood furniture-in the framed photograph in Jon Downs's bedroom. This was where Addie and Jon had once posed in front of the Christmas tree.

Mrs. Ba.s.s settled herself into a recliner bracketed by teetering stacks of Agatha Christie paperbacks and National Geographics, raised the footrest with a whoosh, and waved her cane at a loveseat covered in slippery-looking cat-scratched beige satin. Jordan perched on its edge, swiped at his watering eye, and pulled out his notebook. ”Normally, the department requires an adult be missing for at least forty-eight hours before we can file a report.”

”These are special circ.u.mstances. Addie is definitely missing.”

”How do you know?”

”Because,” she answered, ”Addie is always home. I have been her next-door neighbor since her birth, and Addie is always home.”

”She never takes vacations?” Jordan asked. ”Never travels? No boyfriends?”

Mrs. Ba.s.s shook her head. ”Her brother is unwell,” she said. ”She stays here in case he needs her. She goes out in the afternoons for a few hours-swimming or shopping. And she always answers her phone.”

Jordan nodded. With a brother in Jon's condition, he could see why she'd be attentive to her telephone ringing. ”No boyfriends?” he asked again, a.s.suring himself that he was asking out of professional curiosity. Mrs. Ba.s.s paused before she said, ”None that I've met.” She hesitated again. ”Addie was very heavy for a number of years. I always believed it would take a special man to see past that. Men of your generation are dismayingly superficial. But I always hoped...” Her voice trailed off. ”She's missing,” she finally said. ”And I am concerned.”

”Had Addie had trouble with anyone?” Jordan asked.

Mrs. Ba.s.s frowned. ”Not for years. Not since high school. There was a situation involving Addie's friend Valerie...”

He took notes while she gave him a version of the same story Christie Keogh had told him: a wild party senior year, Val and Dan Swansea off in the woods, Addie's accusation, Val's denial, and the months of hara.s.sment that had followed. Addie had gone off to college and come home weeks later, after her father died. She had stayed to take care of her mother and had been in Pleasant Ridge ever since. Addie worked from home, had no boyfriends that Mrs. Ba.s.s mentioned and no friends that Mrs. Ba.s.s was aware of, although she allowed that ”perhaps Addie does her socializing online.” Either way, Addie Downs was always available to sign for a package or help shovel a driveway or unlock a frozen computer, which was why Mrs. Ba.s.s had called her in the first place.

”I spoke to Ms. Downs this morning,” Jordan said. Mrs. Ba.s.s's bushy gray eyebrows lifted.

”And she seemed well?”

”There was a high school reunion last night,” he said.

”I doubt,” said Mrs. Ba.s.s, ”that Addie would have any interest in attending.”

”We found blood and a belt in the country club parking lot.”

The eyebrows shot up even higher. ”You can't possibly believe that Addie was involved in a crime.”

”We have to investigate every lead. And this morning, I saw Addie leaving Crescent Drive, in a green station wagon.”

”Her father's car,” Mrs. Ba.s.s murmured.

”She was with someone. Another woman,” said Jordan, ”A blonde.”

Mrs. Ba.s.s looked thoughtful. ”I wonder if it could have been Valerie,” she said in a low, musing voice. Then she surprised Jordan by lifting her big, spotted hands and clapping them together in a noisy volley of applause. ”Well, good for her! Good for both of them!”

”Except,” said Jordan, ”I have a crime to solve.”

Mrs. Ba.s.s gave a definitive shake of her head. ”Addie's a good girl.”

”Gets the mail when you're away,” he said. ”Signs for packages. Shovels your driveway.”

”Addie would never...”

”... hurt a fly?” he said.

She snapped the recliner's bottom down and pushed herself to her feet. ”Young man,” she said, ”you may be an officer of the law. But, may I humbly suggest, you have a great deal to learn about human nature.”

THIRTY-THREE.

Jordan ended up fixing Mrs. Ba.s.s's computer-it turned out to be a simple matter of hitting ”restart”-then made his way through the darkness, over the frost-crunchy lawn, to Adelaide Downs's front door. It was locked. No one answered his knock or the doorbell. He walked around to the back of the house, where he stood on his tiptoes and shone his flashlight through the windows. Laundry room: unremarkable. Dining room: ditto. There was a light on in the kitchen, s.h.i.+ning over the sink, and he could see the kitchen table, with a teacup and what looked like a water gla.s.s on top. A woman's coat was draped over one chair, and on the refrigerator, stuck in the middle of what looked like coupons and shopping lists, was a laser-printed piece of paper. He squinted to make out the words: I WENT TO MEET MATTHEW SHARP ON FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23. IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO ME, IT'S PROBABLY HIS FAULT. There was a Pleasant Ridge address and telephone number, and a postscript: I WOULD LIKE A MILITARY FUNERAL.

Jordan pulled out his cell phone and called the station as he walked around the house. ”Hey, Holly, did we get anything on that Matthew Sharp?”