Desperate Measures (20 page)

Back in the Rover, Pete realized he'd actually gotten more from Janny's doorman than he'd gotten from Maddie's: Janny moved out. Janny's studio apartment was furnished, whereas Maddie owned everything in her apartment. Janny was like family to Maddie. Maybe Maddie was helping Janny relocate or ... something. Wise up Sorenson, he told himself. That would mean she's scratching her wedding to help a friend. No, Maddie wouldn't do that. Girls didn't cancel weddings. Not his girl. Never his girl.

The Rover ground to a halt, made an illegal U-turn before it speeded up and headed back uptown. The minister would have the straight skinny on what was going on. Surely Maddie had called him. Jesus, what if the man thought the wedding was still on?

Twenty minutes later Pete parked in a No Parking zone. He locked the Rover and sprinted across the street to the parish house. He jabbed at the bell, waited a moment and jabbed at it again. The third time, he kept his finger pressed on the glowing white circle. He thought the bell ring sounded like the beginning sounds of the Our Father. He must be nuts. Perspiration dotted his brow and upper lip. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt. He finger-combed his hair a second time, the index finger of his right hand still pressed to the bell.

Finally the minister came to the door. “Mr. Sorenson, how nice to see you. Does this visit mean the wedding is back on?”

He looks so comforting, Pete thought. His eyes were worry-free, his smile genuine. He was at peace. And why the hell shouldn't he look at peace? Pete thought wildly. All the man did was pray to God all day. He wished that he'd been more religious in the past. “No. I don't know. I need to talk with you, Reverend.”

“Certainly, son. Come into my study. We can talk there. Would you like some coffee or tea? Perhaps a sandwich or a slice of pie?”

How kind and gentle he is, Pete thought. He looks like an overgrown cherub. “Coffee,” he said.

The reverend chuckled. “I cultivate this image. It makes my work easier. Now, tell me how I can help you.”

“Did Maddie call you, Reverend? Did she cancel the wedding?”

“Several days ago. It didn't sound like Maddie, but then, she was crying. Sobbing actually. I felt so bad. I wanted to go to her. I wanted to go to her or have her come here, but she said something that sounded like—and I'm not really sure this is what she said, but to me it sounded like, ‘It isn't wise.' She thanked me for everything and apologized. The call didn't last more than a minute. It took me a few minutes to find her phone number, and I called her right away, but the operator said the number was temporarily disconnected. I then called her maid of honor, and the operator told me the same thing. For some reason, Mr. Sorenson, I don't have your number.” His voice turned fretful at this declaration. Pete rattled it off, and the minister copied it down carefully.

The housekeeper, a plain-looking woman with a tie-around white apron, the kind his mother used to wear, set a tray down on the corner of the minister's desk. The mugs were thick, plain white with sturdy handles. A large plate was filled high with plump sugar cookies. His mother used to make sugar cookies that tasted faintly of orange and lemon. He reached for one, bit into it. Identical. “Does your housekeeper make lemon meringue pie, and does it have those little brown sugar beads on the top?” Jesus, did he just say that?

The minister smiled. “Yes, she does. When she isn't looking, I use my finger and lick them all off the pie. My mother used to swat me good for doing that. Martha's pies are the first to go when we have bake sales.”

“My mother used to make a little pie for me. I always ate the top first. She made me my own little cakes too. I ate the icing first too. Maddie isn't much of a cook,” he said ruefully.

“I'm sure she'll learn, and if you share with her, I'm certain she'll do her best to learn how to bake. What is it, son, what's happened?”

Pete told him, ending with, “It's not like Maddie. I know she didn't get cold feet. She would never let me hang like this. I don't know what to think.”

“Have you been to the police?”

“I'm going there when I leave here. Maddie's not in a hospital. At least I don't think so. She did call you. She's with her friend Janny. I'm almost certain of that. First thing Monday I'm going to call Merrill Lynch to see if Janny quit her job.”

“Does Madelyn have family here in the city?”

“A stepmother and a stepbrother. She never talks about them. To be honest, I don't even know their last name, though it's not the same as hers. If Maddie found herself in some sort of trouble—and I'm beginning to think that's what happened—she would never go to her stepmother. Janny, yes. They're both gone. I'm holding on to the thought that they're together.”

“I'll pray for them, and you too, Mr. Sorenson. I'm afraid it's all I can do. If I hear from Madelyn, I'll call you.”

“Thank you, Reverend, and tell your cook these are some of the best cookies I've ever eaten, next to my mother's.”

“She'll be pleased to hear that, Mr. Sorenson. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call.”

“Reverend, do I owe you . . . ? Someday I'm going to come back here and talk to you about . . . a friend I had a long time ago.”

The reverend nodded. “Come to church on Sunday if you can.”

‘I'll do my best,” Pete said. Outside, he realized he hadn't just given lip service. He meant it. If he could, he'd make services every Sunday from now on.

At the police station, Pete sucked in his breath. He smelled stale sweat, scorched coffee, cheap perfume, and Pine Sol. The six sugar cookies rumbled ominously in his stomach. He marched up to the desk and said, “I want to file two Missing Persons reports.”

“Names?” the cop on desk duty said.

Pete cleared his throat. “Madelyn Stern and Janice Hobart.”

The officer on duty leaned over his desk before he pushed his glasses up his bony nose. “Wait here, I need a second form. Take a seat.”

Instead of sitting down, Pete paced. He stared at hookers dressed in fishnet stockings and spiked-heel shoes. It was true, they chewed gum. He felt a grimace build on his face. He listened to language so ripe, it exploded in his ears and turned them red. He turned from his frantic pacing to bump into a pimp with so much grease in his hair, it was dribbling down onto his thick eyebrows, giving them a glossy shine. He sidestepped the pimp, zeroing in on a conversation between an irate citizen and an officer who was listening intently to his explanation. “Those cruds ripped out my radio, stole my briefcase and were stealing my tires, and you arrest me! What the hell kind of society is this anyway? All I did was try and protect my property. I want a lawyer!”

“Sir, you beat the boy, you banged his head on the car. He has rights too. He's only fourteen.”

“Rights my ass. If he's old enough to steal my radio and tires, he's old enough to take a beating. I didn't even see his face when I dragged him away from my car. As soon as I saw he was a kid, I stopped slugging him. What about my fucking rights? Do any of you fucking cops care that I'm sixty-seven years old? If that punk got to me first, I'd be dead. Well, what do you have to say to that?”

“You can make one phone call. Go straight back and take a seat.”

“Amen,” Pete said, then was ushered upstairs to a quieter office.

“I'm Detective Nester,” a plainclothes officer said from behind a desk. “You want to file a Missing Persons report, sir?”

“Pete Sorenson, and yes, I want to file two Missing Persons reports.”

Nester took four phone calls and was called away from his desk twice. Pete kept looking at his watch as his fingers drummed on the dusty, littered, detective's desk.

It was nine-thirty, according to the large clock on the wall, when Pete signed his name to both reports. “You aren't going to do anything about this, are you?” he said wearily.

“Why do you say a thing like that?” Nester asked quietly.

“I can see it in your face. It's my business to read people. I'm not saying you won't do the paperwork. I'm saying you aren't going to go out there and beat the bushes. You probably think she dumped me and didn't have the guts to tell me. Well, you're wrong.”

Pete fished around in his pocket for his wallet and withdrew the crumpled wedding invitation. “Read that and tell me she dumped me. No, no, you're wrong.”

“Do people make up their own sayings, or is this preprinted? You know, they give you a list and you pick one out?” Nester asked curiously.

“No, Maddie worked it out. She said it was exactly how she felt. I feel the same way about her.” For one heartbreaking second Pete thought he saw pity in the detective's eyes. Whatever it was, it was gone a moment later.

“We'll be in touch, Mr. Sorenson.”

“Sure, and tomorrow is a new day,” Pete said, his eyebrows shooting upward in disgust.

“Are you trying to tell me you don't have a high opinion of the police?”

Pete deliberately eyeballed the detective for several seconds. “I feel very confident I'll find my fiancee before you will. Do you know why I say that, Detective .Nester?”

“No, Mr. Sorenson, I don't.”

“Because I'm going to work night and day on this. I'm not going to be bound by rules and regulations and shift work. I won't be sloughed off and I don't have two hundred other cases staring me in the face. I'm a taxpayer and I have every right to expect the best this police department has to offer. Think of me as an extra pair of feet and hands. I won't tire of this, Detective, you need to know that.”

“Understood, Mr. Sorenson. We'll be in touch.” He held out his hand. As a courtesy, Pete gave him a bone-crushing shake.

Pete felt Nester's eyes boring into his back when he weaved his way around the desks in his search for a path that would take him downstairs and out.

When Nester was certain Pete was gone, he sat down at his desk and called Carl Weinstein at the FBI. The moment the agent identified himself, Nester told him about Peter Sorenson.

“How much of a pimple on our ass is he going to be?”

“Think of it in terms of a boil, Weinstein.”

“Listen, I don't know if you heard or not, but Adam Wagoner suffered a major stroke. He was taken to Walter Reed Hospital early yesterday. I don't think he's going to make it. He should have retired ten years ago,” Weinstein said callously.

“No, I hadn't heard. What does that do to the promise he made to Miss Stern, that she could communicate with her fiancé?”

“Cancels it right out. You're to say nothing, Nester. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

The connection was broken. Nester stared at the black receiver in his hand. “Up yours, Weinstein.” He yanked a file from the stack on his desk and slammed it down. He did his best to stare off into space, but Pete Sorenson's face kept getting in the way. “Poor, dumb son of a bitch,” he muttered.

 

It was barely light when Pete crawled off the couch on Monday morning. He looked at his watch: five-twenty. He was starved and he itched. He padded out to the kitchen, threw a frozen steak under the broiler, then showered and shaved. He entered the kitchen in time to turn the steak. He brewed coffee, shoved frozen dinner rolls in the microwave, then sat down to make what Maddie called his infamous lists. He couldn't do anything without a list. He had lists everywhere, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in his briefcase, in his hip pocket. He even had a list that listed the lists. His colleagues said he was organized. He called it bad memory.

His address book, the yellow pages, his legal pads, and a stack of pencils glared up at him. At six-ten he made his first phone call, to a colleague who sounded bright and alert, despite the early hour. “How's it going, Pete?” he asked.

Pete told him, then added, “I need a lot of favors, will you pass the word along? And I need the name of the best private dick in business. I owe you dinner and two tickets to the next Rangers game.”

“I'll get back to you before I leave for the office.” That would be in thirty minutes, since most of the lawyers he knew were out of the house by six-thirty and in their offices by seven, where they toiled till way past the dinner hour. He shook his head when he thought about the comparisons writers made between lawyers and used car salesmen. Every lawyer he knew worked their ass off, just the way he did, for his clients.

Pete checked his steak, punched a few holes in it to make it broil faster. The rolls steamed inside their plastic bag when he removed them from the microwave oven. He spread two inches of blackberry jam on the sourdough rolls and wolfed them down, one after the other. He was on his third cup of coffee when his steak was done, just the way he liked it. Maddie liked hers still on the hoof. He shuddered when he thought of the bloodred meat she drooled over. He spread spicy brown mustard in a thin layer, then a thin layer of ketchup, and last added A.1. steak sauce. He cut it all up, tossed the bone in the garbage, and sat down with his lists.

At exactly six forty-five the colleague was on the phone. “Write fast, Pete, I'm on the run. I've got motions, a deposition, two closings, and I have to somehow convince Judge Pettibone to give me a continuance on the Capricone business. What that means is, I don't get to eat today. Marcia wanted to fool around last night and I fell asleep on her. She isn't talking to me this morning. Ready?”

“Yeah. Why do you do it, Mike?”

“For the bucks, same reason as you do. I fucking hate it. I wish I was a truck driver tooling down the highways of life. Don't think I'm kidding either. Here goes . . .”