No Show (3 page)

Holman frowned at Terry, unimpressed with his fast-food approach to holy matrimony. Terry swallowed at something sour in his throat.

“Why didn’t you stay in the US after you were married?”

“Sheriff, what has this got to do with my arrest?”

Holman thought for a second. “Not a lot, I suppose. I guess I’m being nosy. My mother, God rest her soul, was always saying I should keep my beak out of things. I apologize, Mr. Sheffield.”

“Am I still under arrest?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Can we get this over with so I can go?”

“Apologies again. I’m sure you want to get back to your wife.”

“I want to find her,” Terry corrected.

“Okay, back to the questions.” Holman picked up his notebook and flicked back over his pages.

Terry walked the sheriff through events from the airport to his arrest. He went into minute detail, just so that he wouldn’t be asked again.

“Okay.” Holman turned the page in his notebook. “One last thing.”

Someone knocking at the door interrupted Holman’s last thing.

The female officer who’d stuck the gun in Terry’s face poked her head through the door. “Sheriff, I have that information for you.”

“Come in then,” Holman replied.

The deputy stood in the corner farthest from Terry, and Holman joined her, his lanky form towering over hers. She held a sheaf of papers for him to examine. The deputy kept her voice low, but Terry could still hear.

“The house belongs to Terry and Sarah Sheffield. They’re listed as co-owners.”

Holman nodded. “Good. Thanks, Deputy Pittman.”

The deputy flashed Terry an examining look on her way out. He saw the doubt in her eyes.
Sometimes evidence just isn’t enough
, he thought.

Holman spun on his heels and clapped his hands together. “It looks like I’ve got all my answers, and you’re free to go. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but we can’t afford to let these things go unnoticed. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Terry said bitterly.

Holman opened the interview room door. “I’ll arrange for a ride home.”

“Hey, hold on a second.”

“Yes?”

“Who tipped you off that I was in the house?”

“You should count yourself lucky, Mr. Sheffield. You have some conscientious neighbors. They believe very much in neighborhood watch. Come along, Mr. Sheffield. I think our business is concluded.”

Terry remained rooted to his seat. “No, it isn’t.”

Holman’s face creased and his blue eyes lost their sparkle. Suspicion consumed his expression. Terry knew where the sheriff’s
mind was going. He was thinking about a wrongful arrest suit, but that was the furthest thing from Terry’s mind.

“What’s outstanding, sir?” Holman asked with a sharp tone.

“My wife.”

“What about her?”

“I want you to find her.”

“You want to report her as missing?”

“Yes.”

“But we don’t know that she’s missing.”

“Yes, we do. She wasn’t at the airport, and I have about a week’s worth of unopened mail. What more do you want?”

“She could be waiting for you at home right now. You said yourself that she packed a bag.”

“Yeah, and she could be in trouble.”

“Look, Mr. Sheffield, I understand you’ve had a traumatic day, but I’m guessing by the time you get home, she’ll be there to meet you.”

Terry stood. “And if not, then what?”

“Then come and see me in the morning. At this point, I think your fears are unfounded.”

“Aren’t you listening? She’s been missing for days.”

“You have no proof of that,” Holman said. Terry opened his mouth to speak, but the sheriff stopped him with a raised hand. “You have a pile of unopened mail and a missed appointment. It’s not enough for us to call out the cavalry.”

Terry shook his head.

“Mr. Sheffield, you’re tired. Go home and wait for your wife. Like I said, if she hasn’t made it home by morning, call me and I’ll file a report.”

Terry wanted to object, but Holman was ushering him out of the interview room and along the corridor to the front door. At least Terry could be thankful he wasn’t being escorted to the cells.

In the reception area, Deputy Pittman glanced up from her PC terminal when her name was called.

“I’m releasing Mr. Sheffield, but he needs a ride home. Can you take him?”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

At the end of a silent twenty-minute ride, the deputy pulled up in front of Terry’s house. He was glad it was over. But even without leaving the car, he could tell he wasn’t arriving to a rousing homecoming. The sheriff’s department had kept him so long it was dusk. Every house had its lights on except one—his.

“Thanks for the ride,” Terry said without much gratitude.

“Take it easy, Mr. Sheffield. And don’t get into any more trouble.”

A bit late for that
, Terry thought. “I’ll do my best.”

The deputy watched him walk up the path to the front door before driving off.

Slipping his hand in his jeans pocket, he fingered his pocket change before realizing his mistake. He whirled back toward the street in the hope of catching the deputy, but she was already turning onto the next street.

“I don’t have any damn keys,” he called after her.

Terry tossed the orange tree branch onto the patio for the second time that day and slipped through the patio door. He hoped he wouldn’t have to enter his house this way every time. He switched on the dining area lights.

“Sarah?” he called and got no answer, as expected.

Some homecoming. This was supposed to be his happy home. This place didn’t feel like home. He felt like an intruder, a stranger.

“You don’t know your arse from your elbow, Sheriff.”

Terry spent the next ten minutes rummaging through the house for a set of keys. While digging around he found a garage-door opener with a dead battery before finding the spare bunch
of keys in a kitchen drawer. He made damn sure they were in his pocket before the cops could come calling again.

He called Sarah’s cell and got voice mail yet again.

He left the house and knocked on the doors of his immediate neighbors. He introduced himself and asked them if they’d seen Sarah. They remembered seeing her, but couldn’t recall exactly when.

He couldn’t wait for Holman to get his machine rolling. Sarah was in trouble. He knew it even if the sheriff didn’t. What to do next was the problem. He could comb the streets calling her name like she was a lost dog, but how far was that going to get him? Sarah had a four- or five-day head start on him. She could be anywhere. Even out of the country. Why hadn’t she called him? It had to be serious. There was no excuse otherwise. Maybe she’d run out on him. He didn’t want to admit it, but the facts were there in front of him—the unread mail, the unanswered phone messages, her switched-off cell, and the most damning of all, a packed bag. He refused to believe she’d abandoned him. If she’d had second thoughts about their marriage, she could have easily phoned him with a Dear John story. She didn’t have to hide from him. And if she planned to run out, why pack only an overnight bag and not clear the house out entirely? As easy as it was to believe in the simplest solution, he couldn’t. If he needed proof of that belief, he didn’t have to look any further than the fridge. He pulled open the fridge door and removed the bottle of champagne. As well as the ribbon, a greeting card hung around the bottle’s neck. He opened the card and read it:
Welcome home, baby. This is going to be great.
Yes, Sarah had skipped out on him for a reason. One so serious she hadn’t had the time to call him.

I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on.

If she couldn’t, maybe somebody else would. He returned the champagne to the fridge and went into the bedroom Sarah had converted into an office. He flicked on the computer and went
through her desk while the machine booted up. He found an address book in a drawer.

He flipped through the pages, staring at names and numbers he didn’t recognize. He’d heard about some of Sarah’s friends as part of some anecdote, but he’d never met them. And naturally, all Sarah’s stories involved first names only—John did this and Karen did that. With so few opportunities to see each other over the last couple of years, they’d been selfish with their time together. They came first. Everyone else could wait.

It wasn’t like he could even call Sarah’s family. She was an only child and her parents had passed away, her father of a heart attack and her mother of breast cancer.

The computer finished its boot-up cycle, and Terry opened up her e-mail program. She might not have left a phone message, but her e-mails might explain what was going on. He felt like a voyeur for going through Sarah’s e-mail, but he had no choice. It was better he did it than Holman.

Skimming her outgoing and incoming e-mails, it seemed to be the usual combination of spam, personal and work-related communications, and, of course, their e-mails to each other. Nothing screamed an explanation for her no show.

No matter. He might not have any e-mails that could clue him into Sarah’s disappearance, but he did have one thing—Sarah’s e-mail address book. He composed a new message to everyone in it. It was the quickest way to get the word out to everyone.

Hello Sarah’s friends
,

I’m Terry Sheffield, Sarah’s husband. Sarah is missing. She wasn’t at the airport today to pick me up, and it looks as she might have left town for a couple of days, but I don’t know where she’s gone. If you know where she is or how to get in contact with her, please let me know.

Thanks
,

Terry

He read his message. It was as alarmist as hell considering the e-mail would be going out to friends, business acquaintances, and strangers, but this was the situation he found himself in. It would prove embarrassing if this revealed a totally innocent and understandable explanation, but he was willing to accept having egg on his face.

“Please, let this be a sign of me overreacting,” he said to himself and hit S
END
.

Hopefully, someone would have some insight.

Sarah’s e-mails might not have told him anything, but maybe her browser history would reveal something. It did. She’d cleared both her browser and search engine histories. Was that habit or a sign she was covering her tracks?

He turned his attention back to the names, addresses, and phone numbers in Sarah’s address book. None meant anything to him. They would all have to be called. With over fifty names listed, it was a daunting prospect. He checked the time on the computer’s clock. It had gotten late. He doubted many would appreciate a call from him at this time of night. Besides, his mind and body were still on London time. Despite being hopped-up on fear, jet lag was getting its teeth into him. He put the address book down. His e-mail plea was enough for tonight.

Despite his exhaustion, his stomach reminded him that it still needed feeding. There was nothing substantial in the fridge and what was in there didn’t appeal. He dug out the yellow pages from under the TV and ordered a pizza. His order arrived forty minutes later. The pizza box promised piping-hot pizza and ice-cold sodas, but somewhere along the way the promises had been swapped. Terry ate in front of the TV.

“Welcome to America,” he said.

Within an hour, the jet lag got the better of Terry and he fell asleep.

Two years earlier

“How’s your butt?” Sarah asked.

Terry was facing the Pacific Ocean, watching puffy white clouds drift by and crystal blue water wash against the Costa Rican beach. He turned around to face her. She was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, which was something he wished he could do. He rubbed at his arse through his swimming trunks, feeling the scabbed-over welt.

“Still sore.”

She laughed.

“It’s not funny,” he said, smiling.

“It is. You shouldn’t have worn jeans.”

“Yeah, well, hindsight is twenty-twenty.”

Although his backside had been burning for two days, he wouldn’t have traded the horseback ride for anything. It hadn’t been some pony trek across a beach. It had been eight hours of grueling cross-country terrain. Their destination had been the cloud forest nature reserve of Monteverde. It involved a steady climb through the mountains—usually an easy ride for novices, which Terry and most of the group were. But the rain had changed that. November wasn’t rainy season, but no one had told Mother Nature. Ten minutes into the ride, the heavens opened. Previously rock-hard dirt paths turned into clay molasses. The horses sunk in the slop up to their bellies, and novice riders turned into instant experts. It was a miracle no one had fallen and none of the horses had snapped a leg.