She's Not Coming Home (2 page)

Chapter Three

Police Lieutenant Detective
Sam Weber shifted in his chair. After two hours sitting in the same spot, it was becoming really uncomfortable. His partner, Detective Frances Mancini, looked over.

‘Getting restless? You want another coffee?’ she asked, standing up and stretching.

‘Yeah; go on,’ Weber grunted. He stood up, stretched, and hitched his pants up. As Mancini walked down the hospital corridor to the vending machines, Weber tucked his shirt more into his pants. Strange, he thought: would have thought the more weight you put on, the tighter your clothes would get. Seemed to be the opposite with him. Maybe he should set about losing some weight. Last time he checked, he was 210 pounds; overweight according to the department medic. That’s the price you pay, he told the doc, when all you eat is fast food on stakeouts. And your wife leaves you for a twenty year old. And you give up smoking.

‘Why not eat healthier?’ the doctor had asked. ‘More salads for example?’

‘Doc, you gotta be kidding,’ Weber had replied. ‘If you think I’m sitting all night in the freezing rain and snow eating just a Caesar salad, you’re on a different planet.’

He watched Mancini as she walked back with two paper cups. Hell, she kept her figure. But then she was fifteen years younger than him, and probably got more exercise.

‘Here you go, Sam,’ she said, passing him a cup of black coffee. ‘Number six, is it?’

‘You forgot breakfast. Eight or nine,’ he grunted, swigging back some coffee.

‘Jeez, if I had that many in one day I’d be walking on the ceiling.’

Weber looked at his watch.

‘It’s just after eight now,’ he said. ‘Assuming she doesn’t wake up between now and nine, then we’re out of here.’

Weber and Mancini were in the Massachusetts General Hospital. Around midday they had taken a call about a mugging at the Brigham Circle T station. The attack had left the victim, a woman in her sixties, unconscious. The only two people who witnessed the attack, albeit from a distance, described the assailants as white youths wearing hoods. Both witnesses said the two ran down Huntingdon Avenue. Weber and Mancini drove around the Huntingdon area in case they saw anybody answering that description, but had no luck. It all happened out of range of any CCTV cameras, so Weber and Mancini’s best option was to wait for Ms Washington to regain consciousness.

The ambulance went direct to Massachusetts General, or MGH. The nearest hospital to the Brigham Circle was in fact the Beth Israel facility on Brookline, but since just before last Christmas had been partly closed for refurbishment, so the nearest was Mass General, a couple of miles further on. Weber and Mancini arrived just after the ambulance, at just before one o’clock.  They had no option but to wait for Ms Washington to regain consciousness, but five hours later she had not done so. At seven they would be relieved by the night duty, unless she woke before then, in which case they would leave after they had taken her statement. They both had mixed feelings: keen to get away after a twelve hour shift, but determined to catch whoever had given this little old lady the head injuries she had sustained.

Whilst waiting, they had speculated on the motive for the attack. Quite early on, they had dismissed race as a motive, as the attack was quick, opportunistic, and her purse had been taken. Assuming she was carrying anything. Violent crime had been a problem in that part of the city for some time; in fact statistically a person had a 1 in 101 chance of being a victim in the past five years.

‘Eight forty.’ Weber stepped over to the door of the room where Ms Washington was lying. He peered through the small rectangular window. She was still in a coma.

‘Is it true,’ asked Mancini, ‘that the longer they’re unconscious for, the lower the chances of her waking up?’

Weber looked over at his partner. He shrugged.

‘Possibly. Possibly not.’

Mancini looked through the window.

‘She looks so sad, lying alone there.’

‘Eh?’

‘All alone, I mean. No relatives at her bedside.’

‘Well, until she wakes up, or somebody reports her missing, or somebody finds her purse with all her ID, she’ll only have us at her bedside.’

‘She must have been on her way to work,’ said Mancini. ‘Hence the name badge. She must be missed there.’

‘Or on her way home. Nobody at home to miss her.  No wedding band, remember. No ID. Just a little blue badge,’ said Weber, looking through the glass again. ‘Celeste Washington,’ he muttered. ‘Who are you?’

‘Sam, it’s time,’ said Mancini. Weber looked round and saw Detectives Anderson and Troy walking down the corridor. The night shift.

‘Hey guys,’ said Troy. ‘No luck yet, I take it?’

‘Nah,’ said Weber. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘O’Riordan wants us to stay here for the duration if need be,’ Anderson said. ‘Says to catch these bastards is a priority.’

‘He wants you to stay here all night?’ asked Weber.

‘He figures the old lady probably won’t make it, so it’ll be a homicide. More pressure to clear that up. Says even if she comes round for a while, she might give us something to go on.’

Weber shrugged. ‘Guess we’ll leave you to it then. Relieve you here in the morning. Unless something happens in the meantime,’ he added.

‘Sure,’ said Troy as he and Anderson took their places on the orange plastic chairs.

‘I bet you twenty bucks,’ said Weber as he and Mancini walked back to their car, ‘that she won’t make it. She's been like that for too long.'

‘Then it’s murder.’

‘You got it in one.’

Just as they reached their car, Weber’s cell phone rang.

‘It’s O’Riordan,’ he said as he pressed the button to answer. Mancini sat in the car while her partner took the call.

‘What is it?’ she asked as he joined her in the car.

‘O’Riordan called to ask a favour.’

‘Which we can’t turn down.’

‘Mm. Anyway, a call’s come in about a reported missing person over in Beacon Hill.’

‘Not her back there?’

‘Unlikely. Did she look to you as if she came from Beacon Hill?’

‘Not really.’

‘No. Some guy’s wife three or four hours overdue from work. Asked if we could go over, take some details to pass over to the MPU.’

‘Why us? Surely he knows we’re on overtime now?’

‘He said we’re the nearest. Should only take half hour or so.’

‘Great,’ said Mancini, fastening her seat belt. ‘Another night when I don’t see my kids.’

Weber started the car and pulled away. Turned into Fruit Street then left into Charles. A couple of minutes later he pulled up outside the Charles/MGH T station.

‘What are you doing?’ Mancini asked.

‘Get the subway home,’ said Weber. ‘I can take care of this.’

‘You sure?’

‘Get out before I change my mind. Go kiss your kids goodnight.’

‘Will you be okay?’

‘It’s Beacon Hill. I should be all right,’ Weber said sarcastically.

‘Lieutenant, I owe you one.’

‘Tell me about it. Now get.’

After Mancini had left, Weber took the car along Cambridge, then down W Cedar. Pulled up outside the address he had been given. He got out of the car and looked around. With its red-brick Federalist townhouses and vintage gaslights, this street was typical of those in Beacon Hill, one of the most exclusive residential neighbourhoods of the city. Some months ago, he was involved in a case in an apartment building a few blocks away from here. The case involved the beneficiary of an elderly woman’s will trying to sell her apartment. Only thing is, the woman wasn’t dead yet. Weber remembered the place was on the market for close to half a million dollars; slightly underpriced according to the real estate agent. This house here - Weber assumed three bedrooms, maybe two bathrooms, a yard out back, a garage somewhere - must be close to a million, maybe more. He wondered if that was why O’Riordan wanted this guy interviewed tonight. Would have had to have waited till morning if it had been some other parts of the city.

Weber took a deep breath, climbed the four steps to the front door, and rang the doorbell.

Chapter Four

Matt looked anxiously
at the kitchen clock. It read six twenty. Nathan was busy munching his fourth slice of pizza, oblivious to his father’s concern. Matt picked up his phone and sent Ruth a text, asking where she was, was she okay?

After five minutes there was still no answer, so he rang her number. After six rings, it went to voicemail.

‘Hi, it’s me.  Where are you? Have you stopped off somewhere on the way? Call me back soon as you can.’

He pressed the red button to disconnect and, rubbing his chin with the phone, walked to the front door. Looking back to check that Nathan was still occupied, he opened the front door and stood at the foot of the four steps that led down from their door to the street. He looked up and down the street. A couple of cars went past and a man and a woman walked by the other side of the road.  Matt looked down the road, in the direction of Mount Vernon Street, searching for Ruth’s figure coming up the road. He saw nothing. What the hell was keeping her?  It was unlikely, he thought, that something had happened to her walking home, a mugging or such like; the route she took was well-lit and at this time of the evening there were still plenty of people around. Unless she went across the common.   When it was still light at this time, she would take a shortcut using one of the many paths across Boston Common, past the Boston Massacre Monument, the Soldiers and Sailors Monument on Flagstaff Hill, and the Founder’s Monument just as she approached Beacon Street. Sometimes she would pause a while by Frog Pond, to do some people watching.

Matt had never been a great fan of the Common: it was never maintained to the standard of the parks he was used to back home, and even he would make a point of avoiding it after dusk. The north west corner of the park was the location of Park Street subway station, and since an incident two or three years ago when he, Ruth and Nathan were approached by one of the many panhandlers congregating around the station environs, he would always try an alternative route. Especially if he was with Nathan. He had turned down the guy’s request to stand him for a meal, and, expecting him to move onto someone else, was surprised and unnerved when he followed them right up to Beacon Street, shouting at them.

He would frequently check with Ruth that she was not walking across the Common after dark, and she would always confirm she took the street route. The pathways across the park were used by tourists heading for the Visitor Center on Tremont, although rarely after dark, and by pedestrian commuters on their way to and from the office towers. Like Ruth. In all the time they had lived there, he could not recall an incident on the Common with a commuter, but Matt was naturally cautious. Ruth would always say he was being too cautious, and she was quite safe walking home, even in the dark. Maybe it was the fact that she had grown up on the streets of Boston, whereas Matt had not.

He turned back up the stairs and went back indoors, closing the door. Joined Nathan in the kitchen.

‘Enjoying your pizza, sport?’ he asked.

‘Mm,’ replied Nathan, his mouth full. ‘When’s Mommy coming home?’

‘Soon,’ Matt said distractedly. ‘Soon. She – she’s been held up at work, and so she’ll be a bit late home.’

‘Can I have some more pizza?’ asked Nathan.

Matt looked over at him. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Have a piece of mine.’ He passed over a slice from his plate. Suddenly he was not so hungry.

It was now six forty. He rang Ruth’s cell again, hanging up before it went to voicemail. Maybe she had been delayed after all. He found his contacts list, tabbed to the entry
Ruth – Office
and dialled. The line clicked a few times, then he heard an automated voice telling him his call could not be completed as dialled.  Wrong number.  Strange: maybe he had programmed his phone incorrectly; he would always use Ruth’s cell phone when he contacted her. He called 411 and gave name and address of where Ruth worked. He dialled this number, which was nothing like the number he had on his cell, and listened.  The number rang four or five times, then a recorded message saying that the offices were now closed and would reopen at 9am the next morning.

He hung up and decided to try some friends. Tabbed down to the number for Ruth’s best friend, Gail Smith, and dialled.  As he waited for a ring tone, he thought about Gail. She lived the other side of the city, so it was unlikely that Ruth would have gone there; maybe they had arranged to meet up after work, and Ruth had forgotten to tell him. Or had, and he had forgotten.

‘Nathan,’ he called out. ‘Did Mommy say anything about Auntie Gail the other day? About meeting her?’

‘No,’ said Nathan, as he threw Mr Tyrannosaurus up and down. ‘Daddy, can I have some ice cream now?’

‘I’m just on the phone. Help yourself.  Not too much now. Just two scoops.’

Gail’s phone rang five or six times, then went to voicemail. Matt left a message, then hung up. Who else to call? No point calling his parents, and Ruth had none.  Or rather they had both died a few years before he and Ruth met.

Rubbing the side of his phone, Matt returned to the kitchen. He took a slice of cold pizza from his plate, and started to chew. It took a long time to chew; he had lost his appetite. Nathan, on the other hand, had covered his face with chocolate ice cream.

‘It’s getting late, sport,’ said Matt.  ‘Let’s get you cleaned up and in the bath.’

‘When’s Mommy back?’ Nathan asked.

‘A bit later. If you’ll already asleep, she’ll go up and tuck you in.’

After twenty minutes in the bath and a bedtime story – involving dinosaurs – Nathan was tucked up in bed. He yawned.

‘When Mommy gets home, you will get her to come up and tuck me in again, won’t you?’

‘Promise,’ whispered Matt, kissing Nathan on the forehead and straightening his quilt. He turned the night light on and the room light off.

‘Night, sport,’ he whispered from the bedroom doorway. There was no answer: Nathan was asleep already.

Matt quietly made his way downstairs and back into the kitchen. Threw away his uneaten pizza and put the dishes into the dishwasher. Dialled Gail’s number again. Left the same message again.

He went online, found local new pages for the online pages for the
Herald
, the
Globe
, and the
Beacon Hill Times
. Looked for any traffic reports, any accidents. Any crimes reported for that evening. It was probably too early, he reflected.

He tried ringing Ruth’s phone again, and Gail’s. Both times the call went to voicemail; both times he left the same message as before.

He stepped outside again, and looked up and down the street. No sign of anybody. A bus roared past the end of the street, along Mount Vernon. He went back indoors.

He wondered about putting Nathan in the back of the car and driving round the streets looking for Ruth, but decided against this as it would be unlikely he would see her in the dark. And he didn’t want to alarm Nathan.

He made himself a cup of hot tea and sat down in the kitchen. Almost nine o’clock. Something had to be wrong. He crept upstairs and looked in on Nathan. He was fast asleep. Good.  Matt went back downstairs, picked up his phone and sat down in the kitchen.  Took a sip of his tea. Looked up at the clock: past nine now. Time to call the police.

He got up the website for the Boston Police Department. His nearest station was in Sudbury Street. It gave a phone number. He started to dial, and then paused. Maybe he should be dialling 911. Thought again: as he had the actual station number: that might be quicker. If it got answered.

It did. A woman officer’s voice answered the phone.

‘Hello,’ Matt said. ‘I want to report a missing person.’

‘A child, or an adult?’ the officer asked.

‘An adult. My wife. She’s been missing over three hours.’

‘Sir, how do you mean missing?’

‘She was due home from work at six, but still hasn’t arrived. I’ve tried calling her, on her cell phone and at her office, and to call one of her friends, but I can’t get hold of anybody. She’s
always
home by six. Always.’ His voice started to quiver.

‘What’s your address sir, and where does your wife work?’

Matt gave the officer the addresses.

‘Can you hold the line just one moment, please sir?’ said the officer.

Matt was put on hold for half a minute or so, then the officer returned and said, ‘Thank you for holding, sir. Somebody will be calling round to take some details in about the next half hour.’

‘Thank you very much, officer.’

‘You’re very welcome, sir.’

Matt hung up and wandered over to the window. Looked out, and up and down the street, as best he could from the window. After a while he thought he could see a car moving slowly up the road, as if looking for a space to park.

Then came a bleep from his phone, advising of the receipt of a text message. His heart pounding, he ran back into the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

‘For God’s sake,’ he hissed as he read the message. It was a text from his manager at work reminding him of a meeting he had to attend at 9 o’clock next Friday morning.

Just as he deleted the message, the doorbell rang. Glancing upstairs to make sure Nathan was still asleep, he went to answer the door. In the light from the hall, he could see that the figure at the door was early middle-aged, around five-six, overweight, and wearing a dark suit and blue shirt. His tie was loose with the top shirt button undone.

‘Matthew Gibbons?’ the figure asked.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Matt answered breathlessly. ‘The police?’

The officer held out his badge and identity. ‘Lieutenant Weber,’ he said. ‘In response to your call.’

‘Yes, of course; please come in,’ said Matt as he opened the door. ‘Follow me through to the kitchen.’ Weber closed the door and followed Matt.

‘My son’s asleep upstairs,’ Matt said quietly. ‘I don’t want to disturb him. I had just made some hot tea; would you like a cup?’

‘No thank you sir; I’m a coffee man myself,’ said Weber. He indicated to a chair. ‘May I...?’

‘Sorry; please do. Please sit down.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Weber, half collapsing onto the chair. He took out a notepad and a pen. ‘Now, you said when you called that your wife is missing.’

‘Yes, she is,’ said Matt. ‘And I’m worried.’

He took a mouthful of tea.

‘Very worried.’