“I just talked to someone from the police department,” she said. “Julie Larimore’s gone, disappeared. Her housekeeper reported it. Julie was supposed to be back from her San Diego trip five days ago.”
“I talked to her last week,” Bobby W said. “Damn, maybe it was the week before. Jules always calls me every day. I thought something happened to her cell phone, even wondered if she was mad at me, but Jules wouldn’t be mad at me, would she?”
Lucas didn’t bother to answer him. “What do they think happened?” he asked Ellen.
“I don’t know, but she’s missed appointments, including a photo shoot. The housekeeper tried to reach her at the hotelwhere she was supposed to be staying. She never registered, Lucas. And now the police are coming over here. They want to question us.”
They all returned to the office. Tears shimmered in Bobby W’s eyes as he lowered himself onto the chaise.
“Not my Jules,” he said. “She wouldn’t go away without letting me know.” Lucas wasn’t surprised when the dark eyes narrowed on him. “Find her, Luke,” Bobby W said. “Don’t you dare bring your butt back here until you do.”
The Interview
What would you do for a killer body, Julie?
You don’t do it for the body, of course. You do it for what the body represents. Let me be frank about this: There’s a down side, and considerable setbacks. That’s when you have to persevere. Do so, and suddenly—and it will seem sudden to everyone else—you’re this wonderful walking testament to self-discipline, accountability, control. The ability to continue when most people give up.
That doesn’t mean it’s out of reach, not at all, only that the price is as high as the achievement is rewarding. Driving a Maserati costs more than taking a bus, but which way would you prefer to view the landscape of your life? You’re the only one who can decide which way you want to travel through this tenuous bit of time on earth.
I made my decision, and I’d make the same one again, even knowing what I know on what may be the darkest of all the dark days.
What would I do for a killer body? What wouldn’t I do? What haven’t I done?
THREE
Rikki
I force myself to go into my office at theValley Voicethe next Monday. I must steel myself against the flowers on my desk—flowers so fragrant that their scent will forever remind me of tragedy. The department secretary does this each time an employee takes off a day or more for a grievance leave. I remind myself it’s not personal. I need to move past the flowers, past the funeral, past matters too dark to conjure just yet. Move into facts and what I can do next. I am a reporter, and this is what I do. I only hope I can remember how.
Dennis Hamilton’s door is open, our tacit signal that he’s had the requisite caffeine and nicotine to enable him to communicate with his staff. A little early for his door to be open; for my benefit, no doubt. He’s like that. I step through the door, trying to push away the too-vivid memories of Hamilton and me.
He turns from the computer to face me, his expression even more grim, more flooded than usual with the flushed evidence of his excesses.
“I was there,” he says, and I know thethereof which he speaks could be only one place. “You probably didn’t see me.”
“I felt you.” Aware of the embarrassment heating my face, I try to backtrack. “I mean, I kind of saw you. It was frenzied.”
He stands, and for that moment, I want to run into his arms, where everything will be safe, secure and handled, but that’s a lie. He’s my boss now, only that. His appearance at the funeralmeans no more than the flowers on my desk. I can never run into his arms. And nothing in my life will ever again be safe.
Rotten tears. Just when you think you have them under control, they rush to the surface like embarrassing relatives, claiming you as one of their own.
“Sorry.” I wipe my wet cheeks, try to stop the flood.
“It’s okay.” Something close to dignity shows through the harsh light of Hamilton’s eyes. “Take as much time as you need.”
“I’m not trying to get out of work,” I say. “I want an assignment.”
He turns toward the door. “Maybe later, after you’ve had time.”
“No, you don’t get what I’m trying to tell you, Den. Let me say it in two words. Julie Larimore.”
Hamilton nails me with that damned intense gaze of his. “What about her?”
“She disappeared.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Sure, she disappeared. But what could you know about that?”
“I don’tknowanything.”
