The officer takes a seat at a desk across from me and pulls a sheet of paper from out of its top drawer. “Now, then. I just need to get all the pertinent details.”
I provide all the information about my husband, his name, our address on Polk, his age, what he looks like, any distinguishing marks, what he was wearing when I last saw him. I tell him that Martin left San Francisco in his vehicle—which I have never seen but which Martin has told me is a Ford Model T painted dark blue and which he keeps garaged down by the Embarcadero.
When the officer asks when I last saw Martin, the lie comes off my tongue easily. I tell him that I last saw my husband three days before the earthquake and that I expected him home the day of.
“And this is the first time you have reported that he’s missing?” the policeman says, cocking his head.
“I wasn’t aware he was missing until now. I didn’t know how to get back into the city. It wasn’t easy to get out, you know, and it was hard to get back in. My daughter and I were evacuated to Golden Gate Park and left the city as soon as the fires were put out. She and I have been staying with a friend. I didn’t think Martin was missing until I got back to San Francisco and could not find him here. I thought perhaps he would be at the house. I didn’t know it had burned.” So many lies, so easy to say. “I thought maybe he was worried our daughter and I were the ones who were missing.”
“And you’ve inquired of his employer?”
I think up a serviceable fib in seconds. “Martin had been doingbusiness with insurance companies, but he came upon a new venture with hair tonic. He was selling it. On the road.”
“Any friends here in the city we can ask? Any clubs your husband belongs to? Places he frequented?”
I shake my head. “Martin is a private person. When he’s not on the road he likes to be home. And we’ve been in San Francisco less than two years. He didn’t have close friends here.”
“All right, then,” the officer says. “I’ll just need the address where you are staying and we’ll be done here.”
I give him the address of the Loralei, glad to be finished, eager to leave.
He stands and points toward Libby. “If you’ll just take a seat with your friend, I’ll see if Detective Morris wants to chat with you.”
“Detective Morris?” I stand as well, and my heart takes a stutter step.
“He’s handling most of the cases like this. If your husband is truly missing, and not just wounded or deceased, he could have been the victim of foul play, especially since you expected him home. There were a great many unsavory types out and about after the quake, I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh, but the detective needn’t take up my burden today if there are so many others.”
The officer’s brows furrow themselves into a crinkle. “I would think you’d want him to hop right on it.”
“Y-yes! I do,” I stammer. “I am just mindful of others who came in before me.”
He smiles and pats my arm. “If Detective Morris is not busy, he’ll want to talk with you. Especially since you’re not staying in the city.”
He leads me back to Libby, and I sit down next her. The officer walks away with all the information I gave him in his hand.
“I have to stay for a bit,” I tell her. “You don’t need to wait here with me. I don’t know how long it will take. It’s so busy in here.”
Libby reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Of course I will stay. Chester hasn’t even come for me yet. I’ll stay.”
“But Timmy—”
“Timmy is with a nanny. We’re renting a house near the Whittier Mansion over by the academy—which didn’t burn, thank heaven. It’s a sweet little place and the nanny lives with us. He’ll be fine. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you here alone, Sophie. What of kind of neighbor would I be?”
A smile forms at the corners of my mouth. I am thinking how little she understands what I am capable of handling, and she is thinking how grateful I am that she is staying with me.
“Do the police know something?” she asks. “Is that why they’ve asked you to wait?”
“No. The detective looking into cases of missing people might want to speak with me because I live outside the city now.”
“Oh,” she says, as if she understands all that this means. “So... is it terribly worrisome with Mr. Hocking being missing? With the way you two... met? I was just wondering if love has blossomed between you and if this is now a very tragic thing not knowing where he is.”
I can see that Libby very much wants me to be brokenhearted at Martin’s absence and what a sweet, romantic image that would be for her. I’m also thinking that it would do me well for people to think I miss my husband and want him found. I reward her with another little smile.
“I have indeed grown to have feelings for him,” I say, and it’snot a lie. I do have feelings for Martin; they are just not ones of affection.
“You poor thing!” Libby says. “I do hope he can be found quickly. Perhaps he’s lying in a hospital bed somewhere and for some reason he’s unable to speak or maybe he’s forgotten his own name and you’ll find him and when he sees you he’ll remember you and he’ll know that he has feelings for you now, too!”
