Zeke
December 15th
They’d decided lastnight to check the diner, just to be certain. Sybil made the relevant point that if Betty were anything like Eloise, it was entirely possible that she was aggravated with them over something they were unaware of, and she was just ghosting them for a bit. Zeke didn’t really believe that, and honestly, he didn’t get the impression that Sybil did, either, but they had to check anyway. He was so tired that he trusted her instincts more than his own.
They arrived at foura.m., in the pitch black of night like they were vampires, which it almost felt like they were by now. They found the diner closed. A handwritten sign was posted to the inside of the glass door.
Help wanted: looking for an overnight server and hostess.
Closed between 11pm–6am until further notice.
So that was that. Their first dead end.
By the time they stumbled toward their day in the latemorning—a few fitful hours of sleep finding them each—Natalie had tracked down Caleb.
“Caleb Drucker,” Sybil read aloud as she tied her hair into a bun atop her head. She was still in her pajamas, a matching cotton set that wasn’t too dowdy and wasn’t too alluring, a combination that Zeke couldn’t help but find absurdly sexy. He knew he needed to stop with this fantasy right now, that they were mourning Julian and worried about Betty, and his growing attachment to Sybil could have been the result of all sorts of things unrelated to actually wanting to pursue something with her.
“I have to head to PT,” he groaned. “But when I’m back?”
“When you’re back, we’ll go talk to him.” She finished his sentence.
Now it was rush hour, the city streets clogged with too many taxis and pedestrians not abiding the walk signal. The forecast again called for snow, and once the sun had set, the temperatures had dropped into the upper twenties. Sybil had remembered (of course she had remembered) that Betty mentioned that Caleb worked punishing hours, so there was no point in tracking him down at his apartment unless they went in the middle of the night. Even though they were always up at that hour, they could both see why showing up at a stranger’s apartment at twoa.m.looking for a girl was not the best way to start their amateur sleuthing.
Zeke’s driver deposited them all the way on the southern tip of Manhattan, in front of Morgan Stanley’s entrance.
“What’s the plan?” Zeke asked Sybil. He figured she would have one, which suited him perfectly fine. His whole life, he’d been part of a team, but the pitchers, they did solitary work. He had to trust that if he threw the ball where his brain and arm demanded, the rest of the lineup would live up to their ends of the bargain. He wasn’t a batter or a base runner or a fielder. Hehad one single purpose, and that was to decimate the person in front of him. The rest of the Mets then had to add the runs, field the plays. No wonder, it occurred to him now as he held the door for Sybil and they were hit with a rush of pumped-in heat, that while he was part of a team, he wasn’t part of theteam. His job required complete tunnel vision on himself, a narcissist’s mirror, as it were. No one could help him if he was having a shit night, no one could help him if his speed or accuracy or drop or spin wasn’t working. He looked at Sybil as she marched up to the information desk and was met with a wave of gratefulness—pure, honest appreciation—that she had asked him to be part ofherteam, that she believed he had something to offer. The only thing he’d ever offered in the past was his arm.
“Hi,” she said to the receptionist. “We’re here for Caleb Drucker.”
The receptionist’s fingers flew over her keyboard. “He’s expecting you?”
“No,” Sybil said.
Her fingers stopped typing. “I’ll need to call up.”
“Right, can you tell him—” Sybil gestured for Zeke to join her at the desk. “Can you tell him Zeke Rodriguez is downstairs for him?”
So this was her plan. Zeke didn’t even mind, trading his fame for access. It was a small way to be helpful. Maybe his only use.
The receptionist’s eyes moved to Zeke, and he saw them widen for a beat. She reached for her headset, waited a moment, then said: “Hi, Mr.Drucker, I have a Zeke Rodriguez here to see you…Right. Yes. That one…No, he didn’t say why.”
“Just ask him if we can have five minutes of his time in the lobby,” Sybil whispered.
“He wants you to come down to the lobby,” the receptionist said.
It was amazing, Zeke thought, how fame opened literal doors. No one in this building knew him, yet everyone in this buildingknewhim. What would his life look like without being born with a golden arm? How far would he have gotten on his other merits?
A few minutes later, the elevator door dinged, and a solidly good-looking, semi-tallish, kind-faced man in need of a haircut walked toward them.
“Holy shit, Zeke Rodriguez? Are you here to see me?” He held out his hand and offered Zeke a firm handshake. Up close, Zeke could see purple crescents under his eyes, a day-old stubble growing, like he hadn’t been home in a while.
“Hi,” Sybil said. “We’re friends with Betty.”
At the mention of her name, Caleb’s animated face grew still.
“You guys know Betty? I’m sorry, I’m confused.”
“Yes, weird, I know,” Zeke said. “We’re—” He glanced at Sybil to see if she was comfortable with him taking the lead. She nodded encouragingly. “We’re worried about her. She’s sort of…my roommate. And we haven’t heard from her in a few days.”
