Come And Find Me Part 8

"Do you have a nice view, too?"

The woman sniffed. "Parking lot."

Diana's pulse quickened. "You can see the parking lot? Maybe you can see her car. She drives a gold Mini Cooper."

"Oh dear. I'm afraid all cars look pretty much the same to me. Though I do remember when it was easy to tell them apart. Cadillacs had fins. Buicks had those funny little holes in the side. And Thunderbirds-"

"You'd be able to tell this car, Mrs.-" Diana paused.

"Fiddler."

"Mrs. Fiddler. Her car is teeny, and it looks like a miniature bus. Oh, and the body is gold but the roof is black."

"Goodness. Let me see." There was a grunt, like Mrs. Fiddler was getting herself up out of a chair. "I'm looking out the window right now."

Diana crossed her fingers as she waited, though she didn't know whether to hope that the car was there or not.

"The lot's pretty empty. Weekday, you know," Mrs. Fiddler said. "So many people work. But I don't see a car that looks like a little bus. Nothing gold with a black roof. That would stand out, even from up here. Of course I can't see all the cars."

"You can't?"

"There's underground parking too. But I can take a walk down there and look around. I can even pay a visit to your sister's apartment, if you like."

"Mrs. Fiddler, I'd be so grateful if you would."

"You said 88N? I'll call you back-"

"I don't mind waiting," Diana said, afraid that if she lost the connection she might never get Mrs. Fiddler back.

"It might take a while."

"Take your time."

Diana heard the phone being set down and, a little while later, what sounded like a door closing. While she waited she checked for new messages and then started a game of solitaire.

Finally, after three rounds: "h.e.l.lo?" That same quavery voice. "You didn't tell me your name."

"I'm Diana. Diana Highsmith."

"Your sister's Ashley Highsmith?"

"Yes, yes! Did you find her?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't find a car like that. And I knocked on your sister's door but no one answered."

Don't panic, Diana told herself. No car and no one answering to a knock on the door were exactly what she would have expected midmorning on a Monday.

"One thing, though," Mrs. Fiddler went on. "The mailman left some mail for her on the table in the lobby."

Diana knew that the mailboxes were small-oversize items typically got left on the table for tenants. "Magazines?"

"Vogue. And also what looked like bills and a bank statement." She hesitated. "I hope it was okay to snoop. I hate people who do."

Diana swallowed. "Did you look in her mailbox?"

"From what I could see, it looked pretty full. And another thing. There were a couple of menus in her door. You know how they stick them in the doorjambs? I get those too, and I think these came Sat.u.r.day." Mrs. Fiddler sounded as devastated as Diana felt.

Menus left stuck in the door? Mail overflowing onto the table? It didn't sound as if Ashley had gone into or out of her apartment building in days. The queen of hearts, the last card she'd turned over in solitaire, stared placidly back at her.

"h.e.l.lo? Are you still there?" Mrs. Fiddler said.

"Thank you so much," Diana said, trying to sound calm. "If you notice anything else, could you give me a call?" She gave Mrs. Fiddler her phone number and disconnected the call.

What in the h.e.l.l was she supposed to do next? d.a.m.n Ashley. It was so inconsiderate of her to take off like that. And so typical . . . But when Diana tried to remember other instances when Ashley had disappeared without a word, she could come up with none.

Ding! A message popped into her queue.

RE: Desperately seeking Ashley Highsmith!

Surely here were the answers she'd been aching for.

Ding! Ding! Two more replies to her e-mail asking about Ashley popped in.

Diana whipped through the responses, but excitement quickly faded. No one had seen or heard from Ashley. Not since Friday.

Diana pushed herself away from the computer. She needed to think. What was she missing? Maybe Ashley's supposedly soon-to-be former boyfriend hadn't given up. Maybe pulling the bar stool out from under her and leaving her to pay the tab wasn't enough. Maybe-a possibility Diana could barely contemplate-he'd followed her and turned violent.

Aaron. At least Diana remembered the jerk's first name. Should have thought of him earlier. She went back to Ashley's contacts list and checked that she hadn't missed him. She hadn't. Diana knew that Ashley had at least two e-mail addresses, and she wouldn't be using her corporate account to communicate with Aaron.

She opened a browser window on Ashley's laptop and clicked to drop down the list of most frequent Web sites visited. Near the top was GMAIL. She picked it and the welcome screen appeared. AHIGH88 was in the user name box and a series of dots in the pa.s.sword field on the opening screen. Yes! Diana pressed enter and she was in.

181 unread messages Ashley was addicted to her e-mail. She would have been incapable of going even a single day without checking it. Three days? Couldn't happen.

Chapter Thirteen.

"S-M-I-T-H." Diana finished spelling her sister's name to the operator at St. Elizabeth's Hospital.

"Sorry, we have no one here by that name," the answer came back.

Diana hung up the phone and checked off the last of a dozen hospitals within a twenty-mile radius where she'd called. There was nothing left to do but contact the police.

She dialed 911. Her call was routed to an officer with a gravelly voice.

"I want to report"-her voice caught-"a missing person. My sister. Ashley Highsmith."

"And you are-?" His Boston accent turned "are" into "ah."

"Diana. Her sister." Haltingly she managed to explain the situation to the officer.

"So you last saw your sister downtown at-"

"I wasn't there. She was. I saw her in video footage that was on the Internet. And she called me from Copley Square at six."

"Okay. Friday. That's-"

"Three days ago. I wasn't worried at first. I mean, I know she's a grown-up. She lives alone. Owns her own condo. Has a great job. But she's supposed to be at work and she's not in her office. They don't know where she is."

"Was she-?"

"Sure, at times she's a little flaky but she wouldn't just disappear like that." Diana knew she probably sounded hysterical but she couldn't stop herself. "And she left her laptop at my house and she hasn't come back for it. And she's not at work or"-she cleared her throat and tightened her fingers around the phone-"I don't know where she is. None of her friends know where she is. It's been three days without a word." Finally she took a breath.

The officer made conciliatory noises. Then: "Could you come down here and file a report? Bring a photograph of your sister?"

Briefly Diana envisioned herself at the wheel of the Hummer. Cras.h.i.+ng.

"Wouldn't it be faster if I e-mailed you a picture?"

"That works too. But there are forms, and questions-"

Diana rushed on. "I asked one of her neighbors to look for her car. It wasn't in the parking lot. And she said there are flyers stuck in her door. Flyers that came days ago. Days ago!" She choked up and her vision blurred.

"You have keys to her apartment?" the officer asked.

Diana gulped. "Yes."

"But you haven't gone there and checked for her?"

"I . . ." Panic welled up in her. "I can't find the key."

There was a long pause. "And you can't come in person and file a report?"

Diana wiped a skim of cold sweat from her forehead. "I'm laid up with a stomach virus."

There was longer silence on the other end of the line.

Finally Diana said, "Listen, I can't come. I just can't. What difference does it make why? This isn't about me. My sister is missing. Something's wrong. I know it." She hiccuped a sob, snagged a tissue, and blew her nose.

"Tell you what," the officer said. "We'll send a patrol car over to your sister's place. Check things out. Talk to the neighbors. Ascertain whether there's anything to be concerned about."

If she could, she would have reached through the phone and hugged the guy. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"I'll call you as soon as we know something. But depending on what we find, you may have to come in."

Diana couldn't come up with a reply to that.

Diana paced her house while she waited for the police to call back. She straightened. Washed the dishes that were in the sink. Finally she sat down at her computer and scrolled through header after header of Ashley's unread e-mail messages.

There she found the most recent message that Ashley had actually opened. It was from APRITCHARD, it was dated Friday at 4:33 P.M.-just before Ashley would have left to meet Aaron at the bar. Diana opened it.

C U @BOUCHEE-LVG WORK NOW That would be the jerk himself. Aaron, looked like his last name was Pritchard.

He's been weirding me out, Ashley had said. Checking up like he's some kind of control freak.

Diana looked up Mr. Control Freak on Google. Back came links to a bunch of social and business networking Web sites. She clicked on the Facebook link. There were three Aaron Pritchards on Facebook. One in Bend, Oregon. The second one had a photo of what looked like an eight-year-old boy. The third one had to be him. His public profile pegged him as an investment banker. Single. Interested in dating. The photo was of a handsome guy with a well-tended beard. He was s.h.i.+rtless, on his back, bench-pressing what looked like fifty-pound dumbbells. Ick.

She'd send him a message, but what to say? She wanted to find out what he knew, not scare him away. She typed: Hi, Aaron I'm Diana, Ashley's sister. A friend of mine just came into some money and Ash said you'd be a good person for her to talk to. She wants to make the right decision. Needs to decide soon.

She ended with the number of her prepaid cell phone and hit send. She set the cell phone down on the desk. Beside it, her landline sat mute.

She checked the time. Did We'll send a patrol car over mean right this very second? Even if it did, fifteen minutes was too soon to hear back. She hoped that an officer was at least on the way over to Ashley's apartment.

Diana turned her attention back to Ashley's e-mail. She sifted through the unread messages. There were Facebook and LinkedIn updates. A party invitation. A reply to a back-and-forth about a friend's wedding shower that Ashley was helping to organize. Lots of ads and travel offers.

Diana stopped when she got to a message dated Sunday with the subject line "Everything okay?" Opened it. It was from Janine Gagne, a friend Diana vaguely remembered Ashley mentioning.

Guess you must have forgotten all about me. Sunday brunch at the Centre Street Cafe, your fave??? Hope he's cute.

Diana stared out into s.p.a.ce. Even if there was a new man in her life, Ashley would never have stood up a friend.

Were the police at Ashley's apartment yet? Were they talking to the super? Diana imagined them trying Ashley's door and finding it unlocked. As they opened the door, the menus that Mrs. Fiddler had said were stuck in the jamb fluttered to the ground . . .

An hour later, Diana was holding Ashley's lipstick and staring at the phone, willing it to ring when her intruder alarm went off. She bashed the b.u.t.ton that silenced the Klaxon. Echoey silence followed. She felt a stone drop into her belly when she saw, in the front video monitors, a police cruiser parked in front of the house. A uniformed officer was striding up her walk. The doorbell rang.

Why come and not telephone? Diana pushed away the obvious answer. As she made her way to the door, she felt as if she were moving through sludge.

The doorbell rang again.

Hands shaking, she fumbled opening the dead bolts, pinched her finger removing the security bar, and finally punched the security pa.s.s code. She pulled the door open.

The officer filled the doorway-not so much with bulk as with uniformed presence. Before she could say anything, he said, "Diana Highsmith?"

Diana recognized the gravelly voice. "You're the officer I talked to on the phone?"

He nodded. "Officer Wayne Gruder. Your sister doesn't appear to be in her apartment."

Appear to be? Was that good news or bad?

"But her mailbox has been emptied," he added.