My mind was processing. José was a good man, competent, honest. He had protected Deborah for seven months…seven months and eleven days. He had always been trustworthy and thorough; this only added to my confusion. Charlie was different. Charlie was a disappointment. Futile. Weak. With all the time Sal had spent mentoring him, he wasn’t improving. In fact, his nonchalance was growing, nonchalance leading to mistakes.
As Sal led them to the terrace, I heard only one voice, Charlie’s. His nervousness eking through his arrogance, he’s a talker. When they approached the terrace, Charlie was still the only one to speak. “Buenos días, Señor Davenport. An honor it is to come to your home…and your wife…” He shook his head and lowered his eyes in condolence. The words were right, even the gestures, but he couldn’t fake the sentiment to carry it off. Nonetheless, I nodded to acknowledge.
I remained seated. The men stood in front of me shoulder to shoulder, waiting for me to speak; noting my exhaustion.
“Charlie. Do you recognize this woman?”
“Sí, señor.”
“What is her name?” He looked at me inquisitively knowing I knew exactly who she was, but I wanted to hear him say it. Sal knew I believed the incident, Charlie’s blunder with the Holtz woman, had, in some way, led to Deborah’s disappearance. I remembered the night Deborah and I saw it on the news. She recognized Amy Holtz right away. The story horrified her, but she never commented on it again.
“Señorita Holtz.”
“English, Charlie.” He let out a sigh so I would note the extra effort he expended to accommodate me. Sal noted Charlie was trying my patience.
“Amy Holtz,” Charlie responded.
“Were you handling this?” I asked, glancing between him and Sal.
“Sí, I mean, yes.”
“Good. Thank you, Charlie.” He shifted his weight and looked at Sal. I could tell he was looking for direction as to why I would be asking him these questions. Sal stood silent, showing no favor.
“José.” I smiled weakly.
“Yes, Mr. Davenport.” José is considerate. He speaks English. He knows, they all know, I am fluent in Spanish, but it annoys me to have to speak it in my own country.
“José, you were in charge of watching over Deborah while I was out of the country. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she know you were watching her?”
“I don’t believe so, sir.”
“While I was gone, where did she go…anywhere unusual?”
“No sir, the office, the gym, and home.”
“What time did she go to the office, what time did she go to the gym? What time did she go home? José—details. Who did she talk to, eat breakfast with, take to lunch? Please José…I can’t find her without details,” I said, barely masking my fury.
“Yes, sir,” José said, with a sincerely apologetic smile while he pulled out his notes. Tuesday night she dropped you at the airport and came directly home. There were no visitors. The alarm system turned on at 10:00 p.m. and off at 6:05 am. Wednesday she drove to the gym at 6:07 am, returning home at 8:38 am. She was home until 10:11am. She drove to the office, but stayed only ten minutes. She mailed four or five letters at the post office, drove to the bus station, parked her car at a thirty minute meter, and went inside.”
“Very good, José. Did you follow her inside?”
“No—not right away, sir.”
“How long did you wait?” “Fifteen minutes.”
“My wife has never gone to the bus station—but you didn’t follow her inside immediately? Help me understand that, José. Why weren’t you suspicious?”
“She had not bags, sir. Only her purse…she parked at the meter… and she was calm.”
“Calm?”
“Her walk was…normal…she didn’t look around…look nervous.”
“I see, and no luggage?”
“No, sir. I am so sorry, sir. I should have—”
“I know, I know you’re sorry,” I interrupted quietly.
I sat wordlessly, feeling the pain of my suppressed tears piercing my eyes and radiating through my body. The men were uneasy in the silence, but I ignored their suffering…it was fractional compared to mine. They didn’t know her; didn’t love her; didn’t miss her. Deborah, how will I ever find you?
The sun was setting, the birds were singing and the sky was shifting tranquilly from crystal blue to peaceful gold, setting a contrary mood to the business at hand. I took a deep inhale enjoying the lush fragrance of the flowers spoiled by the scent of fear in the air. With a gentle sweeping motion, as if to wave away a pesky gnat, I fired three silent rounds. Dirty details, I thought to myself, details I would have normally left to Sal, but today they were my responsibility. In the blink of an eye Charlie and José lay motionless, each with a bullet hole between his eyes. Charlie was treated to an extra round in his chest destroying his heart as my missing wife was destroying mine.
“Find her…and clean up this mess, Salvador.”
2
Blinking my eyes open it took only a moment of peering at my surroundings to remember. I was no longer Deborah Davenport— successful trial lawyer of Boca Raton, Florida. I was Annie Logan— unemployed dweller of the Paradise Motel on Pendleton Pike; a hotel that rents rooms by the week, day, or hour. Although I suspected I would not be fleeing to a heavenly location, being sequestered in a hotel conveniently located to strip clubs, pawn shops, and liquor stores wasn’t how I imagined my new life in Indianapolis would begin. It could only get worse if I ended up homeless living in a cardboard box.
Theresa wanted me to stay in L’Hôtel Paradise for two days; until her people confirmed I hadn’t been followed. I slept a lot the first day— stress—but I couldn’t have slept more than three hours in the last twenty four. The room next to mine must have been rented to a hooker, and Friday was a busy night for her. About every two hours the headboard started to beat against the wall with a new male voice huffing and puffing. In a voice similar to Fran Drescher’s she joined in with her wild screams of passion and remarks I can only imagine came straight from a porn script.
It was a disgusting distraction, but when it quieted, I couldn’t get Michael’s words off my mind. “People are already looking for you.” I heard it over and over in his low gravely voice…it filled my mind with more questions. If Lawrence had people looking for me after being gone just twelve hours, it begged the question not if Lawrence would find me, but rather when…and what were the consequences of leaving him?
Though the thought of Lawrence’s people lurking about consumed me, spending two days in The Hotel of Ill Repute made it the lesser of two evils. The two days had passed. I was just getting my shoes on when my new cell phone rang. It was 8:02. Please Theresa, not another day in this asylum.
My hands shook when I reached for my phone. I looked at the incoming number. It was the local area code—317—definitely not Theresa, probably not Lawrence, maybe Michael with another warning. Apprehensively, I answered the call.
“Hello?” My greeting sounded like a question.
“Annie, please.” A woman requested in a sure business tone.
“This is…this is Annie,” I stuttered.