Killer Move - Michael Marshall [52]
“We’re closed,” she said primly as soon as I’d set foot inside.
“I know, and I’m only going to keep you a second. I’m Stephanie Moore’s husband.”
The girl upped her respect level by about twenty percent, Steph being senior editor of the magazine. “Oh, okay, hi.”
“I’ve had my phone crash on me. I’m supposed to be meeting Steph but I can’t remember where. She texted me the place, but I can’t access my calendar. Can’t reach her on the phone, either. She didn’t mention where she was headed this evening, anything like that?”
The receptionist diligently consulted various bits of paper strewn across her desk and stuck around her computer monitor. “Sorry, no.”
“Okay, last resort—you got a number for Sukey?”
This was something I’d tried to establish back at the house during my phase of searching the place, but the number wasn’t on Steph’s laptop.
“I’m not allowed to give out that information.”
“Of course.” I grabbed a pen and a slip of paper from her desk and started scribbling. “But this is my cell, okay? Will you do me a favor, e-mail or text Sukey that number, ask her to give me a call?”
I walked back onto the street. I wasn’t confident she’d do as I’d asked, and it probably wouldn’t make much difference. So what now?
As I walked back to the car, I caught sight of a bar sign in the distance and thought: That’s what now.
Krank’s was slammed with the after-work crowd and I didn’t bother to even try to get a seat in the air-conditioned interior, instead grabbing one of the tables on the terrace. With a beer on the way I tried Steph’s number for the three millionth time. Getting voice mail again had me gripping the phone about as hard as its tough little case could handle. I didn’t bother to add another message. I did, however, notice that my battery had taken a thrashing over the course of the day and was already down to half a charge. This gave me a twist of additional anxiety that I didn’t need. Though, after all, I could charge it when I went back to the house, right? It wasn’t like I was on the run or anything. I’d be home real soon. Exactly.
I also didn’t need the fact that three women sat at the next table and immediately started smoking their heads off. If you’ve never tried to give up cigarettes, then you don’t know what that shit is like. You can be months down the road, over the addiction and dealing only with the tendrils of habit: then one afternoon you see someone happily sucking away on a cancer stick and find yourself knocking down children and old people in your rush to buy a pack, dully knowing that this moment was always here in front of you, waiting for you to plod your way toward it. The guy behind the counter takes your money and moves on to the next customer, not realizing the momentous event that has occurred, the edifice of effort, internal dialogue, and self-denial that crumpled in his presence.
Maybe all the types of pain and disappointment we find in our lives are there just because we invite them, because we have the receptors ready and waiting.
Maybe I should just have a fucking smoke and be done with it.
I turned to the ladies. Got halfway to asking one of them if I could bum a cigarette. But didn’t.
I turned back to my own table, feeling no triumph, just a thin and vicious sense of lack. Luckily my beer arrived and I swallowed half of that instead. The other half followed quickly, so I got another on the way.
And so it went, and still Steph did not call.
An hour later I was starting my fourth beer and realizing this had better be the last. The sun had started to dip but the air was getting heavier. The terrace had cleared in the meantime. The smokers nearby had gone, too, which had helped my clarity somewhat—leading me to remember something Kevin had said at lunchtime. He’d said that physical access to my laptop would be the easiest explanation for everything that had happened; that, by implication, there was a person who could very easily have gained access to my passwords and/or account.
Stephanie. Of course.
The idea broke with the photographs.