Gone The Next (24 page)

I was tempted to believe that she couldn’t hear me well, but I could hear a telltale sign in her voice. Slight confusion. A hint of a slur. She’d been drinking, or taking pills, or something. Which could make my job a whole lot harder or a whole lot easier.

“No, I’m a videographer,” I said. “I investigate insurance fraud.”

Gave her a few seconds to reply. Not a peep. I really didn’t want to spill my guts out here on the intercom, but I didn’t have any choice.

So I said, “Mrs. Hanrahan, I saw your daughter last week, the day after she went missing. I saw her at the home of a man I was investigating — a man who worked at one of your husband’s restaurants. I really think we should sit down for a few minutes and talk about it. This isn’t a joke or a trick or some sort of scam. Hear me out, and if you want me to leave, I’ll leave immediately.”

Still nothing.

“Mrs. Hanrahan, you have my word.”

The gate began to swing open.

Not quite noon and she was drunk, no question about it. Not tipsy. Not buzzed. Inebriated. I could tell from the moment she opened the door, swaying, glassy-eyed. There was also a small purple splotch on the front of her white blouse, which told me that her drink of choice was wine. This was not the well-put-together woman I’d imagined her to be.

She looked past me, out to the parking area in front of the house, as if to make sure there hadn’t been additional people hiding in the Mustang.

Then she looked at me again. “What was your name?”

“Roy Ballard.”

I stuck out a hand and she shook it. It was obvious from the circles under her eyes and a general sag to her face that the past eight days had weighed on her.

“Thanks for stopping by,” she said, as if she’d invited me. “Come on in.”

The Hanrahan home, which was gorgeous from the outside, was every bit as stunning inside. Very modern. The ceiling of the entryway was so high above me, I felt like I was in an auditorium. Everything was black and white, including the checkered floor.

Kathleen led me into the living area, which had a lot more color, including a red L-shaped sectional sofa so sprawling that three matching blond-wood coffee tables served the longer side. The far wall consisted of blackened steel surrounding an immense fireplace. The artwork on the other walls — contemporary oil paintings — looked damned expensive even to a bumpkin like me. The two floor lamps looked like something a team of designers had spent months creating.

There was no TV on the wall, no piles of mail on any of the tables, no dirty dishes or socks on the floor. Did anybody really live here? Or maybe the maid had cleaned that morning. Maybe she cleaned every morning. Maybe she never stopped cleaning. Maybe it was like painting the Golden Gate Bridge — a nonstop process. Weird the way the wealthy lived. The only hints of personalization in the room were a full glass of red wine and an iPad on one of the coffee tables. Evidently Kathleen had been sitting in here on the couch when I rang the buzzer, and this is where she now sat again, on the edge of the couch cushion, at full attention. I sat a few feet away.

“You saw Tracy?” she asked. She appeared genuinely and pathetically desperate.

“I am virtually positive it was her.” I recalled what her husband had asked me. “I would bet just about anything on it.”

“Where? When was this?”

And, for what seemed like the hundredth time, I told my story about seeing Tracy. Kathleen was my most rapt audience yet, and she appeared particularly stunned when I mentioned Pierce’s name, as if she hadn’t expected it. I saw anger flash in her eyes when I brought up Erica Kerwick. She
wanted
to believe everything I was telling her — that much was obvious. Before I was even done, her face was a mask of drunken confusion and pained disbelief, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. I stopped without giving the details of my conversation with her husband.

“Brian Pierce and Erica have Tracy? Patrick has to be in on it. That lousy, lousy bastard. We need to tell the police.” Her voice was urgent.

“I have already. They know all of this.”

“What are they doing about it?” She wiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

“I know they searched Brian Pierce’s house and came up with nothing. Tracy wasn’t there.”

“Why wasn’t that on the news?”

“Well, I don’t think cops routinely announce when they are going to search someone’s home. That could cast suspicion on a lot of innocent people. Do you need a Kleenex?”

She nodded and pointed toward a hallway to the right of the fireplace. “There’s a bathroom...” she said.

“Be right back.”

I wandered down the hallway and found it easily enough. It was a guest bathroom, but it was enormous. There was a box of tissues resting on the granite countertop. I grabbed it and returned to my place on the couch, noticing that the previously full wine glass was now about half full.

Kathleen grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her nose.

I said, “I understand you worked with Pierce.”

She nodded. “A long time ago. He still works for Patrick.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Patrick?”

“Brian Pierce.”

“I don’t know. Last year? Maybe when I was in the restaurant at some point.”

“Doesn’t he do odd jobs for your husband?”

“Sometimes, but it’s been awhile.”

“Has he ever babysat your daughter?” I was thinking about what Emma Webster had told me — how she had seen Pierce with a little girl in his truck.

She shook her head. “We have a nanny. We’ve had a couple.”

Her breath smelled so strongly of alcohol, it was difficult not to recoil.

“What about Patrick’s cousin?” I said. “What can you tell me about her?”

Now Kathleen really looked confused. “His cousin?”

“Erica Kerwick.”

“She’s not his cousin. Where did you get that?”

Because that’s what your husband told me.

Instead I said, “She referred to herself as ‘Aunt Erica’ on a Facebook post by your nephew Curtis.”

It took her a minute to decipher what I was saying. Bringing up her nephew seemed to have puzzled her. Then she said, “What she meant was — you know how you might refer to an old family friend as an aunt or uncle? Like that. She’s not his aunt, but she’s known him since he was just a kid, so he calls her Aunt Erica. So does Tracy.”

Why would Hanrahan lie to me about that? Protecting Erica? Protecting himself? Whatever the reason, it was more evidence that he was hiding something, and that he was involved with the disappearance of his own daughter.

I said, “Is she a family friend or just an employee?”

Kathleen let out a sharp, cynical laugh — almost like a quick bark — but then, in an instant, her face crumpled with emotion. After a few moments, she regained her composure enough to say, “Patrick has been fucking her for years.”

This just kept getting better and better. And maybe this was the piece we were looking for. Sure, Kathleen was a drunk, complete with multiple DWI arrests, and Patrick could use that against her in a divorce. But would Patrick be willing to have those photos entered as evidence in court? Kathleen’s lawyer would stress that Patrick was a cheater who couldn’t be trusted, and was that the type of man who should raise a child?

But I had to wonder why Kathleen hadn’t demanded that Patrick fire Erica Kerwick. So, trying to be tactful, I said, “I’m a little surprised she still works for Patrick. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Kathleen looked like she didn’t want to respond to that, but she eventually did. “Everyone else in Patrick’s family is close to her. She wasn’t just going to go away. She’d still be around.”

Okay, I had an idea what that meant. It wouldn’t be possible for Patrick to fire Erica without the rest of the family wondering why. Which meant the affair would eventually come out. I’m guessing none of them — Patrick, Kathleen, or Erica — wanted that. So Kathleen had chosen to leave things as they were. She didn’t want anyone to know about the affair. Over the years, that had been more important to her than making sure her husband had no contact with his lover. Pitiful.

“Do you see Erica often?” I asked.

“As little as possible. I should call my attorney.”

“About what?”

“They can find out what the police have done about this. Patrick should be in jail. All of them should be. You’re a witness. You saw Tracy with Brian Pierce and Erica.”

I didn’t correct her by saying that I had not seen Tracy with Erica — only with Brian. I didn’t see the point in it. The woman was far enough in the bag that she would forget in a few minutes.

“Look,” I said. “The cops didn’t believe me, especially after they searched Pierce’s place. They think I’m a nutcase. So the best thing you can do, if you agree that it appears Patrick and Erica were involved, is start talking to the police again. Tell them about the affair Patrick had with Erica. Do it through your lawyers if you’re more comfortable that way. But share that information with the cops. You should do it as soon as I leave.”

She was starting to bawl again. I didn’t know if that was because she thought I was reprimanding her, or if she was just overwhelmed by everything she’d been through, or if it was simply because she was drunk.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. An incoming text.

“When does Patrick usually get home?” I asked.

“You kidding me? He’s staying at a hotel. He’ll never sleep under this roof again.”

I checked my phone. Mia had sent a text:

Erica just left. I’m following.

Which was good, and now that I knew Patrick wasn’t staying here, I was less worried about him suddenly showing up and finding me interrogating his wife. When I looked up from my phone, Kathleen was finishing the last of the wine in her glass.

I said, “I understand you’d been thinking about a divorce for quite some time. Did something happen between you and Patrick recently? Something that set him off or freaked him out?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing?” I said.

She shook her head again but didn’t make eye contact.

“No arguments or anything? Maybe you gave him an ultimatum or something like that?”

Another small head shake. She was holding something back, and I was tempted to push her on it, but I also didn’t want her to stop talking to me. My best guess at that point, considering what I learned, was that she had threatened to make the photos public, maybe put them on the Internet. Patrick, in a rare rash moment, responded by showing what he could do in return — take Tracy. Maybe it was just a display of power, but it got out of hand when Kathleen called the cops. Who knows? Maybe none of this was accurate.

I hated to ask what I was about to ask, but there was no avoiding it.

“Tell me about the day Tracy went missing.”

Her face scrunched up again. I could see the pain there as clearly as the freckles across her cheeks.

I said, “I know it’s not easy, but what you tell me might help me find her.”

She nodded. “She was in her room, and then she wasn’t. Just like that. I went in to check on her because I realized it had been awfully quiet, and she wasn’t there.”