“Christ almighty, Higgins! Are you telling me you didn’t take a good look at that number-four wall? And why the hell didn’t you call for a photographer? Say something! Don’t just give me those puppy-dog eyes! Get the hell to your desk and file that New Year’s resolution story. I hope at least you’re good for eight inches on that!”
As she wrote the story, Liz felt utterly deflated. It is a reality of the media wars that television journalists have a huge advantage over daily newspaper reporters. TV types could break news the same day as it happened, instead of delivering it the next morning. But Liz had lost more than the scoop here. If she had been on the ball, she literally would have gotten the inside story and had more to report than the television people did, even if it appeared in the next day’s paper.
Instead, she’d let her emotions get in the way of doing her job. No matter how much her heart went out to Olga Swenson, she did the woman no service by holding her hands instead of getting to the bottom of the mystery. Dick Manning had a point when he warned her it’s not a good idea to get emotionally involved with the people you meet in the course of reporting.
And would she heed this advice tonight, Liz wondered, when dining someplace “rather special” with Cormac Kinnaird? Much would depend on the unpredictable mood of the good doctor.
Although the clock was ticking towards her rendezvous with Cormac, she took the time to search the telephone database for Harmony Haven, Clifford Buxton, and Ali Abdulhazar. Finding the music teacher was as simple as whistling a happy tune. A Buxton, Clifford, was listed as residing on Liszt Lane in Bourne, Massachusetts. The street was probably one of several that composed a housing development known as Harmony Haven. But finding Ali was not so easy. Liz learned quickly that Arabic names are spelled with numerous variations, some phonetic and others reflecting the linguistic influences of those who militarily occupied, governed, or culturally influenced parts of the Arab world. Thus, Abdul might also be spelled in the French manner, Abdoul. And then there was the punctuation problem, which presented more variations, including Ab’dul and Abd’ul. Combine this with the rest of Ali’s last name and you had to search through variations such as Ab’dulhazar, Ab’dul-hazar, Abdoulhazar, Abdoul-hazar, and more. Add to this the fact that Ali is an extremely common Arab name, and Liz came up with hundreds of possibilities. Narrowing the search by age still left her with eighty-six possibilities in eastern Massachusetts alone, and Liz did not know if it was reasonable to assume Ali had remained in the area.
If she were going to make her date with Cormac, she would have to pursue this further tomorrow, so she gathered her things and prepared to leave the newsroom. Back at her desk, she noticed the light blinking on her phone, indicating a call had come in. Picking it up, she heard a recorded message from the Cape Cod Mayhew. “Hey, it’s Doug Mayhew again. You planning to cover my band’s gig or not?” the voice demanded. Then he changed his tone. “I sure hope so,” he said.
Ah, the power of the press to raise—and shatter—hopes! Thinking of her promise to Veronica that she would find the child’s mother, Liz returned to the database in the Banner’s library and expanded her search to business listings starting with the words “Ali,” “Ali’s,” “Ali Abdulhazar,” and “Abdulhazar’s.” This gave her hundreds more listings, but one was more promising than the rest. The owner of Ali’s Music Shack in Randolph, Massachusetts, might be the same Ali who appeared on the list she’d narrowed to Abdulhazars of the correct age group, with a home telephone number listed in Randolph.
Watching the clock, Liz gave Dr. Mayhew a quick call and learned he had no recollection of where Ali’s family had resided. He told her Randolph did not ring a bell but it was not impossible that Ali grew up there. He promised to see if he could find Ali’s address record, but given that it was amongst the disorganized stacks of papers in his living room, that might take some time.
A call to Ali’s Music Shack produced nothing but a recorded message indicating the store was closed until tomorrow. It did not invite a message. There was a message machine on the home number, though. The trouble was, the message was spoken in Arabic. Liz decided it would be better to keep trying the number until someone answered directly than to leave a message on that line. After all this she decided she simply did not have time to call the Buxton number.
Back at Gravesend Street, Liz struggled to shake the feeling of failure and frustration that had settled over her, and found herself looking at her wardrobe with an air of uncertainty, too. A reporter’s business dress was, on the whole, far more casual than corporate style. There was rarely a call for office wear that could also serve as evening attire in a pinch. A skirt and silk blouse were about as dressy as Liz got in the course of her job. She did possess one business suit, but it screamed “office,” not “dinner date.” That left her with the choice between a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, a teal-green wool sheath, and a longer black velvet number with a rather deep V neck. Rejecting the cocktail dress as too skimpy for the season and the black velvet as too daring for the weeknight occasion, she selected the sheath. The color was not currently in fashion, but it did set off her auburn hair to good advantage. And the cut of the dress flattered her figure. Considering she did not possess a long dress coat, the street-length dress would also look better than the others with the lined raincoat she planned to wear over it. Fortunately, there was no need to wear boots—the recent rain had washed away most of the snow in the city—since none of hers would look right with this outfit. Sheer stockings and a pair of heels would look fine with both raincoat and dress.
As Liz laid out her clothes and then stepped into the shower, it seemed both strange and inappropriate that such considerations could matter so much at a time like this. Here she was, taking time to dress up for a date while Ellen Johansson might never have the opportunity to fuss over her clothing choice again. And that raised the question of what Ellen had been wearing when she went missing. Had anyone reported on that? Certainly, Liz had not. She made a mental note to find out.
As she shampooed her hair, Liz’s thoughts strayed to Cormac. What kind of humor would he be in? Smiling at the thought of the dresses she had rejected, she almost laughed to think of how awful it would be to show up in an alluring outfit, only to have Cormac confine his conversation to forensics, or worse, to speak hardly at all, or ogle some other woman. He was an enigma; that was certain. Still, Liz reflected as she toweled herself dry, it would, after all, be useful if Cormac had something to report about the forensics.
Since she had skipped lunch, Liz made herself an English muffin and ate it as she dried her hair and applied makeup. She followed it with a few slices of Swiss cheese. It would not do to have a predinner drink on an empty stomach. Although she often ate lightly out of necessity, her appetite was a healthy one. She had no fear the snack would spoil it.
After her hair was dry, she slipped into her dress, put on her pearl earrings and pendant, and transferred some items from her large purse into a smaller, dressier clutch. The cell phone bulged in it, but there was no time to fuss any further, so after setting down some food for Prudence, she hurried out to her car.
It was no surprise, on a day like this, that she was settled in the driver’s seat before she realized she’d forgotten something. With a large sigh of frustration, she rushed back to the house and rummaged through the mail and other items on her coffee table until she found the thin, gift-wrapped packages of guitar strings tied up with a gold ribbon, and slipped them into her purse.