Glitsky moved toward the door. 'Well,' he said, 'you know now.'
Farrell took up the Trang file. 'You want this back? I don't think Christina needs it.'
'No. It's a copy. Why don't you look through it? Maybe your sharp attorney's eye will see something we missed. Although I doubt it.' He grabbed the doorknob.
'Abe.' One last thing. 'Really. Is there anything we can do about her? I've got the same instinct as you do – let the thing work itself out, but Sam wants to help. She's not going to let it go.'
Glitsky shrugged, glad it was Farrell's problem, his girlfriend's problem. 'Here's the deal, Wes. He'll either leave her alone or he won't. I can't do anything until he does.'
'I hate that part,' Farrell said.
'If it's any consolation,' Abe replied, 'it's not my favorite either.'
CHAPTER FOURTY SEVEN
Dooher saw that Christina's car wasn't in the garage, but didn't think anything of it. It wasn't uncommon. She had a life – she wasn't a prisoner.
He let himself in through the side door and was immediately aware of the silence – a profound and ominous stillness. Standing there in the laundry room, by the alarm box, he listened – had the electricity been shut off?
He turned on the kitchen light. No, that wasn't it.
Silence.
'Christina!'
No answer.
Probably out shopping.
He had been thinking they'd go out to dinner. He'd gotten himself a decent referral from one of his old partners today. It looked like he was going to be getting work subbing on an asbestos lawsuit. If it came through, the job could be milked for a couple hundred hours.
Christina would be glad to hear about it. They'd celebrate. Get her out of the dumps she'd been in lately. It was really a pain, tell the truth, dealing on this level with female hormones.
He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap. Once Christina had this kid, he was thinking, he'd talk her into getting a nanny and put her back to work.
She was better when she worked, when he kept her busy. She was one of those women who wanted to please. You kept them focused on the trees, they never saw the forest which, basically, scared them.
Christina loved cutting the trees, though. She loved clearing the brush around the trunks, pruning the foliage. At the end of the day, Dooher would tell her what a good job she'd done, what needed to be done the next day. She'd been happy. And she loved him because he counted on her. He made her feel important, needed, fulfilled.
He could fix things between them, he knew he could. As a pure physical specimen, she was worth all the trouble, because she was who he deserved. She was the one he wanted.
So he'd tough it through the next couple of months, and she'd get back to the way she'd been when she'd been trying to save the firm. He'd get her back.
This interview today was a sign that things were turning around. His potential new client didn't mention his notorious trial of over a year before.
It was all fading into the background, where it belonged. And about time, too. Where was she?
He removed a frozen stein from the freezer, opened the plastic container of chocolate chip cookies. Poured his beer. There was the pile of mail on the marble counter and he walked over to it, flipping through the usual bills and solicitations.
The telephone. There she was, calling in.
'Hello.'
'Mark, it's Irene.' Christina's mother, checking in. 'How are you doing?'
'Outstanding,' he said. 'How about yourself?'
She was great, Bill was great, the world was a beautiful place. Mark's business was going along fine. No, the weather here had turned cold again. Maybe he and Christina should come down to Ojai for a couple of days this month, get away from the gray. She was out shopping just now, but he'd tell her she'd called, and he was sure she'd get back to her later tonight.
He reached for the little green post-it square next to the telephone and pulled off the top page, where there was a number in Christina's handwriting.
Popping the last of his cookie into his mouth, washing it down with beer, he went upstairs to get into something more comfortable.
Lord, it was a big house. Completely re-done, of course, since Christina had moved in – more busy work, more trees to trim. There was no sign left of Sheila.
He looked in at the library, crossed the foyer, climbed the circular stairway. At the door to the bedroom, he turned on the light and stopped still.
Something here – as when he'd entered the house – something felt wrong.
The top to Christina's dresser had been cleared of all her bric-a-brac – their wedding portrait, pictures of her parents, the small jewelry box, a precious (to her) row of carved soapstone seals, her perfumes.
What the hell…
He grabbed the handles of the top drawer – her underwear – and pulled it quickly out toward him. Then, more quickly, the next one down – pants. The next – sweaters and shirts.
Empty, or nearly so.
Empty enough.
He raced into the bathroom. Her toothbrush was gone, her combs. Wait wait wait, slow down.
She's having the baby, he told himself. She must have tried to call him and ran out of time. She'd driven herself to the hospital. That was it.
But he had had the cellphone with him all day. He would have gotten the call. Still…
He checked downstairs in the foyer closet. The small suitcase was gone. It was the one they'd packed for the delivery. All right, he thought. She's in labor. He'd call the hospital and get down there.
But something else struck him – the large suitcase was missing, too.
At the phone now, he called St Mary's to see if she'd been admitted. No. Unwilling to believe anything else, he told himself again that she had to be in labor somewhere. He tried the other hospitals – Shriner's, the University of California Medical Center.
He punched at the redial feature on the phone and waited while it rang. Irene Carrera answered again, but he'd just spoken to her and she'd known nothing. Surely, if Christina had been in labor and hadn't been able to reach him, she would have called her mother. He hung up without a word.
She'd left him.
The post-it he'd stuck on the wall had a telephone number with Christina's handwriting. It might tell him something, might be someplace to start looking. He entered the numbers and listened to the message.
Farrell.
Okay, he told himself. Okay. Just think. She's gone, but it couldn't have been too long ago and it probably wasn't very far. And she hadn't yet told her mother, that was for sure, so she was staying close.
Maybe she was planning to call him, to give him a chance to talk her back.
She wasn't going to do that.
He'd have to find her and get her and bring her back. She was carrying his baby, Goddamn it. Even if he didn't want it, it was his. And women just didn't walk away from Mark Dooher. He was not going to let that happen.
So she got Farrell's number, but hadn't called him, at least it hadn't been the last call from this phone. The redial told him that.
He was trying to figure it. The last call from this phone had been to her mother, but he had just talked to Irene, and she knew nothing. So what was going on? And where did Farrell come into it?
If she wasn't in labor – he shouldn't be kidding himself, she wasn't – that meant she'd at least looked up Farrell. It had to be for protection. From him.
He hit Farrell's numbers again. When the machine answered, he spoke calmly. 'Wes, it's your old friend Mark Dooher. Would you call as soon as you get this message? It's very important, about Christina. If she's in labor and you know it, would you let me know. I'm worried sick.'