“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But it turns out they were due to leave for Albany late this afternoon. They’re flying out to a medical conference in Phoenix, Arizona. Or at least they were. She had already missed the flight when she called.”
“Maybe he had some sort of medical emergency? Had to make a house call, or go to the hospital?”
“Mrs. Rouse said he’s always checked in with her before. She was calling their friends all this afternoon looking for him. She checked Washington County and Glens Falls Hospitals, thought he might be with a patient someplace. But no luck. She also called Laura Rayfield-that’s the clinic nurse practitioner.”
“I know who she is.”
“Well, she hadn’t seen him. Anyway, according to Mrs. Rouse, the doc seemed kind of restless and distracted, but she put it down to his upcoming trip. She says he left home around eleven o’clock this morning to run a few errands. He told her he was going to the clinic to deal with the mail and dictate notes for files. They were planning to be gone for a week. She reminded him he had to be home by four for them to make their flight in good season. Then he drove off. When he didn’t show up on time, she went over to the clinic, but he was gone. She hasn’t seen him since.”
He thought for a moment. “Did she check to see if he’d been admitted to one of the hospitals as a John Doe?”
“I dunno. Though you’d think someone would recognize him even if he had no ID. The man’s been practicing medicine in this town for thirty years.”
“What about a girlfriend?”
“I certainly haven’t heard anybody gossiping about one at my hairdresser’s. It wasn’t a question I wanted to put to his wife.”
“No, I suppose not.” He trailed across the kitchen floor slowly, letting his feet follow his thinking. “What did you tell Mrs. Rouse?”
“I told her that unless there’s evidence of something funny going on, we don’t declare adults officially missing for forty-eight hours. But it’s a slow night, so I asked Duane and Tim to stop into any bars that they pass and see if anyone’s seen the doc.”
“Good.”
“And since the man is sixty-five years old, I circulated a description of his car and plates to the staties. I told ’em it was a possible medical. For all we know, he had a heart attack behind the wheel while he was running those errands.”
“Good call.” There were a lot of stretches of road in and around Millers Kill where a car could roll off into the brush and not be noticed. “I don’t know why I bother to come in, Harlene. You go ahead and do my job for me.”
She snorted. “Someday this department will finally get a female officer, and then you’ll see it’s not that I’m so great, it’s that women are naturally smarter than men.”
“I never doubted that for a second. I have a hunch about the doctor, and I’m going to look into it. I’ll be back in touch ASAP.”
“Gotcha. I’ll call if one of the guys turns him up in the meantime.”
He said good-bye and rang off. He stood for a moment, the phone’s stubby antenna just touching his forehead, like a meditative finger. There wasn’t any reason to suspect that Debba Clow’s unexpected appearance at Clare’s house was connected to Allan Rouse’s equally unexpected disappearance. But he had been a cop, military and civilian, for a quarter century now, and he had learned to trust the little nudges that occasionally bubbled up from the bottom of his brain. He dialed Clare’s number again.
This time, her machine answered. He listened to her mechanically flattened voice advise him of her office and cell numbers, and when invited to leave a message, he said, “Clare, it’s Russ. Please pick up. I need to-”
“Hi, it’s me. What’s up?”
“Is Debba Clow still there?”
“Yes, and we’re having a pretty intense discussion, so I really can’t-”
“I’m not calling to chitchat, I promise. I’d like to speak to Debba.”
Clare’s voice was more guarded. “Why?”
“Just tell her I’d like to speak to her. Please.”
“Okay…”
He walked upstairs to his bedroom while he waited for someone to come back on the line. He pulled his jeans out of a pile of clothing on a chair. After a second’s thought, he also retrieved the uniform shirt he had worn earlier that day. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to put them on.
“She would rather not speak to you right now.” Clare was trying to sound neutral, professional, but he could hear the undercurrent of distress in her voice. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Can you tell me why she needed to talk to you so bad she couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
There was an exasperated burst of air. “You know I can’t disclose what I’m told in priestly confidence.”
“She’s not one of your congregation.”
“Russ, I’m not a priest just for card-carrying, pledging Episcopalians. I’m a priest for anybody who needs one. My obligations remain the same.”
He almost smiled. “I know.” The thought of telling her about Allan Rouse went through his mind. Followed by the thought of her telling Debba, and Debba splitting before he or anyone else had a chance to ask her what she knew about the doctor’s whereabouts. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I interrupted your conversation.”
“Russ.” Her voice was pitched halfway between exasperation and concern. Concern won out. “What’s going on? Can I help you?”
He did smile. “Not at the moment. But I’ll let you know. Later.”
“Okay.” She trailed off. “Later.”
He dropped the phone on his bed and shucked off his sweatshirt. He had been right. He was going to have to get dressed again after all.
Chapter 12
When Russ rolled his pickup to a stop in front of Clare’s house, Debba Clow’s Toyota Camry was still parked in her drive. He got out, shrugging into his parka and tugging a wool cap over his head. The night sky was clear, with a full moon and winter-bright stars, and the temperature, which had risen a few degrees above freezing during the day’s sunshine, had plummeted back into the low teens.
There was barely enough space for him to edge between the cars and the icy snowbanks crowding the drive. The heavy, compacted snowbanks, tossed up over four months of shoveling the drive, were slipping forward, like glaciers riding on their own melting remains. Clare’s front door, sheltered by a graceful Dutch revival porch, was inaccessible to anyone without an industrial-strength snow-blower. He clumped up the back steps to her kitchen.
The door opened before he had the chance to knock.
“Chief Van Alstyne. What a surprise.” Clare stood blocking his way, one hand cocked on her hip. She didn’t look happy to see him.
“I’d like to speak to Debba Clow.”
“Have you got a warrant?”
“Do I need one? For Chrissakes, Clare, it’s colder than the monkey’s brass balls out here. Lemme in.”
He could see in her eyes the exact moment when she calculated it wasn’t worth it. “Come in, then,” she said with ill grace, stepping back from the door.
He kicked the ice off his boots and entered. He hadn’t been in this room in over a year. It was still a bland white box, straight from the lowest-grade aisle of kitchen fittings in HQ, but she had cluttered it into warmth with a braided rug and splashy seat cushions and a surprising number of glossy green houseplants that hadn’t been there a year ago.
He stuffed his hat into his pocket and hung his parka on her coatrack. “Where’s Debba?” he asked.
She pointed to the swinging doors that led to the living room. “What are you looking for, Russ? Why do you need to question her?”
“You’ve been talking with her for an hour or so. I figure you probably have a better idea than I do.”