Lauren opened her drawer, again trying to locate the slip of paper, pad, or message slip on which she’d written Michael’s information. She had searched her office yesterday, to no avail. Now she was back, hoping that a fresh look at things would produce a different result.
She rummaged through her files, checked her wastebasket, which had since been emptied, and then cradled her head in her hands, elbows resting atop her desk. In her mind, she walked herself through Michael’s phone call. It was hectic; she had just taken a call from another psychologist about a patient. As she hung up, her late appointment came running out of the elevator — and then the receptionist informed her that Michael was on the phone.
She opened her eyes and looked around the office. She remembered walking in and grabbing something to write on as Michael was rattling off his itinerary. She kept telling him to slow down, but he said he would leave a note for her and that he had to go before the traffic made him miss his plane.
Her eyes roamed the office and came to rest on an issue of Sports Illustrated. “That’s it!” she said, rising from her chair. She lifted the magazine and looked for her handwriting. Finding it clean, she walked out of the room and into the waiting area where the other magazines were haphazardly tossed on a large coffee table in between two couches.
None of the issues had her handwriting on the back. But she remembered it all now, from Michael’s phone call to scribbling her notes across the back of a magazine. After making sure no stray issues were beneath the couches or in the empty rack on the wall, she walked up to the receptionist, who was fielding a phone call.
Lauren knew that either a patient had taken the magazine home with him or her, or-
The receptionist disconnected her call and was looking at Lauren. “Yes, Doctor?”
“Do you know if there are any other magazines floating around the suite? I wrote something down on the back of one of them and I can’t seem to find it.”
“I did a clearing just before the patients went in, about half an hour ago. I put all of them on the table.”
“Do you remember seeing one that had my writing on the back?”
“Not offhand. But you know how patients are. Sometimes they ask to borrow one, but most of the time they just take them.”
“If you find it, would you please call me immediately?” Lauren then turned toward the stairwell. “And do me a favor and reschedule tonight’s and tomorrow’s patients for another time. I’ve got some… personal matters to deal with.”
Lauren headed back to her car, angry that she had not written Michael’s itinerary down in a safe place. But, as Deputy Vork had said, at the time it did not seem to be important. Michael had said he was leaving the information for her.
So why wasn’t it there when she got home that night?
Lauren returned to her car and headed down Cambridge Road toward the freeway. She was on her way to Michael’s office in Folsom, where she hoped to find an enlightening morsel or two of information. Though she had spoken on the phone with his secretary at length yesterday, it was not the same as being there and examining his office herself.
After stopping at the traffic light, Lauren noticed that her fuel gauge light was lit. Her eyebrows rose in disbelief. Empty? She had filled the tank a couple of days ago. She tapped the dashboard plastic in front of the gauge, but the orange warning light continued to glow. Fortunately, an Arco station was a mile away. She hung a U-turn and headed back toward Cameron Park Drive.
Standing outside in the chilled wind, Lauren alternately lifted her feet, trying to generate some warmth. After another gust hit her, she took shelter inside the car and rubbed her hands together. She’d figured the tank would only take a few gallons — thus confirming her thought that the gauge was defective. But as the LCD readout approached seventeen gallons, she realized that something was definitely wrong.
And it had nothing to do with a faulty fuel gauge.
4
Lauren walked up to the new four-story office building on East Bidwell Road and shielded her eyes from the high gray sky that was bouncing off the reflective glass. Inside the lobby, the directory displayed the company name, Cablecast, and listed the three floors that it occupied. She had not been to Michael’s office since his division had moved suites six months ago and had to ask several people before finding the proper floor and section.
Lauren introduced herself to Amber, Michael’s secretary. Dark skinned and thin, Amber was not what Lauren had expected.
“People in his group have been in and out of his office,” the young secretary said. “After we talked yesterday, I checked around, and everyone said they’d left things pretty much as they were.”
Lauren thanked her and proceeded in. Amber was a lot more attractive than Lauren had imagined. Certainly, if what Deputy Vork had said was true, then Michael didn’t need to go all the way to Colorado to have an affair. He had a sweet, young candidate ten feet outside his office door.
Lauren shook her head and scolded herself for having such thoughts. But were such thoughts any worse than imagining her husband buried under ten feet of snow, the victim of a sudden snow slide in the middle of Colorado back country?
She stood just inside his doorway and took in the character of the office. It was dark and the air was stale, with an old, nicked and pocked wooden desk pushed over to one side of the ten-by-ten room. She turned on the overhead fluorescent lights. Piles of reports were stacked on his desk, along with a dusty collection of silk flowers protruding from a nondescript vase, and a photo of Lauren, one he had taken himself in their front yard with Tucker. She walked around and sat in his creaky chair, trying to take everything in. She couldn’t resist playing the psychologist. Was this a happy office or a sad one?
The hum of Michael’s PC caught her attention. Like most corporations, Cablecast kept its computers running 24/7. She reached over to the monitor that was squeezed in amongst the folders and turned it on. As the image appeared on the screen, she realized that Cablecast used Microsoft Office, which she was familiar with. She started Outlook and clicked on the CALENDAR icon.
Lauren searched Michael’s schedule for the days before his departure, hoping to find a name or phone number that could give her more information as to where he had gone. She clicked through the prior two weeks without finding any reference to the trip other than one entry on the day he was to leave: “Skiing.”
Before closing out the software, she decided to check his inbox for e-mails. She scrolled through the more recent messages that had arrived while he was away — all of which appeared to be work-related — and found one from a month ago sent by someone identified only as “targard.” Frustrated that it didn’t provide the person’s name, she read through the short message:
Mikee, my man. Ready for the big trip next month? We’re getting things squared away and should have all the t’s crossed in a few days. It’s a go! Can’t wait to see all you guys. It’ll be like old times. Gotta run. Catch you soon.
The message was unsigned. Lauren reread it, then realized there was nothing of use in there… other than that this was a real trip. If she had had any doubts after speaking with Deputy Vork, they were now extinguished.
She hit REPLY and composed her own message:
Hi. This is Lauren Chambers, Michael’s wife. I don’t have your number or I would’ve called. But Michael was supposed to be home two days ago and I haven’t heard from him. Can you give me your name and number and tell me if you and your friends arrived home safely, and when you last saw my husband?