John Finn 11: The last time I saw Desiree

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The last time I saw Desiree she was just an edge of coat and one gloved hand holding tight to a metal bar in a subway car as it began to move away. A shard through the glass. Her face will not come to mind now without a forced thought and then obscurely. The face in a dream that will not stay in focus. This disturbs me.

I have already wondered if, in some recess of my brain, I have concluded that she’s dead. Is this mental obfuscation of her face, a picture so clear in every moment of the day and night for weeks, and now hidden from me, a subconscious attempt at self-protection? Some psychological trick to lessen the blow?

I called the police on Thursday and reported her missing. This was a stretch for them. I had seen her on Sunday evening as the subway car pulled away. Only four days. I suppose the number of unhappily rejected boyfriends making such calls is routine. Resorting to calling the cops did feel like the act of some helpless victim.

What had prompted that call was a combination of things. First, she had answered none of my phone messages since that evening. Before this she had returned every call within minutes. I had rung her doorbell at least twice a day since Monday. On the Tuesday after we were last together, I called her office. She had not been into work. She had left no excuse. They had done nothing themselves concerning her absence other than leave messages on her phone. Her immediate boss, a lawyer named Higgins, told me they would check it out and then, later, to stop calling. I suppose I should have called the police then. Why had I waited?

Des and I had our first argument that Sunday night. Nothing much. Not like the ones I used to have with Mary Ellen on a weekly basis. More a disagreement. I had wanted her to come home with me. She wouldn’t. I offered to go home with her. She didn’t want that. But there was something else on her mind that she was unwilling to discuss. I pressed the issue and she had shown that flash of anger I had seen only once before, the very first day we had met.

I suppose the reason I waited to call the police was because of that. I had crossed some line I did not yet understand and I was reluctant to make that mistake again.

When I called her office on Friday morning, Mr. Higgins was rude and unsympathetic. I called the police again immediately after that to see if they had found out anything. From the sound of it, they had done nothing. Then I called Bill Wise because I had seen him just the week before on a job. I really don’t know that many cops. Bill said he would look into it for me.

I had a job starting Friday night that didn’t quit until Sunday. I called the police a few times when I was free, but they had nothing more to say.

On Monday I woke up with the empty feeling that I had not done enough. I put together a few tools that might be handy and went to her apartment building.

The fact that I had never been into Desiree’s apartment had bothered me before, but on a wholly different level. During the first couple of weeks I thought the matter might be something I didn’t want to know–she was already living with another guy. As it became obvious this wasn’t the case, I had tried to make a game of it, setting up challenges like guessing the number of French fries in the little container when we ate hamburgers, with the winner choosing where we would go next. Stupid stuff.

I went over at noon, hoping that everyone in the building would be off at work. Getting through the lock on the front door was as easy as I expected. The place was quiet except for one apartment on the second floor where I could hear a TV.

Des lives on the third floor at the back. There were two locks on her door. One was the usual type in the knob. The other was a deadbolt. That was my worry. A stiff piece of plastic was not going to do the job on a deadbolt and I have no talent for picking locks. My immediate intention then was to kick it through and hope for the best. But when I slipped the lock on the handle free, the door opened right up. The deadbolt had never been turned.

There was no immediate smell other than wood wax and fairly recent paint. The curtains were not drawn and sunlight played into the room from two windows at odd angles. The apartment was a small one-bedroom with only a few pieces of furniture. It felt as if it were seldom used. By the door was a narrow table with a dish which held a set of keys. I tried them on the door and they worked so I put them in my pocket just in case. That was my best move of the day.

There were no paintings on the walls. Half a dozen books were stacked by a cushioned chair near the window. Three of those were titles I had given Des to read over the last couple of months. A box of new dishes–four place settings–sat in the corner on the counter of the kitchen with a top flap torn away. Two of those dishes were in the sink. The cupboards were almost empty of food. A box of oatmeal. Some cans of soup. Evaporated milk. A box of opened sugar. The refrigerator was nearly as empty. Some orange juice. A can of ground coffee.

It says a lot that I went into the bedroom last.

The bed was made. A single bed. There was a night stand and lamp. There was another book I had given her there. That one was Conrad’s Nostromo. She had noticed it on the shelf near my own bed one night when she was visiting and asked me what the word meant. Then she had taken it from me when I told her I did not understand the title or the book. She said she would read it and explain it to me. That was her. A mischievous grin lifted her face when she said it.

Her face. I saw this for just a second then before it was gone again.

I turned to open the closet and had just gotten a glance at that before I heard the knock on the door. Heavy handed. Something told me who it was before I opened it.

Bill Wise stared at me eye to eye.

“Hey, Johnny. What’s up?”

That’s Bill. He moved right in the door past me without saying anything else, and his partner followed.

I told him. “She isn’t here. I came over to check the situation out. I didn’t think anybody else gave a damn.”

He turned and squinted at me with a bit of irritation.

“You called me. Remember? What’d you think, I was going to blow it off?” His eyes scanned around. His partner was already into the bedroom. Bill turned back to me. “So what do you see? Anything interesting?”

“Nothing. Almost the opposite. The place seems empty. Like she hardly lived here.”

He nodded and looked about himself again. “No TV. Looks like she read a bit…How did you get in, by the way?”

I pulled the keys from my pocket and said, “Forgot I had them.”

Wise squinted again. Somehow I don’t think he believed this, and I didn’t know why. Not until later.

He said, “Well, to make you happy, I filed a full missing person’s this morning. Her boss still hasn’t heard from her either. A real jerk. A lawyer in charge of babysitting. He has half a dozen kids working there, all of them looking for a break with the big law firm. He just uses them for cannon fodder. They don’t seem to know that everyone with a real position in that place has got a daddy who was there before them. Or a sugar daddy.”

I didn’t like that last add-on. It was too obviously intended for me. I tried to ignore it.

“Did Higgins show you her personnel file?”

Bill nodded as he turned toward the kitchen and looked into the cupboards.

“He had it on his desk when I showed up. He was ready to send out a termination letter.”

I pretended to know more than I did.

“Did you call her mother in Long Island?”

Wise fingered a small stack of junk mail he plucked from the garbage beneath the sink and spoke to me without looking up. “Yes. Her mother hasn’t heard a word. Now she’s worried too. She gave me a list of friends from when she was a kid. She gave me a few names of old boy friends. The ones she knew of. I’m afraid you weren’t on the list, ol’ boy-o.”

He looked up at me then with a mock smile.

I shrugged that off, “I knew the mother lived on Long Island somewhere. She’s remarried and I didn’t know her last name or I would have called her myself. That jerk Higgins at Des’s office wouldn’t give me the information.”

Bill nodded, showing a little understanding now, I thought.

“Then you won’t know that your girl friend’s first name isn’t Desiree. Do you?…I thought so. Desiree is the name she uses now. But her real name is Maggie. Margaret Anne. She started using the name Desiree when she came up to Boston during the summer. Her mother didn’t know why.”

Bill’s partner stood close with something raised in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“Found it under the bed.”

Bill took the strip of leather and turned it once to his eye before taking a plastic bag from his pocket. “Part of a belt. Looks like it broke.”

I have to thank Bill Wise. I don’t know him that well. He’s a friend Connie has made over the years. He didn’t say much more to me in the apartment before we both left. But he did call me that night when I was at home.

He said, “So you know that I was in the apartment yesterday about an hour after you first called me, right?”

Now I knew. I had better be straight with him. I said, “Sorry about that…I picked up the keys there by the door. I got in with an old credit card.”

He didn’t give my confession a pause. “I figured. The bolt wasn’t on the door the first time we went in either. I don’t think she lived there. I think that’s the answer to our little mystery. Your Desiree has another life somewhere else. But the report is filed. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe she’ll call you. Maybe she’s just gone off again. Her mother says she does that. After college she went to San Francisco. Then Texas. She went to Europe for awhile. She moves around…Personally, I think she was an unhappy girl.”

“Woman,” I said.

“Woman…And try to avoid any more breaking and entering, will you. It’s against the law.”

I didn’t hesitate. I needed his help.

“Yes, sir. But, I’d like to know a little more about her.”

I had slept with Desiree Perry a couple dozen times in the last two months. But I hardly knew her.

We had spent at least part of every weekend together since we had met and several weekday evenings as well. She had told me more than once she didn’t want to interrupt my writing, and she always left early in the mornings after a quick cup of coffee.

We had talked about nearly everything that came to mind. We had even spoken about such fine things as philosophy and morals. We had chewed on the issue of ethics for most of one Saturday night over ribs at the Blue Ribbon and then talked about trucks and football the Sunday afterward while the Patriots did a bad job. But, as much as I had told her about my own life, we had seldom spoken about hers. I kept trying. I knew I had to try, if for no other reason than to let her know I cared. But she never broke.

I knew maybe half a dozen facts. She was an only child. Her mother lived in Greenport, Long Island, with the third husband. She had passed the bar in Texas…What else? She liked hot spicy food. No. I knew a great number of little things like that. I had made a catalogue of her small habits. What I lacked was history.

Bill Wise filled in a bit of that on the phone Monday night.

She had grown up Margaret Anne Perry near San Diego, California. She had attended Mission Hills High School, in a town called San Marcos. She got her law degree from the University of San Diego. She worked at an In-and-Out Burger to help pay her way. Afterward, she had worked in San Francisco at a law firm, Shippen and Douglas, for five years. Then she had moved to Houston. She was there for eight years at a firm called White, Adams, and Tucker. She had traveled for a couple of years after that, before coming to Boston. She had good performance reports along the way. She had never worked as a trial lawyer. She had never married. She had no children. Those last two things I knew already because she had told me the day we met.

On Tuesday I used my password and went on Connie McGuire’s website. I sent an e-mail to the ‘Human Resources’ department at White, Adams and Tucker requesting a confirmation of their performance review and their recommendation for Margaret Anne Perry per her job application for the position of legal council at McGuire Security. On Wednesday I pushed this a bit further. I called Houston and spoke to Mrs. Guerney, the ‘Personnel Director.’ She seemed pleasant enough so I pressed the conversation as far as I could.

She had seen my e-mail. She confirmed the details I had offered concerning the period of employment, and the fact that Des had left the firm “for personal reasons and not for any misconduct or performance issues.” She added, “I didn’t know her, myself. She was already here when I came on board.” She hesitated. Then, “But you might want to speak with Mr. Adams. She served as his legal assistant for much of the time she was here.”

This was something to work with. I had suggested the ‘personal’ reasons in my e-mail. It was just a guess. A frequently used excuse.

I looked up White, Adams and Tucker on the internet, got the short bios of the partners, and then looked up George Jefferson Adams. I liked the name. There was some resonance to it.

Mr. Adams was an active man. He had homes in Colorado and New York as well as Houston. He was married. Had two children. He was a Yale Law School grad. He was born in Springfield, Illinois. He was Catholic. There were pictures of him at charitable functions in New York with his wife. He was a very fit man. Ruddy cheeked. Broad shouldered. I would call him good looking. I bet he liked to ski when he was in Colorado. And his wife was a knockout. Intentionally blonde. Maybe a touch of something injected into her lips. I didn’t like her on sight. There were no pictures of the kids.

So I had my theories. Everything was imagined. Just stories. I needed something more.

I put in a call to Mr. Adams. A secretary took my message.

Then I called Des’s mother.

Funny how a mother’s voice can have colors in it that are passed down. I imagine this is the voice that Des will have in a few years—slightly huskier. A bit lower. I hope so.

Her mother was Mrs. Arnold now. I told her exactly who I was and why I was calling. I gave her more information at the start just to put a damper on any fears that I might somehow be involved in her daughter’s disappearance. I even told her I had spoken to Detective Wise.

She said, “Detective Wise seemed to be very concerned. He seemed to think it was serious. Maybe she just didn’t go off someplace this time.”

Mrs. Arnold seemed to accept my interest without reservation. I thought she was a little too trusting and wondered if that had anything to do with her having had three husbands. She said, “You know, Maggie seemed a little happier when she called lately. Maybe that was your fault. I hope so…She has her mother’s faults, I’m afraid. I’ve always been unlucky in love…Oh. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be accusing you of anything. I’m sure you are a fine fellow…You aren’t married, are you?”

Was that an odd question for a mother to ask? I told her “No. But I am divorced. I have three daughters. I can empathize pretty well with your feeling about her choices in men.”

“Yes. Well. Maggie was my only child. And I wanted the best for her. I just didn’t go about getting it in the right way.”

“Maybe not. Maybe this will all turn out to be okay.”

There was a prolonged silence. I suspected Mrs. Arnold was crying. I waited.

Finally she said, “No. I have a feeling about this. Something is terribly wrong.”

I wasn’t going in that direction. “Try to think positively. Try to imagine other reasons she might have left. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere. Is there any reason for her to be hiding?”

“I don’t know. She was very upset after she left Houston. That was when she went to Europe to get away.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. Well. I know he was married.”

“What was his name?”

“Jeff. That’s all I know about him. She called him Jeff once when she was upset.”

I told her that I would keep looking for Maggie, for as long as it took to find her. I admitted my interest was selfish. I had only known her daughter for a few months, but I said I was in love with her. And that was the way it was. I left my number in case she had any other ideas.

On Tuesday afternoon I went back to Des’s apartment. I even knocked before I went in. It felt odd waiting for her to answer. It was just a brief suspension of disbelief.

As soon as I opened the door I noticed several things had been moved. The books were now off the floor and on the seat of the chair. Interestingly, the garbage can that Bill Wise had looked into the day before, and then placed back beneath the sink, was out in the middle of the kitchen floor. I wondered if there had been a Police forensic unit in the place checking things out.

My own interest was the closet. I wanted to see what clothes were there. I had seen Des wearing at least a dozen different outfits over the two months. Probably more. In the closet there were four blouses. Two sweaters. Two skirts. Two pairs of shoes. This was not nearly everything I had seen her wear. In the drawers below there were a few pieces of underwear. No bras. And there was no suitcase.

I had a job to cover for Connie on Friday and Saturday night, but I had time to make a few more phone calls. Mr. Adams’ secretary had left a message on my phone that he was unavailable, but that Mrs. Guerney, the personnel director might be able to help. On Wednesday morning I spent a little time on the internet, found the lowest air-fair to Houston, and made an early reservation for Thursday.

I hate to fly. This was not always the case. My problem started in Iraq. They would shuttle us around in those windowless C-141’s. Big planes. But the thermals over the desert were rough. In a second you’d have your lunch from an hour before all they way up your throat. Naturally the plane I took on Thursday went through some kind of weather system over the Mississippi valley. I was sick for the last hour of the ride. And the seats were way too small. The guy next to me had started out being unhappy from the moment I sat down, and that naturally got worse when I began throwing up.

Houston is an ugly city. It’s hard to believe anyone would live there. Flat. Colorless. Houses that look like they were designed by children in kindergarten, that go on and on, mile after mile. There are a few eye catchers but most of the skyscrapers proudly display a want of style or grace, as if their lack of distinction was a fact to their credit. Neighborhoods outlined by scrubby trees you can look over the tops of from the hi-way. Canal water that’s a green not found in the Crayola box.

The cab ride from the airport was forty-five bucks. The driver was uninterested in conversation so I didn’t tip him. But I did mention that he might brush up his social skills before I shut the door. I was in a bad mood.

White, Adams and Tucker is in a faux Spanish style building fronted by well manicured palm trees. I don’t know how people can tell one of these places from the other after their second beer. It was early afternoon. I left my name with the receptionist and sat in the lobby. There were few sounds to hear between the low ceiling and the thick carpet and the hum of air conditioning. About fifteen minutes later a very neat looking woman appeared from one of several halls stretching back to the offices.

I stood up. She did not offer to shake my hand.

“Mr. Finn. I think I told you on the phone that Mr. Adams was not available. I’m surprised you came by.”

“I was in the area. Just took a chance. But do me a favor, will you? Could you tell Jeff that I’m here, anyway. Just in case.”

She reacted. I saw it in her eyes.

I waited about twenty minutes more before Mr. Adams came in the front door. Dark blue suit and white shirt with a light blue tie. I need a suit like that. I have a feeling Sarah’s going to tell me she’s getting married pretty soon.

And I figured I had disturbed Mr. Adams’ lunch somewhere, so I smiled. He introduced himself. He has muscular hands.

I said right off, “Before you chase me out, you’ll have to tell me where the best place to eat is. I’m running on empty.”

That cracked a little ice. Food is a common bond among some men, and I knew I had that much in common with him on sight.

“It’s called Goode Company. Just a couple of blocks south from here. Try the mesquite-grilled catfish. You’ll want to move to Houston after you do. But what can I do for you right now?”

“Can we talk privately?”

He raised his chin. Not a full nod. Then he started back down the hall his secretary had appeared from earlier and stood by an open door waiting for me to follow. It was not his office. It was a conference room. My sense of it was that it was fairly soundproofed. He closed the door.

There were several ways I could approach this. I had run through a couple of good scenarios while I was swallowing my nausea over Arkansas. I decided his recommendation about the catfish deserved a little honesty.

“Maggie Perry is missing. She’s disappeared. More than a week now.”

He took a heavy breath. I sat down. I needed to. Perhaps it was the lack of food in my stomach. Maybe it was the confrontation with this man who might in some way be responsible for Des being gone. In any case, my legs were weak and I sat down. Thankfully, Mr. Adams did as well. He adjusted the crease in his pants. He bit his lip. I got tired of the lip biting back in the Clinton years.

“I know. A police detective from Boston called here a few days ago…What’s your interest in this? This means something more to you, I think, than just an application for employment.”

Be direct. I was speaking to a successful lawyer. If I had learned anything from Des it was to be direct.

I said, “I fell in love with her a couple of months ago. I think she felt the same for me. Her disappearing doesn’t fit the picture.”

He nodded. I could see his mind working. He was trying to deal with the fact of it. It took several seconds.

“Well, we have something in common, then. I love Anne as well…Oh. Yes. We called her Anne here. She said she didn’t like Maggie. Or Margaret. We always called her Anne. I suppose she must have decided to change more than her address when she landed in Boston.”

I decided right then that I would keep the name she had actually used to myself. It was suddenly something private.

I said, “I’m trying to understand all this. I was hoping that it might make more sense after I talked to you.”

He bit his lip. “Yes. I thought a little about it myself. Not as much as you, I suppose. I don’t have that privilege anymore. She broke up with me, you understand. That was over two years ago. I wouldn’t divorce my wife. She gave me time to consider the situation. And then she left.”

Lawyer or not, he seemed to be telling the basic truth. There was not going to be a lot of room for chit chat here.

I asked, “Did she ever just disappear during the time she was here?”

“No. Not that I remember. She liked details. She liked her work. She was very good.”

“Was there anyplace—when she was here, was there anyplace she liked to go to get away?”

Mr. Adams studied me for a moment, his chin up again. I wondered if this was a pose from his courtroom work.

He said, “I suppose the problem I have with telling you is that she’s left you as well. This is her choice. She’s moved on again. Whatever the reason. It’s her choice.”

I offered the other side of the argument without much hesitation.

“It’s a little more complicated than that. She didn’t just disappear when she left Houston. Something is wrong. Whether she ever wants to see me again or not, I think I owe it to her to make sure she’s okay.”

Adams studied his own hand on the conference table as he flexed it—as if a cramp were causing him pain. It was a hand used to physical activity. I made the leap of deciding that he played tennis.

He finally nodded. “Alright. I understand that. There is a place in California she went back to several times by herself. Near La Jolla. She liked a particular bed and breakfast there. She wanted to move there someday I think. She even wanted me to go there with her the spring before she left, but I wouldn’t. I think that was near the end of it for us.”

I had no interest in pursuing this man’s personal life. He was an unfaithful husband. If that was all there was to it. But for Des, I was confused. Why had she allowed herself to get involved with a married man and then keep the relationship up for so long? How was I going to ask Jeff Adams such a question?

I said, “She’s a smart woman. You know that. I’m curious why you think she allowed herself to get involved with you?”

He could take that as an affront if he wanted. Or he could consider it a reasonable inquiry.

He kept his chin up, “Well that’s a personal matter. It’s not your business. But let me say this—when it started—at the beginning, it was all very unplanned. An accident. Too much time spent together working on a couple of cases in a row. And my wife was living in New York then. We had separated. So I suppose there was some excuse for Anne because she knew that. But not for me. I never intended to get a divorce. And then, suddenly, it was all I could think about. I told her I would. So, I suppose you ought to forgive her for that. I have to take the blame. But there were kids involved. And when it was clear I was not going to do it after all, in the end, she left.”

Adams was right. The catfish was great. I spent my time at the restaurant afterwards jotting down a few notes. Mr. Adams’ confession had moved me enough to make me feel a little better under the circumstances. At least about Des.

That evening I sat in the motel and called every bed and breakfast in La Jolla, California. My approach to this was simple enough. I asked if Maggie Perry was there. I decided to use Maggie, and not Anne, because she probably started going to the area pretty early on, and that was the name she used then. It didn’t help. No one knew her. But one woman told me there were dozens of places that didn’t even list themselves in the phone book. It was a popular business for retirees. There were a lot of ex-navy people nearby with kids who’d left home. They rented rooms.

I figured, how big can La Jolla be? I could at least check it out.

But when I went to buy a plane ticket I discovered I’d run through the credit limit on my card.

So I called Connie.

His first words were, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to find Des.”

“In the Pacific Ocean?”

“I hope not.”

“How long are you going to take?”

“I don’t know. Give Burley my shifts. He can handle it. But I need a favor.”

“Another favor, you mean.”

“Yeah. Another favor. I’d appreciate it if you’d deposit some money in my account. A loan. My debit card is dead.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand?”

He didn’t give it half a second. He’s always been smart with money.

“I can’t do it John. Come home. I’ll put a couple hundred in. Come home.”

The shuttle bus from the motel back to the airport cost twenty bucks. I sat in a bar there and went over what might be important.

What had happened to Des?

The curtains in her apartment had been open. Of course Detective Wise might have done that when he gone there the day before I did. I would have to ask. But if not, then perhaps Des had never even made it back to her apartment that Sunday night. Certainly, she spent little time there. She must have gone there after seeing me, at least most of the times, or else the books I had given her would not likely be there. Before that Sunday evening, she had stayed with me every time I had asked her to. But that night she would not.

I knew almost nothing about this woman. The person I thought I knew was not very much of the whole. What I knew was a small part, at most. A shard.

I did not throw up on the plane back to Boston. I slept. About eight ounces of Jameson’s was sufficient.

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