Alafair Burke - Long Gone

“Nothing illegal about driving around Manhattan.” Supposedly the bureau’s determination regarding his termination was still pending, but Hank could read the writing on the wall. He was for all practical purposes a free agent now.

“I hear your days at the bureau might be numbered. I don’t know what you have in mind, but don’t fuck this all up for both of us, Beckman.”

“I tried to tell you: Alice Humphrey is not the woman I saw with Larson. I’m sure of that. You think you can just gloss that over?”

“The mountain of evidence I’ve got against the recollection of a burnout like you? I’m not losing sleep.”

“Have you arrested her?”

“Not yet. We’ve got enough, though. The DA’s office is working on the warrants now. I mean it, Beckman: stay away from the girl.”

“Whatever you say, Shannon. You’re the man.”

He flipped the phone shut. A half hour on the corner was too much time in the damn cold. He was grateful for the burst of warm air when he opened the glass door of Union Bar. Ignoring the bartender’s frustrated glare when he ordered tea, he made himself comfortable at a table for two in the corner, right next to the window with an unobscured view of the Park Avenue hotel Alice Humphrey had entered thirty-two minutes earlier.

Alice felt herself lose track of time in the void of the silent phone line.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I just-um, I’m very sorry to hear about Mr. Atkinson’s accident. Do you know what happened?”

“The police are saying he ran off the road, like into a ravine or something? No one even saw it happen. Someone passed the accident scene this morning and called an ambulance, but it was way too late. They don’t know whether it was intentional or if he was drunk or if it was, like, I don’t know, road rage or something. I heard the editor say the police think there’s a possibility of foul play.”

It was a long-winded and manic way of saying she didn’t know anything yet.

“My name is Alice Humphrey. Mr. Atkinson had been trying for some time to reach me. I believe he was also speaking to my brother, Ben Humphrey. I was hoping to find out why he’d been calling me.”

“Bob has- had- a tendency to be, like, really private until he was ready to go to print with a story? If you ask me, the writers can be a little cutthroat with each other. I think they get paid based on what’s printed, maybe?”

“What is Empire Media? I’m not familiar with it.”

“Sure you are, you just don’t know it.” She spoke like someone looking forward to announcing a joke’s punch line.

“I don’t understand.”

“The National Star ?”

“Ah.” Alice did indeed recognize the name of the notorious tabloid.

“Exactly. No surprise the writers like to say they’re from Empire Media instead. Sounds, you know, like, classier?”

“And you don’t know what Mr. Atkinson might have been working on that involved me or my brother? Maybe something involving a gallery called the Highline?”

“Sorry.”

“Or perhaps Frank Humphrey?”

“Nope. Oh, wait, you’re, like, with that Humphrey?”

“One big happy family,” she muttered. “Do you know if Mr. Atkinson might have left some notes in his office that might explain why he was calling me?”

“We don’t exactly give the writers offices, if you know what I mean? Bob usually worked at home. Here’s the thing.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know how I said the police think there’s a possibility of foul play? Apparently the passenger side door was open on Bob’s car, and the keys were gone from the ignition. They also didn’t find any sign of his briefcase, even though he always carried it.”

“So the police think someone caused the accident to steal his keys and briefcase?”

“No, they said it’s more likely someone came across the scene and stole the stuff after the fact. Can you imagine? Who would do something like that? But the police did ask whether Bob might have been working on something that could have created enemies. That’s why the company had his cell phone calls forwarded here. His editor didn’t want to miss out if Bob was in the hunt. Pretty cold, huh?”

Alice was thinking the woman was not a very discreet receptionist when she was struck by the irony that of the two women on either end of this phone conversation, she was the one who’d been out of work for nearly a year.

“Is it possible the editor knows why Mr. Atkinson was calling me?”

“Oh, no. I heard him tell the police that Bob had been even more intense than usual lately, but he has no idea what Bob was up to. He was like an old dinosaur around here and sort of did his own thing. I’m supposed to get the name and number of anyone who calls for him. Alice Humphrey, you said? And what number can he call you back at?”

“I’m traveling now,” she lied, “so I’ll just have to try again later.”

“Okay, I’ll let him know.”

“Did Bob live upstate?” Maybe she could talk her way into the dead reporter’s house to look for any notes he might have left behind, if whoever stole his keys and briefcase hadn’t beaten her to it.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said that Mr. Atkinson’s car accident was on 684. Did he live upstate?”

“No, he lives by Gramercy Park. I’m pretty sure he was driving home from Bedford.”

“He had been spending time in Bedford?”

“Yeah. I overheard him on the phone a couple different times with the Bedford Police Department asking for some ancient police report. He said he was finally going to drive up there and find the damn thing himself. It’ll be so sad if that’s what ended up putting him on the road last night, you know?”

Hank was about to fetch some more warm water for his tea bag when he spotted the woman with short, chocolate-colored hair and heavily lined eyes emerging from the hotel. He was impressed by the transformation. The clothes were the same, but the long black coat and all-weather boots were practically a winter uniform for Manhattan’s women. From the neck up, she was unrecognizable. The strawberry tone of her skin looked paler against the near-black hair. The style of her hair and makeup was different, too. Younger. Stronger. Edgier.

In fact, her hasty makeover had been so effective that he might have missed her if he hadn’t spent so much time over the last two days thinking about the way she carried herself. The long red hair was gone, but that sheepish gait was unmistakable.

He left his empty paper cup on the table and headed south on Park Avenue, letting her maintain a half-block lead.

A lice caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass of the subway car’s window and was startled. Breathe, she told herself. You might feel like you are walking around Manhattan in a Halloween costume, but these people around you have no idea who you are or what you are supposed to look like.

She had paid $20 for a new MetroCard. She would pay cash again at Grand Central for a train ticket to Katonah, one town north of Bedford. She hadn’t figured out yet whether she would be brave enough to exit the train in the town where she had spent nearly every summer of her childhood. Surely the police would have someone watching her parents’ house. And the locals might recognize her, despite this ridiculous haircut. She had every reason to stay as far away from Bedford as possible. But somehow she knew that whatever secrets Robert Atkinson had been searching for in Bedford would provide the key to the locks she felt tightening around her.

The 6 train stopped at Twenty-third Street. It was still early in the afternoon, so foot traffic was light. The young couple across from her moved toward the exit, waiting for the doors to part. The man pushed a loose strand of his girlfriend’s hair behind her ear, and she smiled her thanks. Something about that simple act of thoughtfulness made Alice want to cry.