J. Jance - Improbable cause

“They’re for the silent auction,” Rachel explained as we passed the smaller tents. “The big one is for the dinner and the live auction.”

The large tent must have been at least 150 feet long by 80 feet wide. One side and one end were open. A raised stage ran the length of the open side. On it auction items were being displayed. Behind the short closed end, a caterer’s caravan of trucks was setting up shop.

Inside the cavernous tent itself a small army of workers erected tables and covered them with brilliant wine red underskirting and plush white table linen. Tall stacks of wooden chairs with padded seats were scattered here and there around the area, waiting to be put in place once the tables were dressed. The end result looked far more like the huge dining room of a fine hotel rather than the interior of an outdoor tent.

Rachel beckoned for us to follow her as she threaded her way through various groups of workers. Now and then she stopped to ask someone if they had seen Daisy. The answer was always negative. We searched through all three tents to no avail.

“She must not be working on setup.” Rachel admitted at last.

“So what now?” Al asked.

“Keep looking.” I said. “Rachel, you lead the way.”

Big AI grunted an objection, but he trudged along behind me as I followed Rachel out of the last tent. We moved north and east, leaving in our wake the three tents and all their feverish activity.

I have no idea how many people were at Woodland Park Zoo that afternoon. Hundreds for sure, maybe even thousands. It seemed like that many.

Aside from the people directly involved in preparation for the banquet, the place was alive with Parks and Recreation personnel putting a spit-and-polish face-lift on the grounds for the mayor’s annual obligatory visit. Add to that the regular zoo staff members plus a whole wad of uniformed docents. All told, it made quite a crowd before you got around to counting the ordinary zoo-viewing public.

The zoo-viewing public is a world unto itself.

By the middle of July, frantic mothers all over the city had finally realized just how long they had to hold out before being able to send their little darlings back to schools and teachers, where they belonged. Desperate to get their children out of the house, even at the cost of going out in the rain, mothers by the hundreds had flocked to the zoo with their broods that soggy afternoon.

The animals were locked up. Believe me, they should have been grateful. Hordes of children, very few on leashes or under voice control, were running loose and tearing the place apart. They were everywhere at once- in, over, under, around, up, and down-playing tag and war and screaming at the tops of their lungs.

Evidently, Big Al was thinking much the same thing. Two howling children darted between us and one of them landed squarely on his toe.

“These goddamned kids are the ones who ought to be in cages,” he fumed. It was a private exchange, meant for my ears only, but Rachel picked up on it.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “We don’t call them cages here,” she chided. “They’re exhibits.”

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, it might have been comical. I had to take my hat off to whoever was in charge of docent training. It was brain washing of the first water since Rachel’s docent background was still fully alive and functioning on automatic, despite the grim circumstances.

It was four by the time Rachel led us past the bison, wolves, elk, and deer. As she walked, she continued to regale us with a running commentary on the animals and the zoo as well. Al was impatient and wanted to shut her up, but I understood and encouraged her with questions. The constant chatter was a reflex, a defense mechanism that allowed her to move through the process without thinking too much about exactly what we were doing. Or why we were doing it.

It started misting as we passed the snow leopards and the feline house, making me painfully aware that my lightweight summer jacket was neither water- nor weatherproof. The rain was falling harder by the time we got to the bear grotto, and it turned into a wholesale downpour before we reached the gorillas.

We were all soaked to the skin and Big Al was surly as hell by the time we reached the inside of the gorilla exhibit and huddled under the roofed-over part for shelter from the rain.

“This is stupid,” Al muttered. “We’ve walked all over hell and gone and still no sign of her. Aren’t you ready to give up yet?”

“No,” Rachel insisted. “Please don’t quit looking, not yet. I’m sure we’ll find her.”

Al shook his head in disgust while I kept my mouth shut. He had slipped off a shoe and was standing balanced on one foot while he massaged the sole of the other.

“What say we call in some troops now, Beau,” he began. “That way we can at least get some coverage on the gates. Doing it this way doesn’t make sense.”

I walked over to the glass window of the exhibit. The gorillas didn’t like rain any more than we did. They had come into their part of the shelter and were busily tossing loose hay around, making nests for themselves, and playing with a scatter of burlap bags left for casual games of tug-of-war.

One of them, a big male, looked up at me sadly, our eyes meeting through the steamy glass for several long seconds before he looked dispiritedly away. Al was right in principle. Bringing in more officers would ensure our finding Daisy Carmichael before she had a chance to slip through our fingers.

But calling for reserves would bring a pack of reporters in their wake as well. We’d be doing our job under much the same kind of scrutiny as that in which these gorillas did. I hated it-for the gorillas, for me, and, most of all, for Daisy Carmichael.

“No,” I said, hearing the stubborn insistence in my own voice. “No reserves. We’ll find her. Go home if you want to, Al, but I’m going to keep on looking. I’m going to look till I find her.”

Big Al sighed. He wasn’t a quitter, at least not yet. He put his shoe back on and straightened up. “All right, all right. Where to now?”

The rain let up finally and we set out walking again. Rachel seemed to be following some habitual route. By then it was after five. In addition to the families still lingering in the zoo we were beginning to see a few groups of evening-clad couples, people dressed in tuxedos and long dresses, the first arrivals eager to catch a behind-the-scenes tour.

One lady, a wildly red-haired one, wore a lush fur draped over one shoulder. Considering she was a visiting a zoo, that struck me as particularly tacky.

By six, Big Al was again ready to throw in the towel. We had made still another full circle of the grounds and were back by the zoo entrance when he stopped dead in his tracks.

“I’m not taking another fucking step,” he whispered to me. “My feet are killing me.”

“Go, then,” I told him. “Take the car back to the department. I’ll catch a bus home later.”

Without realizing we were no longer following her, Rachel had walked on ahead. Now she returned. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Detective Lindstrom has to leave,” I said. “He’s going to take the car and go back downtown. Why don’t you call home and check with George to see if by any chance Daisy has shown up there?”

“That’s the first sensible thing anybody has said for hours,” Big Al grumbled. Rachel headed for the ARC to use the phone. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I bail out on you?” Al asked.

“Not at all,” I told him. “Go. Molly’s probably waiting dinner. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

Al was gone by the time Rachel returned.

“George says there’s been no sign of her,” Rachel said.