Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

“What did you do?”

“Called the supervising officer of the MAC team-that’s M-A-C, Mobile Acute Crisis. They respond to reports of disturbed or disoriented individuals. Mostly transients, but sometimes you get a person who’s suffered a seizure or a stroke. Anyway, they haven’t encountered your sister. Then I tried the city and county jails-”

“The jails?” That idea never would have occurred to her.

“Anything can happen. But Erin isn’t incarcerated. And you’ll be relieved to hear that the coroner’s office knows nothing about her either.”

“Thank God.” The morgue was another possibility she hadn’t considered, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to consider.

“You said she doesn’t suffer from chronic epileptic fits? That it’s been years since the last one?”

“That’s right.”

“She hasn’t reported being harassed or stalked?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“And you saw no indication of depression?”

“She was fine, like I told you. What are you saying, anyway? You think she committed suicide?”

“I haven’t suggested anything of the kind.”

“She isn’t suicidal. Erin’s tough. A fighter. She always keeps it together, never lets things overwhelm her, get the better of her. Unlike me.”

“What’s so objectionable about you?”

“I’m not exactly a cool head in a crisis… as I guess you’ve noticed.”

“I’d say you’ve handled yourself exceptionally well. You’ve done everything I would have done in your place.”

The compliment buoyed her, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to accept it. “You wouldn’t have been fighting back tears the whole time.”

He didn’t answer that. “You said you looked in Erin’s apartment. I take it you’ve got a key.”

“Sure.”

“Her place is a rental unit? Manager on duty?”

“Till five-thirty.”

“Why don’t we meet there? I’d like to check it out for myself. I don’t have a warrant, but if your sister gave you free access, and the manager approves-”

“She will. She’s as worried as I am. Well, almost.”

“Can you get to Erin’s place in half an hour?”

“Yes. The address-”

“I already know it. I punched up her M.V.D. file. I’ll meet you there at four-fifteen.”

Click, and a dial tone buzzed in her ear.

Half an hour would be just enough time to get there. She had to hurry.

Mrs. Garcia had already left when Annie entered the front room. Just as well; Annie had no time for one of the woman’s interminable monologues on the health and well-being of her dachshund, Snoops.

Despite her haste and worry, she took a moment’s pleasure in the familiar clutter of her shop. It was a small place, what most people would refer to as a hole in the wall-but it was her hole in the wall, brought into existence out of her imagination, investment, and work, and she loved it more dearly than anything in her life, except Erin.

Hanging plants in wicker baskets dangled from ceiling hooks, trailing long leafy stems. Barrels of silk flowers and other artificial greenery flanked the counter, setting off displays of dried flowers in bunches and wreathes. In a walk-in cooler along one wall, bouquets and nosegays sprouted from glass and ceramic vases. Scattered around the room, half hidden in a jungle of green, were odd treasures-teddy bears, chocolates, dried fruits, greeting cards.

But what she cherished above all were not silk flowers, not dried flowers, not flowers tucked away in a humidified and refrigerated cabinet, but living blossoms in the open air, fragrant and alluring, inviting every customer to smell and touch. The shop was crowded almost to bursting with blue dwarf asters, sweet violets, orchids, bell-like lilies of the valley, carnations in rainbow assortments, painted daisies, towering stalks of hollyhock. The perfumes of countless blooms mingled in an aromatic medley.

Breathing in those scents, Annie remembered an evening, five years ago, when she had stood outside the storefront in the late summer twilight, gazing up at a gaudy canopy, newly installed. SUNRISE FLOWERS, it said, a reference to the store’s location in a suburban shopping plaza on Sunrise Road and, less prosaically, to the wordless sense of hope that always seemed to rise in her with the sun.

Hope had been all she’d had at the beginning, and not very much of it either. From the start she had feared that the enterprise was doomed. Surely she was too much of a scatterbrain to run her own business.

She’d had a plan, though, a way to set her shop apart from the competition. Though she’d offered all the conventional merchandise and services provided by any florist, she had gone a step further by specializing in a variety of exotic plants, hard to find in this part of town.

From the beginning her ads in the newspapers and the Yellow Pages had featured bonsai trees, large-bloom South American roses, and a wide selection of especially beautiful blooms imported from Holland, Japan, and the tropics. None of these items came cheap, and she had worried that she wouldn’t attract a sizable clientele willing to pay a premium for quality.

Her worries had proven to be entirely unfounded. Sunrise Flowers had struggled for only a few short months-months that hadn’t seemed so short at the time-before word of mouth brought a stream of customers to her door. Though Annie would never be rich, she seemed unlikely to starve. She had made it. She was her own boss, and prospering.

Success had proved infinitely more shocking than failure would have been. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, a guardian angel-one with a firm grasp of accounting principles-was watching over her.

She hoped an angel, or somebody, was watching over Erin right now.

Her assistant, cutting roses and soaking them at a worktable behind the counter, looked up as she came in. “Any news?”

“I’ve got to go back to her apartment. A police detective is meeting me there.”

“A detective…”

“Yeah, well, I thought it was time to get the professionals involved. Look, I’m sorry you had to handle Mrs. Garcia on your own.”

“She’s not so bad. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s already three forty-five. I’ll be involved with this for the rest of the day. Why don’t we close up now, and you can deliver the centerpiece to Antonio’s?”

“Antonio’s doesn’t need it till seven. I’ll close the shop at six-thirty, as usual, and drop it off on my way home.”

She was touched. “You don’t have to do all that. I mean, it’s beyond the call of duty and everything.”

“Just leave me the keys and get going. You’ve got more important things to do than talk to me.”

“Well… okay.” She dropped the key ring on the counter. “Look, if any other local deliveries come up, use the messenger service. It’s better than leaving the place unattended.”

“I know, I know.”

“And if Euro-Flora calls again, tell them I double-checked the invoice, and I did order tulips.”

“Right.”

She hesitated. “You’re sure it’s no problem, running the store by yourself?”

“It’s a flower shop, Annie. Not a nuclear reactor. Now go.”

“I appreciate this. Really.”

As she was turning to leave, he said softly, “She’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

Caring words. She smiled at him.

“Thank you, Harold. Really. Thank you so much.”

He nodded, but he did not smile in answer.

That was the funny thing about her assistant.

Harold Gund never smiled.

Michael Walker hated cases like this.

He glanced at Annie Reilly, standing stiffly at his side in the elevator of the Pantano Fountains, watching the numbers change. He had a good idea of what he would be required to tell her before long.