Michael Prescott - Blind Pursuit

In his thirteen years with the Tucson P.D., first as a young uniformed cop fresh from college, then as a detective working robbery-homicide, Walker had fielded countless missing-person reports. He knew every step of the dance he and Annie were in the midst of performing… and how that dance would end.

He only hoped she would understand. The barely controlled anxiety that had frozen her in a pose of unnatural rigidity was not cause for optimism.

Unobtrusively he studied Annie’s reflection on the polished inner doors of the elevator. She was slender and petite, her skin glowing with a light suntan. A pale green dress accented her eyes and made a pleasing contrast with her loose red hair.

Standing beside her in the reflected image was a man in a brown, slightly rumpled suit jacket and a crooked gray tie, a man with close-cropped sandy hair the color of desert soil.

People told Michael Walker he looked like a native Arizonan, a true desert rat. He was long-boned and lean, and he moved with unhurried ease. His face was carved into the flat planes and sharp angles of a movie cowboy’s classic features, the skin stretched drum-head-tight over the bones. His unconscious tendency to squint produced a cluster of faint creases at the corners of his eyes.

Though he shaved every morning, by midday a shadow of beard stubble invariably would emerge, becoming obvious by late afternoon. Once aware of this, he had bought a cordless shaver, which he stowed in his desk or car, but on busy days like today, he found no opportunity to use it.

A cowhand, folks thought when they took note of his lanky form and narrowed eyes. One of the originals. Last of a dying breed.

Untrue. He was no great outdoorsman. Didn’t even like the desert’s summer heat and dryness, tolerated those conditions purely for the sake of the comfortable winters. Born and raised in Chicago, he had suffered through his share of ice storms and blizzards. His intention was never to shovel snow again.

So after four years at Chicago State, he’d moved west, ending up in Tucson. But a cowboy? Horses made him sneeze.

The elevator doors separated. “Her apartment is this way,” Annie said eagerly, leading him down the hall.

“Nice building.” Walker observed fresh paint on the baseboards, new carpet, polished fixtures. A luxury residential complex in a desirable east-side location. A top-floor unit here wouldn’t come cheap. “Your sister seems to be doing quite well.”

“Psychology pays. There are a lot of screwed-up people out there. Yours truly being a prime example.”

“Do you always put yourself down like that?”

Annie stopped before a closed door and fished a set of keys out of her purse. “I don’t mean to. It’s just that I’ve always felt that Erin and I are sort of a yin and yang. She’s everything I’m not, and vice versa. And she’s got her head on so straight, mine feels crooked by comparison.”

Walker smiled. “Well, it looks okay to me.”

Before exploring the apartment, he took a closer look at the front door. There was only one lock, a dead bolt. He saw no scratches on the jamb or faceplate, no indications of tampering.

Following Annie inside, he surveyed a spacious living room, tastefully furnished and exceptionally clean.

“Did your sister leave the lights on?”

“No. That was me. I must’ve forgotten to turn them off. Maybe I shouldn’t have even come here, huh? I might have contaminated the crime scene.”

Walker smiled at that. “We don’t know if it is a crime scene,” he said gently, “or even if there’s been a crime.”

He circled the room. The furniture and decorations appeared undisturbed. The entertainment center, stocked with expensive electronics, was untouched.

A sliding door framed a balcony. Locked. The glass intact.

Annie watched him expectantly, as if imagining that any moment he would release a shout of triumph and deduce her sister’s whereabouts.

No, he was not looking forward to the conversation they would be having in a few minutes. Not at all.

On the mantel was a framed photo portrait-two women, both redheaded, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing at the camera. One was Annie; the other, whom he recognized from her M.V.D. photo, was Erin.

Both were attractive but in different ways. There was an austerity, a cool and level seriousness, to Erin Reilly, despite her smiling face. Annie, by contrast, appeared mischievous, playful, something of a rascal.

Walker had seen her smile only in this photo. A pleasant smile. He remembered her saying that Erin was beautiful and she herself was not. He disagreed.

“That’s us,” Annie said, stepping to his side.

“Was it taken recently?”

“Last November. Around Thanksgiving. I remember we posed for it at lunchtime. The photographer kept coming on to us, and we pretended to be interested. We were in… kind of a silly mood…”

Her voice trailed off as she came back to the present-the empty apartment, the missed appointments, Erin gone.

In the den Walker found a potted schefflera, shelves of psychology books and periodicals, a computer and laser printer. There were no printouts in the tray.

“Does she use the computer exclusively for business?” he asked Annie, who stood attentively in the doorway. It occurred to him that he sounded like an IRS agent.

“Mostly. She keeps a journal on it, though.”

“A personal journal?”

“I think so. I’m not really sure, actually.”

“Well, you might want to consider booting it up. Not now-when you’re alone. There could be some clue to her state of mind.”

“State of mind? You mean you think she ran off on her own? Voluntarily?”

“People do.”

“Not Erin.”

It was too soon to be talking about this. Walker didn’t press the point.

The bathroom was clean and scrubbed. “Her towels are dry,” Annie said from her vantage point in the hall. “The shower too.”

Walker had observed both details. He was more interested in the medicine cabinet. Two of the glass shelves were nearly empty. From what was left, he could make a good guess as to which items had been taken-toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, hairbrush, deodorant.

Not things a burglar would want. But Erin Reilly would take them if she were going on a trip.

On the top shelf, among the aspirin and the cold remedies, was a bottle of pills labeled TEGRETOL. He showed it to Annie. “Erin’s epilepsy medicine?”

“Yes. That’s what she takes.”

“I’m surprised she doesn’t carry it with her.”

“I thought she did. In her purse. Maybe this is an extra bottle.”

He checked the label again, then replaced the pills on the shelf. “Yes, it’s a recent refill of her prescription. She probably hasn’t run out of the previous batch yet.”

Bedroom next. The bed was unmade, sheets sagging in broken ridges like a cake’s melted icing. Nothing damaged, no sign of a struggle.

The jewelry box on the dresser was still crammed with necklaces and earrings. Two hundred dollars in emergency cash remained in the most obvious, even proverbial, of hiding places-the sock drawer. Her wristwatch lay on the nightstand.

“I hadn’t noticed that,” Annie said when Walker pointed it out.

“Does she have another watch?”

Annie stared at the small gold-plated Armitron. “Not that I know of. And she always wears a watch whenever she goes anywhere. She’s… she’s very punctual.”

Walker digested this information without comment.

The windows were shut. Heat pressed against the panes. The locks had not been forced.

Last, he checked the closet. Empty hangers, many of them. Nothing in the laundry basket.

Slowly he nodded.

Annie observed the brief incline of his head and was instantly alongside him. “Find something?”