Carol Clark - Hitched

Joyce’s host shrugged and walked back to the stove, where she resumed stirring a pot of soup. Her four dogs were asleep in the small, cluttered, dimly lit room. “We have to be quiet, fellas,” she whispered to them. “Our company is sleeping and will be for a little while. I hope you guys don’t mind I gave her some of your medicine.” The old woman paused. “It’s so nice to entertain again. I hope she likes my cooking.”

As Jack sped up the FDR Drive, Cindy clenched her fists and stared out the window at the dark waters of the East River. She’d read stories about people who were out for the night, drank too much, and ended up slipping or being pushed into the river’s punishing currents. Not Joyce, she thought, please, not Joyce. “It’s just not like her to leave without saying good-bye,” Cindy blurted out. “She’s quiet and considerate.”

Regan turned around to face Kit and Cindy, who were both in the backseat. “There could be an explanation for this, Cindy,” she said calmly. “People who we are convinced would never act a certain way often surprise us. And she had been drinking. Let’s hope Joyce ended up at another club and is now asleep at home.”

“But she’s still not answering her phone…” Cindy said, her voice trailing off.

Jack had radioed the central dispatcher, who sent out a bulletin that patrol cars in Manhattan, particularly downtown, should be on the alert for a petite twenty-seven-year-old woman with light brown hair and green eyes, last seen wearing blue jeans and a black jacket. Of course that description could fit any number of young women out on Saturday night in New York City. Because she wasn’t considered a missing person yet, it was an unofficial alert. Someone from Jack’s office was calling the area hospitals to see if she had been taken to an emergency room.

They crossed the Triboro Bridge into Queens and a few minutes later were driving down a block of small, two-family houses. As far as the eye could see, every parking spot was taken. “It’s the third house on the left,” Cindy said.

Jack stopped in front of Joyce’s house. There were no lights on. The carful of bachelorettes pulled up behind them.

“Cindy, I think you should go knock on the door,” Jack advised. “Joyce is a grown woman and has a right to her privacy. If she’s there, she doesn’t need to have a crowd of people standing on her doorstep in the middle of the night.”

Wordlessly, Cindy got out of the car and hurried up the steps. She rang the bell and waited. She knocked on the door several times. Then she held her hand on the bell so it rang continuously-making enough noise to wake the dead.

But there was no response.

Cindy hurried back down the steps, shaking her head. “She used to leave a key hidden by the back door. Let’s go see if it’s still there.”

“I don’t have the authority to go into her house,” Jack said. “As a member of the NYPD, I’d be violating her rights.”

“I wouldn’t be violating her rights,” Cindy said, her voice breaking. “Joyce once called and asked me to feed her parrot when she stayed at her mother’s longer than expected. She knows where I keep my extra key, and I know where her key is hidden. We’re friends.” She paused. “But I don’t want to go in there alone. Regan, would you please come with me?”

Regan knew that it would be fine for her to go inside the apartment. She was a private citizen. “Of course I’ll go with you,” she said as she reached for the door.

Jack grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful.”

“I will.” Regan got out and followed Cindy across the tiny yard and around to the back door. The light of a small television glowed through the kitchen window.

“The television’s on! Maybe she’s asleep,” Regan said hopefully.

“She always keeps the television on for her parrot when no one is home.”

Everyone wants company, Regan thought, wondering what channel the parrot liked to watch.

“I hope the key is still here,” Cindy said as she bent over and picked up a loose slate from the small stone patio outside Joyce’s door. “It is!” she said excitedly. She pulled the single key out of the dirt, straightened up, and waved her fist.

Regan’s mind went back to the security tape she had viewed in Atlantic City -the guy bending over and picking something up off the ground. But he didn’t wave his hand in victory. He hurried off, trying to avoid notice.

Cindy inserted the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

“Hello!” the parrot cried. “Hello!”

“Hello, Romeo,” Cindy said as she flicked on the light. “The poor thing was probably going crazy with me ringing the phone all night and then the bell.”

Especially when he’s trying to watch the tube, Regan thought. A black-and-white movie that looked like it was made in the 1940s was playing on the screen. “Let’s take a quick look around and make sure Joyce is not here sleeping.”

“Okay.”

They went into the small but cozy living room and turned on a light, then walked down the hall. As they both expected, the bedroom was empty. Regan turned on the light in the bathroom. Everything felt so still and quiet. She didn’t step inside, didn’t want to intrude on Joyce’s space. At least not yet. And I hope I don’t have to, she thought, as she flicked off the light.

The bloody napkins in the garbage can went undetected.

Back in the kitchen, Cindy and Regan looked at the list of names and numbers pinned to a small bulletin board next to the phone.

“Francis is her boyfriend,” Cindy said. “He lives here with her.”

“And he went out of town with a friend?”

Cindy nodded.

“Do you know where they went?”

“No. I don’t think Joyce wanted to talk about it. She was vague. Said something about a boys’ night out.”

Regan sighed, staring at Francis’s cell phone number. “The problem is,” she said, “if Joyce is out with someone else right now, I’m sure she wouldn’t want her boyfriend to find out. Especially like this.”

Cindy shook her head emphatically. “I don’t believe she’s out with anyone, Regan. And if she is, then Francis better learn that he can’t leave Joyce alone on a weekend and expect her to sit around waiting for him. Who knows what he’s up to? If you don’t feel right about calling him, I will.”

“Until she’s considered a missing person, you should be the one to make the call,” Regan advised. “You’re her friend. You have the right to look out for her. I will help you in any way I can. Then if she’s not back by tomorrow-”

“Don’t even say it,” Cindy interrupted. “I understand you want to protect Joyce. But believe me, she is in danger right now. Something went wrong, I know it.” She picked up the phone and dialed.

Francis’s voice mail picked up. “Hey, this is Francis. Leave a message.”

“Francis,” Cindy said. “This is Cindy. Please call me. It’s about Joyce. Have you heard from her? We went out tonight, and I don’t know where she is.” She gave her cell number and hung up. “I wonder why he isn’t answering at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Lazy bums!” the parrot cried. “Lazy bums.”

Regan looked quizzically at the bird cage. “What ever happened to ‘Polly want a cracker?’ ”

“That parrot is something else. The only person that parrot likes is Joyce,” Cindy said. “Everyone else gets on his nerves.”

“I read somewhere that parrots mate for life,” Regan mused. “As pets they get attached to one person and that’s it.”

“I wish one of the guys I dated felt that way,” Cindy grumbled as she stared at the list of names. “Joyce’s mother is on a cruise in Europe. She lives out on the north fork of Long Island.” Cindy managed a smile. “She was here a couple weeks ago but had to leave her two dogs in the car because Francis is allergic to them. It makes her nuts. She told Francis his allergies are all in his head.”