Linwood Barclay - Broken Promise - A Thriller

“I don’t know who this Sarita person is and I don’t care,” Marshall said. “You pay up, or you’re fucked. I make an anonymous call to the cops. If that’s what you want, I can do it.”

“Okay, okay, let me think,” Gaynor said. “I can probably raise most of it. I’d have to cash in some investments, go to the bank when they open.”

“You do what you have to do,” Marshall said. “Bank opens at what? Ten? So you should have the money by eleven?”

“I’m going to have to call you back.”

Marshall was about to say, Yeah, right, like I’m going to give you my number , then realized Gaynor would already have it on his phone now. “Okay,” he agreed. “If I don’t hear from you by ten thirty, I call the cops.”

“I get it. I’ll be in touch.”

Gaynor ended the call. Marshall smiled to himself. This was going to work. He was sure this was going to work.

Sarita, she’d be upset with him at first when she found out what he’d done. But when she realized it was enough for them to have a life together, she’d come around. He knew it.

Love would conquer all.

I decided Davidson Place would be my first stop.

The nursing home was on the west side of Promise Falls. A low-rise building in that netherworld between the suburbs and industrial land. I remembered from when I was a reporter how neighbors banded together to fight just about anything they believed would impact the quality of their domesticity. Group homes for mentally challenged kids. Halfway houses. Shopping malls. Homes too big for the lot.

But for the life of me, I had a hard time getting my head around why someone would object to a nursing home in their community. Were they worried about being kept awake at night by the sounds of shuffling feet?

I parked in the visitors’ lot and looked for reception. That took me to the lobby, where I saw several old souls sitting in wheelchairs, fast asleep. A woman behind the counter asked whether she could help me, and I said I was looking for Sarita.

“Sarita Gomez?” she asked.

I didn’t know, but I said, “Yes.”

“I haven’t seen her today, but I can check whether she’s in. Can I ask what it’s concerning?”

That was when it occurred to me that the police had not already been here. If Barry Duckworth had been asking for Sarita, it would be all over the building. Was it possible I had the jump on him? The Gaynors’ elderly neighbor had said something about not being able to remember the name of this place when he’d been talking to the police.

“It’s a personal matter,” I said, then added, in an attempt to make my inquiry sound work related, “It has to do with someone’s care.”

The woman figured out I was telling her it was none of her business. She picked up the phone, entered an extension, and said, “Gail, you seen Sarita around? Okay, uh-huh, got it.”

She hung up and looked at me. “Sarita didn’t come in for her shift yesterday and she’s not in today. I’m sorry.”

“Did she call in sick?” I asked.

The woman shrugged. “Probably. I didn’t get the details.”

“Would I be able to talk to her supervisor?” I leaned over the counter and said in a voice just above a whisper, “It’s very important. It’s the kind of thing I think Davidson Place would like to sort out quietly.”

The woman could read into that whatever she wanted. Maybe I had a loved one here. Maybe I had a complaint about the care of my ailing grandmother. Maybe there was a theft allegation.

“What’s your name?” she asked. I told her. “Just a minute.” She picked up the phone again. I turned away, only half listening. Then she said to me, “Mrs. Delaney will be down to see you shortly, Mr. Harwood. Have a seat over there.”

I dropped into a nearby vinyl chair. Across from me sat a man who I guessed was in his late eighties or early nineties, dressed in a shirt and pants that he’d probably acquired when he was forty pounds heavier. His neck stuck out of the collar like a flagpole in a golf-green hole. He was holding an Ed McBain paperback mystery, open to about the midpoint, staring at the page, and in the five minutes I waited for Mrs. Delaney to show up, I never saw his eyes move once, and the page was never turned.

“Mr. Harwood?”

I glanced up. “Yes. Mrs. Delaney?”

She nodded. “You were asking about Sarita Gomez?”

“I was hoping to speak with her,” I said, standing.

“I’d like to speak with her myself,” the woman said. “I’m afraid she isn’t here, and attempts to reach her have been unsuccessful.”

“Oh,” I said. “She hasn’t shown up for work?”

“May I ask what this is concerning? Do you have someone here at Davidson?”

“I don’t. This concerns work Sarita does outside of this facility.”

“Then why are you asking me about it?”

“I’m trying to locate her. I thought, since she works here, I might be able to talk to her, ask her a few questions.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Mrs. Delaney said. “Sarita did not show up this morning. She’s a good worker, and the residents here like her very much, but as I’m sure you can imagine, some kinds of employees are more reliable than others.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That fact that she’s—” The woman cut herself off.

“The fact that she’s what?” I thought, then took a shot. “Undocumented? Is Sarita working here illegally?”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Mrs. Delaney said.

“Do you have an address for her?” I asked.

“Just a number where she can be reached. I spoke to the person at that number and she tells me Sarita’s gone away. I couldn’t tell you whether she’ll be coming back or not. And you still haven’t told me what business you have with her.”

Time to hit her between the eyes. “She worked as a nanny for the Gaynors. That name mean anything to you?”

Mrs. Delaney shook her head. “Should it?”

“Did you watch the news last night? That woman who was fatally stabbed in her home over on Breckonwood?”

A flash of recognition. She had heard the story.

“That was horrible. But what does it have to do with Sarita?”

“She was their nanny.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“I’m surprised the police haven’t been here already, but I think you should be expecting them.”

“This is unimaginable. Are you saying Sarita had something to do with that?”

I hesitated. “I’m saying she may know something about it.”

“Who are you, if you’re not with the police?” she asked pointedly.

“I’m investigating on behalf of an interested party,” I said, which was as artful a dodge as I could think of on the spot. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“It would have been yesterday morning sometime, I think. She probably had the six-to-one shift. She does four shifts a week here, mostly early mornings. I don’t know about these other people she works for, but I think she works there before she comes here. And she can work any shift on weekends. This is terrible. She couldn’t have had anything to do with this. Everyone likes Sarita.”

“You say you tried to call her?”

“She doesn’t have a phone. I called her landlady. She said she’s taken off.” She leaned in. “That sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

“Does she have friends here? Anyone who might know where I might be able to find her?”

She went mute. I knew she’d thought of someone instantly, but was debating whether to tell me. Finally she said, “There’s someone here I think she’s been seeing. You know, in a relationship.”