She found a spot by the park and crossed over to the building, which was surrounded by tall hedges and heavy foliage. Decorative, wrought iron bars covered the windows and front glass door. Definitely not a place her dad, whose taste ran to modern, would choose. A narrow, warped garage door was on one side of the entrance, but weeds grew in the pebbled driveway, as though the garage were rarely used.
Aubrey examined the old-fashioned intercom system by the recessed front door that had a buzzer for each of the five apartments. She pressed the one for “100” to announce her arrival and noticed the outer door was slightly ajar. She was immediately buzzed into a small foyer with a dull terrazzo floor. She glanced around, noting a staircase that led up to the other apartments, a utilitarian doorway on the left that probably provided access to the garage, and a hallway that went straight through to a rear door. Beneath a row of mailboxes sat a cardboard box with several short metal pipes—probably a plumbing project in one of the apartments.
The door to the right opened, and her father came out, his white hair damp and neatly combed as though he’d recently showered. He’d changed out of the light-blue button-down he’d had on back at the house and was wearing a short-sleeved, untucked shirt with a pattern of palm trees.
“Come on in,” he said. “We’re glad you called.”
She hated that he included Star in his welcome, but at least he didn’t seem angry with her after their quarrel earlier.
She stepped directly into the living room, which smelled of overcooled air and looked as if it had been furnished in the eighties with catty-corner rattan sofas in a tropical print, a matching rattan dining-room set, and a shelving unit covered with knickknacks made of seashells and pastel-colored glass. A ceiling fan hung in the middle of the living room, and another in the small, open kitchen which, judging from the mica countertop, hadn’t been updated in many years. The one concession to the present was the flat-screen TV on the wall opposite one of the sofas.
“I know,” her father said, as though reading her mind. “It’s not the usual time-share property, but it’s very convenient, and Star was able to secure it for us for as long as we need it.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “And the bar is fully stocked, so what can I get you?”
“Is she here?” Aubrey asked, looking toward a closed door beyond the kitchen that was probably the bedroom.
“Star’s off buying some snacks for us, but she should be back any minute.” He went into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. “So what’ll it be? A cocktail? Wine?”
“Wine’s good,” she said, speaking over the hum of a noisy, in-wall air-conditioning unit. “Doesn’t matter what kind.”
He took three wineglasses down from a cabinet, then opened a bottle of red and poured it.
She watched his competent movements, his frown of concentration. She remembered him making her scrambled eggs one Saturday morning when Mama had gone to the hospital to check on a patient. How delicious those eggs had tasted.
He came back into the living room and handed her one of the glasses, which was filled almost to the brim, then sat on one of the sofas.
She took a seat on the other sofa and set her wineglass on the bubblegum-colored mica coffee table, next to an ashtray made of seashells and a remote for the TV.
Her father took a long sip of wine. “Pretty tough watching that press conference tonight, wasn’t it?”
“Tougher for Kev,” she said softly. Although going to the park with her mother had been crucial, Aubrey regretted that she had missed seeing her brother. Missed being there to support him. He still hadn’t responded to her texts, but the best help she could give him would be to find Ethan and get him home safely.
She leaned toward her father. “Dad. I need to ask you something.”
“Sure. Ask.”
“Smolleck told me you refused to take a polygraph test.”
His white eyebrows rose. “What business does he have talking about me to you?”
“It just came up,” she said. “Why didn’t you take it?”
He studied her. The whites of his blue eyes were laced with red. They’d been clear when she’d seen him earlier, and she wondered whether he’d been crying, or perhaps drinking. “There’s no legal requirement to take it,” he said. “And no point for me. I was in California when he was taken.”
“But they use it to eliminate suspects. Not taking it raises questions.”
“For whom?” His face got red. “You think I kidnapped my own grandson?”
“I think the FBI is interested in you for some reason.”
“Then they’re a bunch of morons,” he said. “Why are they wasting their time?”
“Smolleck asked me questions about your past political interests.”
“What?” He put the wineglass down on the table a little too hard. “And this is supposed to be connected to Ethan’s disappearance?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Could there be a connection? Were you ever affiliated with any groups that might try to use Ethan as leverage?”
“Affiliated? What the hell are you talking about, Aubrey?”
“I’m trying to understand why Smolleck was asking about you. He brought up Columbia University. He asked if you knew Jonathan there.”
Her father’s eyes widened, then he looked away quickly. He picked up his wineglass and swirled it. He was hiding something.
“Did you know Jonathan before he started dating Mom?”
He shook his head, then took a sip of wine.
“Did something happen when you were at college? Something connected to the accident Mom was in?” She was grasping at straws, throwing at him the questions Smolleck had asked her, because why would the FBI care about those things? And why was her father acting as though he were holding something back?
Her father took in a deep breath. He looked like he was about to explode. Then he let it out. “Why are you here, Aubrey? What the hell are you doing?”