Rage Against the Dying

Forty





If Arizonans want Mexicans to stay out of the country, why do they give everything Spanish names? It kinda sends conflicting messages. Paloma Vista was a modest but lovely two-story structure with a barrel-tiled roof that stretched on both sides of a long circular drive. A small bus with the name of the center and the word FUN! painted big on the side was boarding a group of mostly women.

I pulled up behind it, got out of the car, and asked the group as a whole if anyone knew Ben and Emily Coleman. All of them did. One woman said they were having lunch in the dining room and then shook her head in a tsking fashion as if my question made her sad. Maybe the mom was feeling poorly after all. I walked through the automatic doors, past the reception desk where the young woman didn’t ask who I was, through a spacious sitting area where the upholstery on the chairs didn’t match the pillows didn’t match the rugs except in some existential way known only to a decorator, and beyond into the dining area. A maître d’ of sorts welcomed me and asked if I was there to visit someone.

“Ben and Emily Coleman,” I said.

He led me to a table set for four, where a couple sat who, I must confess, appeared to be not much older than me. Both as tall as Laura, even sitting down I could see that, lanky and with thick heads of gray hair. I approached cautiously, introduced myself as a friend of their daughter, and asked if I could join them for a moment though I saw they were still eating. I apologized for that.

“That’s all right. It’s just dessert,” Ben Coleman said as he gestured to the chair next to his wife. He also gestured to a young woman who hovered nearby. “May I get you a rice pudding?”

I thanked him for his hospitality, but no, and the young woman hovered away.

Emily had been staring straight ahead with a placid smile during our exchange. Now she turned her head in a regal sweep and smiled at me. “Laura?” she asked.

“No darling,” Ben said. “This is Brigid Quinn, a friend of Laura’s.”

I started to explain that my own parents were looking for a good retirement center, and that Laura had mentioned to me that Ben and Emily seemed very contented here at Paloma Vista. I wanted to come see for myself and ask them personally about their opinion of the living quarters, the food, and other services, before I made an appointment with the management for a formal tour.

“They’ve been extraordinary,” Ben said, as Emily, interest waning once she found I was not Laura, had turned with gusto back to her pudding. “Not every facility is willing to deal with Emily’s needs, so we were especially fortunate.”

We were interrupted by my cell phone, which made everyone in the dining room look my way as if they were aliens and that was the signal from the home planet. I dug into my tote and checked before turning it off. It was Max. Rather than find out what new pressure he had devised to torture me into a confession, I let it take a message.

I chatted with Ben a bit longer, my wondering how to broach the topic of Laura’s whereabouts, when Ben did it himself. He appeared to lose a little of his Perfect Host quality, seemed to grow a little uncomfortable. “May I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“This feels a little odd to ask of someone I’ve only just met, but our daughter calls every single day to check in on her mom. I’ve been concerned that she hasn’t called in three days. I left a message yesterday on her cell phone but she didn’t respond.” He seemed to grow more embarrassed. “I hate to seem like that kind of parent, but have you been in touch with her?”

I laughed lightly. “Oh, Laura? She’s fine. Fine! I know she’s been deeply involved in a huge case that’s coming to trial. You know how our Laura is, dotting and crossing everything in sight. She mentioned once that you told her anything worth doing was worth doing well.”

Ben seemed like the sort of person who would dispense that wisdom. He laughed, too, possibly trying to remember when he’d said it, but greatly reassured nonetheless. I extracted myself from the dining room as quickly as I could without making him suspicious.

The message from Max, which I listened to once I was back in the car, said to call him, that he’d discovered something that would interest me. And he wanted to hear again about how I’d fallen in the wash and bumped my head. And while he was on the subject, that hiking stick that Carlo made me with the blade on one end … did I still have that stick? His voice had an un-Max-like threatening edge to it. I didn’t call back.

Instead, pulling out of the retirement center and driving who knew where I tried calling Sigmund. I was as upfront with him as I could be. “I think I f*cked up big time, and I think Agent Laura Coleman is in trouble, and no one will listen to me,” I said. I told him about where we were in our investigation of Lynch, about the disappearance of Coleman, even about the shooting in the park. I fell short of talking about Peasil. I didn’t think that was necessary given the circumstances of the other attempt on my life. He asked me about the shooting incident in some detail, down to the second shots from the direction of the Pima Pistol Club. He grew quiet.

I let him think, then finally asked the silence, “What should I do?”

“Tell Morrison.”

“Morrison doesn’t want to hear it. I even called Royal Hughes, remember what you said about the public defender and Coleman?”

“Was I right?”

“Yeah, you were right, but even he doesn’t think there’s anything to be concerned about.”

He came at me from a totally unexpected direction. “It’s been hard for you, hasn’t it.”

“What?”

“I heard that Zachariah Robertson killed himself. That must have been shocking for you, Stinger.”

“I know, that was so awful, but I don’t even have time to process it just now. I have to find Coleman.”

“Stinger, why did you stay in Tucson?”

He wasn’t saying anything I expected him to say, didn’t even seem to be listening to me. “Are we having the same conversation?” I asked.

“We never talked about that. I’ve always thought you stayed in the Southwest to be closer to the case you couldn’t solve, like a murderer who can’t stay away from the scene of the crime. You never lost your obsession with it.”

“Don’t analyze me now, Sig, I don’t have time for it.”

“Frankly, after our last conversation I started to think you may have been experiencing some post-traumatic stress linked to revisiting the Route 66 case, opening those wounds. And now, with Zach Robertson’s suicide, well.”

Something spun off kilter in my brain and I felt a dizzy sensation, almost vertigo. Too dazed to be angry, I pleaded, “But, Sig, you agreed with us about Lynch, you said to go after that investigation.”

“And I still feel that way. I’m just saying these fears about Laura Coleman being abducted is…” there was a pause that felt like someone deciding when to rip off a Band-Aid. “Brigid, Laura Coleman isn’t Jessica Robertson,” he said gently.

My cheeks burned and I said, “You think I’m delusional.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way at all. You’ve been beating yourself up for years over Jessica’s death. Now you have another agent, the same gender and approximately the same age that Jessica would be today. Only this one is, shall we say, a little unreliable. Or maybe she just doesn’t need you anymore. Because she doesn’t return your calls, you break into her house and decide she’s been abducted. Stinger, you’re playing back Jessica.”

“You mean there’s no telling what I might have imagined, right down to the attempt on my life.”

“I’m just saying you seem to be the only person who’s concerned,” he said.

“You think I’m paranoid,” I said.

“Stop it, Stinger. I’m not saying anything. I’m just saying you need to pause and think a moment. I’m not worried about Laura Coleman. I’m worried about you. I was worried about you the last time you called. I should have stayed out there so we could talk more about you.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said, and hung up.

Statistics show that, in an abduction, the trail goes cold after forty-eight hours and the chances of finding the victim alive are greatly diminished. I looked at my watch and remembered the last sure contact I’d had with Coleman: BTW, you were right! That was around 8:00 A.M., a little over seventy-two hours ago.