Missing Persons Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine

  A PLUME BOOK

  MISSING PERSONS

  CLARE O’DONOHUE is a freelance television writer and producer. She has worked worldwide on a variety of shows for the Food Network, the History Channel, and truTV, among others. She is also the author of the Someday Quilts mystery series.

  ALSO BY CLARE O’DONOHUE

  The Lover’s Knot

  A Drunkard’s Path

  The Double Cross

  PLUME

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Books (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, June 2011

  Copyright © Clare O’Donohue, 2011

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  O’Donohue, Clare.

  Missing persons : a Kate Conway mystery / Clare O’Donohue.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-52873-0

  1. Women television producers and directors—Fiction. 2. Missing persons—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3615.D665M57 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2010044984

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP

  (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my sister, Mary, who stole my clothes in high school but has since made up for it with friendship, love, loyalty, and the occasional gift of great earrings

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This mystery series is based, sort of, on my years as a television producer. The frustration, annoyance, craziness, and profanity is from my actual experience, but the rest of it is pure fiction. Over my years as a producer, I had a chance to meet people from all walks of life. So many of them welcomed me into their homes, shared their stories, and, in some cases, became my friends. Thanks for your kindness, and the occasional free pie even when I made you cry. (I’m talking to you, Anise “Yam Good” Morrison.) And to all my friends in television, I hope you feel I’ve done a good job with this book. Of course, it wouldn’t even be a book without my agent, Sharon Bowers of the Miller Agency, who has talked me off a few ledges and helped me move forward as a writer. And thanks to my editor, Becky Cole, who championed this series at Plume, for letting me go where my imagination was taking me. To Nadia Kashper, Mary Pomponio, the men and women in sales and marketing, and everyone at Plume who put this together, thanks, once again, for all the hard work. To my first readers, Karen Meier, Alessandra Ascoli, Peggy McIntyre, and Tom Carroll, your feedback was invaluable. To Dr. Brian Peterson, chief medical examiner for Milwaukee County, thank you for never letting on how tired you must be of all my questions. To my mother, Sheila O’Donohue, for reading through each manuscript. To my family, V, Kevin, and my many friends, your support has meant the world to me. And to the faithful readers of the Someday Quilts mystery series, thanks for all the kind words and e-mails. Though Nell’s story continues to unfold, I hope you also enjoy spending time with Kate.

  One

  “I want you to tell me about the day your husband was murdered.” The woman glanced toward the camera before returning her eyes to me. Then, in a quiet tone, she launched into the story. It was one she must have told a hundred times in the last three years—to police, family, friends, prosecutors, and now, to me.

  Her husband had managed one of those excessively cheerful chain restaurants in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. He’d recently started putting in a lot of hours because the couple was saving for their first home and planning a family. He’d wanted, as the woman now told me, to give them a secure future. But it wasn’t to be. One night, after he’d closed the restaurant and let the rest of the employees go home, he stayed to send some e-mails to the corporate office. While he worked, two men broke into the restaurant, one of them an ex-employee. Fearing ident
ification, the men shot the husband in the face. His last words, apparently, were, “Tell my wife I love her.” The killers were caught six hours later, having stolen only forty dollars. The rest of the day’s take had already been deposited at the bank by the assistant manager.

  “Forty dollars,” the woman repeated, still struggling to believe that her husband had been murdered, and her future shattered, for so paltry a sum.

  She told the story beautifully, and with remarkable composure. But as I listened, nodding my head empathetically, my eyes glistening as if on the verge of tears, all I could think was—this would be so much better if she cried.

  When she finished, she leaned back and looked, as they all do, for my approval. I gave it. I was her friend, after all. Though we’d only spoken once before today and I’d met her only two hours ago, I was now her best friend. That was what I needed her to feel so that she would trust me, tell me things in confidence, forget that a cameraman and audio guy were just a few feet away, recording everything she said for the cable television show I worked for. Caught! was one of dozens of true-crime shows littering up television and yet we never ran out of new murders to profile.

  I leaned forward in my chair. We were sitting with our knees only inches apart, but I needed to get even closer to block out everything but me.

  “You did a great job with that,” I said. “It was really hard, I know, but you did better than anyone I’ve interviewed.”

  I could hear the sincerity in my voice. I could imitate sincerity so well that even I believed it. I glanced toward the photo of her husband, strategically placed behind her left shoulder.

  “Doug was a very special man.”

  As they all do, she turned to see what I was looking at and saw the photo of her husband on their wedding day. She kept her eyes there, reluctant to turn her back on him.

  “He had such wonderful dreams for you both,” I continued. “I can imagine it was something you talked about a lot.”

  “It was.” Her voice cracked.

  “He must have wanted to give you everything.”

  “He did.”

  “I guess that’s why he was working so late.”

  That was it. Tears came down her face. She began to shake. I reached over and placed my hand on hers. She turned her eyes back to me. She was so vulnerable, in so much pain. It would look great on camera.

  I leaned back and spoke gently. “I want to go over the last question one more time. I know this is difficult, but tell me again about the day your husband was murdered.”

  She barely got through the story.

  Two

  “Sometimes I don’t like you.” Andres Pena, my cameraman, loaded the last of the equipment in his van. I waited by my car, parked in front of his.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’m not that fond of myself right now.”

  “The way she thanked you for helping her. It’s like being thanked by a cow right before you bring down the hammer on its skull.”

  “You forgot the hug.”

  Like so many interview subjects, she wanted me to stay afterward to chat, to keep in touch, to really become friends. It’s interview euphoria, and since I rarely share it, I like to get out as quickly as possible. Even waiting outside the house for the crew to pack up, as I was doing now, made me a little jumpy.

  “Nobody has to do the show and nobody has to watch,” I said, repeating what had become my mantra. “But they do.”

  “You don’t have to be so good at it.”

  “Yes, I do,” I argued. “If I don’t bring back what the network wants, I don’t get hired for the next job. And neither do you.”

  Andres nodded. “It’s going to look great. The way she chokes up when she says his last words. I pushed in a little. You’ll really see the tears.” So much for his conscience.

  I’ve been working as a freelance television producer for nearly twelve years. The title “producer” can mean a lot of different things depending on what area of entertainment you work in—from the person who spends ten years trying to get a film made to the lead in a sitcom who wants to feel more important. In my tiny little corner of the basic cable television world, a producer actually produces an episode of a show. That is, a production company creates a show, like Caught!, and hires people like me to conduct the interviews and write the episode. The episode airs on some network, in this case Crime TV, and my name appears in small print that goes by too fast for anyone to see. Assuming, of course, that anyone watches credits, which they don’t.

  I prefer to work in the field. I go to the interview subjects rather than have them come to a studio. It’s typically easier, cheaper, and more interesting to shoot people where they actually live or work, so it’s done a lot. In my career I’ve interviewed CEOs and prison inmates, celebrities and coroners, gardeners, beauty queens, UFO nuts, orphans, and even a monkey. When you watch a documentary and the interview subjects are looking slightly off camera while they talk, they’re talking to someone like me. My face and my voice never end up in the finished product, so there’s no glory in it. But there is money. And as long as you don’t worry too much about who gets hurt, it’s an interesting job.

  I always tell myself that no one is forced to tell their story to a television crew. Like a drunk sorority sister in a Girls Gone Wild video, they might eventually regret their actions—but while it’s happening, they want it to happen.

  Yeah, I know how that sounds.

  “Did you hear about a new doc that Ripper is producing?” Andres lit a cigarette and leaned against my car. Andres was nearly forty, three years my senior, and he shared my weary acceptance of our profession. But he justified his actions differently—no drunken sorority analogies for him. He had three kids, two mortgages, and a dog with arthritis.

  “Mike mentioned something.”

  “I hear it’s about unsolved cases,” Andres said. “Sounds depressing as hell.”

  “It’s going to be episode after episode of kids on milk cartons, crying parents, and earnest cops who will never give up.”

  He laughed. “Who wants to watch that crap?”

  “Are you kidding? It’ll be a huge hit. People love other people’s misery. It makes them feel superior. It’s just no fun being on the other side of it.”

  He nodded but said nothing. Andres was like that. He knew when it was better to keep his mouth shut. But our sound guy, a musician who called himself Victor Pilot, wasn’t so discreet.

  “How’s the divorce coming, Kate? Has the old man completely fucked you over?”

  “Not completely, Victor.”

  Not yet anyway.

  “If you’re lonely at home, you can always hang out at my place.”

  Victor was in his midtwenties, a decade younger than me. And while I still had my figure, my long red hair, and the unmistakable scent of a woman who hasn’t had sex in a while, I couldn’t figure out why he continually hit on me. Whatever his reason, I wasn’t interested. I was in the process of getting rid of one dreamer with more confidence than common sense. I didn’t need to take on another.

  “Thanks anyway,” I told him.

  “You need to get out there, lady,” Victor prompted.

  “Papers aren’t even signed yet. We’re still, believe it or not, arguing over the four hundred dollars in our savings account. The lawyers charged six hundred dollars to fight for that.”

  “Then why not sit down with Frank and figure it out without lawyers?” Andres asked.

  It was a reasonable question, but then Andres has never been divorced. Divorce, and the subsequent dividing of the assets, isn’t about reason. It’s about revenge.

  “It’s my money,” I answered. “If I’m going to give it to some man who has never done anything for me, I’ll give it to the lawyer.”

  “Better than giving it to Frank’s new squeeze,” Victor offered.

  Though the mention of my husband’s girlfriend made bile rise into my throat, I just smiled. Unlike my interview subjects, I wasn’t dumb enough
to offer up my private hell for the enjoyment of the general public.

  “The good news is that with all the true-crime shows you’ve done, you probably know eight ways to kill him and get away with it,” Victor continued.

  I took the shot tapes from Andres and opened my car door. “Problem is, I’ve done enough shows to know that if Frank ends up dead, I’ll be the number one suspect.”

  Within twenty-four hours, I’d find out I was right. Who says you can’t learn anything from television?

  Three

  Frank and I had met in high school. I was smart, bored, and anxious to get out of the middle-class Chicago suburbs I grew up in. I wanted to be a writer and travel the world, which made me odd in a school full of kids who didn’t think beyond Friday night. I was also too skinny, more Olive Oyl than Kate Moss. And I was taller than a lot of my classmates, with red hair and glasses. Not exactly prom queen material.

  Frank shouldn’t have been interested in me. He played basketball. He was popular, sensitive, and handsome, from a family with more money than mine, and he wanted to be a painter.

  If there is something more romantic than a seventeen-year-old guy turning his back on the easy life that seems almost his birthright so he can struggle for his art, I don’t know what it is.

  And if there is something more annoying than a thirty-seven-year-old man turning his back on his responsibilities as he continues to struggle, I don’t know what that is either.

  We married right after college. I had a degree in journalism, Frank in accounting. I immediately found a bad-paying job as an associate producer at a local news station and Frank went to work in the office of his father’s construction firm. Things were good for a while. When our friends were single and complaining about their love lives, we would feel smug. But when one friend took a job in London because nothing was holding her in Chicago and another had a passionate affair with a famous musician, the smugness began to melt. Our friends were free to make crazy, interesting, wild choices, and it suddenly felt as though all our choices were already made.