The Lady Vanishes
A case, in which Jack is missing sleep, Sam is missing simpler times, Martin is missing lunch, Vivian is missing her family, Danny is missing a vacation, and a Society matron is plain missing.
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine! Oh, well, a girl can dream.
I am, as ever, grateful to everyone who is staying with this, admittedly long, story. And to all who reviewed. Thank you!
Claire Harriford was exactly what Jack expected: lean, elegant in a way an elderly woman can be, and completely undaunted by her surroundings. His original reluctance to interview her at the FBI quarters was assuaged by the woman's easy acceptance of the proposed time and place, and by her clear desire to be helpful in any way possible. Still, he felt compelled to explain:"Mrs. Harriford, I am very sorry we can't offer more auspicious surroundings for this interview, but the time is so important. . . ."
She cut him short: "Don't worry about it, please. I have no problem coming here, nor do I think you suspect me of anything because you invited me to your office. I want to help, I want Hattie found, I pray nothing happened to her." She sighed, her eyes telegraphing just how troubled her thoughts were.
Samantha entered the room, a glass of water in her hand. She handed it to Mrs. Harriford and took a seat beside Jack.
"Thank you, Mrs. Harriford. We appreciate this greatly. . . . We understand that you've met with Mrs. Stevens-Newberg some time yesterday, and that you informed her of the fact that you weren't invited to her granddaughter's wedding."
"It wasn't like that. Hattie and I met for lunch. We try to do this at least once a month." She smiled a far away smile that suddenly made her face seem so much younger than her early 70s. "We were at school together, Hattie and I. Vassar College, before it went co-ed. Ages ago. . . . I know, it's hard to believe that two old biddies were ever young and at school."
Sam smiled sheepishly, since that was exactly the thought that darted through her mind a moment ago.
"We are very close. Remained so through the years, through the marriages, children, deaths, changes in situations. If we are both in town, we always, always see each other at least twice a month. I have to tell you, agent Malone, Hattie is unique. She is my support system, and she has always been a rock. I am forever the one with the problems, and when I see her, she usually dispels my gloom and finds a solution for practically anything. . . . That is why it was so painful to see her like that yesterday."
Jack and Sam exchanged glances.
"Like what?"
"So saddened. So . . . defeated . . . yes, there's no other word for it."
"Because her daughter-in-law did not invite you to the wedding?"
Mrs. Harriford looked up in surprise: "Goodness, no. Although that didn't improve the matters. . . . I wouldn't even have mentioned it, if she hadn't said she'll see me at the wedding next week when we were making good-byes. Then I had no choice but to say I wasn't invited. If anything, that put some fight back into her. For the moment she was her old, energetic self. This, at least, was something she could do a thing about. If in gesture only, considering."
Jack wrinkled his brow: "Mrs. Harriford, please help us out here: are you saying there was something else that troubled your friend? Something other than the wedding invitation?"
"Of course. The invitation wasn't a trouble: it was a nuisance, the kind her confounded fool of a daughter-in-law is forever known for. Hattie isn't the type to get depressed over nuisances. She doesn't mind small things. Or small minds, for that matter. . . . I want you to know: I would never, under any other circumstances, have told you this." She took a pause, as if gathering resolve. "For starters, those are not my troubles to impart; and secondly, I despise a telltale. But Hattie's missing, and if it turns out this trouble has something to do with it. . . . She met me yesterday at The Palm Court, Plaza Hotel. We usually have afternoon tea there when we meet. They call it the 'afternoon tea,' but basically it's a midday meal anywhere from 11:30 to 6. . . . Hattie likes those Old World traditions. They give her an illusion of a civilized society - an illusion that's getting harder and harder to maintain."
Mrs. Harriford's took a sip of her water: "I could immediately see that she wasn't herself. She was more silent than usual, and when I asked what was wrong, she said an oddest thing. She said: 'I am a failure.'"
"A failure?" Jack repeated the statement to make sure he heard right.
"Yes. I was mystified at first. Hattie, you see, cannot be considered a failure in any estimation: she is highly educated, she made a success of her marriage and the business. Late in life, too, at the time when most women find challenges taking grandchildren to the zoo. She took over the company after Harrison's death, and, let's just say, they don't call her Hattie the Great for nothing. And now, that she is finally at her leisure, she is running several very difficult charities and making a success of that, as well. So, you can see why I was taken aback when she made that statement."
"Did she explain what she meant?" Samantha asked with a reassuring nod.
"After I insisted, yes. . . . And, once again, I would like to stress that this is just what she told me. She may have been mistaken. She may have exaggerated. I don't want you to draw any kind of a hasty conclusion. . . ."
"Mrs. Harriford, I assure you: we try to avoid hasty conclusions in our line of work at all costs. Also, by no means will we take what you've told us in confidence as anything other than your concern for your friend and a desire to help." Jack's tone, as well as his expression, were kind but urgent. Claire Harriford assessed him carefully and nodded.
"Hattie said that it came to her attention lately that the company is corrupt. And by that, she didn't mean some slightly overextended bonuses here and there, or a favor for this or that official who can be helpful down the line. That is common enough in business, and Hattie is no fool. She knows better than most how much finesse is required in high-power dealings on any given day. . . . She took over officially in 1996, when her husband passed. But, really, she was a de-facto head for a long time before that. Harrison was ailing for years , and there was no one he trusted more than Hattie. . . . When she handed the reins over to Junior in 2000, it was a vibrant, steady, profitable company, with aboveboard, beyond-reproach reputation."
"And now?"
The lady sighed: "I am not an expert, by any means, and Hattie didn't divulge technical details, but the gist of it was that, somehow, things were rather bad. Double sets of books, one picture presented to the board, another to the stockholders. I dare say you come across this often enough in your line of work, Agent Malone, and even the most sheltered of us hear about Enron and Worldcome. But one just doesn't expect that in one's own circle, you know. Hattie certainly didn't. Not from Junior, not like that. . . ."
She put the glass down on the table, but held on to it, making a pattern on its surface with her thumb. It was a small gesture, but somehow it communicated her distress better than any loud statements or elaborate displays of emotion would have done.
"You don't know her, you see. For Hattie to look like that, to feel like that! . . . She was deflated, beaten. As if her entire world came crushing down. I have never, in all of our 53-year-long acquaintance, seen her like this. As I said, she is forever everybody's rock, and she's never faced a problem she couldn't tackle. This. . . . This was something that blind-sided her, and she, may be for the first time in her life, was at a loss."
"Did she say she thought the company was in danger of disintegrating? Was she afraid for her financial health?"
"Goodness, no! Her own finances are secured. As well as the kids trust funds. That has been taken care of a long time ago. No, she wasn't worried about the money angle."
"Then why did she talk of failure? The company is no longer under her supervision. She isn't responsible." Sam asked with genuine surprise.
"Because it's her son, don't you see?" Mrs. Harriford pressed her thumb to the glass so hard, it almost tipped over. "That, to Hattie, would be the biggest failure possible. Money didn't come into it. . . . Harrison Jr. was always difficult. Hardly surprising, if you think about it: his parents are exactly the kind of people a sensitive and not altogether generously gifted child would find daunting to emulate or live up to. Junior was never the kind of a boy that one would have expected from Hattie and Harrison, but then again, children seldom are what we expect."
"He was difficult how? Was he wild?"
Mrs. Harriford smiled: "Oh, no, not at all. If anything, he lacked spirit. The kind of spirit both his parents had in abundance. It wasn't anything specific, but Hattie was forever concerned that Junior wasn't a fighter, that he preferred the easier solutions to the right ones. . . . Not that there was much cause for real concern, mind you. He did well in school, and he definitely has the business sense. It's his other senses that are lacking. Hattie . . . she never had illusions as to what he could do, but I think she honestly thought that, given the right set up, he'd do the right thing. He was raised that way, he was taught that way, and, considering what has happened, Hattie feels that she has failed. On the most basic, profound level a person can fail: as a parent."
She took another sip of water, her hands shaking slightly at the memory that clearly affected her deeply. "Hatty was so much not herself, I was seriously considering taking her to a doctor. She looked frail! She never looks frail - she is the youngest spirit I have ever encountered, at any age. She scared me. . . ."
Samantha took the empty glass from the older woman's hands.
"Can I offer you more water, Mrs. Harriford?"
"Thank you, dear. I'd appreciate that."
Jack asked, as Sam was leaving the room: "Did you seriously think she was ill?"
"No, but I hoped a doctor could suggest something, prescribe something. . . . I honestly don't know: I just wanted to help her somehow, to offer something useful, you see. And, as it turned out, all I had to do was mention that silly wedding mishap. May be it was the last straw, or simply a push needed to snap her out of her state, but Hattie was back with a vengeance by the time we parted."
xxxxxxxx
"Guys, wait!" Martin caught up with Jack and Sam at the elevator. "I've got something."
"Ride with us. We have to move or we'll miss Stevens-Newberg at LaGuardia." Jack pressed the "down" button repeatedly. "What do you have?"
"I've been checking Mrs. Stevens-Newberg financials - nothing probative there, but while I was doing it, 'the bells' went off. Not for her, but for the company. It's been tagged. Guess by whom?"
Jack and Sam exchanged a smile: "By us?"
"There's a probe, right?" Sam asked fairly surprised Martin.
"Yeah, how did you know?"
"The old lady's friend told us as much. Apparently, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg has found out about it recently. She was definitely upset."
"As well she may be," said Martin. "According to the White Collar guys, the company is into some funky practices. I won't bore you with details now, but you might want to sit down with Ken Ballard from that Unit when you get a chance."
"Will do, if it becomes necessary. For now, though, let's see if Mr. Stevens-Newberg himself can shed some light on the situation."
The elevator doors opened and the agents got in.
"While we are there, Martin, I need you to look into the driver's financials, as well." Jack pressed the "Lobby" button. "We are assuming this is about the lady - which, considering who she is and what she's worth, is not an unreasonable assumption - but what if it's not? They guy is missing, too, and his employer may just be a bystander."
Martin nodded: "It has occurred to me already. I have someone running his records as we speak. I plan on calling on his wife, too. I know Danny talked to her, but that was just an initial conversation to assertain that Frank wasn't, in fact, home safe. We need to have a real talk with her. If it turns up nothing, at least we can strike this theory off our list."
Jack and Sam exited the elevator, and Martin stayed on to ride back up. He watched them walk away, in comfortable, animated conversation, and, not for the first time, felt uneasy. It wasn't that he didn't trust Sam - or Jack, for that matter. If asked, Martin would have dismissed the idea that he'd hold a three-year old history against either of them. He, in all honesty, wasn't concerned about the past. Moving on was a part of life. Mistakes were part of life. What bothered him was the future: this all too real possibility that what Sam told him was in the past, was not, in fact, buried there. "Old feelings don't die, but fade away," she said. Like ghosts, thought Martin, liable to hang around and throw their chilly presence on what ought to be alive. Yes, Martin was honest with himself, and he feared that, sometimes the ghosts were stronger than the living. And the fear and frustration came from the fact that he couldn't tell if Samantha herself was ready, or even wanted to exorcise them.
xxxxxx
Danny put the gear in reverse and moved the car from the parking spot. Thank God for the Fed tags, one of the few perks of the job: the ability to park anywhere, at any time, in this city notorious for its lack of parking spaces.
Vivan in the back seat ended the conversation on her cell. She shot a concerned glance at Allie, currently strapped to the passenger seat, but the girl was occupied by playing with Truman's years, arranging a basket and a large brown bag of dog food.
Vivan bent close to Danny's ear: "Jack is surprisingly not surprised by our findings. Apparently, Mrs. Stevens-Newberg told her friend at lunch yesterday. And our good colleagues at the White Collar are taking a long, hard look at the Coldwell Stevens-Newberg Livingston Prime."
Danny nodded: "That explains the letter. No wonder she was furious."
They found the letter on Mrs. Stevens-Newberg's desk: a half-finished, crisp, polite but anguished letter to the Board of Directors, indicating some disturbing information that has reached the lady recently, and demanding an emergency meeting.
Vivian settled herself in the back seat and addressed the girl: "Allie, how certain are you that your grandmother did not simply leave?"
Allie turned to her in surprise: "Pretty certain. Why would she?"
"Well, she was upset. She may not have felt like attending a family gathering or facing that many people."
"She still wouldn't have bailed on Blake. She just wouldn't. . . ."
Danny joined in: "Didn't you say that she's done it before: left for Boston some time ago?"
"Yes, but she called, like, the next day! And she sent notes to people. Grammy's big on notes. She says they are the tokens of polite intercourse. And, anyway, she would have surely taken Truman with her, upset or not. And her things. And she would have said good-bye to me."
"She may have been too distraught to think things through at the moment," Vivian pointed out.
Allie shrugged: "At the moment. That was yesterday. She would have called by now."
A sad, apprehensive silence settled in the car as the implication sunk in.
Danny broke it, wanting to change the mood and cheer the girl up a little: "Are you in the wedding party, Allie?"
The imp made a face.
"God, yeah. And I wish I didn't have to. Mom is making me: I am one of the bridesmaids."
"How many are there?" asked Viv curiously.
"Twelve. Her best friend from school, her two roommates from College, seven appalling cousins from all over, Tinsley, and me. Blake has to have twelve, because - you guessed it - Tinsley had 10! We are upping everything by 2. I begged to be let out, since 11 is still more than 10, but nooo! I then suggested cousin Angela from Syracuse, but she won't do, because Blake says she is 'twitchy.' Whatever that means."
Danny chuckled: "You don't want to be the center of attention?"
"I won't be either way! Blake will be that. And the kind of attention those dresses are gonna draw, I do not want ever! You should see them: they are modeled after a riding habit, only scarier. It's a red satin top that's half tuxedo, half surgical corset. And the bottom is this long, black and white checkered skirt, with loops and folds! It's terrifying. It will make small children cry. The good news is, Blake gave up on making me wear a hat with it. I positively refused. I threw a fit, and she had to relent! But every other poor girl will have to have this shiny, black monstrosity topped with a feather perched on their heads!"
Vivian snorted at the image: "It can't be that bad."
"Oh, it is! And the whole getup costs $1,500 each! I don't have to pay, thankfully, but all the rest of them do. All that money to look like a deranged chimney sweep in drag!"
Danny offered consolation through the fits of laughter: "At least you won't have to ride in on a horse."
Allie giggled: "Blake didn't speak to me for a week after I asked during one of the rehearsals what would she do if the horse decided to poop in the middle of the trot down the isle."
"What is she going to do?"
"Oh, they are literally going to starve the poor animal for two days before the ceremony to avoid the possibility of that. I then asked what would happen if the horse fell over from hunger, and Blake kicked me out of the rehearsal. . . . When I am married, I'll do what grammy did: have a handful of people who are there to celebrate instead of being subjected to the inconvenience and the expense of seeing me make a total idiot of myself. No stupid themes, and definitely no barnyard animals."
"In other words, you are eloping," Danny suggested with a smile. "Any candidates for a future husband yet?"
"Are you nuts? I'm 14!" Allie rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way. "And I won't do it at 22, like Blake, either. I want to live first! Anyway, most boys are dumb."
"That's the spirit," Vivian offered her approval with a laugh.
"Still," Allie mused, "I can see why Blake wants to do it. She lucked out with Jim and she doesn't want to let him escape."
"You approve of her choice, I take it?"
"I approve of it for Blake. Jim Lindval is like a dream guy for her, though he is probably a nightmare guy for someone else, with different personality. He's got the right pedigree, the right appearance, and the right education. And you can substitute education for 'obedience school.' Jim is like a big, expensive show dog, and I mean it affectionately. He is a sweetheart, really. A Bernese Mountain Dog, likely. You know the breed? Large, loyal, highly trainable, intelligent, and with great hair. He'd drive the cows home and he'd come and rescue you if you are buried under an avalanche."
"I bet Blake doesn't approve of you talking like that about her fiancee." Vivian was torn between a strong desire to laugh and a very parental impulse to check the girl's free flow of teenage indiscretion.
Danny, not plagued by any such impulses, laughed freely.
"Blake doesn't approve of me talking. Period." Allie shrugged again, fairly unconcerned. "Are you married?" She turned to Danny suddenly. "I see no ring, but that doesn't mean anything these days. You may just not like jewelry."
Danny looked up in surprise: "No, I am not married."
"How come?"
"Well, Allie, not everyone meets that special someone. . . ."
"I already asked you to not patronize me. Of course, not everyone meets that special someone, and it would be a good explanation if it wasn't so totally common for people to marry all kinds of un-special someones. You are probably just picky."
Danny looked to the back seat for some support: "Viv, help me out here!"
Vivian smiled, thoroughly enjoying Danny's sudden discomfort: "You are on your own, my friend."
"You don't have to tell me," Allie let poor Danny off the hook. "I was just making conversation."
She busied herself with Truman's ears again, stealing an occasional glance in Danny's direction.
Danny concentrated on navigating busy Manhattan streets, making it clear that this venue of questioning was closed.
They drove the rest of the way to Allie's Upper East Side home in silence: Viv going over her notes, Danny driving, Allie thoughtfully stroking the Yorkee's silky forehead, and Truman, oblivious to the turmoil around, blissfully sleeping in Allie's lap.