CHAPTER FOUR - The Disappearance of an Interpreter
October 18, 2005. Selene Foundation. NYC. 09:00 am.
Kathryn Young walked down the corridor to her office. Her high heels clicked rapidly on the floor; she was almost running. Another glance at her watch told her that it was indeed nine o'clock in the morning. Good heavens, the first Mexicans from the delegation would turn up any minute, and her interpreter still had not arrived.
Calm down, she told herself. Tricia never let you down before. She knows there's this meeting today, she knows you don't speak Spanish, and she knows how important the meeting is. She'll be here any moment. Probably she just got stuck in the morning traffic.
Kathryn Young was the manager of the Selene Foundation, a private art forum she'd taken over from her father. Over the years, she'd always known how to attract donors and partners, and most of them came from South America. The delegation today came from Mexico. They were due for nine fifteen, which meant they'd probably turn up at nine thirty, but still Kathryn was nervous. What if they'd be punctual today? Without Tricia, she would be lost.
Kathryn had met Patricia Quinlan half a year ago for the first time. At that time, Tricia had just taken her final exam and left the language institute as an interpreter for Spanish and German. She was new to the professional world, and the job at the Selene Foundation was one of her very first. She'd been nervous, and Kathryn had felt a little sorry for her. But then she'd heard her interpret, and everything changed. Tricia Quinlan was one of those persons whose quality only showed once they were doing something they felt completely comfortable with. For Tricia, this something was interpreting. Suddenly this young woman seemed twice as confident and professional as before. Her voice dropped down several notes, she articulated differently, and her whole being seemed to relax, exuding calm and professionality. The clients, including Kathryn, trusted her completely as soon as she started speaking.
Kathryn had never consulted another interpreter since then, unless of course another language than Spanish or German was required. Tricia also knew some French, but she refused to work with it, since she had not studied it properly.
But she was not only Kathryn's favorite interpreter in all three main disciplines - simultaneous, consecutive and liaison - Tricia Quinlan had also become a friend, and therefore Kathryn was all the more unsettled. Surely she'd have called if something was wrong? Tricia would never ever let her down.
Kathryn picked up the phone and dialed Tricia's number. But she was not at home; her answering machine took the call, but Kathryn did not leave a message. She was a little calmer now. Tricia was apparently on her way here.
But her cell phone was out. That was unusual; Tricia took great care that the battery was always loaded, and the only time her cell phone was out was when she was on a job. Kathryn left a message on the mailbox, urgently imploring Tricia to call her.
"Ms. Young, the Mexicans have arrived."
Kathryn spun around, causing the young man to wince. "Do you speak Spanish, Greg?" she asked.
Greg stared at her. "Just a little. Why?"
"The interpreter's late. Someone must explain it to them."
"Oi." Greg ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, I can try. Shall I offer them something to drink?"
"Anything that takes their mind off the meeting," Kathryn said. "Just don't let them get bored."
Greg grinned. "They'll be hugely entertained when they hear me talk Spanish," he promised.
Kathryn smiled. "Make a fool of yourself if you must, just don't let their mood get worse. I'll reward you somehow, promise!"
Greg retreated and met the Mexicans halfway down the corridor.
"Buenos dias y bienvenido," Kathryn heard him say. "Yo soy Greg Forster." That didn't sound too bad, she thought. Only the accent was horrible.
She relaxed a little bit, waiting for the phone to ring or for Tricia to appear. Every now and then, she spied on Greg and the Mexicans. He had managed to offer them coffee and donuts and they were happily munching away while Greg tried to explain the core problem to them.
"No está aquí nuestra... nuestra... uhm..." He was quite obviously lacking the vocabulary. "Transladora," he finally ventured, taking a wild guess by simply "Spanifying" the English.
The Mexicans looked confused, then one of them burst out laughing. "La traductora," he explained to his colleagues.
"Sí, claro," Greg said hurriedly. "Quizás ella está en el tráfico..."
Kathryn retreated into her office. Greg might be entertaining, but the Mexicans were bound to become impatient soon. She had to do something.
She called a translator's office and asked for someone to interpret at her meeting, apologizing several times for the inconvenience she caused. Luckily, one of the Spanish translators had time and promised to come over.
Kathryn assured him that he did not need any special preparation in terms of unusual or specialized vocabulary, thanked him a thousand times, hung up and picked up the phone once again. This time, she called Tricia's neighbor to ask whether she knew where Tricia might be. Having received a negative answer, Kathryn bit her nails and thought long and hard about the situation.
It was nine twenty-five, and Tricia had said she'd be here at eight-thirty. She didn't answer her cell phone, which she usually always did, and she would never turn down a job like this.
Convinced that something was terribly wrong here, Kathryn Young dialed the number of the police and called her in missing.
xxx
12:00 pm. 3 hours missing.
"This is all an interpreter can afford?" Danny Taylor wondered. "I thought they raked in money like crazy."
"That's because for you it's completely unimaginable to do what they do," Samantha Spade countered, smiling. "Listen, understand, translate and talk - all at once. You think that that's so hard that payment must be extraordinary."
"You said that!" Danny grinned. "But you're right," he conceded. "I'd be completely lost, that's for sure."
"I think all you need is a good memory and the ability to concentrate," Sam mused.
"And sufficient vocabulary in at least two languages," Danny added.
"Whatever, I doubt that any interpreter makes a six-digit salary a year," Sam concluded. "Unless they work for the White House of the Sultan of Brunei, perhaps."
"Judging from this house, Patricia Quinlan certainly doesn't work for George W.," Danny remarked.
"Oh, come on, Danny, it's not so bad."
"Not bad, but it's not the pick of the crop, either."
"It's no worse than my own apartment house," Sam pointed out.
"I wouldn't know," Danny said. "I'm not Martin; I've never been to your place."
Sam blushed. Sometimes she forgot that Danny had known about her and Martin. She thought it rather tactless of him to mention it now that it was over, but she knew he hadn't meant any offense. How could he know, after all, that she was still hurt? Although she had tried not to make it more than an affair, she realized more and more that her feelings for Martin ran deeper than she would have liked them to. It had been a heavy blow when Martin had broken up with her, but some corner of her mind could understand him. Somehow, at least. He had hoped for more, and she had refused to give it to him, although she could have.
You messed it up, Sam. As usual.
She forced the memory back. She had work to do.
The agents entered the house and took the elevator to the third floor, where they knocked on the door of # 311, the door next to Patricia Quinlan's.
A blonde woman in her forties opened the door. She had a round, friendly face and large brown eyes and reminded Sam immediately of an English cook in a manor - tough but friendly, maternal and any child's partner in crime, so to speak. It did not surprise her when she remembered that Nadine Sciorra worked as a nanny.
"Ms. Sciorra?"
"Yes. And you are...?"
"FBI. I'm Agent Spade, this is Agent Taylor. May we come in?" Sam flipped open her ID as she spoke.
"Oh, of course." Nadine Sciorra stepped aside and let the agents in.
Sam looked around in the room. It was furnished in warm, bright colors; everything looked cozy and inviting. If her apartment reflected her personality, Sam mused, then it must be very pleasant to live next to Nadine Sciorra.
"I suppose you're here because of my neighbor." It was not exactly a question, and Ms. Sciorra did not seem to expect an answer.
"Patricia Quinlan," Danny confirmed. "You already know she's been called in missing?"
Ms. Sciorra nodded. "Kathryn Young called me when she didn't turn up at work this morning," she explained. "She was worried. I understand it was Kathryn who called you?"
"That's right." Sam sat down on the slightly battered but cozy sofa and declined a cup of coffee that was offered to her.
"I don't understand it," Ms. Sciorra said, thoughtfully shaking her head. "Something must have happened to Tricia."
"That's the second time that we hear this," Sam said. "Ms. Young told us the same. So Patricia Quinlan is normally very reliable?"
"Oh yes," Ms. Sciorra confirmed positively. "Tricia always calls when she's about to be late, even if it's only ten minutes. She once told me that it's a professional disease, so to speak. As an interpreter, it can cost you your job when you're late. Especially as a freelancer. And she's a very conscientious worker."
"What kind of person is Patricia Quinlan?" Danny wanted to know.
Ms. Sciorra smiled. "She's a treasure, to be sure," she said warmly. "Always friendly and ready to help. Comfortable to live next to. She never turns up the volume of the TV too high or something like that."
"You said she calls whenever she's late," Sam said. "That sounds as if you sometimes meet out of the house..."
"Yes, sometimes," Ms. Sciorra replied. "Tricia likes children, so she sometimes joins me for a coffee when I'm out in Central Park with the kids."
"Would you say you're friends?"
Ms. Sciorra hesitated. "We-ll," she drawled, "maybe not friends as such. I mean, we don't exchange secrets or something of that sort. But we get along very well, and we like and respect each other. Good neighbors, you know."
"I see. But you're not her confidant?"
"I wouldn't say. Why are you asking?"
"When someone disappears, there are numerous possibilities," Danny explained. "The person could've had an accident. Or escaped from something. Or just wanted a break. Or there was a crime. In order to investigate, we have to know as much as possible about the person's habits and mental condition. We've got to narrow down the range of possible reasons until we can rule out all but one. If we knew, for instance, if something was bothering Tricia, then we'd have something to work with."
"I see." Nadine Sciorra bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry I can't help you there. She hardly ever talked about her personal life. Although..." She furrowed her brow. "Now that you say it... I think that something was indeed bothering her."
Sam and Danny both looked up. "Really?"
"I don't know for sure," Ms. Sciorra warned. "It's just... three days ago someone visited her. A very handsome young man."
"Her date?"
"No, Tricia's not dating anyone at the moment. That's something we do talk about," she added with a smile. "Men. For all I know, Tricia hasn't had a boyfriend, or even a date, since she moved here three years ago. She'd sometimes complain that she was so unlucky when it came to love."
"So this handsome man...?"
"I don't know who he was, but Tricia seemed very surprised to see him."
"Surprised? In what way?"
"Pleased, I'd say." Ms. Sciorra shrugged. "It seemed to me as if she hadn't seen him in a long time and would never have thought that one day he'd knock on her door."
"An ex boyfriend, maybe?"
"I don't think so. Maybe an old school friend or a former colleague."
"Did you hear his name?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"How long did he stay?"
"I don't know exactly. But I saw Tricia later that night, perhaps around nine, and then she was alone. And when I think about it... she seemed slightly irritated," she said slowly. "Not furious, as if after a fight, but something must have annoyed her."
"Did she say what it was?"
"We didn't talk. She didn't see me; I came up the stairs and she had just gotten her mail, I believe, and I heard her murmur, Who does he think he is, that jerk."
"Was that the last time you saw her?"
"No, I saw her yesterday evening, but we only said hello. She did seem a little quieter than usual, though, but I thought she'd just had a hard day. She was at a conference yesterday that lasted all day, and she said she felt as if her brains had turned to mush and there was a knot in her tongue."
"Do you think it's possible that this man upset her so much that the things he said were troubling her even three days later?"
"I really can't say. As I said, I have no idea what that meeting was all about. But yes, I think that's possible, especially if they parted in trouble and didn't resolve anything. Tricia needs harmony; quarrels unsettle her."
Sam and Danny exchanged a glance. "Do you know anyone who could tell us a little more about Tricia?" Sam asked. "A friend or a relative with whom she has regular contact?"
"Miss Downs," Nadine said promptly. "She went to school with Tricia, I believe. Cordelia Downs. She's an artist or something. She's Tricia's best friend."
Sam got up. "Thank you, Ms. Sciorra," she said. "You've been very cooperative. One thing more, though... if we can't find the man who visited Tricia, would you help us draw up a phantom picture?"
Ms. Sciorra nodded enthusiastically. "Sure. I'll do whatever I can to help you find Tricia. I hope she's alright," she added silently.
"We'll do our best," Danny assured her with his most charming smile. "We'll call you when we have further questions."
"Anytime, Agents." Nadine opened the door for them. "Is there anything else I can do?"
"Do you happen to have a key for Tricia's apartment? Then we wouldn't have to force the door open." Danny had the decency to blush a little bit.
She nodded. "We exchanged our keys shortly after Tricia moved in," she explained while she rummaged through her purse. "As you can see, I have a lot of plants that need to be watered when I'm not there. And Tricia used to have a guinea pig, Fredegar, which I fed when she had a job in another state or something. Fred died last year, though." She had found the key and handed it to Sam. "If I'm gone when you're finished, just drop it into my mailbox," she instructed the agents. "And if you have any more questions..."
"... we'll call." Sam smiled. "Thank you, Ms. Sciorra."
She and Danny left # 311 and unlocked the door of # 313.
The first thing they noticed was the fresh air. Sam looked around and noticed that the bedroom window was open, and the wind blowing through it in turn reached the living room through the door that stood ajar. Sam went over and closed the window; the october wind was quite cold and she didn't think that Tricia Quinlan would like to return to a frozen apartment. Besides, the wind might mess up any possible evidence.
She looked around in the tastefully furnished room. A large bed, but only one set of covers. A wardrobe with a large mirror. A shelf above the head, crammed with books. Sam quickly scanned the assortment and noticed that Patricia Quinlan seemed to have a very broad taste in literature. The books included classics such as Oscar Wilde, Charles Dickens and Jane Austen as well as a few ladies of crime - Agatha Christie, Ruth Rendell and Val McDermid -, Dan Brown, Tolkien, Harry Potter, Diana Gabaldon and some Spanish books by Gabriel García Márquez.
The nightstand was occupied by a small radio that probably served as an alarm clock, another half-read book (La sombra del viento by Carlos Ruiz Zafón) and a small bottle of water that was half empty.
On the wall opposite the bed was a chair draped with discarded clothes. Above the chair on the wall hung a large poster of Salvador Dalí's famous painting about time.
"Sam?" Danny called out.
Sam left the bedroom and joined her partner in the living room. "Found anything?"
Danny pointed at the glass table that stood in one corner before a small couch and two armchairs. "I don't know if it's important, but look at the newspapers."
Sam frowned. It appeared that Tricia had subscribed to the New York Times, since there was a pile of last and this week's editions on the table, neatly stacked. She opened her mouth in order to ask what was so special about that, but then she looked at the paper on top of the pile. It was the edition of October 16. Today was October 18. She looked through the stack and found the editions of today and yesterday under the top one.
"I don't know if it's relevant," Danny remarked, "but it looks as if there was something interesting in that paper. She must have read it again and then put it back on top."
"Right," Sam said. "That also means that she was still here this morning. She got today's newspaper, and it's under that of the sixteenth."
"Meaning she re-read that edition this morning." Danny frowned. "I'll get one, too, and check it. Maybe I'll find out what she thought so interesting."
Further scrutiny of Patricia Quinlan's apartment revealed nothing relevant. Sam and Danny looked through her computer files but found only business letters, invoices and translations, the latter being quite old and completely out of date. Sam remembered that Tricia had not worked as a translator for a year but rather concentrated fully on interpreting, first the exams half a year ago and then professional life. They looked through the shelves, the desk and the cupboard and came up with more books, CDs, DVDs, printouts, tablecloths, cutlery, china, sheet music, photo albums, folders containing tax documents and Tricia's personal documents, vocabulary lists and millions of other small things. Patricia Quinlan seemed to keep everything, from baby pictures via high school yearbooks to old conference documentation from various jobs.
But nothing that helped Sam and Danny.
xxx
02:00 pm. 5 hours missing.
Cordelia Downs was a conspicuous person. Tall and slender, a natural blonde with an air of confidence and authority about her, but with a smile that betrayed her good sense of humor. Sam was surprised when she looked closer and noticed that her face was actually not pretty at all - her eyes were quite small, her nose too large and slightly crooked. But the overall impression was still that of an attractive woman.
She met the agents in her office, a large, bright room with glass walls on the top floor of a twenty-three-story building in the heart of Manhattan. As a graphic designer, she probably needed a lot of light.
Sam and Danny sat down opposite her, and Cordelia leaned back in her chair, her brow slightly furrowed with worry.
"This is completely unlike Tricia," she said firmly when Danny had finished explaining why they were here. "How can I be of help?"
"Nadine Sciorra told us that you're Tricia's closest friend," Sam replied. "We were hoping you might know what was on her mind lately."
Cordelia bit her lower lip. "I talked to her on the phone a few days ago," she said, "but I have no idea what was eating her."
"Eating her? So you thought something was wrong about her?"
"Well, she seemed lost in thought when I called her," Cordelia answered. "We didn't talk long; she said she'd had a hard day and wanted nothing but a bath and something hot to drink. But she seemed more, dunno, reserved that usual. She was very... monosyllabic. As if she wasn't really listening to what I was saying. I paid no mind 'cause, well, she had warned me, after all. Hard day, et cetera."
"When exactly did you call her?" Sam asked.
"Three days ago. At about a quarter to six, if that helps."
Sam checked her notes. "Ms. Sciorra told us that Tricia had a visitor three days ago. Did she mention anything like that on the phone?"
"A visitor?" Cordelia's surprise was genuine. "Not a word. What visitor?"
"Ms. Sciorra wouldn't say. A very handsome young man, that's all she could tell us."
Cordelia's face revealed utter perplexion. "She never said a word that she was dating anyone," she said.
"Ms. Sciorra doesn't think it was a date. Rather some old acquaintance. Tricia seemed very surprised to see him. Do you have any idea who that might have been?"
"Old acquaintance?" Cordelia pondered. "Perhaps Terry Williams," she suggested at last. "Terry was a good friend of hers back in high school. They were neighbors. When Tricia moved out, they lost touch. Sometimes she'd talk about him and say how much she'd like to see him again. But as far as I know they never managed to meet. Terry already has two kids," she added. "I reckon he was simply lacking the time, or his wife didn't want him to have woman friends... Who knows." She smirked. "Tricia wouldn't dream of hooking up with Terry, he's always been a sort of brother for her, but I reckon she would indeed be very surprised if he suddenly turned up at her door."
"Would he match the description, then? Very handsome?"
Cordelia grinned. "Depends on taste, don't you think? But I suppose that many women would regard Terry as a very attractive man."
"We'll check." Sam made a note. "Does Patricia Quinlan have any enemies?"
"Certainly not," Cordelia said positively. "She's a good person, and most people like her. She's friendly and honest. A skilled and reliable worker, but she never shows off with it. I can't think of any possible reason to hold a grudge against her."
"Maybe she offended someone? Involuntarily, perhaps? Or she knew something she shouldn't?"
Cordelia smiled. "You mean like Nicole Kidman in The Interpreter?" she asked. "I doubt it. Tricia's a freelancer; she works at conferences and assemblies and council meetings, and sometimes for TV. Nothing that might have to do with homeland security or secret policies and government conspiracies or something like that."
"And you don't think it's possible that Tricia had, let's say, an affair with a married man or so..."
Cordelia sneered. "Tricia? No way! She would never do this to any other woman, even if she doesn't know her. Tricia would never hurt anyone." She looked at Sam and Danny. "Listen, you wanna learn something about her, right?"
"That's always helpful," Sam agreed.
"Then I'll show you something. Maybe that'll help you understand what kind of person Patricia Quinlan is."
Cordelia stood up, reached for a framed picture on the shelf behind her back and handed it over to Sam and Danny.
"That was taken at the prom," Cordelia explained. "Tricia and me."
The girls in the picture had put their arms around each other and laughed into the camera. Both wore dark blue dresses; Cordelia's ended above the knee and Tricia's went all the way down to the ankles.
Sam was surprised. The girls seemed so different. Cordelia's smile was open, confident and radiant; Tricia seemed shy and a little awkward. She appeared even plumper next to Cordelia's breathtaking figure. It took a second glance to notice the girl's pretty face, her pearly white teeth, her large eyes, their immensely dark blue matching the color of her dress. Tricia's hair was slightly curled and was cleverly done up at the back of her head. Something shimmered in her hair: small silver pearls had been attached to several strands.
"She looked so beautiful," said Cordelia, looking affectionately at the picture. "But no matter how often we told her, she wouldn't believe it. You see, Tricia has often been made fun of, especially in primary school and junior high, because of her slight overweight. You know how cruel children can be, don't you? Especially those spoiled rich girls who are generally deemed most popular. You know them, don't you, Agent Spade? They went to your school, too..." Cordelia visibly shook off the memory. "Well, what I'm saying is that Tricia was harboring this deep conviction that she was ugly. I didn't meet her until ninth grade, and then it became a little better. Tricia has always been introverted and shy, but I managed to raise her self-esteem a little bit. The problem was that no one looked at her long enough to notice that wonderful person. And Tricia never believed that any boy could find her attractive, so she didn't even try anything. I remember she was having that violent crush on one of our classmates. But all she did was admiring him from the distance. She'd look at him when no one noticed, she'd choose the same courses as he did, and so on and so forth. What was most important to Tricia was that he knew who she was. She knew she couldn't expect anything more, so she decided she'd be content with that.
"So you may imagine that Tricia felt really honored and excited when that guy asked her to help him with Spanish. She probably saved his ass, excuse my language, for otherwise he certainly would've failed the exams. And do you know what this arrogant jerk did to thank her? He greeted her in the corridors!" Cordelia's eyes blazed. "He let the rest of the school know that he knew her. He called this improving her social status. Talked to her for a few minutes during lunch break, or asked her a question on the way to the gym. And Tricia was happy! Do you see what I mean? She was so madly in love with him, and yet she was happy about a condescending hello every now and then!"
Cordelia smiled ruefully. "That's Tricia, you see? When I asked her why she was so happy about that strange arrangement, she said that in a way it was a better compliment that any flirtation, because it meant that he respected her. He talked to her despite the fact that he didn't think her attractive, and for Tricia that meant that he was really interested in what she had to say, not just the way she looked. You might say she turned in a buddy instead of a lover, and that was OK by her. Somehow it even helped her get over him. He asked her for a dance at the prom, I remember that. That was really nice of him, but still I could've killed him for his behavior.
"Since high school, Tricia has become still a little more confident. A little more courageous. She's no longer as shy and introverted as she used to be. When you see her, you get the impression that she's a strong woman of character, confident and stable. That's probably because of her profession. But when it comes to romance, these old weaknesses show again. This conviction of not being attractive enough is still rooted in her.
"And that's why Tricia would never hook up with a married man," Cordelia ended. "First, because she wouldn't even notice his advances if he screamed it to her face; second, because it's a strict taboo to her, anyway; and third, because Tricia knows very well the way it feels when the man you're in love with gets involved with another woman. She experienced that very often. She just wouldn't be capable of doing this to someone else. That's also the reason why she never talks about anyone behind their backs," Cordelia added.
Sam and Danny exchanged a glance. "Thank you for your openness, Ms. Downs," Danny said. "I, for my part, feel as if I'd known Patricia Quinlan for ages now. Although I've never seen her before."
Cordelia grinned. "I talk a lot if you let me," she said, half apologetically, half ironically. "You should've interrupted me if you'd noticed you didn't need all the info."
"Everything's helpful," Sam pointed out. "We're gonna try and put the jigsaw together. Now that we've heard your story, I'm sure that we'll have a lot to work with. We'll call you if we have any further questions."
xxx
Patricia Quinlan, 23 yrs.
Interpreter (freelance)
Missing since October 18, 09:00 am.
Recent activities:
3 DBD
05:45 pm: talks on the phone to C. Downs; seems lost in thought
evening: unexpected visitor; handsome young man; gone at 09:00 pm
2 DBD
morning: finds interesting article in NY Times
1 DBD
evening: meets N. Sciorra; seems exhausted and quieter than usual
Day of Disappearance:
morning: re-reads NY Times article
08:30 am: does not appear at Selene Foundation, as promised
09:25 am: called in missing by K. Young