Trespassing(16)

“Headquarters in Chicago,” I say. “With satellites in New York and Miami.”

“That’s right,” the receptionist says. “The trouble is . . .”

I wait a moment for her to gather her thoughts.

“The trouble is . . . what?” I finally ask.

“Well, it’s just . . . Do you know, by any chance, who hired your husband? Who’s the head of his department?”

“I don’t know.” It’s not like other jobs, where he reports to an office, punches a time clock with familiar faces, and complains about the wages over lunch pails. “Can’t you look it up for me? Who’s the head of aviation?”

“Ma’am, bear with me, all right? We’re a small communications corporation, and—”

“Who’s in charge of your pilots? Micah is new, so maybe you don’t know him. He was hired this past spring, but someone, any pilot . . . If you talk to any pilot, he should be able to point you in the right direction, shouldn’t he? Somewhere along the chain of command, someone is going to know my husband, and—”

“It’s just that we don’t have any planes, ma’am.”

Her words knock the wind clear out of me. “Wh-what?”

“Planes. I’m unaware of any aviation department here at Diamond Corporation. I’ve asked around, and no one knows anything about pilots on our payroll. Are you sure that’s what your husband does for us?”

“Of course I’m sure! He flies planes! That’s what he does! First for United Airlines, and now for you. Maybe your supervisor knows him or her supervisor or hers. Put me in touch with the goddamned president of the corporation, for all I care. This is important!”

“I’m trying to help you, Mrs. Cavanaugh, but I’m not sure you have the right company.”

I storm into the house.

Bella startles.

I skid to a stop at the cabinets between the kitchen and the great room, which Claudette called the family planning center the first time she brought us here. I tear through the mail and find proof that I’m not insane.

“I’m looking at his pay stub right now. Is this Diamond Corporation at ten fifty-eight LaSalle, suite F twenty-two, in Chicago?”

“We are on LaSalle, ma’am—”

“What if I give you his employee ID number? Will that help?”

“But we aren’t on the twenty-second floor. This building has only fifteen.”

“ID number one-oh-three-two-nine-seven. Can you look him up that way?”

She sighs. “Look, honey. Your husband doesn’t work for us.”

“I have his pay stub. His name is on it. It says Diamond Corporation.”

“Mommy?”

I spin around to see Bella holding a picture of a plane in what looks likes silvery water in her outstretched hand. “Nini says she told you. God Land.”

I hang up the phone.

Gather my daughter into my arms.

Feel her tears against my neck when she buries her face there.

“Bella, why are you saying things like that?”

Her little arms tighten around me. “Not me. Nini.”





Chapter 8

November 13

“And when did he leave?”

Our formal living room is packed with agents of the law—some in uniform and some in plain clothes. While a couple of officers occupy Bella, I’m speaking with a detective wearing faded blue jeans, a backward baseball cap, and a University of Miami T-shirt. He looks more like a high school sports coach than someone who belongs on CSI, but the badge hanging around his neck says his name is Jason Guidry, with the Lake County Police Department.

“Two days ago. Just before six in the morning.”

He squints as he writes down everything I say in a handheld notebook. “And when is he supposed to come back?”

“Two hours ago.” Before the detective can draw the obvious conclusion—that he’s not technically missing; he’s only late—I blurt out: “I haven’t heard from him, and his company . . . the Diamond Corporation . . . they’re pretending they don’t know who he is. They’re pretending he doesn’t exist.”

“Has this ever happened before?” Guidry nibbles on his lower lip, still writing. “He forgets to call? Goes off radar?”

“Of course not! He always calls. Always.”

“I believe you.” He glances up at me. “Have you been in touch with members of his family? Parents? Brothers and sisters? To see if they’ve heard from him?”

“He’s an only child.” I open my laptop to show the detective what I’ve done. “His parents are . . . well, they’re in Europe. They aren’t due back for another week, and I don’t know if their phones are working over there, but I left a voice mail for his mother and sent an e-mail. I also messaged her on Facebook, but she’s not in the habit of checking it.”

“What’s her name?”

“Shell. Shell Cavanaugh.”

“I’d like her phone number, if you don’t mind. And your father-in-law?”

“Micah Senior. He goes by Mick.”

“Have you attempted to reach Mick?”

“I don’t have his number.”