X (Kinsey Millhone 24)

I had intended to file a police report about the break-in, but what was the point? I could picture writing out my complaint about an intruder unraveling a roll of toilet paper. This would not be compelling to officers whose sworn duty was to battle crime in our fair city. I might have legitimate grounds, but in the larger scheme of things, this was chickenshit. I did a circuit of the inner and outer offices, testing locks and righting the remaining disorder Ned had created. Took all of three minutes. I had no proof it was him in any event, so scratch that idea.

I returned to my office proper, and I’d no more than crossed the threshold when I stopped in my tracks.

Where was the banker’s box with the X on the lid?

I stared at the floor as though I’d already registered the empty spot. The box should have been sitting near the door where I’d left it, but there was no sign of it. I knew I’d brought the box to work with me. I’d removed the padded mailer from its hiding place, crammed the pouch into my floor safe, and set the box aside. I’d meant to go through the contents a second time, but now it was gone. I felt a sharp pang of regret, grasping at alternative explanations. I hadn’t left it at home, had I? I remembered toting it to the car and then bringing it into the office.

Feeling anxious, I pulled back the carpet, ran the combination to the safe, and opened it. The manila mailing pouch was still there. I pulled it out, opened it, and eyed the contents. Everything was accounted for. I returned the pouch, then closed and locked the safe. I made another circuit of the bungalow, knowing I wouldn’t find what I was looking for. I sat down at my desk and stared out the window, trying to come up with an explanation other than the certain knowledge that someone had stolen it. “Someone” being Ned Lowe.

I knew my current obsession was an emotional state called “psychological assessment”—an endless revisiting of events in hopes the outcome would change. I stopped myself. It was done. The box was gone. If I’d failed to find something critical, it was too late. Really, had I left the box in the trunk of my car? I didn’t think so.

Time to get practical, I thought. Instead of fretting about what I didn’t have, maybe it was time to go back to what I had. I pulled out the list of names. Of the six, the last two women were still unaccounted for. I picked up the handset, dialed directory assistance in Tucson, Arizona, and asked for listings for last name, Macy. There were twenty-one of them. I didn’t think the operator would have the patience to read all of them out to me one by one, so I asked for the first ten with the accompanying numbers, which I jotted on an index card: Andrew, Christine, Douglas, E. (probably Emily or Ellen), Everett P. . . . On and on it went.

I thanked her profusely and depressed the plunger, determined to launch into the first batch before I lost heart. I wasn’t quite sure of my approach. I could, of course, simply call and ask for Janet by name, hoping for the best, but I felt I should also be prepared to explain the reason I was asking for her. I could feel myself waffle. Making cold calls is time-consuming and tedious, and the longer I put it off, the more tempting it would be to avoid the chore altogether.

I checked the ten numbers and dialed the first. Six minutes later, I’d left messages on four answering machines, two numbers were disconnects, two parties hadn’t answered, and one didn’t know a Janet Macy. The effort had been pointless, but at least it hadn’t taken long. As I dialed the last number, I made up my mind that this was it for the day.

When a woman picked up, I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m calling from Santa Teresa, California, trying to track down a Janet Macy. Is this the correct number for her?”

“Not anymore,” she said. She sounded elderly, tired, and perturbed.

“Ah. But this was her number at one time?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you have her new number?”

“There’s no new number as far as I know. Janet left some time ago, and I haven’t heard from her. I can’t say it surprises me. She was never good about things like that. Are you a friend?”

“Actually, I’m not. A mutual acquaintance is hoping to locate her, and I offered to help.” This explanation made no particular sense, and if the woman pressed me, I’d be at a loss to elaborate. “Are you her mother?”

“I am. Her dad passed a year ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Took him long enough.”

“That must have been difficult,” I said.

She said, “Well.”

I was afraid she’d launch into his medical history, so I moved right along. “Do you remember when you last spoke to Janet?”