A Girl Like You - John Locke

“Why the hell didn’t you call me sooner?”

“Nothing would have pleased me more, believe me,” she said, icily. “But I’ve been dead, off and on, for the past three days.”

“Where are you now?”

“Medford. Third floor.”

“I’m on my way.”

7.

One of the perks of being incredibly wealthy is the ability to have private jet service available anywhere in the world on a moment’s notice. By the time my limo drops me off at Teterboro, the Lear 60 is fueled and the pilots are ready to go.

Minutes later we’re at altitude, but I’ve still got an hour thirty to kill before I can start the search for Rachel. When we land, I’ll hit the ground running. I’ll thoroughly examine her apartment, then interrogate Nadine until she can remember some tiny detail that can help me figure out what I’m up against.

I look around the jet’s interior, restless. I’m worried about Rachel. Can’t shake the sick, helpless feeling that’s chewing my heart. She needs me, and I can’t do anything about it. Not yet, at least. Wherever she is, she’s suffering. I can feel it. Maybe the suffering is physical, maybe emotional, I don’t know. They could be doing terrible things to her. They could—I need to—I need a diversion. I decide to do what I always do when I can’t get Rachel off my mind.

I call another woman.

Of course Miranda’s voice mail comes on. She’s still in class. I hate to cancel our plans via voice message. For one thing, it’s classless. For another, I’m a voice mail toad. I never know how to end the damn things, so I stumble on until I hate myself for sounding so lame. Then I hang up in mid sentence. As her “Leave your name and number” message runs out, I hear the beep that tells me it’s my turn to speak. So I do. I cancel our plans with an idiotic voice message that tells her we can’t have dinner tonight because something came up, but then I remember I have to mention we can’t go to the show, either. So I tell her that. Then I remember I hadn’t told her about dinner until just now, so I have to tell her dinner was supposed to be a surprise, but I hadn’t actually made the reservations because…I hang up, pull the phone away from my ear and frown at it, unable to believe how stupid I sound.

My thoughts turn to Rachel, the love of my life.

You might wonder how I can be madly in love with Rachel while carrying on with women such as Miranda.

Simple.

Rachel and I are taking a break in our relationship. What happened is, she went crazy, and I’m waiting for her to get better. I’d be with her, except that her doctors claim I’m a terrible influence. They say if I really care about her, I should stay out of her life. I do care, so I stay away for weeks, even months at a time. I mean, I have no intention of walking away forever, of course. Rachel wouldn’t want that.

Maybe it’s not so simple.

What does appear simple is how the psychiatrists always put it on me. What are they basing it on, the fact that after dating me she went nuts? Big deal. Sure, Rachel’s symptoms got worse after we became a couple. But that could’ve been a timing issue. Maybe she was already going crazy. Or maybe some other variable caused the sudden change in her mental health. I mean, Rachel never ate crawfish until I fried her up a batch on our third date. But you don’t hear anyone blaming the crawfish, do you?

I notice the lighted display on the cabin wall. The one that shows we’re still an hour from Louisville. I think about fetching a mini bottle of bourbon from the liquor cabinet, but decide to keep my faculties sharp.

I stare at my cell phone some more, then dial another number.

Billy “the Kid” King answers.

“Hi Billy, it’s me, Donovan Creed.”

He pauses.

I say, “Remember me?”

“Yeah, I remember you. You’re the asshole who sucker-kicked me. You broke my nose, you son of a bitch. I hope you’re happy.”

“Happiness is a state of mind, Billy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you bring your own weather to the picnic.”

“You’re a nutjob. What do you want?”

“I’m planning my schedule for the next few weeks.”

“So?”

“How does next Friday look for you?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m terribly busy, so I can’t make any promises at this time. But I’ll pencil you in for next Friday, eight a.m. You want to meet at the gym, or should I swing by your office?”

“For what?”

“So I can break your nose again.”

“What? I’m not even healed yet!”

“I know,” I say. “Bad timing. For you, I mean.”

He says, “I’m getting a body guard. What do you think about that?”

“I think you should find a really good one.”

“Oh, I will, don’t worry.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“You may not sound scared,” Billy says, “but you’re scared all right. And you should be!”

“Well, if I should be, I’ll try my best. But make sure he’s got insurance. You’d be surprised how many of these guys don’t have adequate coverage.”

“The fuck?”

“You don’t want to get stuck with his medical bills.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“Why’s that?”

“Think how pissed he’ll be when he learns you hired him to protect you from me.”

“I checked around already,” Billy says. “No one knows you.”

“You haven’t checked high enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re checking fighters, right?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“You need to check assassins.”

He pauses again. Then hangs up.

8.

Medford is the income-producing private hospital I helped Rachel purchase six months ago. The building is a hundred-year-old historical structure comprised of hand-cut stone, built to last. Ten years ago it was completely renovated into the three-story hospital that operates beneath the enormous penthouse apartment where Rachel Case lives with Nadine Crouch, my former psychiatrist. Nadine has been quietly caring for Rachel for months.

It takes me two hours to check every square inch of Rachel’s penthouse. But it’s what I find in her bedroom that tells me all I need to know: a single juice box, lying on the floor by the baseboard. The box was clearly hurled at the first person that entered her bedroom, and the pattern it made on the wall, the door, and the floor clearly identified…

Nothing.

I’m kidding about finding a clue.

I mean, there is a juice box on the floor, and a stain from where she’d hurled it, but unless I run into someone with a juice box stain on their clothes, I’ve got squat. I check the answering machine. No messages. I check the mail pile. Nothing out of the ordinary. I check the back door and see that no marks were made to gain entry. I check the stairs they would have used to enter, and know they had Rachel on this very staircase three days ago. I take the stairs one flight down to visit Nadine.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Terrible.”

I believe her. She looks terrible. Then again, she suffered a heart attack and was in a coma for several days.

“Have you been to the apartment?” she says.

“I have.”

“Find anything?”

“Nope.”

She nods.

I say, “How many of them were there?”

“Five, I think.”

“You think?”

“I saw five. Two with Rachel, two with me, one in the living room by the back door.”

“No one on the front door?”

She closes her eyes, thinking about it.

“I can’t say for certain. There was probably another one at that door. I didn’t see him.”

“All men?”

“Yes. Far as I could tell.”

“Did they all wear the same type of clothes?”

“The ones I saw, yes.”

“Were their faces covered?”

“Yes.”

“Any insignias on their clothing?”

She thinks a minute. “No.”

I nod. “Did there seem to be one person in charge?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he?”

“In the hallway.”

“In the—Wait. So there were at least six people, not five.”

“Right.”

I shake my head. “Nadine, you’re going to have to do better.”

“I’m sorry, Donovan. Between the drugs and what I’ve been through, it’s hard to be precise about these sorts of details.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s forget about the men who took her. For now. We can revisit this later, if necessary.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me everyone who’s been to the apartment in the past two weeks.”

“No one’s been there.”

“No pizza or Chinese food delivery?”

“No.”

“No mailman? No pest control guy?”

She thinks a moment. “No. The mailman delivers to the box in the hall. Pest control is once a month, scheduled for next week.”

“Any packages get delivered recently?”

She shakes her head.

“You’re certain?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. Tell me every place you and Rachel have been the past two weeks.”

“Easy. We haven’t been anyplace.”

“I doubt that. A spa treatment? Hair salon? Nail Salon? Walk in the park? A doctor’s appointment? A dentist?”

“No. I mean, I walk in the park, but not Rachel. She uses her elliptical machine.”

“When you’re in the park, does she answer the door?”

“Never.”

“And you haven’t been shopping?”

“Not the past two weeks.”

“Why not?”

“Her behavior’s been erratic. I’ve purposely kept her inside. She was actually improving the night before the kidnapping. I probably would have taken her out that day…”

Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“There was a doctor’s appointment,” she says.

“When?”

“Ten or twelve days ago, I can’t remember exactly.”

“What day of the week?”

“Monday.”

“So…Monday before last?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Eleven days. What type of doctor?”

“General Practitioner.”

“Was she sick? Did she hurt herself somehow?”

“No. I set it up after she mentioned she hadn’t been to the doctor in ten years.”

“Ten years? How is that possible?”

“She’s got a needle phobia. She’s never given blood.”

“Never? What about before she got married?”

“She and Sam got married in Vegas.”

“So you got her to give blood?”

“I did. But she was very unhappy about it afterward.”

“She was mad at you.”

“Yes.”

“Dangerously so?”

“I…wasn’t sure.”

“So you kept her sedated?”

She nods. “At night.”

That was probably wise. I always sedated Rachel at night to keep her from killing me in my sleep. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great girl. But hey, she ain’t perfect, you know?

9.

Dr. D’Angelo’s office is located downtown on the corner of 4th and Spring, in the Davenport Medical Center. But I can’t get there before closing time, so I do the next best thing: talk Ruth Henry, Dr. D’Angelo’s longtime receptionist, into having a cup of coffee with me.

We’re sitting in Mocha Madness Coffee Shop, across the street from the Medical Center, when Ruth says, “You are absolutely the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in person.”

It’s true.

I’m amazingly good looking. I take no pride in it, since this isn’t the face I was born with. In fact, it took a team of plastic surgeons three years to create this face, and they only did it to keep my cover from being blown. Would’ve cost taxpayers a million dollars had I allowed Uncle Sugar to pick up the tab. But that wouldn’t have been fair, since I’m the one who put my cover at risk in the first place. Look, it’s a long story. Maybe someday I’ll write a book about how it all went down. Till then, try to accept the fact that I’m stupidly good looking.

“I was heartbroken to hear about Dr. Dee,” I say. In truth, I was stunned when I called his office earlier and learned he’d recently passed away.

Ruth shows me a weary smile. “Normally I wouldn’t have met you, based on your phone call,” she says.

“Why’s that?”

“For one thing, you called just before closing time, and I’m usually busy on Friday afternoons.”

“I got lucky.”

“You did.”

“What’s the other reason you wouldn’t have met me?”

“Because, no offense, I don’t recall Dr. D’Angelo ever having mentioned your name. But when you called him Dee, I knew you had to be an old college friend, in for the funeral tomorrow.”

I nod. The only reason I knew to call him Dee was because he’d been flirting with Rachel during the exam. “Please,” he’d said. “Call me Dee.” This, according to Nadine. Proving once again it’s the smallest bits of information that make the biggest difference in an investigation.

“Had I known what you looked like,” Ruth continues, “I would’ve got myself all gussied up!”

“Well, you look fine to me,” I say.

She winks. “A couple of the girls are working late at the office. I’d give anything if they came in and saw us together!”

I give her my best “aw, shucks” smile.

“I love your dimples,” she says.

Of course she does. My face was designed to make women love my dimples. The dimples alone cost a quarter mill.

“How’s your latte?” I say.

“Excellent, thanks.”

Ms. Henry is in her mid-forties and gone to seed. Her hairstyle is ten years out of date, and it appears she put her lipstick on with a paint roller. She has the teeth and fingertips of a chain smoker, the ticks and jitters of a caffeine junky. There is some sort of odd growth above her left eye that resembles a button mushroom someone jabbed with a fork. A yellow Livestrong bracelet circles her right wrist.

“Are you an athlete?” I say, shamelessly.

She follows my gaze to the bracelet, fingers it a moment. “This? Oh no,” she laughs. “One of the girls at the office was giving them out. I just like the color.”

“It’s fetching,” I say. Then shake my head in sadness.

“What happened to our poor Dee?” I lament.

“Myocardial Infarction,” she says, sadly. “Commonly known as heart attack.”

I nod, as if grateful for the translation. “Did he have a history of heart trouble?”

“He had chest pains a couple years ago. Had it checked out. He carried nitro in his pocket in case it happened again.”

“Did it?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So it was a surprise?”

“A complete and utter shock.”

“You’re still working.”

“I am. In this town there’s always another doctor ready to step up to the plate.”