The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(16)
“The car service guy says Olivia canceled the pickup,” she managed, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. “I called all of her other friends. No one saw her last night.”
“The hospitals have no record of admitting anyone by that name,” Daniel reported. “What in the world is going on? It’s not like Olivia to just up and vanish.”
“No, it’s not,” Catalina said. She grabbed her coat and handbag and headed for the door. “You stay here and start going through the morning news reports. You’re looking for anything that happened in the Seattle downtown area last night. Car accidents. Fires. Shootings. Robberies. Kidnappings. Anything.”
“Got it.” Daniel started to swivel his chair toward the computer. He paused. “You do know what they say about the boyfriend or the husband. When a woman goes missing—”
“The cops look at the boyfriend or the husband first. Everyone knows that. I’m going to check out that angle. Ferris sounded genuinely surprised and concerned when I talked to him on the phone a few minutes ago, but I intend to confront him in person. It’s easier to get a read on someone that way.”
“Hold on. I don’t think you should meet him alone. I’ll come with you.”
“Thanks, but we’ll worry about that later. First I want to retrace Olivia’s steps last night. I checked her apartment this morning. It was obvious that she went back there and changed her clothes after she left the office yesterday. I know she requested a pickup from the ride-hailing service and then canceled a short time later. I need to find someone who might have seen her during that time period.”
“What about the police? Are you going to file a missing persons report?”
“Yes, but at this point I have no grounds for suspecting foul play. I want to see what I can find out on my own first.”
Daniel gave her a knowing look. “You think the cops will blow you off because of the Ingram case, don’t you?”
“Yep. There wasn’t an ounce of evidence to indicate that Ingram had been murdered, at least not the kind of hard evidence the police can use. All I could tell them was that I thought he had been killed, possibly with poison or some drug that stopped his heart. They found nothing to back up my theory.”
“It’s their job to find the hard evidence,” Daniel said. “They had no right to label you a fake psychic.”
“They didn’t actually say that I was a fake until Roger Gossard told them and that reporter Brenda Bryce that I was probably delusional.”
“Gossard was trying to cover his own ass.”
“At the expense of my ass,” Catalina said. “Get going on that computer search. Call me if you find anything.”
“I’m on it, Boss.”
Catalina went out into the hall and closed the door. She formed a strategy while she waited for the elevator. The first step was to go back to the apartment tower and try to retrace Olivia’s steps. Someone must have seen something. This was a city, after all. There were people on the streets and security cameras everywhere these days.
________
The only good news that morning was that the TV crew and the curiosity seekers were no longer hanging around in front of the apartment building. She went upstairs and made herself walk through Olivia’s apartment again, this time with her senses heightened. There was no trace of panic or fear in the atmosphere, nothing that indicated violence.
She took the elevator downstairs to the lobby and asked Robert to contact Andrea, the woman who had been at the concierge desk the previous evening. He made the call and handed the phone to Catalina.
“I spoke to Olivia when she left,” Andrea said. “I could tell she was really looking forward to the evening. She went outside to wait for her ride. Usually the cars pull up right out in front in the loading zone. But the driver must have sent a message telling her he was waiting on the side of the building. I saw her glance at her phone, and then she walked around the corner. I lost sight of her after that.”
“Thanks,” Catalina said.
She went outside and followed the route Olivia had evidently taken. It led to a quiet side street. Marge was in her office, the alcove of a service door. She sat on her bedroll. She wore the heavy down-filled coat Olivia and Catalina had given her several months earlier. There was a six-pack of sodas on the ground next to her. A battered shopping cart containing all her worldly possessions completed the furnishings.
No one knew Marge’s last name. No one knew her age, either, although Catalina and Olivia had concluded that she was probably in her forties. Life on the street aged a woman fast. She was not big on conversation, nor did she ask for money. Instead, she regarded most passersby with a suspicious glare. The majority of those who noticed her in the alcove kept their distance. The assumption was that she had some serious mental health issues. Catalina and Olivia were pretty sure they knew why Marge gazed at people the way she did. Marge perceived human auras.
Catalina approached her with some caution. You never knew what to expect.
“Hello, Marge,” Catalina said.
“Wondered when you’d show up. Took you long enough.”
Marge spoke in a rough voice that, at some point in the past, had been wrecked by cigarettes or, quite possibly, too much screaming. In a rare conversational moment, she had confided to Catalina that she had spent some time locked up in a secret research lab. She said she had screamed night and day until they finally let her go.