LITMIR.BIZ

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      “A friend spoke to her yesterday, saw her at work.”

      “What time?”

      “I don’t know... 3:00 p.m.”

      I glance at my watch. “So, she’s been missing for twenty-seven hours?”

      “Is it true that she’s not considered missing until she’s been gone for forty-eight hours?” Mrs. Dennett asks.

      “Of course not, Eve,” her husband replies in a degrading tone.

      “No, ma’am,” I say. I try to be extracordial. I don’t like the way her husband demeans her. “In fact, the first forty-eight hours are often the most critical in missing-persons cases.”

      The judge jumps in. “My daughter is not a missing person. She’s misplaced. She’s doing something rash and negligent, something irresponsible. But she’s not missing.”

      “Your Honor, who was the last one to see your daughter then, before she was—” I’m a smart-ass and so I have to say it “—misplaced?”

      It’s Mrs. Dennett who responds. “A woman named Ayanna Jackson. She and Mia are co-workers.”

      “Do you have a contact number?”

      “On a sheet of paper. In the kitchen.” I nod toward one of the officers, who heads into the kitchen to get it.

      “Is this something Mia has done before?”

      “No, absolutely not.”

      But the body language of Judge and Grace Dennett says otherwise.

      “That’s not true, Mom,” Grace chides. I watch her expectantly. Lawyers just love to hear themselves speak. “On five or six different occasions Mia disappeared from the house. Spent the night doing God knows what with God knows whom.”

      Yes, I think to myself, Grace Dennett is a bitch. Grace has dark hair like her dad’s. She’s got her mother’s height and her father’s shape. Not a good mix. Some people might call it an hourglass figure; I probably would, too, if I liked her. But instead, I call it plump.

      “That’s completely different. She was in high school. She was a little naive and mischievous, but...”

      “Eve, don’t read more into this than there is,” Judge Dennett says.

      “Does Mia drink?” I ask.

      “Not much,” Mrs. Dennett says.

      “How do you know what Mia does, Eve? You two rarely speak.”

      She puts her hand to her face to blot a runny nose and for a moment I am so taken aback by the size of the rock on her finger that I don’t hear James Dennett rambling on about how his wife had put in the call to Eddie—mind you, I’m struck here by the fact that not only is the judge on a first-name basis with my boss, but he’s also on a nickname basis—before he got home. Judge Dennett seems convinced that his daughter is out for a good time, and that there’s no need for any official involvement.

      “You don’t think this is a case for the police?” I ask.

      “Absolutely not. This is an issue for the family to handle.”

      “How is Mia’s work ethic?”

      “Excuse me?” the judge retorts as wrinkles form across his forehead and he rubs them away with an aggravated hand.

      “Her work ethic. Does she have a good employment history? Has she ever skipped work before? Does she call in often, claim she’s sick when she’s not?”

      “I don’t know. She has a job. She gets paid. She supports herself. I don’t ask questions.”

      “Mrs. Dennett?”

      “She loves her job. She just loves it. Teaching is what she always wanted to do.”

      Mia is an art teacher. High school. I jot this down in my notes as a reminder.

      The judge wants to know if I think that’s important. “Might be,” I respond.

      “And why’s that?”

      “Your Honor, I’m just trying to understand your daughter. Understand who she is. That’s all.”

      Mrs. Dennett is now on the verge of tears. Her blue eyes begin to swell and redden as she pathetically attempts to suppress the tiny drips. “You think something has happened to Mia?”

      I’m thinking to myself: isn’t that why you called me here? You think something has happened to Mia, but instead I say, “I think we act now and thank God later when this all turns out to be a big misunderstanding. I’m certain she’s fine, I am, but I’d hate to overlook this whole thing without at least looking into it.” I’d kick myself if—if—it turned out everything wasn’t fine.

      “How long has Mia been living on her own?” I ask.

      “It’ll be seven years in thirty days,” Mrs. Dennett states point-blank.

      I’m taken aback. “You keep count? Down to the day?”

      “It was her eighteenth birthday. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

      “I won’t pry,” I say, but the truth is, I don’t have to. I can’t wait to get out of here, too. “Where does she live now?”

      The judge responds. “An apartment in the city. Close to Clark and Addison.”

      I’m an avid Chicago Cubs fan and so this is thrilling for me. Just mention the words Clark or Addison and my ears perk up like a hungry puppy. “Wrigleyville. That’s a nice neighborhood. Safe.”

      “I’ll get you the address,” Mrs. Dennett offers.

      “I would like to check it out, if you don’t mind. See if any windows are broken, signs of forced entry.”

      Mrs. Dennett’s voice quavers as she asks, “You think someone broke into Mia’s apartment?”

      I try to be reassuring. “I just want to check. Mrs. Dennett, does the building have a doorman?”

      “No.”

      “A security system? Cameras?”

      “How are we supposed to know that?” the judge growls.

      “Don’t you visit?” I ask before I can stop myself. I wait for an answer, but it doesn’t come.

      Eve

       After

      I zip her coat for her and pull a hood over her head, and we walk out into the uncompromising Chicago wind. “We need to hurry now,” I say, and she nods though she doesn’t ask why. The gusts nearly knock us over as we make our way to James’s SUV, parked a half-dozen feet away, and as I reach for her elbow, the only thing I’m certain of is that if one of us falls, we are both going down. The parking lot is a sheet of ice four days after Christmas. I do my best to shield her from the cold and the relentless wind, pulling her into me and wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her warm, though my own petite figure is quite smaller than her own and I’m certain I fail miserably at the task.

      “We go back next week,” I say to Mia as she climbs into the passenger seat, my voice loud over the clatter of doors slamming and seat belts locking. The radio shouts at us, the car’s engine on the verge of death on this bitter day. Mia flinches and I ask James to please turn the radio off. In the backseat, Mia is quiet, staring out the window and watching the cars, three of them, as they encircle us like a shiver of hungry sharks, their drivers meddlesome and ravenous. One lifts a camera to his eye and the flash all but blinds us.

      “Where the hell are the cops when you need them?” James asks no one in particular, and then blares the horn until Mia’s hands rise up to cover her ears from the horrible sound. The cameras flash again. The cars loiter in the parking lot, their engines running,

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