Vanished by Joseph Finder Read Free Book Online

attack.
    It didn’t look good. In the pit of my stomach, I knew that he wasn’t likely to turn up alive. I didn’t want to tell her that. Yet I also didn’t want to mislead her.
    “How many of them were there?” I asked.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Probably just one. But he had a gun.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I felt it.”
    “How?”
    “He held something against my temple that felt like the barrel of a gun. And I heard that little click a revolver makes when you cock the hammer.”
    “So it was a revolver, not a semiautomatic.”
    “You don’t cock a semiautomatic, Nick.”
    I just smiled. I didn’t want to get all firearms-geeky on her. Actually, you do cock a semiautomatic when you rack the slide. But the point she was trying to make was basically right: nothing else sounds quite like the hammer on a revolver being pulled. “Male or female?”
    “Male, for sure.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know, I—well, I guess, the strength—”
    “There are some awfully strong women around.”
    “Maybe I felt arm hair or something.”
    “His arms were bare, then.”
    “No . . . I . . . it smelled like a guy, if you know what I mean. Cologne. Cheap cologne, mixed with cigarette smoke.”
    “Did you get the sense that Roger knew the attacker?”
    Her eyes roamed the room. “No, I don’t think . . .”
    “Gabe said the cops were wondering if you and Roger were having marital difficulties.”
    She winced. “He said that?”
    I nodded. “Basically.”
    “What does that mean? Like he tried to have me bumped off?”
    “I guess.”
    “That’s just stupid. If Roger wanted to leave me, he’d just leave.”
    “Did he ever talk about that?”
    “Not you, too.”
    “Nah. Roger’s not the divorce type, I’d say. He’d rather just grind you down.”
    She frowned, but not with her eyes. “I know you two have . . . issues. I realize he can be annoying sometimes, but—”
    “Annoying? White guys who call each other ‘dude’ are annoying. Hot-air hand dryers in public restrooms are annoying. I wouldn’t call Roger annoying.” He’s a jerk, I didn’t say. An asshole. In other circumstances I might have said this aloud. But not that day. And the fact was, she loved the guy, and so did Gabe, so who was I to impose my opinion on them? It was irrelevant.
    She looked up suddenly, sniffed the air. “Oh, God, the sweet potato.” She ran over to the toaster oven on the counter near the refrigerator (a Sub-Zero, of course, roughly the size of a Humvee) and came back shortly with her foil-wrapped baked sweet potato and a fork.
    “Want some?”
    “I’m good.”
    “You have any supper?”
    “You know me. I eat when I’m hungry.”
    In their house, the kitchen was normally Roger’s domain. I have a great respect for male friends of mine who can cook. Just not for kitchen fascists like my brother. He always had to have the right high-end appliance or expensive pan, the right cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil, the right thirty-year-old balsamic vinegar. Once food becomes that important, you’ve got a problem that Umbrian white truffle oil can’t solve.
    “In the hospital, they kept feeding me Jell-O and ginger ale, and all I could think about was baked sweet potato for some reason.”
    “Is your boss going to survive without you?”
    She smiled fondly. “He’s been great. He told me to take as much time as I need. But I want to go back soon.”
    “You’re well enough?”
    “Like I said, I only look a train wreck. I’m feeling fine. Gabe has school, and I’ll just go stir-crazy sitting around the house.”
    “I assume Leland Gifford knows about Roger’s . . . disappearance.”
    “Of course.”
    “You’ve talked to him about it?”
    “Just briefly. I called him this afternoon.”
    “And?”
    “He’s offered to do anything he can. The police interviewed him about Roger.”
    “Did he have any theories as to what might have happened?”
    “Lee’s as baffled as anyone.”
    I