The bottle of Guinness finds its way to my lips, and that piece of shit's name starts drilling a hole in my ears again. My hand slides into my pocket to retrieve my phone. I google Ivan Moore, adding the name of the city; the first hit brings up a LinkedIn profile, but it's only visible if I'm logged in.
I don't want him to see that I was looking at his profile; a fake account should fix that problem.
After creating my alternate account, I go over to Ivan's profile. His picture is typical for the site; he's wearing a dark blue blazer with a white collar shirt with the top button undone. The expression on his face says "I'm serious," but I can party and converse when the situation calls for it. His well-trimmed beard is slightly darker than his straight blond hair, and there's something cold about his blue eyes.
His face seems strangely familiar.
I scroll further down to see his education and work history.
That's interesting; he and Angela went to the same college. And Ivan apparently has a photography exhibit at the Kensington Art Museum.
Oddly enough, there are only photography jobs listed under his work history, even though he has a finance degree. I open a new tab and search Ivan Moore, adding photographer and the city.
The first thing that comes up is an article titled: No New Leads on the Renée Moore Case. I click the link, and the picture at the top of the page sends a chill down my spine.
It's him—the guy whose wife disappeared over a month ago. His face was all over the news. The police suspected foul play, but never found a body. That's why Angela didn't come home; he kidnapped her.
I quickly pull forty dollars out my wallet, put my half-empty Guinness bottle on top of the bills and head for the door. Once I'm back in my car, I continue reading the article. Near the bottom of the page is a quote from Renée's grandfather, Benjamin Travail: "Not a day goes by that I don't think about her. I'm always waiting for her to come home...I miss our little chats."
I wish I didn't understand what it feels to be in that position.
Below the quote is a link to a video which is roughly twenty minutes long. It's an interview Mr. Travail gave on the local news station after Renée's disappearance. I turn the volume up on my phone and begin watching.
The old man's face has the texture of crumpled paper; a few wispy, white strands of hair cling to his mostly bald head. All throughout the interview, Mr. Travail's hands tremble as he recounts how hard losing Renée was on him. The sadness in his voice is heartbreaking.
Near the end of the video, the host asks about how Ivan's been dealing with what's happened. Mr. Travail signs: "I'm not sure how he's doing these days. We spoke once after everything happened, but haven't been in touch since. Ivan..." his voice trails off, "doesn't like to talk about it."
He knows something.
I pause the video and immediately google Benjamin Travail; Apex Architecture is the first link that comes up. I'm not able to find a direct phone number for Mr. Travail, so I call the number for his secretary.
As the phone starts ringing, my stomach starts tangling into knots.
It's just like a business meeting. Be calm, respectful and direct. Breathe.
"Good afternoon, Apex Architecture. Jen speaking, how may I help you?"
"Good afternoon," I clear my throat. "Could you put me through to Mr. Travail? I'd like to speak with him about his daughter—"
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she cuts me off. "But Mr. Travail isn't doing any more interviews at this time."
"I apologise for the confusion," I reply. "I'm not a reporter; I'd just like to speak with Mr. Travail—"
"Unfortunately, sir," she says in a happy but unmoved tone, "Mr. Travail is not in the office today."
Fuck. I didn't want to resort to this, but I have no choice.
I sigh. "I found a phone that belongs to Renée."
Jen doesn't respond; I hear shallow breathing from the other side.
"Hello? Are you still there?" I ask.
"One moment...sir," she replies, a hint of shock in her voice. "May I put you on hold?"
"Yes, that's alright."
"Thank you. It'll just be a minute."
A few seconds pass, and the hold music abruptly stops.
"Sorry," Jen says, "I forgot to ask for your name."
I provide it, and she thanks me before placing me on hold once again. Ten minutes go by, and my ear is starting to burn from holding the phone in place.
What's taking so long?
Just as I'm about to put the call on speaker, I hear Jen's voice say, "Mr. Márquez?"
"Yes—I'm still on the line."
"Sorry for the delay," she continues, "it took me a moment to arrange things."
"I understand," I smile. "It was no problem at all."
"Thank you," she sighs. "Mr. Travail will be expecting you at his home near Bull Lake," she says. "May I have your email to send you the directions?"
"Yes, it's..."
***
Over an hour into my drive, and I still haven't managed to escape the black clouds looming overhead. The beauty of the rolling, snow-covered hills is dimmed by the same greyness that haunts the city; even the forests on either side of the road look like clusters of lurking shadows. I try to focus on the music playing from the speakers, and what I'm going to say to Mr. Travail.
I just have to make him see that there's a connection between Ivan, Renée and Angela, then he'll have to help me. And if I can convey how difficult all of this has been for me, that should be enough to persuade him...
A flash draws my attention to the encroaching, tar coloured clouds.
Was that lighting?
YOU ARE READING
Last Stay
Mystery / ThrillerWhen workaholic "Green" is suspected of murdering his missing wife, he is plagued by a dark force as he searches for a way to find her in time. *** "Green's"...
