December 24, 2017. 9:45 PM.

 

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m alone. Again. Well, my buddy Jack and I are having quite a time. I stood at the window, peering out into the darkness. The streetlight outside my building on West Seventy-Fifth Street illuminated a figure standing on the corner. I squinted to get a better look: male, around six two, normal body type. He wore a knee-length overcoat and wide-brimmed hat rakishly pulled down on his head, obscuring his face. Couldn’t tell if he was white or black. He had on gloves, and his back was turned away from me. Occasionally I would see his right arm raised, putting his lips to a cigarette. The tip glowed with each puff. The smoke he exhaled mingled with the snow flurries and reminded me of an old movie I once saw. Soon the mysterious fellow walked off, crossed the street, and disappeared among the dwindling throng, which had secured their last-minute gifts and headed for home. I thought nothing more about him and sat back down with good old Jack, in my comfy chair, in front of one of those faux electric fireplaces from the hardware store, flipping channels from one damn holiday movie to the next.

My name is Travis Alexander. I moved back to New York City from LA after my divorce from Lynn eight months ago. That marriage lasted more than twice as long as my first one, which was two pathetic years that neither I nor my suffering ex will ever get back. I was forty-five, Kari twenty-nine, and it was the first marriage for both of us. She couldn’t believe I hadn’t put a ring on anyone—as, um, old as I was. Isn’t that sweet? It wasn’t the age difference that did us in, but an almost five-month-long case that became an obsession—and maybe a too-friendly relationship with bourbon. Anyway, I couldn’t blame her. We tried. On vacation in San Francisco, I met Lynn. She gave birth to our daughter, Audra, a year later. I thought—hoped—we’d work out. I guess I plunged into all of this a little late in life; I’m a former New York City cop, a fifty-five-year-old PI with a bad right hip and a passion for mystery and the chase, the rough and tumble that often accompanies the job.

Audra is five now. I’ve seen her as much as humanly possible in the eight months I’ve been back, and we FaceTime every day. She and Lynn are spending the holidays in London with family. 

My daughter is the only thing that matters to me in this world. 

Early on Christmas Day, I arose after a night of consistent snowfall to a gloriously white Manhattan landscape and a raging hangover. I focused enough to marvel at the picturesque scene before the inevitable grime of the city sullied the pureness. I called my family, wished them all a Merry Christmas, endured my seventy-eight-year-old mother’s lament about me being alone for the holidays. She likes Lynn, adores Audra, thought Kari was too young for me but loved her wicked sense of humor and smarts.

I fixed toast and coffee, stretched out on the couch, fell asleep then woke up three hours later to the sound of my apartment bell. I had no idea how long it rang, but I staggered off the couch and made my way to the speaker box on the wall.

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Alexander? Travis Alexander? PI?” a high-pitched male voice asked.

“Not today. It’s Christmas. Go away.”

I lurched back to the couch when the bell intruded once again and winced as the dull ache in my frontal lobe magnified the elementary chime.

I pressed the button. “Come back tomorrow, Mister—”

“It’s Cox, sir. Carl Cox, and what I have to say can’t wait until tomorrow.”

It was 11:45. My phone on the kitchen table jingled with a FaceTime from Audra, who presented to the camera yet more gifts from Lynn’s brother and sister-in-law.

“Hold on, man.” 

I tended to the more important business of my daughter for fifteen minutes, hoping Carl Cox would get the message and leave.

Twenty minutes later, another cup of coffee in hand, I stretched back out on the sofa.

“Damn it!” I cursed as the doorbell punched me in the face again.

This time I jumped up, aggravated.

“You’re intent on disrupting my day, Cox.” I pushed the second button that released the lock on the outer door and five seconds later pushed it again to gain him access to the lobby.

I went to the bedroom and retrieved one of my handguns, made sure it was loaded, and returned to the living room to wait for the stranger with something so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

The knock was sharp, like a cop knock.

I held the Sig Sauer in my right hand and went to the door. Peeking through the security peephole, I was not as surprised as I should be. He stood back so I could get a look: a white man, with two days of beard growth on a face about ten years younger than mine, sporting a wide-brimmed hat tipped and wearing a knee-length black overcoat. The same guy I saw last night on the corner.

“Cox?” I asked through the door.

“That’s right, Mr. Alexander. Carl Cox.”

“Just a second.”

I undid the locks and opened the door just wide enough so he could see the Sig low in my hand.

He glanced down and smiled. “You won’t be needing that.”

“You don’t know that. Come in.”

Carl stepped quickly into my apartment. He was taller than he seemed, and thinner. The coat added bulk to his frame.

He was scanning the place. “No decorations? Christmas tree, not even a wreath on the door.”

“What can I do for you?” I was hardly in the mood for any of this.

“Mind if I sit?”

“You won’t be staying long, Carl. I asked what you wanted when you were downstairs. Now you’re in my personal space, where so few sojourn, and I’m not asking again.”

“Have you spoken with Kari?”

“Why, is she all right? And how do you know her?”

“May I sit, please, Mr. Alexander?”

I stiffened, hearing Kari's name. Pointing to a chair, I sat back down on the couch and placed my gun on the side table closest to me.

“I’m Kari’s uncle, Miriam's brother. And a San Diego ex-cop.”

My instincts were right on. Cop knock.

“According to her parents, Kari’s been missing for two days,” Cox continued.

“Why didn’t we meet before?”

“Well, I was kind of estranged from the family. I’m a recovering alcoholic, sober four hundred ten days. The reason I’m not on the force. My sister called me ’cause I’m a cop, or used to be. Thought maybe I could help. She told me Kari's ex was a private investigator, and—”

“And now you’re here, all the way from San Diego.”

“She’s my niece, and your ex-wife.”

An NBA game was in progress on television. Watching it was one of several mindless activities I was gearing up to engage in today. After a brief respite, snow had fallen again. I walked to the window, the same one I looked out of the night before, where on the corner stood a man who is now in my living room, telling me his niece, my ex-wife, has disappeared.

I breathed in deeply and let the air escape my lungs slowly. I didn’t turn to face him when I asked. 

“You want coffee?”