Der Schädelring: Thriller (German Edition)

wait? I got us reservations at The Blue Note, and it wasn't easy, let me tell you. Even Mitchell Austin has to grease a few palms to get a good seat in this town."
    Now he was referring to himself in third person. How the mighty had risen in her absence.
    He pointed to her hand. “Hey, where’s the rock?”
    She mulled the short list of lies and came up with a tired one. “I was cleaning the stove before I left and didn’t want to tarnish it. I was in such a rush packing, I forgot to put it back on.”
    “Jesus, Julia, do you know how much that cost?”
    She supposed in the five-figure range, but she merely said, “Don’t worry, I left it in a safe place.”
    “You’re not waffling, are you?”
    Lying got easier with practice, and she served it up with one of Mitchell’s pet phrases. “No, Mitchell. I’m sticking with the game plan.”
    He smiled but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. He took her hand and dragged her toward baggage claim.
    They caught a cab downtown, Julia gawking at the skyscrapers like a tourist as Mitchell possessively put his arm around her. He helped her out when the cab pulled to the curb. The muggy air on the sidewalk settled around Julia like a second skin. The car exhaust, the noise of traffic and evening commerce, the kaleidoscopic neon and flashing lights all kept her off balance. How had she survived this sensory overload for so long?
    They had a cucumber salad for openers, Mitchell ordering wine, Julia sticking with lemonade. "So, tell me what you found out about my father," she said.
    Mitchell arranged his napkin with a flourish. "Later. This meal is costing a small fortune. You can pay me back by gazing into my eyes and melting."
    She gazed, but didn't melt. She hoped someday soon she would be able to melt again, but not tonight. "It's important, Mitchell."
    He sighed and drained his glass, tapped it until the waiter brought more. "It's like I told you, not much new. I got hold of the detective who worked the case, a Lieutenant James Whitmore, he's retired now, but I served on a Chamber of Commerce committee with his sister, so he was easy to track."
    Mitchell fumbled in his jacket pocket, brought out a small sheaf of papers. "Got these at the records division. The case is still officially open, of course, but several hundred people have disappeared since then. Yesterday's news."
    Julia scanned the documents. The basic details were unchanged: Douglas Arthur Stone, age thirty-six, reported missing on the morning of September 28th. He'd called the police to his house for an emergency. Stone's four-year-old daughter was found outside the house, confused, bleeding from cuts on her belly, and asking when her father would be back. The front door was unlocked, none of Stone's clothes appeared to be missing, his car still in the driveway. Credit-card and financial records had gone unchanged. The few distant relatives lived on the West Coast, and had heard nothing from him. And that was that.
    Strange that, for years, all she could remember of that night was standing barefoot in the grass. Now, Dr. Forrest had led her to the memories that had been lost for so long.
    "What did Whitmore say?" Julia asked, after reading the neighbor's unrevealing statements.
    "Said he remembers following up leads at the school where your father taught. All dead ends. The case got buried pretty fast." Mitchell leaned over the table and held her hand. "Why don't you just let it go?"
    She pulled her hand away. "I can't."
    If only she could tell him about the image of the Black Mass, the recovered memory, the only piece to this puzzle that she had. However elusive that memory was, at least it was something. But part of her was afraid that Mitchell would be shocked, view her as damaged goods, and once and for all decide that her "behavioral disorder" was no longer just a cute little quirk and decide to cut his losses. Though she was unsure what place she had in Mitchell's life, she couldn't bear the thought of being without him and the secure future he offered. The other part of her was afraid that Mitchell would laugh in her face.
    Dinner came, and they ate over small talk of Mitchell's legal cases, local politics, how Julia should re-invest the small inheritance that her adoptive parents had left. It was easy for her to fall into the role of sympathetic listener, nodding and affirming Mitchell’s rightness in all matters.
    Mitchell walked her to a downtown hotel and rode the elevator with her. “Your