3 Addison

"I understand you want to file a missing person's report," the bored-looking Black woman said. She apparently had some kind of rank at the Memphis Police Department, because it took thirty minutes at the station until someone called Addison up from central holding (a fun time with two drug addicts, three prostitutes, and a woman who explained how the CIA was controlling her mind) to the third-floor offices. The nameplate on the desk said Sergeant Lantana Jones. Addison was struck by such a flowery name for a police officer. Although in her experience volunteering at the Botanic Gardens, lantanas might be the toughest flowers you could grow. Very heat resistant.

"My husband has disappeared," Addison said. "He's been gone for seven days."

"Mm-hmm."

Already the woman didn't believe Dean was missing, even after everything Addison had gone through since being arrested at Dean's office, put in a cell, and then explaining her situation to three different officers. It was barely noon and already she was craving a Bloody Mary from the Grove Grill a few doors down from her old ice cream shop. Maybe she'd see if Libby could meet her and they could just spend the next few hours not talking about Dean or fucking Branch, her worthless brother. Oh, and the kids. She did need to pick up her kids. The one single time she forgot Sara Caroline after lacrosse practice, she was called the absolute worst mother in the world.

"Ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You were going to tell me about your husband," she said. "What's his name?"

"I've already told three police officers," Addison said. "Dean. Dean McKellar."

Addison then answered a series of questions about Dean's date of birth, address, height and weight, hair and eye color, what he did for a living and when she'd last seen him.

"Um," Sergeant Jones said. "Did you say London?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You talking London, Tennessee, or as in Merry Ole?"

"The UK," Addison said, sitting up straighter. "My husband has business in the UK."

"All right then," Sergeant Jones said. "That's new."

"Can't you just call Scotland Yard or whatever and explain what's going on?" Addison said. "Look, I know what you're thinking. Woman goes to her husband's office that isn't an office anymore. The husband has been gone for a week. You think he's got to be fooling around. But I swear to god, Dean's not like that. We're not those kind of people."

"Scotland Yard?" Lantana Jones said. "Sure thing. I got their number someplace."

"You think this is funny."

"No, ma'am," she said. "Not at all. What about your husband's family, friends? People at his work?"

"You're not listening to me," she said. "I just went to his office and it's not even there."

"Okay, then," she said. "I hate to tell you, ma'am. But lots of times men just plain suck."

"Not Dean," Addison said. "He served in the first Gulf War as a captain. He earned two medals. He runs a successful construction company. Listen, I drove downtown, and to be honest with you, I absolutely never go downtown. But I went to Dean's office at the Cotton Exchange and now it's some kind of interior design firm. At first, I thought I might be going crazy or got off on the wrong floor. But nope. That was it. It's like he moved and forgot to tell me what had happened. Now I'm trying to call Amanda and she won't even pick up the line."

"And who is Amanda?" Lantana Jones said. "Some kind of lady friend?"

"His secretary," Addison said. "Look. I'm not crazy. We live in Central Gardens. Here's my driver's license. Everyone who is anyone in Memphis knows him. He's a member of the Chamber of Commerce. He was king of the Cotton Carnival two years ago."

"King of Cotton, huh?" Lantana Jones raised an eyebrow. She neatly folded her hands on top of her desk. She was a pretty woman, with long hair, a perfectly symmetrical face, and big green eyes. Way too pretty to be a cop, although in truth Addison had never really met many cops besides the few who'd handed her parking and speeding tickets. Maybe every other woman cop at MPD looked like Lantana Jones. Maybe they all had pretty faces and names like flowers.

Addison bent forward and put her head down between her knees.

"Look," Sergeant Jones said, leaning into her desk. "Are you sure you don't want to make a few more phone calls first? Did y'all have a fight before he left? I know this is tough, but maybe your Dean is involved with another woman. I don't mean to be rude, Mrs. McKellar, but we're stretched a little thin at the moment unless you are absolutely sure he's gone. Also, you're talking about him being overseas. I got to be honest here, it's not like I got Sherlock Holmes's ass on speed dial."

"I think he might be dead," Addison said. "Okay?"

"Why do you say that?"

"One week without a word?" she said. "No emails or phone calls. We have two children together, a big house, and a labradoodle. God. Why is he doing this?"

"A labra what?"

"A labradoodle," Addison said. "It's a dog. His name is ChaCha."

"Has he been gone like this before?"

"ChaCha?"

"Dean."

Addison waited a beat but then said no, lying through her goddamn teeth. Lantana Jones watched her in a way that made her so nervous she burst into tears right there at 201 Poplar with all the murderers, thieves, prostitutes, and god knows what else. She held herself tight for several moments and then she felt herself breaking apart. Maybe that woman back in the holding cell was right, maybe the CIA was controlling all their minds.

Jones kept a big box of tissues on her desk and handed a few over to Addison to blow her nose. The woman looked at her watch and then up at the open door. A shortish Black man in uniform walked in and handed her a Styrofoam clamshell. Without a word, he turned and left.

The food sat on the woman's desk while she continued to peck at the keys.

"McKellar Construction," she said. "That's you?"

"That's Dean."

"Y'all sure go to a lot of parties."

"Fundraisers."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes," Addison said, composing herself and sitting up straighter in the hardback chair. "We like to give back to the community."

"Ain't that something," she said. "A whole week, huh? Damn. I can't say I blame you for being upset. I'm sorry about what happened to you. But the arresting officers thought you might be drunk. They took you in for your own protection."

"They also said I needed a psych eval."

"Yeah," Jones said. "They said you seemed disoriented and confused."

"My husband is gone," she said. "His office doesn't seem to exist. How would you act?"

"Disoriented and confused as hell," she said. "And real pissed off."

Addison nodded. She remembered when she got called into the dean's office at Ole Miss after one of her sorority sisters was caught cheating on a French exam. He did this whole slow and silent routine that made Addison more chatty than normal, nearly giving out the information that their sorority kept exams going back to the 1970s in a filing cabinet in the basement.

"I'll see what I can do, Mrs. McKellar," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Jones."

"Sergeant Jones."

"Of course," Addison said. "Sorry."

"England sure is a long way from Memphis," she said. "If I were you, I'd be finding myself a real good lawyer."

Addison waited on the steps at 201 Poplar for Libby to pick her up from this fucking nightmare. She had called her more than an hour ago, and if her sister-in-law didn't hurry up, she'd miss getting the kids from school. How much of a loser would she be then? She'd lost her husband, her SUV, two of her credit cards weren't working, and now she was standing among criminals being brought into jail and hustled out by slick attorneys in shiny suits and two-tone shoes. While she waited, Addison tried Dean again out of habit. At least ten times. She tried Amanda again and not surprisingly went right to voicemail. Her message had been both truthful and nasty. If you don't fucking call me back right now, I'll make sure you can't get a goddamn job cleaning the toilets at a Walmart. Well, hell. She'd tried being polite so many times, maybe being nasty would light a fire under her ass, as Daddy would say. And then, when all else failed, she tried calling Daddy, but his caregiver said he was down for his nap until his shows came on. Daddy never missed a double helping of Gunsmoke and Bonanza in the afternoon. She wondered how he'd feel about his only daughter standing outside 201 Poplar, handing out cigarettes to vagrants, streetwalkers, and pickpockets like a goddamn Mother Teresa.

Finally, Libby pulled up in her new black G-Wagen, merrily tooting her horn. A woman in a short sequin skirt and a bright red bikini top eyed her, drawing on a cigarette, and said, "Baby, that's a nice ride. You must be doing real nice work for your mister."

"Excuse me?"

"Aw, shit," the woman said. "Don't pretend that you and me ain't both on the hustle. What you on? Meth? That's some nasty-ass shit."

Addison pulled on her big Fendi sunglasses and headed down the wide stairs. Libby had parked in front of "ASAP Bailbonds: We Put Your Feet Back on the Street ASAP." She dodged a few cars on the busy road and walked around the back of the G-Wagen and got inside. The air conditioner blew some welcome fresh air in her face. Addison peeled off her hoodie and sat in the front seat in only a sports bra, fanning her sweaty chest.

"No offense," Libby said. "But you look awful."

"Thank you." Addison sunk down in her seat and closed her eyes. "No questions. Please just drive. I have to pick up the kids in an hour."

"Where's your car?"

"Impounded," Addison said. "We'll get it later."

Libby knocked the G-Wagen in gear and made an illegal U-turn right in front of police headquarters, Addison slinking down lower in the leather seats. From the radio, a cool-voiced public radio announcer explained the last set had been a chamber piece by Rachmaninoff. His voice so smooth and calm that she wanted to punch him right in the nose.

"Where have you been?" Addison said. "I've been waiting an hour."

"I was right in the middle of an appointment with my therapist," Libby said. "We were talking about setting boundaries and how bad I am about saying no. But then you kept calling and my phone kept buzzing and I knew it had to be an emergency. Right? That's what this is? An emergency?"

"Look at me," Addison said. "Look at my face. Look how I'm dressed. I'm a goddamn mess. I guess I wasn't expecting to be arrested for disorderly conduct. Oh god. I smell like jail. My head is splitting and I need a cocktail."

"Holy shit," Libby said. "Now we're talking. My day sucked, too."

"Are you even listening?"

Libby had always been stick thin. Today, she looked so thin that you could see the collarbones sticking out of her low-cut peasant top, just like the one the little girl wore on Addison's old paperback of Heidi. She had a long face and huge brown eyes and hair. When she wasn't so perfectly styled and carefully made-up, she looked so mousy and plain that she could pass for a high schooler. Her trinket bracelet, baubles from all the cities she'd visited, jangled on her wrist as she drove. The radio announced they were continuing with Rachmaninoff's saddest and most haunting melody.

"For fuck's sake, can you please change the station," Addison said.

Addison remembered when she and Libby were at Ole Miss and would circle the Square in her little red car, blaring Wilson Phillips's "Hold On." Jesus. They looped around and around as if they had somewhere important to go. Addison had, for two brief years, working in the publicity office of a big publisher in New York. One year assigned to a god-awful thriller writer who boasted thirty-three books in the Richard Jones series, better known in-house as "Big Dick" Jones because the author was always pointing out the hero's manly height and weight and incredible stamina in the sack. She had a killer apartment on the Upper West Side and two of the best roommates in the world, all of it a fuzzy history after she met Dean at a Christmas party at P.J. Clarke's in 1994. "What happened?"

"Please."

Libby headed east on Poplar, out of downtown and over Cleveland, taking on the city's potholes as she weaved in and around cars, trying to make it back in time to pick up the kids. Libby's twins were a grade below Preston, and they could pick them up at the same time. Addison could grab her other car at home, her old BMW convertible, and get Sara Caroline. She'd probably be late, but Sara Caroline would get over it. She'd take them both to Ben Jerry's by Whole Foods and maybe for sushi later. She would make it all up to them. Daddy would be home soon. All was fucking well in the world.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Libby asked. "You make me drive all the way to downtown, tell me you've been arrested, and then ask me to forget about it. What about Branch? What will I tell him?"

"Branch can go fuck himself."

"Jesus, Addy."

"I'm sorry, Libby," she said. "I like you a lot. But my brother is a worthless turd and the last thing I want to hear is Branch blaming me for Dean leaving."

"Dean left you?"

"I don't know what Dean has done," she said.

"Did you have a fight?" Libby asked. "Oh god. Is he going to get the house at Rosemary Beach? Is it another woman? I bet it's that cheap whore Hannah Tracy. Son of a bitch, I knew it. I swear to god, Hannah would screw every member of the Grizzlies if they'd let her liposuctioned ass on the bus."

"Can we please not talk."

"But Hannah Tracy?" Libby said. "You'd think Dean would have more class."

Addison sat still, sunglasses on and staring straight ahead. She didn't feel sad or tired anymore, just numb and confused. "Dean is missing," she said. "He's been gone one week, and I haven't heard a word. None of my credit cards work. I can't get more out of the bank because he's the only one listed on those accounts. His secretary tells me that he's still in England."

"There you go," Libby said. "There you go. Be positive. But I bet Hannah Tracy would've screwed him in the pool house bathroom after a pitcher of margaritas."

Addison closed her eyes, her hands tightly knitted in her lap.

"It's not Hannah Tracy, for fuck's sake," Addison said. "It's something a hell of a lot worse. Something is very, very wrong. I drove to Dean's office this morning, and everything is gone."

"Maybe he really is in England," Libby said. "Branch was saying that Dean could've been a lord of a castle. That he really fit in over there with those Savile Row suits and those handmade shoes. What is that brand?"

"Like really, really gone," Addison said. "There is no office. No one there even remembers a McKellar Construction office being there. When I refused to leave until I had answers, some woman called security on me and then they called the cops. They handcuffed me and put me into a patrol car while I watched my car being towed away. It took me half the day to explain who I was and what I wanted. The police scribbled down a few notes and told me to be on my way. It's like no one can understand a fucking word I'm saying."

"Do you really want a cocktail?" Libby said, turning down the radio. "Because we should've just valeted at the Peabody."

"Jesus God."

"Let's get the goddamn kids and then let's me and you go find a nice private corner at the Grove and get completely shit-faced."

"That's a lovely thought, Libby," Addison said. "Really. I know that's the best you have for me. But please just help me get the kids home."

"And then what?" Libby said. "Just pretend like nothing has ever happened? That's what my parents did and god knows they've been married for more than forty years. Did I tell you that they just got a new dog? A sweet little puppy named Peanut."

Libby punched up a CD on her stereo and the classical music was replaced with Tracy Chapman singing, "Give Me One Reason." Libby tapped at the steering wheel and sang along as if nothing that happened that day mattered at all.

"I really need to speak with Daddy," Addison said.

"Do you think he's up yet?"

"Soon." Addison checked her watch. "Gunsmoke starts in an hour."

Daddy wasn't home at his condo, sitting with an oxygen mask strapped across his face as he watched Matt Dillon gun down the villain of the week. He was back at Bluff City Barbecue, hobbling through the kitchen testing the sauce, eyeing the pit, and complaining to everyone in earshot that they were turning his business into shit. He knew as soon as he saw Addison that his ass was in trouble and he waved her off, clutching his walker and heading back into his darkened office, where he'd stacked up the daily receipts by an old-fashioned adding machine, tape draping down across the floor.

He sat down in his chair, reached for his oxygen mask, and took a few pulls before setting it down and turning off the valve.

"You can't just leave when you want," Addison said. "Not now. Who drove you?"

"Lester."

"Lester?" she said. "Shit, Daddy. Lester shouldn't be driving himself. Does he even have a license? You can't leave without telling Kiyana first. She thought you'd wandered off until I told her where I'd find you."

"I'm sick, not senile," Daddy said. "Are you hungry? How about I tell Lester to make you a plate?"

"No, sir."

"It's not too bad today," Daddy said. "I didn't let him fuck it up this time. I swear to Christ this place is going to hell if you or your brother don't take over. No one else really gives a damn about quality. They can't follow simple recipes or instructions. Ain't that just Memphis as hell. How about some pie? We have coconut, lemon, and chocolate."

Addison shook her head, watching in horror as her daddy lit up a cigarette right by his oxygen tank. He kept it going in his wide fingers, taking a long inhale and then dropping the ash into an old coffee mug. Her father was a big, square-jawed man, tall, but now shrunken on his large frame. He had gray hair and wore big gold glasses. When he'd been a tight end at Ole Miss back in the early sixties, they'd called him the Bluff City Bulldozer. He had worn a blue or bright red University of Mississippi golf shirt every day for as long as Addison could remember.

"Daddy, I need money," Addison said, starting to cry and damn well hating herself for it.

"It's your brother, isn't it?" he said, taking a long pull of the cigarette. "Son of a bitch. I swear he'd fuck up his own funeral. He sent you to ask this time."

"No, sir," she said. "It's not Branch. Branch is fine. It's Dean. He's been gone a week and I can't get in touch with him."

Daddy leaned back into his mustard-colored vinyl chair, the old springs squeaking under him, as he removed the cigarette and took a piece of tobacco off his tongue. He crossed his arms over his chest, Addison always struck by how damn thin he'd gotten. He used to seem supernaturally large, six foot six and a highly unhealthy three hundred pounds. But now his handsome face had grown gaunt, white-whiskered, and bony, the radiation and chemo keeping him alive but taking a hell of a lot with it. His Ole Miss jersey had been framed and hung on a far wall of his office, along with various golf tournament awards and lacquered restaurant reviews from decades past.

"I'll pay you back as soon as Dean is home."

"How long has he been gone?"

"One week, exactly."

"Y'all must've had a hell of a fight," Daddy said.

"No, sir," Addison. "He just kind of disappeared. It's not like him. Well, it's a little like him. Shit, Daddy. I'm confused as hell."

"Huh?" Her father's hearing wasn't the best, and he leaned over the desk, straining to make out what Addison was saying over the rattling dishes and barking orders in the kitchen. "Sounded like you can't find your own husband."

Addison nodded. And goddamn, that's when she really started to cry, trying to cover her face and her eyes, and reaching onto her father's desk for some big paper napkins. Daddy just watched her, finishing the cigarette and stubbing it out in the cup. She feared what he would say, following in line with Branch, saying that Dean was an important man, busy as hell, and this thing would straighten out right quick. He'd reach into his pant pocket and thumb off a thousand dollars in hundreds as if they were dollar bills and tell her not to worry her pretty head. But he didn't do that. Instead, Daddy pushed himself up on his walker and hobbled over to her, resting one of his big hands on her shoulder, surprising the hell out of her by saying, "You know I've never liked that son of a bitch."

"Daddy, stop. I'm okay."

"No," he said. "I mean it. Something wrong with a man who lives life that uptight. I don't care for his haircut, the way he dresses, or the way he treats y'all's kids. He talks the right way to me, but I can tell it pains him to do it. Something at work behind the eyes when he runs his mouth, trying to court me into his line of thinking just in case he has trouble with you. Well. If he's gone, Addy, I say good riddance. I told your mom I couldn't stop you from marrying the man. Although two months isn't much of a courtship before an engagement. But I said I would always support you if you wanted to get free and clear."

Addison wiped her face and stood up to hug her father's neck, pulling him close and smelling the cigarettes and barbecue smoke, and hearing the raspy and rattling breathing from deep within him. "I love you, Daddy," she said. "Thank you. No one else believes me."

"That your husband is a tricky bastard?" he said. "You just never asked."

He scooted over to the door, waving away one of the hostesses who'd come to ask him a question, and moved back into the darkened little office.

"Let's talk attorneys," he said. "And then tell me how much you need."

"I don't need much," she said. "Maybe three thousand for now. And I appreciate it, Daddy. But we're not quite to an attorney yet."

"Didn't you say that little short bastard up and disappeared on you?" he said, sitting back down and lighting another cigarette. "I'll bet you a hundred to one, it's a woman. A man with an ego like that probably has a trail of them set up in all the cities where he does business. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. But I've always felt that way. I think it's his size. Napoleon. Genghis Khan. Can't trust those little bastards like that. Have you told the kids?"

"No."

He nodded. "But there's more," he said. "Right? You wouldn't have come to see me just for money. You could reach out to your banks for a goddamn credit line."

"I couldn't get an answer from his secretary over the phone, so I drove downtown to his office," Addison said. She took a deep breath and swallowed, ashamed of what had happened that morning and ashamed to be put into such a common, redneck situation.

"And?"

"It wasn't there."

"Who wasn't there?"

"Dean, McKellar Construction, all of it," she said. "He hadn't been there for two years. He moved everything without telling me. And when I call his secretary now, she won't even pick up."

"Call the police."

"I did," Addison said, laughing. "I wouldn't leave Dean's old office and they arrested me. And when I told them Dean was missing, they blew me off."

"Can't trust the fucking cops."

"Sir?"

"Son of a bitch."

"Yes, sir."

"If I'd gone into business with someone like that," Daddy said, "and they'd shagged ass? Boy, I'd want to know everything I could about where they've been, what they'd been up to, and where all their money was buried."

"I wish I knew," Addison said. "This woman at the police department found the whole thing kind of funny. I had to have Libby pick me up at 201 and drive me back to pick up the kids."

Daddy stood up and wavered for a moment on his walker, scooting back over the threadbare carpet and finding the oxygen mask. He took a few puffs, and then dropped it back on his old desk, the soft hiss of the oxygen coming slow and even until he turned the valve. A nameplate on his desk read TOP DOG SAMI HASSAN.

He stumbled for a moment as he tried to find his chair, Addison getting to her feet before he waved her away and took a hard seat. He nodded, collecting his raspy breath. "Okay. Okay. I know a man who can help. He's helped me out of a jam a time or two."

Daddy started to spin through a yellowed Rolodex, left hand lifting a cigarette. "I think he's who you need," he said. "That is, if he's still alive."