In the next grouping, one picture showed a much younger version of Katherine wearing a prom dress but standing alone, posing beside an easy chair all by herself rather than with a male escort. Another featured a young and smiling Katherine proudly wearing her black-banded R.N. cap. A third showed her beaming down at a scowling newborn baby that had to he Brianna.
The last section, one featuring almost as many photos as the other three combined, featured Bree O’Brien herself. Among others there were shots of her on a tricycle, clasping a teddy bear under each arm. One frame held a family Christmas card featuring a toothless six-year-old Brianna along with a caption that read, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.” Another photo was a pose of her in a BHS cheerleading uniform. The last picture in the montage was a framed copy of Bree’s senior portrait, the same one that had been featured in the newspaper prior to graduation.
Seeing the pictures grouped together like that gave Joanna the odd sensation of having all those people’s lives spread out in almost instant replay fashion. The one woman and the two children had been wiped off the face of the earth, leaving behind hardly a trace-other than a few photographs-to testify to their all-too-brief lives. David O’Brien had gone from being a strappingly handsome, healthy young man to an embittered, wheelchair-bound, old one. Katherine’s bright-eyed and sweetly smiling nurse’s portrait was totally at odds with the dignified and sadly reserved middle-aged woman she had become. As for Brianna, there was nothing in the photos that gave any kind of hint about the existence of the double life that, Joanna was convinced, lay hidden in her missing journal entries.
After studying the pictures, Ernie must have reached the same conclusion. Pointing to the senior portrait, he shook his head. “A picture’s supposed to be worth a thousand words,” he said sadly. “But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Joanna nodded. “It certainly does,” she said.
Back in the O’Brien’s living room, David and Katherine sat in front of a massive stone fireplace. David’s wheelchair was parked on one side. Katherine’s overstuffed brocade-covered chair was opposite his. Both Katherine and David held fist-sized cocktail glasses in their hands. As soon as Joanna walked into the room, Katherine’s eyes sought hers. That silent, pleading look spoke volumes. Please don’t tell my husband about the pills, it said. Her voice, however, belied the desperate message in her eyes.
“Won’t you reconsider and join us?” Katherine asked. She gestured graciously toward a silver serving tray stocked with several crystal glasses, a matching ice bucket, and a selection of liquor bottles. The tray, placed well within reach, sat on an elegantly carved ebony coffee table. “Or, if you wish,” Katherine Continued, “Mrs. Vorevkin could bring in a fresh pitcher of lea.”
David O’Brien frowned as though finding his wife’s offer of hospitality somehow offensive. Polishing off the liquid in his own glass, he leaned over, slamming the crystal glass down on the tray hard enough to jangle the bottles standing there. Allen tossing in a couple of ice cubes, he refilled his glass with a generous serving from a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal.
“No, thank you…” Joanna began.
“Stop it, Katherine,” O’Brien ordered. “That isn’t necessary. No sense treating these two cops like they’re honored guests or long-lost relatives. They’re here for business, not pleasure.”
Katherine blanched at the rebuke. Wanting to make her feel better, Joanna ignored David O’Brien’s rudeness and turned instead to his wife. “Your husband is right, Mrs. O’Brien,” Joanna said smoothly. “Detective Carpenter and I are here on business. It’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary to treat us as guests. And, now that we’re finished, we need to be going.”
Katherine had been ordered to stifle, and she did so. She nodded mutely in response, holding her mouth in a thin, straight line while her eyes welled with tears. David O’Brien, however, seemed oblivious to the fact that his actions had caused his wife any discomfort. Still fuming, he turned his attention on Joanna.
“Well, Sheriff Brady,” he continued brusquely, “what have you decided? Are you going to call in the FBI or not?”
“Not,” Joanna replied. “I realize, Mr. O’Brien, that you’re under the impression that some serious harm has come to your daughter. However, nothing we found in her room gives any indication of foul play. According to what your wife could tell us about your daughter’s things, the clothing Bree packed when she left home is consistent with someone going away for a few days-of someone going away with every intention of returning. Your daughter told you she’d be back on Sunday afternoon, correct?”
“Yes, but…”
“How old is she, Mr. O’Brien?”
“She turned eighteen in March.”
“Not a juvenile, then. She’s of an age where the law allows her to come and go as she pleases, regardless of her parents’ wishes. Until she misses her Sunday afternoon estimated time of arrival or until you receive some kind of threat or ransom demand, there’s really nothing more we can do.”
“Can or will?” David O’Brien asked.
“We’ve already done something,” Joanna countered reason-ably. “Probably more than we should have under the circumstances. Even though Brianna doesn’t officially qualify as a missing person, my department has nonetheless alerted authorities both here and in New Mexico to be on the lookout for her.”
“But not the FBI.”
“No.”
“And you have no intention of notifying them?”
David O’Brien was clearly a bully-someone who was accustomed to having his own way each and every time, no questions asked.
“As I told you earlier,” Joanna said, “we won’t take that kind of action unless there’s some compelling evidence to indicate that a kidnapping has actually taken place.”
The unwavering calmness in Joanna’s answer seemed to provoke David O’Brien and make him bristle that much more. “I thought as much,” he said. “But that’s till right. You do your thing, Sheriff Brady, and I’ll do mine.”
“David…” Katherine began, but he silenced her once more with a single baleful glare. Again the woman subsided into her chair. She said nothing more aloud, but the fingers gripping her partially filled glass showed white at the knuckles.
Looking at the woman, the phrase “contents under pressure” suddenly popped into Joanna’s head. That was what Katherine O’Brien was like. She seemed to be forever walking on eggshells around her husband, trying to keep things from him-things like learning about his daughter’s birth control pills-that might provoke… what?
For the first time, the possibility of domestic violence entered into the equation. Joanna had been sheriff long enough to know that domestic violence was a part of all too many seemingly happy marriages in Cochise County and throughout the rest of the country as well. DV calls came from homes at all socioeconomic levels and all walks of life. David O’Brien was in his seventies, but his bare arms bulged with the muscles and sinews used to propel his non-motorized wheelchair. His hands, callused from turning the rubber wheels, would come equipped with a powerful grip. Used as weapons, those same hands could be dangerous, although, in Joanna’s opinion, the words that came from his mouth-words steeped in anger and bitterness-seemed damaging enough.
Joanna thought again of the almost obsessive neatness of Brianna’s room-of the House Beautiful quality of the whole spacious and well-appointed place. Some people were good housekeepers by their very nature, but Sheriff Brady had learned from reading her deputies’ incident reports that in some relationships keeping a clean house was a stipulation-a requirement to be met on a daily basis-in order to keep from earning a smack in the mouth. Or worse. In that kind of environment, Bree’s birth control pills, her missing journal entries, and even her own AWOL status made far more sense. For that matter, so did Katherine’s obvious fear of rocking the boat.