“That’s a start.”

“And the name of her maid of honor. She may have been Natalie’s only friend in the New York area.”

“Was Natalie from out of town?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows.”

“Sounds like a funny marriage.”

“That’s what Mel says. But so what? She’s somebody and she’s missing.”

“Can I ask you the other question?”

I drew a blank. “What question?”

“About your father. You going to pursue that, too?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Well, these may be the shortest investigations you’ve done so far.”

For a smart guy, he can be amazingly wrong sometimes.

—

Jack backed out of the driveway the next morning seconds before Sandy Gordon drove up it. He came inside with an attaché case, and while I put some coffee on, he opened it and spread papers out on the dining room table. The table is old, somewhat scarred, and due to be replaced, which is why I invited him to use it. I like to spread out there myself when I have a lot of papers to look at and don’t know which one I’ll need next.

“Here’s our marriage certificate from the State of New Jersey,” he said when I joined him. “And the Jewish one.”

“How beautiful,” I said in surprise. “I’ve never seen one before.” It was colorful and printed in Hebrew. Two signatures appeared on blank lines, his and hers, and some other names were lettered in. “Who are these people?”

“Our witnesses. They’re both friends of mine, so I don’t think talking to them will get you anything.”

“When we were married we were asked if we’d been married before and to produce proof of divorce if we were.”

“She said she wasn’t. I was and I had my divorce papers with me.”

“Her maiden name was Miller.”

“Right.”

“Do you know where she was from?”

“Not specifically.”

I waited for him to elaborate. Both Mel and Jack had found it hard to believe a man could marry someone about whom he knew so little. While I felt I wouldn’t have been able to do it myself, the pictures of Natalie offered an explanation. Sandy had been infatuated with the beautiful younger woman he had met after his marriage broke up. What he did might not have been altogether rational, but it was understandable.

“I got a lot of flak from my family,” he said. “They wanted to know who her family was, what her background was. What she told me satisfied me. I loved her, Chris. She loved me. We had a great marriage.”

“What did she tell you?” I took my notebook and opened it to a fresh page.

“Her parents died when she was young. She was an only child and was raised by relatives she didn’t specially care for and they moved around a lot. When she graduated high school, she packed a bag and came to New York.”

It was a story that would fly or fail depending on the skepticism and gullibility of the listener. Surely it was true for a large number of Americans. As a teacher in both Catholic and secular schools, I have heard a good sample of improbable stories from students. Some of them have actually been true.

“Did she ever talk about inviting any family to the wedding?”

“No.”

“Where did she say she came from?”

“She said there were a lot of places, mostly in Indiana. She didn’t like to talk about it because they weren’t happy years. By the way, I’m no expert, but she didn’t talk like a native New Yorker.”

That was a useful observation. I’m not an expert either, but like most people, I can pick out a southern accent, a midwestern one, a New England one. “Where did she work, Sandy?”

He took a piece of paper from a leather holder in his pocket and wrote. “It’s a fairly new advertising company, one of those places where a couple of young hotshots got together and started making money. They’ve expanded a lot since they opened their shop, but she was with them for a couple of years.”

“Why did she leave?”

“Essentially because we were getting married. I didn’t want her making the trip into New York every day, and she didn’t want to either. We bought a house when we got married and I wanted her to make it hers, fix it up her way. She decided to make it a full-time job, at least at the beginning.”

I looked at the name and address, Hopkins and Jewell. The address was downtown Manhattan, near Union Square. “Where did she work before this?”

“I don’t know.”

“She never mentioned a previous job?”

“Not that I remember. And I didn’t find any old tax returns anywhere.”

“Strange. My husband keeps his for years.”

“So do I. Maybe she worked for Hopkins longer than I thought. You know what? Let me call my accountant. I bet he can get hold of her old returns from the IRS. May I use your phone?”

“Sure. It’s in the kitchen.”

It wasn’t a long conversation. Sandy was on first names with his accountant, a man he called Alfie. I could tell as soon as the small talk was over that Sandy was being given a hard time. He hung up shaking his head. “Can’t get them,” he said to me.

I brought the coffee into the dining room and poured for both of us. He took milk and no sugar; I always drink mine black. “Seems strange,” I said. “You’re her husband.”

“Doesn’t matter. Apparently the IRS is very strict about giving out information. For me to get her returns, or vice versa, I’d need a power of attorney from her. He gave me the form number, as though it mattered. If she were here to sign it, I wouldn’t need the damn thing.”

“So the government keeps the past a secret,” I said. “I’m not exactly sorry to hear that, except it makes my job harder.”

“I suppose we could try for a court order.”

“I’m not in a position to get one and I’m not sure a court will give one even to you. Your wife apparently walked out on you. There’s no evidence of foul play, there was no ransom demand. Why should a judge let you in on secrets she kept from you when you were living together?”

“I thought you were on my side.”

“I am,” I said. “I’m just—”

“I know, I know. It’s the kind of runaround I’ve been getting for over a year.”

“Tell me about her maid of honor.”

“Susan Diggins. Nice woman. Just got married a couple of months ago. I’ve got her new name written down. She and Natalie met at Hopkins and Jewell and became friends. Susan left there before Natalie did, got a better job, I think.”

“Did they ever live together?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. They may have. You’ll have to ask her.” He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and put it on the table. “I’ve got Susan’s name and address in here and the last address Natalie lived at before we married.”

“Good.” I took the key ring out of my pants pocket where I’d tucked it this morning and laid it on the table. “Do they look familiar?”

He picked the keys up and held them on his palm. “This one could be a house key, but it doesn’t look like the key to our house.” He reached into his own pocket and took out a large ring of keys. “This one’s the key to our house.”

There was no similarity. “Maybe they’re from an old apartment,” I suggested.

“No car keys here. This one looks like a key to a suitcase. I bought Natalie luggage before we were married. I think it used a combination lock of some kind.”

“Did you pack the carton you gave me?”

“Not exactly. She kept some pictures in there, in big envelopes, and I just added the other things. Those keys could have been there all along and I wouldn’t have known it.”

“Did the detective you hired look through the pictures?”

“He really wasn’t too interested. He wanted one good full-face picture and I gave it to him.”

“OK,” I said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I want to hear the story of how you met, how you fell in love, everything you can think of.”

“I’ll need some more coffee,” he said, looking uneasy.