Eleven Hours by Paullina Simons Page B

Lovey.”
    Used to? Why in the past tense? Somewhere in a parking lot in the middle of a hot, perfectly normal Texas afternoon, or was it in the middle of a perfect, posh, pristine mall, sometime in Didi’s life, this man had told her something about his wife and baby.
    â€œSo what’s your full name?” she heard him saying.
    â€œDesdemona,” she told him.
    â€œDesde-what?”
    â€œDesdemona,” she repeated, slower. “She was Othello’s wife.”
    â€œThere you go again with that damn Othello!” he exclaimed. “Are you Othello’s wife?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œSo what do you keep bringing him up for all the time? And how did you get Didi from Desdemona anyway? Why not Mona, or Desde, or Demona?”
    â€œWhen I was young I called myself Didimona. I wasn’t that good with my s ’s. So my parents called me Didimona until I started school, and then my kindergarten teacher shortened it to Didi.”
    â€œIt’s a stupid name,” he said gruffly, slowing to seventy, much to Didi’s disappointment.
    â€œIt’s an impossible name,” she said, turning to the right, staring at the burned grass outside the window.
    â€œYes, it is,” Lyle said. “Barcelona, Arizona, my bologna, pretty Didi. And so much the worse for you.”

4:15 P.M.
    Rich followed the squad car to police headquarters in downtown Dallas. The fifteen-minute ride was the worst of his life. He got through it by willing his mind to go blank. A dull ache flooded his heart. All the while the July sun blazed, and there was no relief outside from the thicket of heat that hung over him. In the back of the station he parked in a lot reserved for police officers.
    And emergencies.
    Officers Charles and Patterson brought Rich inside through the back door. He had never entered this way. Not that he’d spent much time here. He and Didi had come downtown to report an attempted break-in and also to sign out their stolen car, retrieved nearly whole but without the radio.
    Waiting for Rich inside the door was a short, earnest-looking young man with a slight Spanish accent. “Detective Juan Lopez. Please call me Juan,” he said as he shook Rich’s hand. “I heard what happened. We will do everything we can to help.”
    Rich was going to complain about Patterson, but then he thought better of it. It wasn’t important.
    â€œCome,” said Juan. “I’d like you to meet my chief.”
    â€œListen,” said Rich. “Not that I wouldn’t like to meet all you guys and shoot the breeze, but can we—my wife is—”
    â€œNo, I understand,” said Juan, his brown eyes softening. “I have a wife too.”
    â€œI’m sure you do,” said Rich. “We all have wives. My wife happens to be pregnant and missing. So can we just—”
    The chief of police came out of his office. “I’m Chief Murphy. John Murphy.” He extended his hand, and Rich shook it, wishing for comfort.
    â€œWe’re going to do everything we can to help. Okay?” said the chief. “Try not to worry.”
    Rich shrugged him off. “How are you going to find them?” he asked. “How?”
    The chief studied him for a moment, then turned to Detective Lopez. “Juan, take the Freshens Yogurt employee to the photo room. Let’s run some photos past this Alex. And you’ve got an APB out, haven’t you?”
    Juan said, “No. Not yet. I was waiting for word from the Bureau.”
    They were all crowded in the narrow hall. Rich wanted to sit down, or fall down. Murphy asked if they had been notified.
    â€œThe Bureau?” Rich asked. “You mean the FBI?”
    Murphy nodded, an air of resentment on his face and in his voice. “Yeah, something like this, we’re gonna do all we can to help. The kidnapper may stay local, you know—especially if he wants money. Technically this is not