15th Affair (Women's Murder Club #15)(28)

“Find anything, Sergeant? A murder weapon, perhaps? Or a pile of bloody clothes?”

He stopped short when he saw the display of sexy underthings.

“What is this?” he asked.

“You haven’t seen it before?”

“That’s not Ali’s style at all.”

“And still, here it is, in a secret closet. Have any thoughts on this, Mr. Khan?”

He blinked at the lingerie, then returned to the bedroom door and stood there until I made my exit. He followed me down the staircase, and when Conklin and I were standing at the open front door, I thanked Mr. Khan and gave him my card, saying, “Call me if you hear from Alison.”

“Absolutely,” Khan said stiffly. “The very first thing.”





CHAPTER 44


EVEN MEN WHO’D killed their wives had demonstrated more concern for their missing spouse than Khalid Khan, the man in the fortress overlooking the bay.

“Nice guy,” I said to my partner once we were inside the car. “What’s your take?”

“You first.”

“OK,” I said. “Once again, I’m wondering if Alison is the doer, or if she’s moldering in a dump somewhere. And does her husband give a crap either way?”

“Cultural affect, maybe. What is he?”

“Arrogant. For starters. Here’s a thought.”

Conklin had taken out his phone and was checking his messages. I kept going.

“Say Khan found out about Alison’s thing with Chan and paid a pro to make her disappear? Maybe Chan was part of the contract, too. Looks like Khan could afford the very best. The snoops and the housekeeper were collateral damage.”

“Brady called.”

“OK. Give me another minute, here.”

I was telling Conklin about Khan’s reaction to Muller’s lingerie collection when a sharp rapping sound on the windshield made me jump. What the hell?

I twisted my head around to see Caroline, the older of Khan and Muller’s daughters, knocking on the glass.

Conklin buzzed down the window.

“Quick,” Caroline said. “I don’t want him to see me.”

Conklin unlocked the back door, and Caroline got in, slipped down below window level, and asked Conklin to drive. He took the car one block down Ocean View, pulled around the corner, and braked on another residential street.

Caroline said, “Listen. My father is an idiot. I’ve told him, but he’s brain-dead when it comes to her. My mother is a psycho. She has no feelings and she lies all the time.”

Conklin said, “That must be pretty rough, Caroline. Does she lie to you?”

“All the time.”

“Give me an example.”

“There’s like four million examples.”

Conklin smiled and said, “Pick one.”

By now, the girl was pressing her face to the grille between the front and backseat. She was talking fast. She wanted to have her say and get out of the car.

She said, “Like, she’ll say she’s working late. And I’ll call her and there’s no answer. And she’ll come home just before we have to get up for school, and she’ll put on a robe and pretend she’s been home all night. And when I look at her speedometer, she’s driven like five hundred miles.

“So I’m thinking, OK, she has a boyfriend somewhere. A couple of times I heard her talking all flirty on the phone. I go and hit Redial and an international area code jumps up. Her job is here. Who could she know in Berlin?”

I said, “Caroline, your mom hasn’t called or texted?”

She shook her head, her long hair slapping her cheeks. Tears wet her face and she wiped them away, fast and hard, with the flat of her hand.

“Please don’t ask me if I love her.”

I didn’t have to ask. Obviously, she did.

I said, “Show her the picture, Rich.”

He swiped at his phone, pulling up the photo of the striking blond-haired woman in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel.

“Is that your mom?” I asked.

“A hundred percent. Those glasses are her Guccis. That’s her Zak Posen coat. And check out her hand on the phone. What did I tell you? She’s not wearing her wedding ring.”

Conklin showed Caroline the DMV photo of Michael Chan. He asked, “Have you ever seen this man?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Duh. It’s all over the Internet. I can read. You think my mom had something to do with him?”

“We’re asking everyone if they know him,” Conklin said.

My partner thanked the girl, gave her his card, and told her to call anytime. Then she got out of the car. I got out, too, and watched her walk up the block with her chin tucked down. When she turned up the walk to her house, I got back into the passenger seat.

My partner said, “Here’s what I think. Alison Muller is a cheat, a narcissist, and a terrible mother. Going out on a limb, here, she’s also a pathological liar. You know where that leaves us?”

He touched his thumb and forefinger together, held up the zero for me to see.

“Exactly,” I said.

I called Brady to check in.

He said, “Monterey PD forwarded the Muller file to me an hour ago. They’re treating her as a missing person. Detectives talked with neighbors, friends, business associates. They’ve got nothing.”