Dear Wife(60)

“I found a bank account,” he says by way of hello. “Wells Fargo, opened a little over three weeks ago at a branch in Texarkana. Her first deposit was a thousand dollars, which it looks like she made in cash. Since then, no more money flowing in.”

My throat clenches in excitement, followed by a surge of something a lot less pleasant. A thousand dollars is a hell of a lot of cash. An amount that doesn’t just go missing overnight, not without raising some red flags. An amount she would have to have been squirreling away for months in order to not get noticed.

“And the withdrawals?” I say from between clenched teeth, because for fucking sure there are withdrawals.

“A five hundred withdrawal last week, followed by withdrawals of twenty or thirty bucks a pop, and they’re all over the place. North Platte, Nebraska. Lexington, Kentucky. Amarillo, Texas. Boise, Phoenix, Charlotte, Pittsburgh, Colum—”

“She’s trying to throw us off.”

“Sure looks that way,” Charlie confirms. “At this pace, she’s got another three and a half weeks before the account runs dry. You want me to keep following the transactions?”

I drop my head and stare at the stairwell floor, grimy linoleum that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the last century, and try not to scream. My pulse jumps, ticking away in my temples. Charlie can follow the transactions, but no way in hell it’s her at the ATM machines. This is a ploy to throw me off, to send me scurrying down an opposite road, in an opposite direction.

Good thing I’m not that stupid.

“Keep an eye on the account,” I tell Charlie, “but don’t get excited until there’s a deposit, and then I want eyes on that camera footage. In the meantime, focus on what else she’s got up her sleeve. Because there’s more coming, that’s for damn sure. Call me when you find it.”

“Roger that,” he says, and the line goes dead.

  I spend the rest of the day chasing leads.

From a search of the prescription drug database, which the Arkansas Department of Health tells me I don’t need a warrant for as long as I have a case number and probable cause. From Sabine’s doctors, her general practitioner and ob-gyn, neither of whom were as forthcoming. Both demanded a warrant before saying the first word. And from Dr. Lee, the urologist from Suite 203, where Jeffrey was pissing in a cup when fifty-one miles away, his wife walked out of a Super1 and disappeared. Dr. Lee wouldn’t tell me anything, either.

Which leaves me with Jeffrey. I pull to a stop at the curb and take in the stone and cedar siding, the neatly manicured lawn, the decorative woodwork around the dormers on the upstairs windows. What is this place—four thousand square feet? Five? Even before Sabine went missing, it was more house than two people could ever need. Soon, this big fancy house and everything in it will be all his.

I ring the bell, and his pleasant expression clouds over when he sees it’s me.

“Good thing the reporters have packed up and gone.” I hike a thumb over my shoulder, in the general direction of the trampled grass at the edge of his lawn. “Pine Bluff Detective questions Jeffrey Hardison in broad daylight, news at nine.”

“Talk to my attorney.”

He moves to shut the door, but he doesn’t get far. I put out a foot, stop it with my boot.

“Riddle me this,” I say, leaning against the door frame with a shoulder. “Why would a guy give the detective investigating his wife’s disappearance a bogus alibi, when he already has an alibi—a real one that’s easily verified. I just can’t figure it out. Not unless he has something to hide.”

I catch a flash of oh shit pass over his face before he blinks it away. “Are you always this cryptic, Detective?” he says, but his sarcasm falls a little flat. “This would go a lot faster if you just say what you came here to say.”

“Dr. Lee.” Jeffrey pales at the name, and I know I hit the bull’s-eye. “I know you were at his office in Little Rock on the afternoon Sabine disappeared. How come? Got problems with the plumbing?”

A red flush rises up his face like a rash. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“I can get a warrant, you know. Take a little look-see at your medical chart.”

“A warrant is the only way you’re going to get your hands on my records. And unless you happen to have one in your back pocket for this address, I suggest you move your foot from my doorway and back the hell off my porch. In fact, get the hell off my property.”

The or else hangs in the air between us like a bad smell. I inhale it long and slow, letting the silence stretch. The truth is, I don’t care what his medical issue is, other than its ability to get him good and riled up. A cornered rat makes mistakes.

“There are lots of ways to skin a cat.” I step back, planting my soles at the edge of the porch. “Just because you weren’t there to wrap your hands around her neck doesn’t mean you weren’t the one to kill her. Who’d you pay? How much did you pay him to kill Sabine?”

His face is purple and shiny now, like an overripe plum. He slams the door in my face.



BETH

The work at Church of Christ’s Apostles is hard, the hours long, mostly because this place is always bustling. A rolling program of worship services and holy get-togethers, Bible studies and prayer breakfasts and marital counseling and kidz clubs and child care and wee worship for kids two to three—reel the little punks in before they know they’re bait, you would say.