Dear Wife(63)
As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. If I run now, if anybody here decides I’m worth chasing down, one problem turns into two, and this becomes a whole different paradigm. And what about the money belt strapped to my waist? What would they think if they found it? What would the Reverend think? I wait for his response, and a trickle of sweat runs down my back.
“‘People do not despise a thief if he steals to satisfy his hunger when he is starving.’ Proverbs 6:30. Let us assume that whoever took that money has a hungry soul.”
Charlene nods, then frowns. “You’re just going to let them keep it?”
“Not exactly. What I’d like to do is for you to stay away from your desk for the next day or two, and to leave the top drawer open. That’ll give the thief time to rethink his or her actions and opportunity to return the money where they found it. If the money is back in the envelope by close of business tomorrow, we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“But what if it’s not?” Charlene says, the question on everybody’s tongue. “What if they don’t put back the money?”
The Reverend looks around at the people gathered in the hall, his gaze pausing on each woman’s eyes. When he gets to mine, my heart explodes. “Let’s just pray that they do.”
MARCUS
Dr. Trevor McAdams lives in one of those houses on Country Club Lane that’s trying too hard. Four sides of brick crawling with ivy. Sprawling rooms topped with slate roof tiles. A view of the golf course, where men in prissy shorts whack balls and slap each other on the shoulder as they discuss where to outsource Pine Bluff’s jobs next—Mexico or Asia. At least they’ll never be able to outsource mine. The more this city gets steered into the gutter, the more bad guys there are for me to catch.
Not that Trevor McAdams is a bad guy. As far as I can tell, he’s only a heartsick puppy mooning over his missing lover. If those tears are an act, then give the man a golden statue.
I ring the doorbell, one of those sleek high-tech devices with a camera picking up every pore on my skin. Inside, a dog goes ballistic.
Along with Sabine’s sister, Trevor has grabbed hold of the search for Sabine like a single-minded pit bull, transforming the story into a prime-time media shit show. It’s got all the right ingredients for tabloid fare: a local heroine who’s young, attractive and moneyed; a handsome lover pitted against a brooding and unpopular husband; enough mystery to fuel a Twitter following of amateur detectives, all of them chatty and opinionated, filling his social media feeds with a million unanswered questions. The bloodsucking, schadenfreude-loving people of America are captivated.
But I don’t like it, and neither does my boss. The Chief thinks the constant media attention is fucking with the investigation, and I don’t disagree. Before Sabine went missing, the Pine Bluff police force was already overworked and understaffed. Her case is not the only thing on my plate. I’ve got better things to do than pander to the press.
The door opens, and there he is, our story’s hero, though standing here in rumpled scrubs and bare feet, he doesn’t look the part. He looks dingy, like he hasn’t slept in days. Hasn’t showered, either. His face is pale and thick with scruff, and his hair is flat, stuck to his head in greasy clumps.
“Good morning, Detective. Please, come in.” He gestures with his arm that’s not holding the dog, a white, fluffy thing baring its fangs.
I step inside. “Thanks for seeing me. I know you’re very busy.”
He shuts the door, then puts the dog down, and it scurries off into a bright, modern kitchen overlooking the seventh green. Remainders of breakfast are spread across the granite countertops—a loaf of bread, a half-empty package of eggs, butter and two types of organic jam. The doctor pulls a couple of glasses from the cabinet and pours from a giant jug of orange juice. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Please tell me you’re here to share some news.”
“I’ve got some news to share. But not the news you’re hoping for, unfortunately.”
“It’s been eight days, Detective.”
Like I don’t know that. The doctor has only been phoning me daily, halting my work to hound me for information. Have you put a trace on her phone? Have you dusted for prints? Have you questioned her clients, her colleagues? What does he think, that I’m new at this? That I’m incompetent? Of course I’ve traced and dusted and questioned. This isn’t the movies, and I’m not some dumb ass small-town cop.
He picks up the glasses and motions for me to follow.
We pause at the door to the den, a room along the back of the house with a flat-screen as big as the wall. Two kids are parked on an overstuffed leather couch, a boy and a girl with the doctor’s face, two miniature doll-eyed yuppies. He settles the drinks on the coffee table.
“Guys, I’m going to be out in the sunroom, talking to the detective. I need you both to stay here until we’re done. Okay?”
The kids nod in unison. The boy returns his attention to the television screen, but the girl’s gaze sticks to me, wandering down my frame, zeroing in on my holster. Her eyes go wide, and she sinks deeper into the cushions. Great. The doctor is one of those parents, teaching their kids to be scared, not respectful of guns.
We end up on a screened porch, where the sun beats down on the slate roof and turns the room into a furnace. The doctor digs through a giant clam filled with remotes until he finds the one he’s looking for, then points it at the wicker fan above our heads. From out on the green comes an occasional whop of metal whacking a ball.