Dear Wife(77)

He looks down his powdered nose. “Can I help you?”

Okay, so the voice belongs to a man, but those breasts. They look—well, if not real, then definitely expensive. I raise my gaze and—oh shit, he caught me.

I gesture over my shoulder, at the rain clattering to the asphalt in sheets behind me. “Some weather, huh?”

He doesn’t seem the least bit amused.

I clear my throat and turn up the charm. “I’m new to town. Just got in, actually. I heard this place has really nice rooms.”

“Sorry. We’re full.”

He starts to close the door, but I stop it with a boot.

“What’s your rate?” I say, giving him a chummy smile. “Because I’ll pay double.”

“I already told you. We’re full.” He looks down at my foot, planted in the open doorway. “Now please don’t make me tell you to remove your boot from my door.”

“Or else what—you’ll call the cops?”

His glossy lips curl in a smile. “Come on, honey. We both know you are a cop. Why don’t we just drop the charade? You tell me why you’re standing here, dripping all over my welcome mat, and I’ll tell you if I can help you or not.”

“I’m looking for somebody.”

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t say.”

“Five foot eight, long, dark hair. Though she may have cut it since this was taken.” I pull up a picture on my phone, flip it around so he can see.

He leans down to take a closer look at the screen, and I get a partial view of a woman standing behind him—a knockout Latina in khakis and a T-shirt. Her eyes are wide, her expression frozen in surprise, or maybe fear. I lift my chin, and she steps out of sight.

“Sorry.” The man in the pink robe straightens. He shakes his head, and a curler bobs behind a pierced earlobe. “I’ve never seen that woman before.”

He’s lying. I’ve been a cop long enough to recognize all the signs. The tightening of the skin around his eyes, the way the sarcasm disappears from his tone. He knows.

“Okay, well, I appreciate your time,” I say, stepping back. I flip up my collar, and water runs down the back of my neck. “Y’all have a good night.”

He shuts the door without a word, and I return to my car, sidestepping puddles and grinning like a fool. If she’s not here, then I know where to find her. It was written on the pretty girl’s face, across her generous chest in big, black letters.

God Works Here.
  My eyes pop open at five the next morning, and I’m instantly awake. I flip on the lamp on the nightstand and unhook my phone from the charger, wishing this crappy hotel had room service or a coffee machine because I slept for shit.

The Chief didn’t like my report. He claims it was half-assed, stitched together in a quarter of the time it should have taken me. He told me this in a long, shouty voice mail that ended with him taking me off the case. He’s passing the search for Sabine on to Detective Phillips, and if I weren’t so pissed I’d be insulted. Detective Phillips is a hack, a lazy investigator with questionable tactics and a fifty-fifty success rate. I need to get my ass back to Pine Bluff, like yesterday, to make sure Sabine’s case lands on the right side.

An alert sounds on my phone, and I watch the emails roll in. Junk, mostly, but between the Facebook notifications and ads for penis implants and energy efficient windows, I spot the one I’ve been waiting for, from Jade. I tap it with a thumb.

Three of the burners are a bust, but one’s still live, the 607 number. No calls yet, but plenty of activity, including loads of check-ins from a hotel on the highway in Atlanta. And jackpot! They have a microcell. When you’re ready to go after her, give me a call, and I’ll help you track her in real time.-J
I toss the phone on the bed and head for the shower.

I’m dressed and behind the wheel of my rental thirty minutes later, a cup of coffee steaming in the holder. The streets are filling with early morning traffic, slowing the drive to the boardinghouse to a crawl. On English Street, I do a quick reconnaissance loop around the block, then park under a dogwood at the far end of the street.

By now the rain has moved on. The sky is cloudless and bright, giving me a clear view of the front door. I drink my coffee and watch the residents file out. The three men from the couch, now in construction gear; folks in kitchen attire, an apron slung over a shoulder; the pretty Latina in a ponytail and the same T-shirt she wore last night. She makes a beeline to an ancient clunker on the street, looking around as if she’s searching for someone. She falls in the car and cranks the engine, and after three tries it catches in a burst of black smoke. I start the rental and follow.

The girl winds her way through the neighborhood and onto the interstate while I stay out of sight a couple of cars back. I already know where she’s going, have already staked out the route from the boardinghouse to the church, and she follows it to a tee. The only thing I’m a little surprised about, and sure, also a little disappointed to see, is that she’s doing it alone. The way she looked at me last night... She knows something. I’m certain of it.

She takes a right onto the church driveway, and I go straight, gawking out the side window. The building is massive, a monster of brick and beige stone built to impress. A megachurch to beat all megachurches. It fills my rearview mirror as I hang a U-turn and pull into a parking lot across the street. I find a spot by the road, kill the engine and reach for my phone.