Mean Streak(31)

He was Jeff now?

Knight held the door for him. The lady with the collapsed barn roof was no longer in the squad room. Personnel were talking to one another or on their phones. Some were at their computers. But no matter how they were engaged independently, they simultaneously paused to follow his progress over to Knight’s desk, where Grange was already waiting, looking as dour as an undertaker.

“Oh God,” Jeff moaned. “What’s happened?”

Grange answered by pointing him into a chair.

He remained standing. “Damn you, answer me.”

“Nothing’s shaking so far,” Knight replied as he lowered himself into his desk chair. “Sit down, Jeff, please.”

“That’s all you people seem capable of doing. Sitting. Why aren’t you doing something constructive to find my missing wife?”

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“You’re just sitting here!”

Realizing he had called even more attention to himself, he sat down—hard—and glared at the two detectives.

Knight said, “It wouldn’t do any good for us to go chasing around, burning up fuel, when we don’t know where she went after she left the motel.”

“What about her credit cards? Wasn’t Marybeth—”

“Maryjo.”

“Whatever. Wasn’t she supposed to be checking on charges and ATM withdrawals?”

Grange joined in. “It would have speeded things up if you’d had Emory’s credit card numbers.”

“I explained that,” Jeff said, practically having to unclench his teeth to get the words out. “Emory has her accounts. I have mine. She pays her bills—”

“Actually she doesn’t.”

Jeff looked from Grange to Knight. “What’s he talking about?”

“The accountant who keeps the medical clinic’s books also pays Emory’s personal bills. He charges her a small stipend each month. He gave us her personal account numbers.”

“Great. Fantastic. Did Maryjo follow up?”

Knight said, “Friday afternoon shortly after leaving Atlanta, your wife gassed up her car using a credit card at a service station. We’ve got that transaction on security camera video. By the way, she was dressed just like you described.”

“Why would you think she wouldn’t be?”

“Could be she’d stopped somewhere between your house and the service station and…you know…switched clothes.” Before Jeff could respond to that inanity, Knight went on. “Anyhow, she charged her motel room to the same card and used it again to pay for her dinner on Friday night. None of her cards has been used since.”

Jeff gnawed his lower lip. “Since Friday night?”

“Do you know how much cash she had on her?”

He shook his head, then cleared his throat and said, “But I doubt it was much. She isn’t in the habit of carrying a lot. It’s sort of a joke between us. She never seems to have any cash.”

After a lapse of several moments, Grange said, “We’ve also retrieved her cell phone records. Last call she made was Friday evening.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly expression. “To you.”

“She called to let me know she’d made the trip without mishap, that she was already in bed and about to go to sleep.” He leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. “None of this is good news, is it?”

He heard Knight’s chair squeak, then the detective’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. “Hang in there. It might look like we’re not doing much, but we’re pulling out all the stops to find her.”

As he escorted Jeff back to the lobby, Knight casually asked if he could take a look at Jeff’s handgun. “Standard procedure. You understand. If you’ll give me your car keys, I’ll send a deputy out to get it so you won’t have to go out in that mess.”

Jeff doubted the weather was the reason Knight didn’t want him to retrieve the gun himself, but he surrendered his keys without argument.

Having been assured that he would be the first to hear any updates, good or bad, he was again abandoned.

His chair had been claimed by a biker-looking type with a braided goatee that extended almost to his waist. While Jeff paced, he checked his phone for missed calls. One of Emory’s girlfriends, whom he’d called the night before, had left a voice message telling him that she hadn’t talked to Emory for more than a week.

A client had left a message expressing his displeasure over the dive the stock market had taken and asked Jeff if he had any ideas on how to make up for the loss. His tailor had called to inform him that his alterations were ready. There were two missed calls from the clinic’s main number, but no one had left a message.

Alice, of course, knew better than to call his cell phone.

He spent an hour on futile pacing and was seething with frustration when Grange bustled into the lobby, wearing a hat with ear flaps and zipping up a quilted puffy jacket as he walked toward him.

“They found her car.”

“Only her car? What about Emory?”

“They’re looking.”

“Where?”

“Nantahala.”

“Where’s that?”