Mean Streak(55)

Driving from the airport into the city, he kept one eye on the rain-washed freeway while trying to find the defroster switch on the unfamiliar dashboard. Miraculously, without killing either himself or another motorist, he made it through downtown and to the ferry pier.

Any scenery he might have enjoyed on a sunny day was obscured by a downpour and dense fog. The city was swallowed by it within minutes of the ferry’s departure, and what lay ahead was as much of a great unknown as the Atlantic Ocean had been to fifteenth-century sailors.

He’d never much cared for boats. Boats chugging through fog he cared for even less. It was an hour and a half before his destination port was announced, and he was relieved to drive back onto terra firma. Or what would have been firma if it hadn’t been waterlogged.

He checked into his hotel and, without even taking the time to settle into his room or unpack his suitcase, he braved the weather again. Using the car’s GPS he drove straight to the residence of one Grace Kent.

It was a two-story house, white clapboard with gray shutters flanking the windows on both levels. The front door was red, and on the exterior wall to the side of it was a brass mailbox.

He considered going up to the door and checking to see what kind of correspondence had been delivered to her that day. But discretion being the better part of valor and all that, he decided against taking the risk. He instead drove to the end of the block, where he parked beneath the rain-laden branches of a giant conifer.

More than three hours elapsed. Just before six o’clock, a minivan pulled into the driveway and into the garage, which was opened with a remote. The door was lowered before Jack could see who was inside the van.

But a few minutes later when the front door was pulled open, he grabbed his camera and focused the telephoto lens on the woman who came out to get her mail.

Grace Kent was Rebecca Watson. No question.

This wasn’t a baby step closer to his quarry. This was a giant leap.

*





Sam Knight leaned far back in his desk chair and stacked his hands on the top of his pot belly. “What do you think?”

Without so much as a blink, Grange replied, “Guilty as hell.”

They were both weary from spending an entire day actively involved in the search for Emory Charbonneau. Most of the time had been spent outdoors fending off the cold, or in the SUV trying to warm up while listening to Jeff Surrey cast aspersions on their aptitude.

They’d dropped him at the motel, another source of complaint, and had returned to the office to assess the day’s lack of progress before heading for home and grabbing a few winks before resuming in the predawn hours.

“He’s guilty, all right,” Knight said. “But being an * isn’t a criminal offense.”

“They should pass a law just for him.”

Knight chuckled, though it wasn’t a laughing matter. He picked up a rubber band and began stretching it around his fingers. “You think he killed her and hid the body.”

“Instant divorce. A lot less hassle, especially when there’s a sizeable estate involved.”

“Which he would inherit.”

“That would be sufficient motive, but maybe not his only one.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

Grange was eager to expand. “She didn’t move her pot of gold over to his money management firm when they married. Nor has she endorsed that drug, which he’s talked up to his clients as a sound investment.”

“From a professional standpoint,” Knight said thoughtfully, “that’s two strikes against Jeff. She’s made him look bad and might have cost him a partnership.”

“On a personal level, it’s just as bad. She outshines him on every front. She’s well known for her philanthropy. In all the write-ups about her, his name is always a footnote. She’s beloved by her patients, but his clients blame him if the economic news isn’t good.”

“He’s jealous of her success as a human being.”

“Resentment in addition to the money angle.” Grange shrugged. “Seems a no-brainer.”

“The no-brainer part bothers me,” Knight said. “It’s almost too obvious. Plus, we don’t have a body, a smoking gun, or the suspect’s opportunity to do her in. Last time I checked, stuff like that comes in handy when you go to a DA and try to get somebody indicted for wife-killing. Until we get more, we essentially don’t have anything. We may never get anything either.” He looked at the large map on the wall and sighed. “She could be anywhere.”

The media had called the search for Dr. Emory Charbonneau a “coordinated effort,” which was a misnomer to many, and a joke to Sergeant Detective Sam Knight. Coordination was almost nonexistent because every law enforcement agency within a tri-state area was involved, and each had its own agenda, personnel problems, budget considerations, and general stupidity. There were many dedicated and determined officers, but their efforts were often undermined by those not so sharp or dutiful, of which there were also many.

Then there were the hundreds of volunteers, each with a reason all their own for joining the search, not the least of which was the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward. Knight was just jaded enough to believe that had induced many to sign on.

But even if the volunteers’ willingness to withstand hostile terrain and subfreezing temperatures was purely altruistic, one had to worry about one of them stumbling over Emory Charbonneau’s body, literally, and compromising a crime scene.