Trespassing(25)

Claudette’s crusty casserole dish collects dust on the cooktop. She was too tipsy to clean up, and I was too sick to care.

The detective doesn’t appear fazed by the picture of death warmed over. He doesn’t lecture me about the fact that Bella is still in the same long-sleeved velour dress she was wearing when he met her. He simply steps inside and says, “Any word?”

I shake my head and move aside. While I’m closing the door, he’s walking down the hallway.

“Looks like you had a party last night.”

I trace his gaze to the empty bottle and two wineglasses on the island. “Claudette.” I want to explain that she was persistent, that the wine was her idea. “She seems to think Micah is having an affair.”

“So she told me.”

“Have a seat.” I gather papers scattered over the breakfast table and make room for him. “I appreciate your coming out on a . . . God, is it Sunday?”

“It’s Saturday. Comes with the job, ma’am. I take the information as it comes, whether it’s Sunday, Tuesday, or Christmas Day.”

“Information? So you know something?”

He sits. “You’re right about the job. They have no record of employing a Micah Cavanaugh at Diamond Corporation.”

“The checks . . . the pay stubs—”

“I’m working on that.”

“But how do you explain his getting a paycheck from a company that insists they never hired him?”

“The payment receipts were formatted on a basic publishing program. Anyone could’ve printed them.”

“You think Micah made his own deposit receipts? And brought them home to fool me into thinking he had a job?”

“Stranger things have happened.” Guidry shrugs, yet before he can offer another ridiculous comment, I cut him off.

“I’ve checked the account at the bank. The deposit amounts match the pay stubs. Someone was paying him.”

He nods. “Could be that he was just transferring money from one account to another.”

“But that kind of money? Where would he get money like that to transfer? Regularly?”

“You don’t know of any other accounts? Stocks, bonds, mutual funds?”

“Micah handled all of that.”

“I’m looking into this business with his father and the money. The old charges he pressed against your husband. Could be these deposits were generated from the monies he allegedly stole from his father.”

“What about flight records? He usually flew out of the business airport in Des Plaines.”

There’s a long pause before he says, “Have you ever seen his plane, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

“Of course I have. When he worked for United, before the miscarriage, Bella and I used to fly with him from time to time. Domestic flights. Here to Philly, here to Boston.”

“The plane he supposedly flew for Diamond, I mean. Would you be able to identify it if you saw it?”

“I think so. I mean, maybe. He texted me a picture of it a few times.”

“I’m going to need copies of those pictures.”

“Of course.” I tap an icon on my phone and begin to scroll through thumbnails—mostly of Bella.

“If you could text them, I’d appreciate it.”

I nod, and a sense of dread rises from my stomach to my heart. “But . . . if you’re telling me he never flew for Diamond—”

“It’s a long shot.” The detective presses his lips together and bobs his head. “But the remains of a small plane were discovered yesterday just off the Atlantic coast—”

“Oh my God.” My heart seizes. “Oh God, oh God.”

“Off the southern coast of Florida. Did he have his own plane? One he flew for leisure?”

I shake my head. “He’d wished for one . . .”

“He had wished?”

“From time to time.” Tears prick my eyes, and everything feels numb. Remains of a plane. Remains. I’m texting pictures that may help identify my husband’s mangled plane off the Florida coastline. My fingers shake as I tap the screen.

“All planes of that size with recorded flight patterns in the area are safe and accounted for. And since we can’t trace your husband’s flight pattern without knowing more about the plane he was flying—”

“But he wasn’t going to Florida. He said New York. Wait. The last time he used his cell phone . . . the morning he left. He called a number with a three-oh-five area code. Florida.”

“Do you know how many times he called it?”

I shake my head. “I’ll try to get access through the carrier, but the online records don’t give me much information. I did try to call the number, but it was disconnected.”

“Do you still have the number?”

“Yeah.” I dig through a pile of papers on my island until I find it.

“I’ll see if I can trace the number. It could mean something, being it’s a Florida number. And you think he was leaving from Chicago Business Airport in Des Plaines?”

“I didn’t ask, but I assumed.”

“A car with his plates was found early this morning just over the border in Wisconsin.”

“His car? So he flew out of Wisconsin?” I think about what Shell said. God’s country.