Mean Streak

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.

Given all that, the margin of error was oceanic in scope, and snafus were virtually guaranteed.

Meanwhile, Grange was convinced the husband was the culprit and that her remains wouldn’t be found until Jeff gave up and told them where to look. Unhappily, Sam conceded that his partner was probably right.

“His Saturday is iffy,” Grange said. “Where was he all day?”

“You heard the man. He puttered around the house, then ran some errands.”

“Somehow puttering and Jeff Surrey just don’t jibe. Also, he can’t produce anybody with whom he came into contact,” Grange reminded him. “Not for the entire day. Nobody like a barber or a merchant who would remember him. Then on Sunday, he’s also underground until midafternoon when he started calling around and leaving messages, asking if anyone had heard from Emory.”

Knight picked up the thread. “He becomes the troubled husband, but only after a significant amount of time had elapsed.”

“Playacting. All for show.”

“So how’d he do it?” Knight asked. “When?”

“Mind if I take a stab?”

Knight gestured for him to surmise out loud.

“Okay, Emory does her run on Saturday, as scheduled. She lets Jeff know she’s staying over. He drives up here, and they meet at a prearranged place and time. He lays it on thick. ‘Honey, I’m sorry. I should have been more understanding about your marathon training schedule. Let’s kiss and make up.’”

“All the while, he’s waiting for the moment to whack her by whatever method.”

Grange nodded. “He disposes of the body, then goes back to Atlanta. Next day, Sunday, he starts calling around for her, then returns to Drakeland and puts on the concerned act at the motel, the café, and on his first visit to this office. ‘My wife hasn’t come home. Somebody help me.’”

“And he didn’t even say please,” Knight said.

“If he had, we’d have known right off that it was all an act.”

The rubber band was getting quite a workout by Knight’s fingers. “Sounds good, but it’s hot air in terms of evidence. The crime scene unit went over every millimeter of his car.”

Jeff had seen through their “it’s just routine” ruse. He’d balked, but not as vociferously as Knight would have expected, and most of his protests centered around the damage likely to be done to his custom leather interior. He was assured that the department was bonded to cover any unlikely damages.

Then, as though it had been his prerogative to refuse them access, he’d said, “Fine, search it. It’s a waste of time and manpower, but I’ve got nothing to hide.”

And possibly he didn’t. Nothing incriminating had been found. No blood, fibers, hair, chemicals, chemical smell to indicate that he’d cleaned up after himself, or a bad smell like that of a dead body.

They were relieved that they’d found nothing to indicate that bodily harm had been done to Dr. Charbonneau. At the same time, it had been a letdown to come away empty-handed. All their questions remained unanswered.

Knight said, “Bother you that he didn’t demand a lawyer, a search warrant?”

“It bothers you, obviously.”

“It does. A guy like him, cool as a cucumber, you’d’ve thought he’d’ve lawyered up at the get-go.”

“But he’s savvy enough to know that would sharpen our interest in him.”

“Maybe. But what it says to me is that he knew we weren’t going to find anything in his car. So, if he did kill her, he left her at the scene. Also—”

Grange groaned at the thought of there being another out for Jeff Surrey.

“Also,” Knight continued, “he handed over his cell phone.”

“He quibbled.”

“Not much. Mostly facial expressions showing his displeasure. He didn’t give us as much argument as you’d expect from a man who’s got the murder of his wife to cover up.”