“After a late breakfast. Not too long before Jeff started making his round of calls.”
“Hmm. This isn’t good for us, Buddy. It doesn’t fit the Saturday night scenario we discussed last night. Either Alice is lying about him being with her all that time, or, if she’s telling the truth, when did he kill Emory?”
Grange thought about it. “He admits to driving up here on Sunday. Maybe he met Emory somewhere along the way. They set up a place to hash things out. Wherever that place was, he left her body, then drove on up here and did the woe-is-me.”
“Doesn’t work. Doesn’t for Saturday, either. Because,” he stressed, “Emory’s car was in the parking lot on the mountain, preserved in two days’ worth of ice and fresh snow. Came to me in the middle of the night. She didn’t leave the mountain. Not in that car.”
“Shit.”
“We gotta put Jeff on the mountain, and so far we ain’t.”
“Double shit. But the thing is, Sam, I think he did it.”
“I think he did, too,” he grumbled.
Each contemplated the dilemma, then Grange said, “The extramarital affair, plus the money, plus his being a prick, gives us reason enough to hold him and buy ourselves a little more time to either break him, break Alice, find Emory’s remains, or come up with a piece of physical evidence.”
“You’re expecting a miracle?”
“They happen.”
Knight mulled it over and reached a decision. “Where you at?”
“In my car on the way back. About an hour out. I let you sleep in.”
“Thanks.” Knight consulted his wristwatch. “We’re supposed to pick Jeff up at nine.”
“I’ll make it back well before then.”
“So let’s pick up Jeff half an hour early, take him by surprise, and hit him hard with his infidelity. You know the drill.”
“I get to be the bad cop?”
“See you in sixty.”
* * *
“For God’s sake, Alice, would you please get a grip?”
“I don’t think you understand the implications, Jeff.”
“I understand them perfectly. I just don’t think we should panic simply because—”
“Because the detectives have somehow learned about us, when already you think they suspect you of harming Emory? You don’t think that’s cause for panic?”
“I’ll grant you it’s cause for concern, but let’s not blow it out of proportion. Now, take a deep breath, and tell me everything Grange said again.”
She talked him through it, but the repetition didn’t improve the message.
“He showed up at my door before daybreak, Jeff. The timing of his visit alone implies that they’re taking this—our affair—seriously. They see it as a significant factor of Emory’s disappearance. Forgive me, but that’s a bit unsettling.”
He didn’t dispute that. Grange had driven all the way down to Atlanta, which indicated that he and Knight’s random speculations had begun to solidify and actually take shape. Jeff feared that his designation as “frantic husband” might soon be traded for “person of interest.”
If that happened, media cameras would photograph him being escorted into the sheriff’s office by badged personnel with stern faces. Interviews with him would then become official interrogations, and there was a distinct difference. During the former, investigators were deferential and polite. The atmosphere was sensitive and sympathetic.
An interrogation was just the opposite.
He would be forced to retain an attorney, and that was as good as an admission of guilt. There would follow a massive groundswell of distrust and disdain toward him. Nothing he said would be believed. He would be reviled by complete strangers and close associates alike. His clients would question his integrity and take their portfolios to another money manager.