“Of course I have no idea where she is,” he’d said, perturbed. “Why?”
“Because she didn’t show up for work, she’s not at home and her car is abandoned at the side of the road.”
That made him blink, some of his just-woken-up outrage fading. “Jesus. What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Pescoli had said. “Mind if we come in?”
Grumpily, he’d allowed them into a mess of an apartment, throwing some newspapers and jackets and a wadded blanket out of the way so that Alvarez could sit on the grimy cushions of a beat-up couch while Pescoli stood near the door. The shades were drawn and Sutherland, cinching the belt of his striped robe around his belly, settled into a fake leather recliner that had seen better days.
He’d answered their questions while yelling at his boys to get ready for school. When he’d gotten no response when he’d craned his neck back to the bedroom wing of the small apartment and called to them, he’d gotten up for a few minutes, trod down a short hallway, opened a door and given some muffled orders before reappearing and taking up residence in his chair, positioned in front of a flat screen that seemed to be six feet if it were an inch.
When asked, he’d offered up an alibi for the night his ex had disappeared. Though he didn’t seem sorry to hear Brenda was missing, he did appear shocked.
“She should be more careful,” he’d muttered, reaching into the top drawer of the small table positioned near h
is chair. He withdrew a pack of cigarettes, found it empty and, swearing under his breath, crumpled it. “I tell her all the time.”
“Why?” Alvarez asked.
“Because she’s the damned mother of my kids, that’s why!” At the mention of his offspring, he’d glanced down the hallway, scowled, then said to Alvarez, “Are we done here? I’ve got to get my boys off to school.”
“We may have more questions later.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine.” He’d gotten to his feet and began lumbering toward the bedrooms again while Alvarez and Pescoli had taken their leave.
But maybe Sandi was right, Alvarez thought now. Ray Sutherland, a trucker, might have given an Oscar-worthy performance this morning. But she doubted it.
While Pescoli dug into her burger and fries, Alvarez picked at her salad of field greens and her cup of shrimp bisque, all the while tossing the case over in her mind.
“Don’t see how you live on that crap,” Pescoli said, pointing a French fry at Alvarez’s meal before dredging the crispy potato strip through a puddle of ketchup on her platter.
“Ditto.”
“I don’t think Ray Sutherland’s our guy.” She plopped the fry into her mouth.
“If there is a guy.”
“Right. If there is a guy. Could be three women just took hikes, y’know. It happens.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“Nope. I don’t. Just don’t like the other possibilities.” She thought for a few minutes as she took a final bite of her burger before tossing the remains onto her plate.
They split the bill and Alvarez was shrugging into her coat when she saw Pescoli’s gaze narrow. “Uh-oh,” she whispered.
“What?” She turned, and from the corner of her eye saw Grace Perchant approaching.
“Here comes the nutcase,” Pescoli said under her breath, her words barely audible.
If Grace heard Pescoli’s remarks, she didn’t react. Thin and pale, dressed in a long, white coat that seemed to billow around her, Grace walked slowly and steadily toward their table. Her pale green eyes were fixed on Alvarez with the intensity of someone incredibly determined.
“Detective Alvarez,” she said, her voice low.
“Yes.”
Almost as if in a trance, Grace grabbed Alvarez’s hand, and from the corner of her eye, Alvarez noticed Pescoli reach for her sidearm. With a slight shake of her head, Alvarez silently told her partner to stand down. She wasn’t in danger.
“What is it, Grace?” she asked.