The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  CHAPTER 40

  Wednesday morning, I set my alarm for five-thirty. With the three-hour time difference, I was hoping I’d be able to catch Danny Vance in Rochester at the beginning of his work shift. I made myself a cup of strong coffee then dialed the number for the service station.

  “This is Danny,” he said when he came to the phone.

  I could barely contain my excitement at finally reaching him. I introduced myself and told him I’d gotten his number from Melody Hughes. “I wanted to talk to you about Eva Flynn,” I told him.

  “What about her?” He didn’t sound particularly surprised to hear her name.

  “You were friends in high school?”

  “We were part of a group that hung around together. She was actually closer to my brother Eric than to me.”

  “Have you talked to her recently?”

  “Not in years. Like I said, there was nothing special between us.”

  “Do you know if Eva and Eric have stayed in touch?”

  Danny hesitated. “What’s this about? Are you a friend of hers?”

  “I’m her husband.”

  “Wow.” It sounded like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “How long have you been married?”

  “Two years.”

  “Wow,” he said again. “That’s great, I guess.” There were voices in the background competing for Danny’s attention. He covered the mouthpiece and said something to one of his companions. “Sorry,” he said, speaking into the phone again. “I don’t have a lot of time to talk.”

  “Eva was killed not too long ago,” I told him. “Murdered. For reasons too complicated to go into right now, I’ve reason to believe her death might be tied to ... to her past.” I wasn’t about to tell Danny that his brother might be somehow involved.

  “Murdered? Jesus, I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice registered real regret.

  “Where’s Eric now? I’d like to talk with him.”

  Danny hesitated. “Last I heard, it was Las Vegas.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a month ago. In fact, he mentioned Eva. Said she’d gotten in touch with him.”

  I felt my pulse quicken. “Did he say why?”

  “No. It was just something he mentioned in passing. You in Phoenix?”

  “Phoenix?”

  “A few years back, Eric told me Eva was living in Phoenix.”

  “California,” I said, trying to remember if my wife had mentioned ever living in Phoenix.

  “Never been there. I’ve heard it’s nice.”

  “Some parts are nicer than others.” I took a sip of my coffee. “You don’t happen to know what she was doing in Phoenix, do you?”

  He seemed taken aback by the question. “I thought you were married to her.”

  “We didn’t talk much about the past,” I explained. A gross understatement if there ever was one.

  “She was working at a bookstore, I think. We got a laugh out of it because in high school Eva hardly knew what a book was.”

  I’d filled in another piece of the puzzle that was my wife’s life. “She turned into quite a reader,” I told him. She read mostly romances, but she’d gone through them at a rapid clip. “I think she probably changed quite a bit since her teens.”

  “We all have, I hope.” There was more jumbled background conversation, and I heard Danny speak away from the phone. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” Then he said to me, “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”

  “How can I reach Eric?”

  “I can give you his number, but I don’t know if it will do any good. I’ve been trying to get hold of him, and all I get is his voice mail.”

  “Do you have an address in Las Vegas?” I wanted to talk to Eric badly enough that I’d fly there if I couldn’t reach him by phone.

  “Afraid not,” Danny said. “He moves around a lot.”

  “Does he have a job?”

  “One of the casinos.”

  “Which one?”

  “Vegas is another place I’ve never been, so the names don’t mean much to me. I got the feeling it wasn’t one of the glitzy ones.”

  Just as I was about to hang up, I thought of something else. “Danny, one more question. Does Eric use the e-mail name, Redhotsugarbear?”

  “Not that I ever heard. Doesn’t sound like something Eric would come up with.”

  I thanked him for talking to me, left my number, and asked him to have Eric call me if he got in touch.

  When I hung up, I made myself a second cup of coffee, which didn’t help my already jittery nerves. Eric knew Eva. He’d talked to her in the last month. The intruder had used Eric’s name. You don’t want to follow Eric. And now Eva was dead. I was on to something, I was sure of that. Something that would help me understand my wife and might even help me find her killer. But I wasn’t sure where to go with it.

  I tried the cell number Danny had given me for Eric and was connected to voice mail. I left my name and number then called Las Vegas information, asked for Eric Vance, and got nothing, not even an E. Vance. Next I tried a few casinos and again struck out.

  I checked the Internet for bookstores in Phoenix and printed out the pages of addresses and phone numbers. If I could find someone who’d known my wife in Phoenix, maybe I could get some answers that way.

  By the time I’d finished my coffee, I’d decided that the kind of information I wanted was better obtained in person than by phone. I called Southwest and booked a flight for Phoenix for tomorrow and Las Vegas the day after. Both flights were short enough that I could spend the day and be home by dinnertime. Molly would hardly know I was gone.

  At seven, I woke Molly and made French toast and bacon for both of us.

  She eyed the plates suspiciously. “Is it a holiday or something?”

  “Why?”

  “We usually eat cereal during the week.”

  When we’d first moved to Monte Vista, I made Molly French toast or scrambled eggs almost every day. But after I married Maureen ... Eva, the pattern had changed. Maureen didn’t eat breakfast, and somehow cooking a big meal and leaving her out felt funny.

  “I decided we deserved something special,” I told Molly. “Because you’re so special.”

  She gave me an unconvincing smile. “You’re trying to make me feel good, aren’t you?”

  “There’s something wrong with that?”

  She shrugged, and we ate in silence for a while. If only protecting Molly were as easy as making a home-cooked breakfast. Hell, I’d have baked the bread from scratch and cured the pork myself if that’s all it took.

  Finally, I asked, “Are you going to tell me what happened to upset you at school the other day?”

  She put down her fork and stared at the table.

  “Are the kids giving you a hard time because of me?”

  Her bottom lip quivered and tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care what they say. They don’t know anything.”

  I smoothed the back of her head with my hand, wishing with that simple gesture I could brush the whole experience away. “I know it’s hard, Molly. And I feel terrible about being the cause of it.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  I wondered if she really believed that. I hoped so. “If you’d rather not go to school for a bit, we could do lessons here at home.”

  “Grandad says that would be letting them win.”

  “What do you think?”

  “He’s probably right,” she said, sounding less than convinced. “It’s better just to ignore them.”

  “But that’s not always so easy to do, is it?”

  She was quiet for several moments, staring at her plate. “Are they going to send you to jail?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The twin blades of worry and guilt twisted in my gut.

  Being a parent is never easy, but there are times it’s harder than others. This was one of the hard times. Was it bes
t to offer false assurance or give her an honest answer? I opted to do both.

  “I don’t think that will happen, honey. I’d like to promise you it won’t, but it’s not something I have control over. The police want to find the person who killed Maureen, and there are some things that make them think it might have been me.”

  She kept her eyes on her plate.

  “They are wrong. You know that, don’t you? You know that I had nothing to do with the terrible thing that happened to her?” Until that moment, I’d never considered that Molly might have her own doubts about my involvement.

  She nodded then looked at me. Solemn and trusting. “I know you didn’t, Dad.”

  I prayed she was right. “Good. I think the police will figure that out pretty soon too.”

  “Like they did with Mom?”

  “Right.” Only it hadn’t been the cops who figured it out then but one lone juror. It took my breath away every time I considered how close I’d come to being convicted. “I don’t want you to worry about it, okay?”

  She nodded unconvincingly.

  I took a bite of bacon, though I no longer had the stomach for it. “So what about school? You want to stay home or stick it out?”

  She sighed. “I’ll go.”

  I usually dropped Molly off at the school crosswalk and went on my way. But today I felt the need to get out of the car and go with her to the playground gate. Nobody pointed at us or called out names, which I’d feared might happen. I felt modestly reassured. Maybe it was only a small group of kids who were giving Molly a hard time, and by now they’d even forgotten why. At their age, scandals were generally short lived.

  I knew better than to hug her good-bye in front of her friends, but I squeezed her shoulder. “Have a good day, Sweetpea.” Then I mouthed the words, “I love you.”

  “Me too.” And she ran off to join a group of girls.

  Two or three of the faces were familiar, but the only one I actually recognized was Heather Moore. She gave the others in the group that vapid, rolled-eye expression pre-adolescent girls were so good at, and, as if on cue, the girls turned their backs on Molly and walked away.

  I bit my lower lip and willed myself not to go after her and drag her home.

  Molly looked after them a moment then squared her shoulders and marched off toward the classrooms. She reminded me right then so much of Lisa it brought an ache to my chest. You’d be proud of your daughter, I told her. So very proud.

  As I turned to head back to my car, I caught sight of Sherri, who was getting out of her car with another mother. They were struggling with several boxes and bags. Room-mother stuff, no doubt. I went to see if I could help.

  “You need an extra pair of hands?” I asked.

  Sherri looked up at me. Her expression, which had been animated in talking to her friend, turned flat. “Hello, Sam.”

  “Want me to help carry stuff?”

  The other mother backed away slightly. She looked uncomfortable.

  “We’re fine,” Sherri said curtly.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Really, we’re fine.” Sherri and her friend hurried across the street, still struggling with their load but eager to put as much distance between themselves and me as possible.

  As I watched their retreating forms, I thought of Molly’s squared shoulders and rigid chin and felt the rising tide of despair. Dear God, how had things turned so badly?

  CHAPTER 41

  Although Ira had suggested I stay away, I went into the office that morning. There was paperwork I needed to deal with. Since I’d be in my own private office with the door closed, I figured the patients wouldn’t even know I was around.

  I caught Ira at his desk before the morning rush started and explained.

  “That’s fine, Sam. Whatever works for you. I was only thinking it would be best all around if you didn’t have to see patients.”

  “You managing okay on your own?” I asked.

  “It’s hectic, but it keeps me out of trouble.” He was sorting through a stack of message slips but looked up to offer me a forced smile. “How are you doing?” His tone was perfunctory.

  “I have my ups and downs.”

  “Are the police making any progress finding Maureen’s killer?”

  Part of me wanted to tell him about Maureen being Eva, but I held back. Until I knew the full story, the less said, the better. Besides, I was hurt by how quickly Ira had turned his focus from my pain to the well-being of the practice. But then, Ira probably harbored his own doubts about my innocence.

  “They don’t keep me in the loop,” I told him.

  “No, I guess not.” He put the messages aside. “I’m sorry for all you’re going through, Sam. It’s gotta be rough.”

  “Yeah.”

  He wet his lips. “They can’t pin it on you if you didn’t do it.”

  I wasn’t sure if Ira meant he didn’t believe I’d killed Maureen or only that if I hadn’t, I’d probably be okay. Suddenly, I didn’t really want to know which it was.

  “Thanks,” I said blandly. “And don’t worry about this morning. I’ll keep out of your hair.”

  It was almost noon when I finished up. I took my files and correspondence to the front desk. As I approached, Debbie slid the glass partition shut and lowered her voice. “I was just coming to get you,” she said in a stage whisper. “You’ve got visitors.”

  Visitors, not patients. “Who?”

  “The police.”

  The blood in my veins went cold. I gave half a thought to dashing out the back door. “Did they say what they wanted?”

  “To talk to you.”

  Talk. Of course they’d say they wanted to talk. They’d hardly storm into my reception area waving their handcuffs.

  The moment of my arrest seven years earlier flashed through my mind. I’d been at work then too. At the hospital, where I’d just delivered good news to an overweight man who’d thought he was having a heart attack—merely indigestion—and was reading through the chart of an elderly woman who’d presented with a case of severe nausea. I could recall with frightening vividness the green of the walls, the cloying mix of hospital food and stale air, the buzz of conversation at the nurses’ station, and the heavy, unexpected footsteps of men on a mission. The suddenness of it all, coming when I least expected it. The humiliation of being dragged off in handcuffs. The total disconnect between my life up to that point and what was unfolding in the moment.

  I didn’t even get to say good-bye to Molly.

  “Show them to my office,” I told Debbie. I swallowed hard, hesitated, and then said, “And if I end up ... going with them, call my dad and have him pick up Molly, okay?”

  Debbie put a reassuring hand on my arm. She had the same soft, velvetlike skin my mother had had. “It’s going to be okay, Sam. You had nothing to do with what happened to Maureen. Everyone who knows you, knows that.”

  “Thank you.” Her simple vote of confidence brought tears to my eyes. I tried for an upbeat smile, but I could feel my mouth quiver. “Give me a minute, then show them to my office.”

  There were three of them—Hannah Montgomery, Dallas, and a broad-shouldered man I didn’t recognize. None of them was smiling, but I didn’t see any handcuffs.

  I leaned back into the plush leather of my chair and watched them file in.

  With three visitors, my office was crowded. Okay by me. There was plenty of room on my side of the desk.

  I asked Debbie to find another chair for the visitors.

  “Don’t bother,” Dallas said. “I’ll stand.” Hannah took a seat. The stranger elected to stand also.

  It made me uncomfortable to have both men standing, but I figured that was the point.

  “This is Agent Phipps,” Hannah said when the four of us were alone. “With the FBI.”

  “The FBI?” I knew they sometimes investigated kidnappings, but the consensus seemed to be that Maureen hadn’t actually been kidnapped. Did his presence signal a change of heart about
that?

  Phipps pulled a photo from his satchel and set it on the desk in front of me.

  It was a picture of Maureen and a man. They were getting into a cab, and the man had a hand on her shoulder. He was about her age, with a full head of dark, wavy hair. He wasn’t particularly attractive, but he had the kind of craggy look a lot of women went for.

  “Is this your wife?” Phipps asked.

  I nodded and felt an irrational eddy of jealousy in my gut. I wasn’t normally the jealous type, but there was something oddly intimate about the moment captured on film.

  “Do you recognize the man?” Phipps asked, almost accusingly.

  It took a moment to find my voice. “Never seen him before.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” I’d taken an instant dislike to the man in the photo, probably because he was with my wife and I knew nothing about it. “When was this taken?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  A couple of weeks? The eddy of torment inside me intensified. I’d been hoping it was a piece of her missing past. I looked to Hannah Montgomery. Was this the man she’d hinted that Maureen had been involved with?

  Hannah’s eyes were, as always, a warm, soft green. I thought I might have seen sympathy in them, or pity. But her expression was impassive.

  “The afternoon of April twenty-ninth, to be exact,” Phipps added.

  “That’s—”

  Phipps nodded. “Seven days before your wife disappeared.”

  Before she was murdered, I amended silently. “What’s it mean?”

  “You tell us.”

  “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask the guy?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Dallas grasped the back of the empty chair and rocked it toward him. I resisted the urge to tell him to put it down and turned back to Phipps. “What’s your interest in this anyway?”

  “Vance had some information we wanted. Your wife was the last person we know to see him alive.”

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out. “Vance,” I said at last. My voice sounded like sandpaper. “Eric Vance?”

  Phipps crossed his arms and regarded me intently. “So you do know him.”