by Joel Goldman
“That’s the second time this week you’ve said that. Keep it up and I’ll start thinking you believe it.”
I looked at her. Her eyes had softened. The corners of her mouth had dipped. She wasn’t ?irting. She was hoping.
“There’s nothing here but bills and junk mail,” Joy said.
I finished downloading the contents of Wendy’s hard drive to the ?ash bar. “Let’s get out of here.”
We had found as much good news as bad. No signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle. No signs she had planned to leave. No signs she was coming back.
Chapter Forty
“What now?” Joy asked.
We were sitting in her car, the engine idling. I wanted to run in a dozen different directions, but I didn’t know which one to choose.
“Who did Wendy hang out with? Who were her friends? We should talk with them. Maybe she said something to one of them.”
“There’s a woman at work she’s mentioned quite a bit, Julie Rutherford. I’ll call her,” Joy said, pausing and then adding, “Isn’t that awful?”
“What?”
“Between the two of us, we only know about one of her friends. We don’t even know if she has any others. Where have we been?”
“It doesn’t matter. We can beat one another up about being lousy parents when this is over. We don’t have the luxury of doing that right now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to talk with Jill Rice again. Tell her about her husband, if she doesn’t already know. See if his death refreshes her recollection. Then I’ll take a look at whatever was on Wendy’s computer. I’ll just keep pushing until something breaks.”
I fought to get the last words out, my shoulders twisting one way, my neck and head yanking me the other like I was being wound in opposite directions by dueling corkscrews. Joy leaned over, holding me, just as Wendy had, as if she could squeeze the demons out.
“You don’t have to do this, Jack,” she said, her lips to my ears. “We can leave it to the Bureau.”
“You know I do,” I managed when the spasm released me. “Ben Yates will make certain that Troy follows standard procedure, which means focus on the high-priority target. That’s Colby Hudson. Troy will let things unfold until he knows where Wendy fits into the picture. It’s what I would do if I were in his position. But that might take too long.”
She let go. I held her hands, looking at them, avoiding her eyes. When Kevin was taken, I had told Joy not to worry, that I would get him back, that he’d be okay. I was afraid to make the same promise again, knowing how hard it would be to keep it. There was too much that could go wrong, beginning with me. She needed to know that.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I said, my voice still wobbly. “And I’m scared that I won’t be able to do what I have to do.”
“Jack…”
“No, let me finish. I’ve been afraid before. When Kevin was taken, I was crazy scared. But I could do what I had to do then even if it wasn’t enough. I haven’t been that scared again until today. When I shake, I don’t know what I am or who I am. I only know that it can’t be me that’s doing it. Then it stops and I know that it is me, it’s who and what I’ve become. I don’t know why and I don’t know if I can do what I have to do.”
She cupped my chin in the palm of her hand, bringing her gaze to mine. Her eyes were full. She blinked back tears, a few escaping across her cheeks.
“We’ll do the best we can and we’ll live with the rest. We’ve never had the luxury of doing anything else.”
I called Marty Grisnik on my way to Jill Rice’s house to let him know that Detective Funkhouser was about to find himself in deep shit.
“You’re going to get a call from Troy Clark.”
“At last. Is he going to ask me out on a date?”
“He’s going to ask you about Detective Funkhouser.”
Grisnik hesitated for an instant. “Why would he do that?”
“Troy ordered everyone on the squad to take a polygraph so he could find out if one of us tipped off the drug house killer about the surveillance camera I put in the ceiling fan.”
“Including you?”
“Excluding me. Movers and shakers need not apply.”
“Makes sense. It’s hard enough to tell when someone is lying without all that going on at the same time. But if you’re not taking the test, how will Troy find out about Detective Funkhouser?”
“An agent named Colby Hudson didn’t show up for his polygraph.”
“Any chance he’s the same agent who bought Rice’s house?”
“Hundred percent. Two agents went to his house to check on him. He wasn’t there. They found drugs and cash. Troy is coming back with a search warrant. He’ll probably find records showing that Colby bought Rice’s house and car. Then he’ll find out that you and Funkhouser went to see Rice and that Rice is dead. Then he’ll call you.”
“What do you want me to tell Troy?”
“Tell him the truth. Tell him that I asked you to help me and that, as far as you knew, I was acting in the course and scope of my official duties.”
“You call that the truth?”
“I call that enough of the truth. You helped me out. I’ll take the heat.”
“Is that all of it?”
“No. I told you before that I had a personal interest. Colby Hudson is involved with my daughter. We can’t find either one of them.”
“You think she’s in trouble?”
“Until I know otherwise.”
“Any reason to think she was a victim of a crime committed in Kansas City, Kansas?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t help you officially, but if you keep me in the loop, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks. You’ll know what I know.”
“That’s what I’m looking for.”
I started to tell Grisnik that my daughter’s name was Wendy, where she lived and worked, and what she looked like, but he’d already hung up. Either his offer to help was perfunctory, a cop’s version of “drop by anytime, we’re always open” or he had that information already. If it were the former, I’d misread him. If it was the latter, he was doing a better job than I was.
Chapter Forty-one
Jill Rice came home at four-thirty. I’d been waiting in front of her house for an hour, ignoring the neighbors who’d slowed down as they passed me by. She slowed down as well, giving me a curdled look as she pulled into the driveway. I followed her into the garage and opened her car door.
“We need to talk.”
Her makeup was intact, her tennis clothes unwrinkled and unstained by sweat. Her perfume was mixed with wine. My guess was that she’d spent her tennis game gossiping at the net and drinking in the clubhouse.
She stayed in the car. “What about, Detective Funkhouser?”
“My name, for starters. It’s Jack Davis. I’m an FBI agent.”
“But you said you were a policeman from Kansas City, Kansas.”
“It’s a long story that will be easier to tell inside.”
She drew her lips back. “I want to see some ID.”
I knew she would. All I had was my driver’s license and a business card I handed to her.
“You can print business cards at Kinko’s. I want to see your badge or I’m calling the police.” She reached for her cell phone.
“I am an FBI agent, Mrs. Rice. When we’re finished talking, you can call my office and they’ll tell you. I’m on leave, so I don’t have my FBI credentials.”
She edged back toward the center console on the front seat of her car. “I don’t believe you. Why should I?”
I reached toward her, extending my hand. “Please, Mrs. Rice. I don’t want to make this any harder than it is.”
She cringed and ?ipped open her cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”
“Let me talk to you first. I’m not going to hurt you. Inside will be better.”
She hesitated with the phone. “
Not until you tell me what this is about.”
“It’s about your ex-husband.”
“What about him? I’ve already answered your questions about him.”
“There’s been a new development,” I said.
“What? Did he screw somebody else?”
“Depends on your point of view.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s dead. He hanged himself last night. I didn’t know that when I was here this morning. The prison probably won’t notify you since ex-spouses aren’t considered next of kin. I didn’t want you to find out what had happened watching TV or reading the newspaper. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Rice looked at me, looked away, held herself, and shuddered. Her cell phone fell from her hand into her lap. She didn’t speak, cry, or moan. She was as silent as if she’d been struck dumb, looking at me again, finding her voice.
“Thomas would never kill himself. There must be some mistake.”
“I wish there were. Let’s go inside. You can call the prison. Ask for the warden. He’ll tell you.”
I extended my hand again. This time she took it. Her hand was cool and limp. She walked slowly to the door, slipped the key in, turned the lock, punched in the code that turned off the alarm, and led me into the kitchen.
Copper pots hung in a rectangle above a black marble island. Hardwood ?oors gleamed. The light was soft, bright, and indirect. The ?owers were freshly cut.
The light on her phone was blinking, the digital readout saying she had one new message. She pushed the button to play the message. It was from the prison, a woman identifying herself as the warden’s secretary asking her to call as soon as possible. Her eyes were wide, almost wild. She fumbled for paper and pen, trying to write the number down, but the message ended before she could.
She turned to me. “I didn’t get all of it.”
I replayed the message, writing the number down. I dialed and handed her the phone.
“This is Jill Rice,” she said to the secretary. “You left me a message.”
She waited a moment and then identified herself again.
“Yes, Warden. This is Jill Rice. My husband is Thomas Rice,” she said, retaking her vows.
She listened, slumping against the counter before sliding onto a kitchen chair.
“Thank you. He was a good man. Things just got away from him at the end,” she said.
I took the phone, hanging it up for her.
She wiped the corners of her eyes. “The warden said that Thomas listed me as next of kin when he first arrived at the prison. They told him that an ex-spouse didn’t qualify. He said he didn’t care. He said that I’d always be his wife.”
Chapter Forty-two
Death doesn’t settle easily or quickly. I’d learned from delivering news of a loved one’s death that I couldn’t instantly turn a shattered survivor into a good witness. Some people fall apart. Others are brave in public and grieve in private. Others refuse to mourn. They accept their loss as the penalty for their sins or they assign it to God’s master plan, something beyond their understanding.
Jill Rice, sitting at her kitchen table in her designer tennis set with pinot noir on her breath, was suffering the death of her husband. Her shoulders were slumped, her chin hung toward her chest. Minutes ago, she had been harsh and unforgiving toward him. It was too soon to tell whether she felt worse for him or for herself.
I wouldn’t tell her that he’d brought this on himself. I wouldn’t tell her what someone had told me when Kevin died, that he was in a better place. I wouldn’t try to justify Thomas Rice’s death or her suffering because there was no justification for such things. No one could justify Kevin’s death to me because that would have somehow made it okay. And if we can justify the death of an innocent child, we can justify anything.
So I joined Jill Rice at her table and told her again that I was sorry for her loss. I asked her if I could get her a glass of water or anything else and didn’t push when she said no. Then I waited, though I didn’t have the time.
After a while she lifted her head in my direction. “What do you want from me?”
“Do you have any idea what could have led to your husband’s death?”
“You mean do I know why he killed himself?”
“If that’s what happened.”
She straightened, a new shock wave rippling through her face. “What are you saying?”
“Did the warden tell you whether Thomas left a note?”
“I was afraid to ask, but he said they didn’t find one.”
“Most people who commit suicide do it in private. If they’ve really made up their minds to kill themselves, they don’t want someone talking them out of it. If you’re in prison, you do it in your cell when your cellmate isn’t there, not the laundry.
“What are you saying? That Thomas didn’t kill himself? That he was murdered?”
“I don’t know. When I saw him yesterday he was frightened of something and I think it had to do with the sale of this house. He wouldn’t say what it was, only that I couldn’t help him.”
“All I know about the sale of the house is what he told me.”
“Colby Hudson claims that you called the FBI office not long ago asking if anyone would be interested in buying your husband’s car at a great price and that he just happened to take the call. When he bought the car, he said that you offered to also sell him the house for a lot less than it was worth. When he asked you why, he says you told him that you were doing it to get even with your husband. Is any of that true?”
“Not a word of it. I told you. Thomas set the whole thing up before he went to prison. Did Colby Hudson have something to do with my husband’s death?”
“Five people were killed the other night in a drug house in Kansas City, Kansas. Two nights ago, another drug dealer was shot to death in the Argentine rail yard. Colby Hudson was working on both of those cases. Last night, your husband either committed suicide or was murdered. Colby was connected to your husband. I don’t know how or why, but he is the only common link to all of the victims.”
“What does he have to say about all of this?”
“When we find him, we’ll ask him.”
“I see.”
Rice rose from the kitchen table and walked into the den. Bookcases lined one wall, although there were more crystal figurines, lacquered boxes, and other knickknacks than there were books. Photographs framed in silver were interspersed among the other decorator-inspired keepsakes. There was one of an older couple, the woman faintly resembling Jill, another of four small children who I guessed to be nieces and nephews, and others of people whose connection to her I could only speculate about.
She reached for the top shelf, pulling down a photograph that had been pushed to the back where it was barely visible. She brushed the dust from the glass and rubbed the silver frame with the hem of her skirt, holding it up long enough for me to catch a glimpse of her wearing a wedding gown and Thomas Rice in a tuxedo before she pressed it against her chest and turned toward me.
“When we arrested your husband, I’m sure our agents confiscated all of his financial records.”
“Boxes of them and the computers he had at the office and at home.”
“Did we ever give any of those records back to you?”
She cocked her head, surprised at the question. “As a matter of fact, yes. My accountant couldn’t prepare my tax return without them. He told the U.S. Attorney’s office what records he needed and they sent him the information. He put it all on his computer and e-mailed it to me. He had to get an extension so I could file my return after April 15th. Everything was finally taken care of about a month ago.”
“Did you keep the e-mail with the records?”
“I didn’t keep the e-mail, but I did download the records to my computer.”
I pulled the ?ash bar Joy had given me from my pocket. “May I copy those records?”
She pulled her shoulders in close, apprehensive again. “Why? If
you’re an FBI agent, you should be able to get them from the U.S. Attorney’s office.”
“Mrs. Rice, I’m not officially assigned to this case. In fact, I’m not officially assigned to anything right now. I’m looking into this on my own.”
“Why aren’t you officially assigned to anything right now?”
“I’m on medical leave.”
I started shaking, not as bad as before, more like I’d just put a quarter in a vibrating bed in a motel that rented rooms by the hour. I closed my eyes, opening them when I’d gotten my money’s worth.
Her eyes were narrowed, her brow furrowed. “What makes you do that?”
“I don’t know, but until I do and can make it stop, I’m not officially assigned to anything.”
“Then why are you running around pretending to be a police detective and asking me all these questions?”
“Colby Hudson brought someone to see your house the other night. Were you here?”
“Yes. He brought a nice-looking young woman. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but he was acting like the house was as much for her as it was for him.”
“Did he introduce her to you?”
“I’m sure he did, but to tell you the truth, I’m terrible with names.”
“Her name is Wendy Davis. She’s my daughter and she’s missing. I’m trying to find her.”
Rice looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time and then returned the photograph to its spot, leaving it near the edge of the shelf where she could see it.
“My computer is downstairs.”
Chapter Forty-three
It was close to six o’clock when I left Jill Rice’s house. I worked the phone while navigating rush-hour traffic to Pete & Mac’s to pick up Ruby.
I called Marty Grisnik to ask if he’d heard from Troy Clark. I called Ammara Iverson to find out when Troy was going to drop the hammer on me and to find out whether she had any leads on Wendy and Colby. I called Joy to ask whether she’d talked with Wendy’s friend from work.
I called Kate to make certain she was still on for seven o’clock tonight, not certain whether I was. Wendy was missing and finding her was the only thing that mattered. That Kate could possibly help me by sorting out what I knew from what I suspected was reason enough to keep our date. The earlier promise of the weekend had vanished with Wendy’s disappearance even as I remembered how it felt to kiss Kate, hold her close, and imagine holding her closer.
