“Honey? What’s going on? Why didn’t you call us?”
James pictured her sitting on her recliner, wrapped up in the blue, brown, and white patchwork afghan that she’d knitted when she was on her first round of chemo fifteen years ago. Yes, she probably still had it around her shoulders, even though it was likely a billion degrees down there. His father was probably crouched down, leaning into her so he could listen as James spoke. They’d never learned how to properly use a speakerphone.
“I don’t know, Mom. I didn’t want to bother you until I had all the details.”
“What details?” She coughed, which worried him. “So Tessa is okay? Oh, that Carina person. She scared the bejeezus out of us.”
How was he supposed to start this conversation? “Is Dad there?”
“Right here, son,” his father said, just as James predicted.
“Look, don’t listen to anything that witch says. Don’t listen to anything you see online.”
His parents didn’t know how to search for news articles online. His father still got up every morning and got a newspaper and still thought that was the most current way to get news and information. James remembered excitedly telling his father years ago that Henrik Lundqvist, the goalie for the New York Rangers, got a seven-year contract extension and his father didn’t believe him. It wasn’t in today’s newspaper, he’d said, not realizing the story broke midday and it wouldn’t be in the paper until the next day.
This mess with Tessa wouldn’t be in a newspaper in Florida. It was local news. And it wasn’t even real news yet. They hadn’t found a body, and people go missing every day.
“Listen, guys. When I got home Thursday night, Tessa wasn’t here. I noticed some suspicious stuff, so I called the cops. They’re investigating, but it doesn’t look good. Then someone leaked her name and then they got my name and now it’s all just a big mess. They’re accusing me of something I didn’t do.”
His mother waited for another coughing fit to subside before she spoke again. “But the lady said Tessa is dead and that you murdered her.”
He gripped the phone, turning his knuckles white. “Don’t listen to that. She’s missing. Not dead.” James gulped loudly when he said that.
“Okay. So, you’re still coming for Thanksgiving?”
James shook his head. He loved his parents, but they just weren’t getting it. They were old-school. Married thirty-six years. Still believed in kids riding bikes and playing outside after school, with mothers who stayed home and served warm cookies while the kids did their homework. They knew nothing of today’s world.
When he married Tessa, as quick as it was after they’d met, he’d told them they’d been dating for a while and decided to be spontaneous—the reason for the parents not getting a proper invitation to the courthouse. The truth was he had a girlfriend when he met Tessa. Joanna. They’d been together for about six months and his parents didn’t know many details about his relationships, so he let them assume she was the same girl.
And they still thought he was coming for Thanksgiving and bringing Tessa. His conversation wasn’t landing.
“I hope so, Mom. This will all be figured out soon.”
The coughing started again, violently, and there was a rustle on the other end of the line. “When do you think she’ll be back?” That time, it was his father.
“Dad, is Mom okay?”
“Hang on, son.” A muffled conversation took place for a few seconds, and then his father came back. “Mom’s been a little run down lately. We’re taking her for some tests.”
James’s heart stopped. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you tell me?”
James pictured his father, once strong and stocky, now frail and a couple inches shorter than he was when he built the big bad machines. After retiring to care for his wife, he immediately moved them down to Florida, where the warm winters didn’t take such a toll on either of them. No more snow shoveling or fireplace maintenance. Now they were in a nice community of people their own age, where they did neighborhood events like shuffleboard contests and potluck dinners.
“I didn’t want to worry you for no reason. Same reason I assume you didn’t call us yesterday,” he said.
When James’s mother was first diagnosed with cervical cancer, the easy fix was a hysterectomy—it wasn’t like she was having any more kids. The doctor suggested a short round of chemo, which she did. It was the easy kind, as if any of it is easy, but at least she didn’t lose her hair and eyebrows. Just some thinning and shedding, and she didn’t look sick. A few years later when it came back, it was bladder cancer, stage two. A quick laparoscopic surgery removed the mass and then she went on a much higher dose of chemo. That one wreaked havoc on her looks and her entire immune system. But it worked, and her hair grew back thick and silver, and she was religious with her anticancer meds.
He hoped it wasn’t back; he suddenly wanted to see his parents. James never got the speech from Solomon, the one that said Make sure you don’t leave the state.
Still, the timing was horrendous. What was he supposed to do?
“Jesus, Dad.” James refused to choke up with his father on the line. The man was going through enough. “I have to talk to the cops here and figure out what’s going on with Tessa too.”
“So she just disappeared? I don’t know why that woman would say you murdered her.”
“Me neither.” Blood. Hair. Broken glass. His father didn’t need those details. “Look, just do me a favor. If anyone calls, just hang up on them. They’re trying to paint a bad picture of me. We’ll find Tessa. She’s probably just cooling off somewhere. We had a bad fight last week.”
Shit. He’d said that without thinking. If someone called his father and he didn’t immediately hang up, he’d repeat that information, thinking it was exonerating James.
His father didn’t know that was a death sentence if any of the reporters found out.
After they hung up, James turned on the TV and just as he’d suspected, his outburst was on the local Channel 10 station where Carina worked. It was only the snippet of him acting out, not the entire press conference, because a man begging for the return of his wife doesn’t get ratings or clicks. The violent husband with no control who probably killed his wife is what people want to see. The one who broke protocol and yelled at a woman.
On his phone, he searched the articles online, and true to the way the world worked nowadays, everyone had an opinion. People he’d never met, who didn’t know him, had something to say about every intimate detail of his life. His peers. His neighbors. The people who came into the bank for a home improvement loan or to cash Granny’s ten-dollar birthday checks. Now, everyone knew him as Scott Peterson.
MK1984: I bet he killed her. It’s always the husband. He’s not even sad. Douchebag
AllisonCleaver5: You’re sooooooo 100% right! I hope they fry him!
shellyDGTS214: Someone should teach that fucker a lesson. See how he likes it
KevinKane3: Maybe we should wait and see before accusing him. The guy’s wife is gone!
shellyDGTS214: Just like a fucking man to defend him!
LisaAbbalate: Seriously! Fuck you Kevin!
MomOfThree3: This is gonna be just like that story from forever ago. The guy that killed his pregnant wife and dumped her in the SF Bay.
shellyDGTS214: Yes! Laci something. I bet this douchebag has a girlfriend too
JessOnFire: Totally!! How convenient he wasn’t home when his wife was “taken.” I bet him and his girlfriend hatched the whole thing to give him an alibi
shellyDGTS214: Where’s your wife, James Montgomery?!!!!!
JessOnFire: They should check the yard for fresh dirt. We demand answers!
The pitchforks were out.
James thought back to their wedding day. Only months had passed since the day he and Tessa went to the courthouse. Her saying she wanted a long dress to cover the bruises on her legs. Her extra time in the bathroom with the makeup, covering the rings around her
neck. Carrying a single daffodil because her wrist hurt too much to hold a full bouquet.
Maybe they never should’ve married. It was quick. It was almost deceitful, and a scumbag move on his part, since Joanna found out they were broken up when she discovered he was married to someone else. She lived an hour away and hadn’t heard from him in months—he’d ghosted her. Just disappeared, out of the blue. Another cowardly shit move. She drove to town unannounced, and his old roommate said he’d left and moved in with a girl. Joanna found him at a restaurant with Tessa, having a romantic dinner, and confronted them.
Tessa hadn’t known about Joanna. Actually, the night he met Tessa, he said he’d just broken up with her. He lied. But he managed to convince her to stay, even after she found out the truth. It was her leftover insecurity from all the other Assholes she dated.
James called the precinct and got the same runaround from Solomon.
“I’m feeling like more could be done here, Detective,” James said into the phone. “Again, I’m willing to cooperate with anything you need to do.”
Solomon cleared his throat. “That’s a funny thing, Montgomery. We’re gathering some information from your friends and coworkers. We’d actually like you to come down to answer more questions.”
“That’s fine by me.” James broke out into a sweat. “What time?”
“No time like the present, right?”
James swallowed heavily, pushing the bad feeling down to the pit of his stomach where it belonged. If he asked to bring Evan, or asked for a public defender, he’d look guilty, and he was trying to avoid that. “I’ll be there shortly.”
He hung up and finished the last of the coffee that had grown cold because he’d spent too much time reading online about what a bastard he was, then went upstairs to shower and dress before seeing the detective.
From the master bathroom window, he saw two reporters at the edge of the cul-de-sac.
“God dammit,” he muttered to himself as he buttoned his shirt, a crisp white one fresh from the dry cleaner’s. Before he left, he checked all the locks and windows—they’d see him leave and he didn’t want them lurking around his property, trying to find a way in, barking about an exclusive from inside the Montgomery home.
“Hey, girl,” James said to Candy, as he headed to the door in the laundry room that led to the garage. “Protect the house, okay?” She looked up at him, her eyes so big and innocent, and mushed her head further under his hand, indicating that she wanted him to stay and pet behind her ears. It was something Tessa always did. “I can’t, girl. I have to go.”
He was backing out of the garage when the reporters came barreling toward the edge of the driveway as he made his way down. They didn’t block his way but shouted questions at him as he drove out. He refused to make eye contact and kept his windows up. Don’t give them a reason.
Again.
In his car, he left the satellite radio on, tuned into a Howard Stern on repeat. He didn’t want to put any of the local stations on; God forbid they were in the middle of a talk session and mentioned the “So did you see how that husband with the missing wife went crazy?” He was better off steeling himself after the comments he’d read online.
When he walked into the police station, Solomon was waiting in the lobby. He looked drunk, with that bulbous red nose and lazy left eye, which was on full display, with his glasses tucked into his left shirt pocket next to a pen. The cigarette stench clung to him like week-old milk.
“Mr. Montgomery,” Solomon said, including the Mr. this time as if James was finally worthy of respect. “Good to see you. You want to come with me?” His left arm extended in a grand gesture toward a door, one James hadn’t been through yet. Solomon walked ahead of him and swiped a keycard and the red light outside turned green, and he opened the door.
This was a different hallway than the one he’d walked through yesterday. It went past office cubicles and a small kitchen with a refrigerator and a microwave, no doubt where some pencil-pusher heated up fish, and then they turned left to a narrow hallway where Solomon opened a door. There was a woman in a smart pantsuit sitting at the long metal table.
A tape recorder was in the center, and a camera was in the corner of the room.
“Have a seat, Montgomery,” Solomon barked.
James looked at the woman. Forty, give or take, blond bob with gray roots, and she wore a navy blazer. She stood to shake his hand and she was much bigger on the bottom than on the top.
“James Montgomery, I’m Detective Leondra Garvey. I’m assisting Detective Solomon on this case.” She was curt and professional and nodded toward an empty seat, which James took.
“Since you’re being so helpful, I’m assuming you don’t mind if we record this?” Solomon hit the button before James could answer.
James’s mouth was dry. The camera was already on, a light streaming from under the lens. “Sure thing. I have nothing to hide.” How many lies would he have to tell before they all caught up with him, the proverbial snowball that turned into a boulder that fell down the mountain and crushed him?
“Good.” Solomon ruffled through some papers in front of him, then looked at Garvey. “You have that statement? The one from—” He stopped there and raised his eyebrows.
“Yep. Right here,” Garvey said and slid a paper across the table, where Solomon caught it and inspected it.
What could they have been talking about? He hadn’t done anything—
“How well do you know Rosita Morales?” Solomon asked.
Here we go, thought James. “We’re coworkers.”
“Mmm. For how long, then?”
“Don’t know. A year or so, I guess,” James said with a shrug.
“Mmm.”
Solomon said nothing. Just stared. Waiting for James to say something, but Evan’s advice replayed in the back of his head. Don’t volunteer anything. Just answer the questions. James wouldn’t lose this round of chicken, and Solomon submitted.
“You didn’t really answer my first question, Montgomery. How well do you know her?” Certain words were accompanied by an index finger slamming on the table.
“What do you want me to say here? That we have a history?” James asked. “It’s barely a history. It was one time. And I stopped it before it got too far.”
There was much, much more he could say about Rosita, but chose not to.
“Mmm. And when was that?”
“Before Tessa, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“How long before?”
James squirmed, even though he tried not to. He was being filmed. “Right before. Maybe a month.”
The detective nodded.
“Look, I had a girlfriend when it happened. Rosita had been coming on to me for months, but I always said no. And nothing really happened, anyway. High schoolers get more physical than we did. It was a lapse in judgment. That’s all. And again, before Tessa. What does any of this have to do with finding my wife?”
“Ah, I see how this was her fault,” Garvey chimed in. “She ‘wore you down.’” Detective Garvey used air quotes in the description.
“I never said it was her fault. It was no one’s fault. It happened once and it was nothing. Some kissing and roaming hands and then I stopped it, against her will to be quite honest. Now, what does it have to do with finding Tessa?” James repeated his question.
“We’ll be asking the questions, Montgomery,” Solomon said. “So, there was nothing going on between the two of you? No reason you’d want to get rid of—” Solomon paused with a smirk, then rephrased. “No reason for Tessa to leave?”
“No.” James looked directly at him, fire in his eyes. How dare he?
“Do you own a firearm, Montgomery?”
Fuck. James paused as Tessa’s voice played on repeat.
Don’t point that thing at me!
“No,” James said.
Were they able to see the sweat forming at his temples, or was it starting to show through his shirt in his armpits? H
e didn’t blink, like a psychopath, and his mouth was like sandpaper as he was dying for a sip of water. He didn’t dare ask, even though the water cooler in the corner with the little paper cups mocked him. Like slow motion in a movie, everything went silent. He could almost hear a single drop of water fall from the spout.
Drip.
Drip.
Delicious, wet water. So close, yet so far.
“We have reason to believe you do, Montgomery. You wouldn’t mind if we searched your house?”
“Not at all. With a warrant, of course.”
James had watched too much Law & Order, and mentioning a warrant immediately made him look guilty. Let them ransack his house, drawer by drawer, book by book, floorboard by floorboard.
They’d never find it, anyway. He’d kept his promise.
“Why would you think I had a gun?” James asked, even though he was sure that’s what the email between Tessa and Gwen was about.
“Mmm,” Solomon said, his go-to answer for anything and everything under the sun. Then he looked at Detective Garvey, raised his eyebrows again, and she thumbed through her papers. They stuck together, and she licked her forefinger, over and over, page after page, until her eyes lit up. She slid a piece of paper over to Solomon and he retrieved his glasses from his left shirt pocket and put them on. They slid to the tip of his nose and then his eyes shifted north to look at James.
“You know a Gwendolyn Holloway, I presume?”
He was right. Tessa had told her what had transpired between them that past week. Why couldn’t she keep her fucking mouth shut?
“Gwen is my neighbor. Next door neighbor, but they’re a bit of a ways down the street.” Answer only the questions that are asked of you.
“They?”
“Yes. Gwen and Nick. Her husband. We’re friends. All of us.” He didn’t dare look Garvey’s way. She’d been eyeballing him ever since he’d lied about the gun.
“Mmm. Gwen has reason to believe you have an illegal firearm.” Solomon took his glasses off. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that an illegal firearm, is, well, illegal, do I, Montgomery?”
“I don’t know why she’d say that, to be honest.”
Finding Tessa Page 8
