“Was she suicidal? Being treated with medication?”
“Not now. No. Other than the incident with her publisher, she’s been fine.” A lame word, fine. What did it really mean?
“If she’s fine, recovered from these two blows, as Ms. Brookes calls them, why do you think she harmed herself? Why now? Why not right after the baby died, or when she lost her contract?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s confusing for me, too. Sutton went off the rails after Dashiell died. Not that I blamed her. She was very distraught.”
“And how were you after this unfortunate incident, Mr. Montclair? Did you cope well with your son’s death?”
The police officer had pretty eyes, hazel, changeable. They’d softened when she’d heard about Dashiell’s death. She wore the barest hint of pink lipstick. He wondered what she was like in the sack. She seemed like she might be a wild one. The sweet ones usually were; she had that look.
“I coped,” he said, cringing a bit at how sharp he sounded. “It was difficult, of course. You shouldn’t have to bury a child. Not only did I lose Dashiell, I lost Sutton, as well. After the baby...died, she went to a very dark place. We feared for her life. Then this fuss with the reviewer happened. We had to have her committed. Please keep that between us. She is very ashamed of her breakdown. Very upset. It’s been a difficult time. But she’d managed to pull herself back from the brink. She was getting better.”
Ivy shifted next to him. “I think we’re all simply concerned she wasn’t bouncing back the way we thought. She could hide her despair very well when she needed to.”
The young cop tapped her finger against her gun strap. Tap, tap, tap. It was the sergeant who said, “Mr. Montclair, please be straight with us. Do you think your wife is taking a break from the marriage, or are you reporting her missing because you’re afraid she may have harmed herself?”
Ethan heaved out a sigh. “Officers, let me be very clear. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
He cracked then, finally. The tears began. “I can’t lose her, Officers. Not after losing Dashiell, too. Please, help me find my wife.”
H. Graham held out a hand as if to touch him, to comfort him, but stopped, realizing it made her look unprofessional.
Robinson came to life in the corner. “I think this should cover it. What do you say, Roy? Should we mount a search? Might put everyone’s minds at ease.”
Moreno looked from Ethan to Robinson and back again. “We’ll look into this and get back to you. No sense wasting resources if the lady doesn’t want to be found.”
“Fair enough, fair enough.”
Hands were shaken, cards exchanged. They took Sutton’s laptop and datebook. Glanced around a few more times while they stood on the porch.
When the door shut on the cops, Robinson turned to Ethan. “You idiot. I told you. You’re completely screwed.”
THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS
“Tell me, Holly. Do you believe him?”
Sergeant Roy Moreno was head of the homicide unit, and Holly Graham’s current superior officer, about six times removed, seeing as she was a simple patrol officer, and he was in charge of homicide. He was her superior, in all ways. Moreno knew a lot about this town, about investigations, and lucky for her, had shown an interest in her from the beginning. Not in the creepy way some of her fellow cops had, but a sincere interest in her as a person and an investigator. It was her dad’s doing, probably.Derek Graham was a well-respected district attorney, but who cared? Holly was getting a chance to work with the old horse directly, and that was going to be nothing but good for her career.
The old horse in question was currently sucking on a toothpick, staring out of the windshield of the patrol car. The laptop between them glowed. They were parked in the lot of the five-star Mexican joint down the street from the Montclairs’ lovely home, having rolled away just as a news truck came sharking around the corner. She watched the truck pull to a stop at the curb. Heading to the Montclairs’ gorgeous Victorian mansion, perhaps? The media in Nashville were very good at ferreting out drama, and the missing wife of a major author was bound to pique their curiosity.
“Should we do something about that?”
She glanced over at Moreno. Not only an old warhorse, a veteran of the force, he was a genuinely good man. She was lucky to have him riding with her to do some investigative training. His son was on the force, too, a few years ahead of Holly.
“Montclair’s a big boy. Let him handle them. I asked you a question.”
“He’s very believable. But I also think he knows a lot more than he’s saying. Something wasn’t right in that house. Did you see the bloodstain on the counter near the refrigerator?”
“I did.”
“It’s in the kitchen, so anything could have happened, from a nosebleed to a knife cut. It was such a small amount, and it was old, it had been there for a while. Who knows? We’ll have to pull the incident reports, look at the details on the domestics. But add in a deceased child, the wife’s supposed history of mental illness, the husband being a minor celebrity, a recent online kerfuffle, and the fact that he hired one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the state before he called us? There are so many angles we can take it’s not funny.”
“Robinson being there made me sit up and take notice, too. Makes him look guilty as sin.”
“I don’t know, Sarge. This day and age, people are always thinking three steps ahead. And like Robinson said, he’s a friend of the Montclairs.”
“You’re right. So. What do you suggest we do?”
“First, we put Sutton Montclair in the missing persons database, let the MP detectives see what they can find on her. Check her passport, bank accounts, tear apart their lives a little bit. I want to find out more about the online situation with the reviewer. Stalkers have hurt people before.”
Moreno looked over at her. “You think she was telling the truth that her account was hacked?”
“No idea. But it’s worth a look. Might explain where she went, or if she was in danger, where she’s been taken.”
“What’s your gut say? Do you think she’s missing, or that she’s being held against her will somewhere, or she got sick of the pretty boy and her pretty life and hoofed it?”
“Too early to make a proper assessment, sir. Like I said, something doesn’t jibe. I’d like to know more, about them both, before I make any decisions about what might or might not have happened.”