Chapter 18
It rained a lot in Seattle. What a hell of an understatement that was.
Special Agent Jack Connell’s flight out of LaGuardia had been delayed for several hours due to sleet, snow, and high winds. He almost preferred that wintry mix to this weather. His experience with it so far—and he was just now driving the rental car off the lot at Sea-Tac—led him to believe that the whole damn Pacific Northwest was underwater.
Driving from the airport into the city, he kept one eye on the rain-washed freeway while trying to find the defroster switch on the unfamiliar dashboard. Miraculously, without killing either himself or another motorist, he made it through downtown and to the ferry pier.
Any scenery he might have enjoyed on a sunny day was obscured by a downpour and dense fog. The city was swallowed by it within minutes of the ferry’s departure, and what lay ahead was as much of a great unknown as the Atlantic Ocean had been to fifteenth-century sailors.
He’d never much cared for boats. Boats chugging through fog he cared for even less. It was an hour and a half before his destination port was announced, and he was relieved to drive back onto terra firma. Or what would have been firma if it hadn’t been waterlogged.
He checked into his hotel and, without even taking the time to settle into his room or unpack his suitcase, he braved the weather again. Using the car’s GPS he drove straight to the residence of one Grace Kent.
It was a two-story house, white clapboard with gray shutters flanking the windows on both levels. The front door was red, and on the exterior wall to the side of it was a brass mailbox.
He considered going up to the door and checking to see what kind of correspondence had been delivered to her that day. But discretion being the better part of valor and all that, he decided against taking the risk. He instead drove to the end of the block, where he parked beneath the rain-laden branches of a giant conifer.
More than three hours elapsed. Just before six o’clock, a minivan pulled into the driveway and into the garage, which was opened with a remote. The door was lowered before Jack could see who was inside the van.
But a few minutes later when the front door was pulled open, he grabbed his camera and focused the telephoto lens on the woman who came out to get her mail.
Grace Kent was Rebecca Watson. No question.
This wasn’t a baby step closer to his quarry. This was a giant leap.
*
Sam Knight leaned far back in his desk chair and stacked his hands on the top of his pot belly. “What do you think?”
Without so much as a blink, Grange replied, “Guilty as hell.”
They were both weary from spending an entire day actively involved in the search for Emory Charbonneau. Most of the time had been spent outdoors fending off the cold, or in the SUV trying to warm up while listening to Jeff Surrey cast aspersions on their aptitude.
They’d dropped him at the motel, another source of complaint, and had returned to the office to assess the day’s lack of progress before heading for home and grabbing a few winks before resuming in the predawn hours.
“He’s guilty, all right,” Knight said. “But being an asshole isn’t a criminal offense.”
“They should pass a law just for him.”
Knight chuckled, though it wasn’t a laughing matter. He picked up a rubber band and began stretching it around his fingers. “You think he killed her and hid the body.”
“Instant divorce. A lot less hassle, especially when there’s a sizeable estate involved.”
“Which he would inherit.”
“That would be sufficient motive, but maybe not his only one.”
“Okay, I’ll bite.”
Grange was eager to expand. “She didn’t move her pot of gold over to his money management firm when they married. Nor has she endorsed that drug, which he’s talked up to his clients as a sound investment.”
“From a professional standpoint,” Knight said thoughtfully, “that’s two strikes against Jeff. She’s made him look bad and might have cost him a partnership.”
“On a personal level, it’s just as bad. She outshines him on every front. She’s well known for her philanthropy. In all the write-ups about her, his name is always a footnote. She’s beloved by her patients, but his clients blame him if the economic news isn’t good.”
“He’s jealous of her success as a human being.”
“Resentment in addition to the money angle.” Grange shrugged. “Seems a no-brainer.”
“The no-brainer part bothers me,” Knight said. “It’s almost too obvious. Plus, we don’t have a body, a smoking gun, or the suspect’s opportunity to do her in. Last time I checked, stuff like that comes in handy when you go to a DA and try to get somebody indicted for wife-killing. Until we get more, we essentially don’t have anything. We may never get anything either.” He looked at the large map on the wall and sighed. “She could be anywhere.”
The media had called the search for Dr. Emory Charbonneau a “coordinated effort,” which was a misnomer to many, and a joke to Sergeant Detective Sam Knight. Coordination was almost nonexistent because every law enforcement agency within a tri-state area was involved, and each had its own agenda, personnel problems, budget considerations, and general stupidity. There were many dedicated and determined officers, but their efforts were often undermined by those not so sharp or dutiful, of which there were also many.
Then there were the hundreds of volunteers, each with a reason all their own for joining the search, not the least of which was the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward. Knight was just jaded enough to believe that had induced many to sign on.
But even if the volunteers’ willingness to withstand hostile terrain and subfreezing temperatures was purely altruistic, one had to worry about one of them stumbling over Emory Charbonneau’s body, literally, and compromising a crime scene.
Given all that, the margin of error was oceanic in scope, and snafus were virtually guaranteed.
Meanwhile, Grange was convinced the husband was the culprit and that her remains wouldn’t be found until Jeff gave up and told them where to look. Unhappily, Sam conceded that his partner was probably right.
“His Saturday is iffy,” Grange said. “Where was he all day?”
“You heard the man. He puttered around the house, then ran some errands.”
“Somehow puttering and Jeff Surrey just don’t jibe. Also, he can’t produce anybody with whom he came into contact,” Grange reminded him. “Not for the entire day. Nobody like a barber or a merchant who would remember him. Then on Sunday, he’s also underground until midafternoon when he started calling around and leaving messages, asking if anyone had heard from Emory.”
Knight picked up the thread. “He becomes the troubled husband, but only after a significant amount of time had elapsed.”
“Playacting. All for show.”
“So how’d he do it?” Knight asked. “When?”
“Mind if I take a stab?”
Knight gestured for him to surmise out loud.
“Okay, Emory does her run on Saturday, as scheduled. She lets Jeff know she’s staying over. He drives up here, and they meet at a prearranged place and time. He lays it on thick. ‘Honey, I’m sorry. I should have been more understanding about your marathon training schedule. Let’s kiss and make up.’”
“All the while, he’s waiting for the moment to whack her by whatever method.”
Grange nodded. “He disposes of the body, then goes back to Atlanta. Next day, Sunday, he starts calling around for her, then returns to Drakeland and puts on the concerned act at the motel, the café, and on his first visit to this office. ‘My wife hasn’t come home. Somebody help me.’”
“And he didn’t even say please,” Knight said.
“If he had, we’d have known right off that it was all an act.”
The rubber band was getting quite a workout by Knight’s fingers. “Sounds good, but it’s hot air in terms of evidence. The crime scene unit went over every millimeter of his car.”
Jeff had seen through their “it’s just routine” ruse. He’d balked, but not as vociferously as Knight would have expected, and most of his protests centered around the damage likely to be done to his custom leather interior. He was assured that the department was bonded to cover any unlikely damages.
Then, as though it had been his prerogative to refuse them access, he’d said, “Fine, search it. It’s a waste of time and manpower, but I’ve got nothing to hide.”
And possibly he didn’t. Nothing incriminating had been found. No blood, fibers, hair, chemicals, chemical smell to indicate that he’d cleaned up after himself, or a bad smell like that of a dead body.
They were relieved that they’d found nothing to indicate that bodily harm had been done to Dr. Charbonneau. At the same time, it had been a letdown to come away empty-handed. All their questions remained unanswered.
Knight said, “Bother you that he didn’t demand a lawyer, a search warrant?”
“It bothers you, obviously.”
“It does. A guy like him, cool as a cucumber, you’d’ve thought he’d’ve lawyered up at the get-go.”
“But he’s savvy enough to know that would sharpen our interest in him.”
“Maybe. But what it says to me is that he knew we weren’t going to find anything in his car. So, if he did kill her, he left her at the scene. Also—”
Grange groaned at the thought of there being another out for Jeff Surrey.
“Also,” Knight continued, “he handed over his cell phone.”
“He quibbled.”
“Not much. Mostly facial expressions showing his displeasure. He didn’t give us as much argument as you’d expect from a man who’s got the murder of his wife to cover up.”
“So what’s that mean?” Grange asked.
“It means he’s either innocent and just looks guilty or he’s goddamn smart.”