“For God’s sake, Alice, would you please get a grip?”
“I don’t think you understand the implications, Jeff.”
“I understand them perfectly. I just don’t think we should panic simply because—”
“Because the detectives have somehow learned about us, when already you think they suspect you of harming Emory? You don’t think that’s cause for panic?”
“I’ll grant you it’s cause for concern, but let’s not blow it out of proportion. Now, take a deep breath, and tell me everything Grange said again.”
She talked him through it, but the repetition didn’t improve the message.
“He showed up at my door before daybreak, Jeff. The timing of his visit alone implies that they’re taking this—our affair—seriously. They see it as a significant factor of Emory’s disappearance. Forgive me, but that’s a bit unsettling.”
He didn’t dispute that. Grange had driven all the way down to Atlanta, which indicated that he and Knight’s random speculations had begun to solidify and actually take shape. Jeff feared that his designation as “frantic husband” might soon be traded for “person of interest.”
If that happened, media cameras would photograph him being escorted into the sheriff’s office by badged personnel with stern faces. Interviews with him would then become official interrogations, and there was a distinct difference. During the former, investigators were deferential and polite. The atmosphere was sensitive and sympathetic.
An interrogation was just the opposite.
He would be forced to retain an attorney, and that was as good as an admission of guilt. There would follow a massive groundswell of distrust and disdain toward him. Nothing he said would be believed. He would be reviled by complete strangers and close associates alike. His clients would question his integrity and take their portfolios to another money manager.
The thought of being subjected to such humiliation caused him to break into a cold sweat. Using a corner of the sheet, he blotted at the trickles of it running from his armpits down his ribs. However, the sour stench of it worked like smelling salts, jolting him back to his senses.
He was getting way ahead of himself. No one had accused him of anything yet. They knew he and Alice were lovers. So? Adultery was a sin, not a crime.
Nevertheless, in the minds of many it would be a serious sin to commit against Emory Charbonneau, champion of the downtrodden, sweetheart of the dispossessed. It was time for him to take preventative measures before he was hung out to dry in the arena of public opinion, where already his wife outscored him by a wide margin. If his infidelity came to light, he might be publically scourged. They’d sell tickets.
Abruptly, he said, “You shouldn’t have called me, Alice. That was the worst possible thing you could have done.”
“Would you rather I let the detectives show up and arrest you without any warning?”
With diminished patience, he said, “They’re not going to arrest me. They have absolutely no basis on which to arrest me. They can’t put me in jail for sleeping with you. Which, under the circumstances, must stop. I’ve got to be an ideal husband, the kind Emory deserves. You and I shouldn’t have any further private contact.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jeff, please. Let’s talk this through.”
God, he hated her whining. And hated even more that he heard a car pull up just beyond the motel room door. “Don’t call me again.” He clicked off.
Far less confident of avoiding arrest than he’d let on to her, he moved quickly to the window and peered through the crack between the drapes. Knight and Grange were climbing out of their SUV, and they weren’t delivering doughnuts and coffee.
Why were they here a half hour early?
His phone vibrated. “Dammit!”
Knight shouted through the door. “Jeff? You up?” He sounded all business and by no means folksy.
Jeff’s phone continued to vibrate. Cursing under his breath, he answered in a whisper. “I told you. Do not call me again.”
Knight pounded on the door. “Jeff, open up. Now.”
In his ear, “Jeff?”
A key rattled in the lock. Knight had a key to his room?
Through the phone, “Jeff?”
A shoulder was put to the door and, when it came open, the two deputies practically fell into the room. Grange’s hand was on his gun holster. Both drew up short when they saw him standing there shivering in only his underwear.
He felt clammy, lightheaded, and breathless as he smiled and extended his cell phone to Grange. “It’s Emory.”