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But, he didn’t know what she might have told the private investigator. She may have lied, exaggerated, blew everything out of proportion.
Maybe Annie was at Margo’s house.
Was that even a possibility? For Annie to leave him, take his children, to another house practically in his backyard? Why? To punish him for putting his foot down on her unacceptable, selfish behavior?
He didn’t know what he would do to Annie when he found her. He loved her, didn’t want to hurt her.
She couldn’t leave him.
He took Annie’s car, not his cruiser. Her practical minivan—that he bought her because it was safe for her and the children—wouldn’t stand out. It was still light outside, not yet eight in the evening. He headed down Highway 17 and navigated to Angelhart’s house in the hills bordering the southwest boundary of the Phoenix Mountains Preserve.
He parked across the street and looked at the small, cinder block house. No lawn, just rocks and cacti, though someone kept it free of weeds. Potted plants on the small covered porch, a couple of chairs. He looked west—the front yard had a nice view of the sunset.
The garage was at the end of a narrow driveway to the left, and he couldn’t see if anyone was home. He finished his coffee, exited the car, and walked to the front door. Knocked. No answer. He didn’t hear anyone inside. He knocked again. Silence.
He tried the door. Locked.
Peter was nervous. Angelhart was a PI, likely had a weapon, and he wasn’t in uniform. He needed to walk away now or he would be trespassing. He glanced around, didn’t see any neighbors lurking, no one walking their dog.
She took your family from you.
Emboldened, letting the anger fuel him instead of his nerves, he walked around the side of the house to the back, grateful that it was near dark. There was a gate, but it didn’t have a lock on it. He slipped into the backyard and immediately felt relief at the privacy—no one could see him here.
The backyard was mostly rocks with a couple trees that provided shade, much needed in Phoenix. The cracked patio had seen better days, but the woman kept the yard tidy. A small peanut-shaped swimming pool was clean, and a separate raised hot tub looked to be new. Two sliding glass doors led to the house; he tried both of them.
Locked.
He shook one of the doors. Dammit!
He studied the locks; they were old.
Be smart, Peter. Think.
He slipped on latex gloves and then wiped the doors that he’d touched. He checked all the windows—they were locked as well.
He went back to one of the sliding glass doors and looked inside.
A large bed, a dresser, white comforter, colorful pillows. Her bedroom was neat, her bed made. A night-light came from the adjoining bathroom, casting shadows in the rapidly diminishing light.
He studied the lock. Old, but he’d come prepared. Maybe he had known this was what it would come to for answers.
Taking a screwdriver from his pocket, he removed the handle on the door. Then he used the narrow end of the tool and inserted it in the center hole, wiggled it until he found the lock mechanism, and pushed it down.
He smiled as he put the handle back on the door and opened it. He quickly stepped inside, listened. No one was here.
The house was under twelve hundred square feet and had been updated. Margo Angelhart was a tidy woman. The floors were fake hardwood. Easy to clean and maintain. Her bedroom was a bedroom—no desk, no papers, no clutter. Pictures on the walls of friends and family, he supposed. A large print of the Grand Canyon. As he looked closer, he saw that a family was centered in the photo, though the picture focused on the beauty of the north rim.
A man and woman, five young children. He picked out the teenage Margo—he had her driver’s license memorized. She had dark blond hair, lightened from the sun.
He glanced through her drawers; nothing of particular interest other than a .38 in the nightstand. A stack of books, a mix of fiction and nonfiction. The bathroom was barely big enough for a shower, sink, toilet. Down the short hall was another bathroom and then a small bedroom in the front of the house. This had a couch, desk, laptop.
He opened the laptop. It was off, not asleep.
He closed it. Looked through the drawers. Banking, financial documents, insurance documents, everything well-organized. Files for what he presumed were clients.
He looked through them, didn’t see his wife’s name anywhere.
He grew angrier with each passing minute.
