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Not caring that it was nearly ten, I dialed Logan’s cell phone. He answered on the second ring. “Did you find her?” he asked before even saying hello.
“I have a lead. But there’s some expenses I may incur, and I need to make sure you will cover them.”
“Absolutely. Anything, bill me. Do you need an advance?”
“No, I trust you’re good for it.”
“What’s the lead?”
I didn’t want to share too much over the phone, so I said vaguely, “Florida. When I know something definitive, I’ll let you know. Thanks, Logan.”
I ended the call and smiled at my brother. “Bill me for the PI, but I’m going to want to talk to him. Send me his contact info.”
“It’s one in the morning there.”
“I’ll wait a few hours.”
Jack sent me his contact and when it came through on my phone, I saved it and added a few notes.
“This is a turn I wasn’t expecting,” Jack said. Then his phone rang. “Hey, Lu, did you find something?”
As he listened, his face grew dark and I leaned forward and whispered, “What?”
He didn’t respond, and I couldn’t hear what my sister was saying. Jack said, “I’ll be right there.”
He jumped up, started to pack his laptop. “A fire in the building that houses Desert West. It’s serious. Lu, Tess, and the guard were the only ones in the building at the time, and they’re fine. But Tess and Lu were drugged. Lu managed to get Tess out of the building before they passed out.”
“You’re sure they’re okay?”
“Lu said they were, but I want to make sure.”
“I’m going with you.”
Jack didn’t argue.
Thirty-Three
Peter Carillo
Peter drove to St. Dominic’s church Tuesday night in the minivan, not his patrol car. It was quiet. Too late for school or evening mass. He parked across the dead-end street and stared, willing Annie to come out of one of the buildings and run to him.
Was Annie even here? He couldn’t see her living in the rectory, a small house on the far corner of the property.
He might be wrong about Annie’s grandparents being married here, but he’d seen the St. Dominic’s calendar on the wall of the private investigator. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
Peter didn’t know quite what it meant, not yet. He wanted to talk to the staff here—maybe the secretary, or even the priest. A priest wouldn’t lie to him.
He thought about his approach. He could canvass the neighborhood—in uniform—ask if anyone had seen his wife. Show pictures. Tell them she was troubled, suffering from postpartum depression. He needed to bring her home, get her help. People generally wanted to help, especially when children were involved.
He knew exactly what to say and how to say it.
This stupid, ridiculous game of Annie’s had gone too far. She had been gone for more than forty-eight hours. What did she hope to accomplish? What did she expect from him? That he would just say fine and go about his life? Didn’t she realize she had gutted him? She might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He felt dead inside.
The bitch who helped his wife leave didn’t live far from the church. Five minutes later, he was in front of her house. Lights were off, he didn’t think she was home, and he had already confirmed there was nothing of value to him inside.
He considered waiting for her, but her street was narrow, the houses were close to the road, and the neighborhood—though old—seemed to be well-maintained, like people cared about their property. People might notice if he parked here too long.
He didn’t want to confront Margo Angelhart on her turf. He needed to talk to her away from her house, away from people. Assess her, figure out why she decided to fuck with him.
