“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.”
“It’s probably just a domestic gone wrong. She’s tired of the fighting and takes off. Might even have a piece on the side who helped. It’s been known to happen.”
Holly tapped her pen against her teeth. “I don’t know, Sarge. Not to play devil’s advocate, but if she’d really left him, why would he talk to a lawyer and bring us in? He knows we’ll be digging into everything. He knows any investigation on our part will draw attention. Is he doing it for personal gain, wanting his fifteen minutes in the spotlight? Did he hurt her, but he’s clever and wants to look innocent? I don’t know, but toward the end I got the sense that he was truly distraught and feared for her life.
“Sutton Montclair may not want to be found, she may have wandered off, may have hurt herself, or she may have been kidnapped. We don’t have all the pieces of the puzzle, but I don’t think he killed her, either. It felt like he really was worried for her.”
“But?”
“He didn’t tell us everything. I think we should keep looking at him, hard. Find out what he’s holding back. The friend seemed pretty concerned. If he’d kept the friends out of the loop, I’d lean more toward he hurt her, but that he was worried enough to call in someone who was close to his wife tells me there’s something here. I can’t help coming back to the idea that if he did something and didn’t want to get caught, why would he put himself under such scrutiny? I mean, I know it’s the way psychopaths operate, for the thrill of it all, but he didn’t strike me as a psychopath. Only a man looking for answers.”
Moreno took the toothpick out of his mouth, wrapped it in a napkin, and stashed it inside his empty Starbucks cup. Stared out the windshield some more. Holly knew he was a thinker; she’d grown accustomed to his silences while they worked.
Finally, he said, “I like how you think, Graham. I like that you’re not jumping to conclusions because of what he’s told you, or because Robinson was there. So we’re going to play this a bit unorthodoxly. You’ve had excellent training, and you have a background in this, with your dad’s work with the DA’s office. We all know what your trajectory holds. You’re only a few steps from plainclothes, and every uniform wants their chance to play detective, so this is your go at it. I want you to run the case as it moves forward. I think you made a connection with Montclair, and it might pay off later in this investigation.”
Holly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Yes, she was going to be a detective, everyone expected it, and she wanted it, bad. It just wasn’t supposed to happen for another year. But if Moreno wanted to bump her up the line, she wasn’t going to quibble.
“Of course, sir. I’m happy to.”
“We’ll give it a few days. See what shakes out. Sound like something you can handle?”
“It is, sir. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why me?”
Moreno smiled at her, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “When you’re a full-fledged detective, you’ll figure it out soon enough, Officer Graham. I’ll tell you this, when a suspect makes a connection with an officer, we don’t ignore it. Now, get to work. I want everything you can find on the Montclairs by morning.”
It happened like a lightning strike, fast and furious and devastating. Somehow, the whole world knew Sutton Montclair was missing.
The reporters started calling and knocking and ringing the doorbell and peering over the backyard fence about twenty minutes after the police and Robinson and Ivy left.
Ivy had reassured Ethan as she walked out the door. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find her. I’ll talk to the girls, dig around, see if anyone’s talked to her. They might be more willing to open up to me instead of you.” He hadn’t seen her since. Robinson hadn’t called. He’d been so alone, just him and the bottle, and the intrepid media seizing the meaty story in their carnivorous jaws.
The fucking reporters, who were much more interested in the news of Sutton Montclair going missing than the police were, wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t want to answer the phone—what if Sutton called?—but he had no choice.
So he drank, and shouted no comment into the phone. Every time it rang, he answered with a breathless, “Sutton?” Every time, it was a stranger. New voices, same requests.
“Mr. Montclair? This is Tiffany Hock from NewsChannel 5. We understand your wife has been reported missing, and we’ve been trying to reach you, we’d really like to speak with you—”
He didn’t even bother saying no comment, just hung up. Moments later, the phone rang again. He eyed it like it might poison him. Lifted the receiver. It was a man this time.
“Ethan Montclair? Tim Mappes, New York Times. I understand your wife, Sutton Montclair, is missing. Would you like to give me a comment?”
Click.
The doorbell rang. He could hear someone calling his name, a strange woman’s voice. “Mr. Montclair? Mr. Montclair? Will you come talk to us?”
Holy Christ, he was under siege.
You knew this would happen, didn’t you, Sutton? You knew the whole world would want to find you. Well played, wife.
Finally, exhausted, drunk, but unable to sleep, he turned off the ringer, took one of Sutton’s Xanax, and passed out cold for a few hours.
* * *
Ethan woke to a blinding headache. The front of