THE RESULT?
Not even one-quarter the depth of the original. The hole was barely noticeable when she pulled the knife back out. We stood staring at the counter. No words were exchanged, no meaningful glances. Then she dropped the knife in the sink and started for the door.
“We’re leaving,” she said.
“That’s it?”
“I told you: it doesn’t prove anything.”
I followed her outside, onto the wraparound porch of what had begun as a plantation house, rebuilt and renovated over time into a multimillion-dollar mansion. Drive time to either Tampa or Orlando was roughly an hour, but the immediate area looked like the land that civilization forgot. Nothing but kudzu, palm trees, and now police tape in every direction. Heidi lit a cigarette, probably just so she could blow smoke in my face.
“Sarah Roberts-Walsh is a small-boned diabetic who couldn’t lift a twenty-pound barbell off the floor,” I said. “She couldn’t have made that gouge in the counter.”
Heidi turned to face me.
“Open your eyes, Sean. Stop ignoring the obvious.”
“Nothing’s obvious.”
“Your wife disappeared the same day Anthony Costello was murdered. Maybe the same hour.”
“She isn’t the only one who went missing that day.”
“Yeah, and maybe when we find her she’ll have a real good story.”
She walked down the porch steps and started toward her car, then turned and came striding back.
“Just what exactly was the wife of a homicide detective doing working for a mob accountant?”
“She was his chef.”
“I’m not talking about her job title. How did she meet him in the first place?”
I didn’t say anything. I was surprised it had taken Heidi this long to ask the question. I’d had run-ins with the Costello family before. A little over a year ago, I’d arrested Nicholas Costello, Anthony’s nephew, for holding up a liquor store on the outskirts of Tampa. After the arrest, evidence went missing, witnesses recanted. It looked bad. It made me look bad. And then Sarah started working for Anthony. Rumors were flying around the squad room: Detective Sean Walsh on the Costellos’ payroll. Me, who’d given fifteen years to this job.
“That’s your story?” Heidi asked. “Silence?”
“She isn’t involved,” I said.
“Maybe. Either way, I don’t want you anywhere near this.”
I watched her drive off, then took out my cell phone and speed-dialed Sarah.
“Hey, it’s me again,” I told her voice mail. “I’m praying you can hear this. It’s been two weeks now. I miss you. I need to know you’re okay. I need you to come home. Whatever happened, you need to come home.”
I hung up, headed for my car. My phone rang just as I stuck the key in the ignition. I grabbed it off the dashboard without checking the caller ID.
“Sarah?” I said.
“Next best thing. You got something to write with? ’Cause I got an address.”
It was Lenny Stone, ex-cop turned PI. I’d hired him to track down Sarah.
“Where?” I said. “Where is she?”
“About a hundred miles south of the middle of nowhere. Nearest town is Kerens, Texas. Time to dust off that Stetson, partner.”