Oh, right, Jake thought, listening to the disheveled man fidgeting in the high-backed chair in the victim room. “Victim room,” because the upholstered furniture and potted plants made questioning of crime victims or witnesses less intimidating than if they had to sit in the bleakly concrete and metal interrogation rooms down the hall.
Sometimes, though, Jake used these rooms for other purposes. A visitor with a dubious story might be lulled into relaxed and chatty complacency if the furniture was comfortable enough and the coffee hot. And “a dubious story” was exactly what Jake was hearing. First Avery Morgan drowns, the circumstances still under investigation. A 911 call, certainly from the Galt residence, reports the crime. And now Tom Galt says his wife is “missing”? Right. Jake’s “no coincidence” meter was pinging off the charts.
“Detective Brogan, it’s not too soon for you to look for her, is it?” Galt had raked his hand through his gray hair so many times, Jake could still see the furrows. “I mean, on TV they always say you have to wait twenty-four hours.”
“This isn’t TV. This is real life,” DeLuca said.
Jake shot him a shut-up glance.
“Sir,” DeLuca added.
“We can use our judgment in these cases,” Jake assured Galt. “Let me ask you this: Do you think your wife’s disappearance had anything to do with what happened to Avery Morgan?”
“Did you know Avery Morgan?” D asked.
Why was D so cranky? It threw off their rhythm, and it was time-sucking enough that Galt’s arrival had derailed their visit to Grady Houlihan.
“Detective, can you give a call to the hospitals?” Jake said. “And the usual other checks?”
“You da man,” D said. “Back in two.”
D. When this was over, they’d need to have a talk, Jake thought. But first, Tom Galt.
“We were talking about Avery Morgan,” Jake said.
“What does Avery Morgan have to do with this? We’re talking about my wife.” Galt frowned, eyeing Jake as if he didn’t understand English. “Last I saw Willow was yesterday morning. She said she was going for a walk, but she—she’s still gone. She didn’t call. She didn’t take anything, not that I can see. I got home late, but—”
“So nothing untoward at your home, no signs of a struggle, anything like that?” Jake could check for himself if the time came.
“No, no, nothing,” Galt said.
“Exactly like the situation at Avery Morgan’s house,” Jake said.
“Well, possibly. I mean, I have no idea,” Galt looked confused, Jake’s precise goal. “But now you’re worrying me even more. What does that have to do with Willow? Is there some killer on the loose? Someone who may have murdered both of them? Just tell me!”
Jake scratched the back of his neck, gave himself some time to think. “Mr. Galt? Sit back down, okay? You know, after we talked to you and your wife Monday night, I did some checking on you.”
Galt paled, fussed with the rolled-up sleeve of his light blue shirt. Didn’t meet Jake’s eyes. “Checking?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, keeping his voice pleasant. “You and your wife Willow. Funny thing. What I’ve seen so far, you pretty much don’t exist.”
“Don’t exist?”
“You keep repeating what I say, Mr. Galt,” Jake said. “But yes, these days, it’s SOP to follow up on witnesses, see if there’s anything in their history or information that might be relevant. But in your case, and your wife Willow’s, it’s not a question of relevant information. It’s a question—”
Jake stopped as his cell phone rang. “Brogan.” He listened as D reported what he’d learned. Nodded a few times, and glanced at Tom Galt, who was watching him, obviously straining to hear. What D said confirmed another connection between Willow Galt and Avery Morgan. “Thanks, D.”
“Did they find her?” Galt asked.
Jake took longer than necessary to stash his phone. He wasn’t ready to answer that.
“So, Mr. Galt,” he said. “We checked the airlines. Your wife apparently had a ticket to Long Beach, California, on a plane that arrived there last night.”
“So do you know where she is? She’s okay?” Galt looked at his watch, then at the ceiling, then at Jake. “She’s in California?”
“Any idea why she would go to Long Beach?” Jake was trying to understand this latest development himself. Galt seemed genuinely surprised to hear Willow was in California. Maybe because he knew she wasn’t there.
Jake pushed the black intercom button, the one that summoned reinforcements. He needed his partner here for this next move. The wooden door clicked open, D holding a new cup of coffee. Clicked closed behind him.
“Our friend is still asleep,” D said.
“Understood,” Jake said. Grady could wait. “Detective? Mr. Galt here is asking whether his wife is in California. But I was just about to explain what else you learned.”
“Ah.” D lifted his cup, giving Jake the floor.
“So, Mr. Galt?” Jake continued. “I guess the answer is no, we haven’t found your wife. Because according to the airline, she never made that flight. So that leaves me asking you—is there something you’re not telling us? Like where she really is?”
The silence became a thickness in the air, all exchanged glances and lifted eyebrows. Interrupted by the triple bing-bong chimes of Jake’s cell phone.
Only nine in the morning. Already this day was about to crush him.
“Brogan.” He tried to keep the annoyance from his voice. Failed. But Shom Pereira didn’t even say hello. Jake listened as the officer spilled the news, his mood changing, annoyance evaporating with every word. About. Frigging. Time.
This news didn’t make Tom Galt not guilty of killing his wife, if indeed she’d been killed. That investigation was still open. But maybe Galt hadn’t killed Avery Morgan. Because according to Shom, that case was about to be closed.
“One moment,” he said to Galt, signaling with a finger. “Something’s come up, and we’ve got to go. But we’ll have an officer take your statement, sir. We’ll do all we can to find your wife. So go home. Don’t worry. Call us if you hear anything. And we’ll be in touch.” He motioned DeLuca into the hall. Safely away from Galt, he held up the phone in triumph.
“T’shombe Pereira says we’ve got a semi-anonymous tip about Avery Morgan,” Jake said. “It says the killer is a kid. Well, a student. Who the tipster says had a big crush on her. And listen to this. He’s got a record of sexual problems. Inappropriate behavior. Documented in his school records. It’s all there, the tipster says. And remember Tarrant’s video?”
“He in it?” DeLuca asked.
“He shot it,” Jake said. “Kid’s name is Trey Welliver.”
“You ready?” D said.
“Let’s go find him,” Jake said.