Spengler was driving back to the station when her phone rang. She pulled over to answer. It was the Evanses’ insurance agent. The woman hadn’t bothered returning any of her calls or emails, so Spengler had stopped by the office that morning before heading to the high school to meet with the PTA ladies. People moved faster when they saw a badge and a gun.
“Sorry it took so long,” the woman said. “With the holiday weekend and tech issues, I’ve been swamped.”
“Of course,” Spengler said graciously. That was the standard excuse when anything went wrong these days. Tech issues. “What do you have for me? Any changes to their policies recently?”
“Marie Evans came in at the end of January and upped her life insurance policy,” the insurance agent said. Spengler unrolled her window as she held the phone to her ear, hoping for a breath of fresh air, but the street smelled faintly of wet garbage. “Mr. Evans’s policy stayed at three million dollars, while Mrs. Evans’s went from a half a million up to three.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Spengler had said. A homeless man strolled past on the sidewalk and saw her sitting there. He grabbed his crotch and shook his hips in her direction, stuck out his tongue in a leer. It was like some men were conditioned to be disgusting and disrespectful to women. She wasn’t in the mood. Not that she was ever in the mood for it. Without putting the phone down, Spengler pulled her gun from the holster at her waist and pointed it at him, mimed pulling the trigger. Bang. He ran in the opposite direction, giving her a terrified look over his shoulder. He wouldn’t be shaking his dick at anyone again in the near future. It was unfortunate, but sometimes a woman had to take extreme measures to teach a man a lesson.
“It is a large policy but not unheard of, especially for a couple with the net worth they have,” the agent said. “What is unusual is to have that amount of coverage when Mrs. Evans wasn’t generating any income. It was ultimately approved after she’d gone through a physical and had blood work—all standard procedure on a policy that high—but it did seem odd.”
“Did both the Evanses come in to your office to update the policy?”
“Oh, no. Just Mrs. Evans. Such a nice woman. As she was signing the papers, she did say one thing—I really didn’t think about it until I reread the notes I’d put in the system after she left.”
“What’s that?”
“She mentioned it was her husband’s idea that she up her policy. She said he’d been pushing her to come in and take care of it. She thought it was funny, I remember. She laughed.”
Of course Evans had pushed his wife into it. But here was the question: Why? Spengler had received most of the Evanses’ financial records and one thing had become clear after one look: if Matt had killed his wife, it hadn’t been for the insurance. They had a big house—the mortgage balance almost paid—lots of money in savings, fat retirement accounts. They had virtually no debt and plenty of capital. They were comfortable. So why would Evans want his wife to have such a high insurance policy on her head?
“I did tell Mrs. Evans she could certainly come back anytime and we could lower the amount of the policy if she was having second thoughts, but she never did. And I’d completely forgotten about the whole thing until I got your call. Are you thinking Mr. Evans pushed his wife off a cliff so he could collect her life insurance?”
Another call came through before Spengler could answer, not that she intended to give any sort of response to the woman’s question.
It was Loren.
“Spengler, Evans had a fucking map in his desk,” he said. “It’s got the point where she fell marked, like he’d planned the whole thing ahead of time.”
“Hang on,” she said. Her phone had started buzzing as she held it against her ear. Another call was coming through. It was Jackson, head of the search team.
When it rains it pours, she thought.
“Hikers spotted a body about ten miles farther south,” he said. “I’m here now, we got her out of the water. Looks like your gal.”