Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

“I’m sure,” said Michelle quickly. “So she had her suitcase?”

“No, first she put out the recycling. Guess she forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Yesterday was trash pickup day, not recycling. Why they can’t do it all on the same day I’ll never know. But I don’t have enough time left breathing to worry about crap like that.”

“Then what?”

“Then she came back out with a suitcase, popped the trunk of her car. Put it in there. No overnight bag. Big sucker. Probably everything she owned. Don’t see her coming back. No loss there.”

“What makes you say that?”

Dobbers gave her another knowing look. “I been married for fifty-seven years. Not to the same man, now. It was three of them, actually, but they totaled up to fifty-seven years of mostly good times until they weren’t. So I know about love. Know about commitment. Know it when I see it. Know it when I don’t see it.”

Michelle glanced across the street. “And you didn’t see it over there?”

“I knew Sam Wingo’s first wife. Now, there was a woman in love and a man who loved her. Not the second time around. Don’t know why he married Jean. But it wasn’t for love.”

“Did you talk to either one of them?”

“Talked to Sam a lot. Furnace is always kicking out on me when I need it the most. He’d come over and get it going. When I still used to drive, he and Tyler would change the oil, check the tires, give my car a good wash. Nice people. Now, Jean, not so much.”

“You talked to her?”

“Tried to. Hard for me to get around. Got DVT, [21] DVT – deep vein thrombosis. arthritis, Type Two diabetes, bad kidneys, and my liver’s nothing to write home about. You name it I probably got it. Doctors going to pickle me after I’m gone so they can study all the things I got wrong.” She stopped and looked questioningly at Michelle. “Brain fart, honey. Where was I?”

“You were trying to talk to Jean Wingo?” Michelle said helpfully.

“Hell yes, excuse my French. Now, going across that street for me is like running a marathon, but I did it, more than once. Even baked her a pie to welcome her to the neighborhood and I don’t, as a rule, bake anymore because I’m just an Alzheimer’s moment away from burning down the place. Now what did she do? Took the pie, thanked me, and shut the door in my face. Another time saw her out in the yard watering the flower beds. I started over to chat with her. She looked at me like I had dog poop on my face and went inside before I got halfway across the street.”

“Not the friendliest of neighbors,” said Michelle in a commiserating tone.

“Not a neighbor at all, least to my way of thinking.”

“Any idea where she might have gone?”

“No. But good riddance, in my mind. I’m just worried about Tyler. Now, that boy loves his daddy. Now his daddy’s gone and the woman his father was presumably hitched to is gone. Lots of turnover. Don’t know what’s coming down the pike next.”

“Me either,” said Michelle. “Well, thanks.”

“Anytime.” Dobbers squinted up at her. “Saw that feller of yours. Tyler said you were partners. Ex-super-spies or some such.”

“Former Secret Service,” corrected Michelle.

“Damn fine-looking man. If I were younger I might be shooting for hubby number four. Now, piece of advice.” She looked the tall Michelle up and down. “You got all the goods right where they should be. So if I were you I’d bag and tag his cute buns, honey, before some hussy gets there first. And they will. Enough of ’em out there. So long, gotta pee.”

She turned and waddled back inside.

Michelle just stood there, her notebook open and not a single word written on the page.

She walked across the street and stared at the spot where Jean’s car had been parked. Michelle had a description of the car and its tag number from seeing it earlier. She just didn’t have a way to run a BOLO [22] BOLO – Be On (the) Look-Out: a broadcast issued from any American or Canadian law enforcement agency to its personnel, or to other law enforcement agencies. It typically contains information about a wanted suspect who is to be arrested or a person of interest, for whom law enforcement officers are to look. Also known as lookout, APB (All-Points Bulletin) and ATL (Attempt To Locate). on it. Only the cops could do that. But she agreed with Dobbers. She didn’t think Jean Wingo was coming back. If Wingo’s marriage had been a sham to provide cover for his mission, what was keeping her here?

She pulled out her phone and called McKinney. It went to voice mail. She left a message about meeting them that day at their office.

She walked around to the back of the Wingos’ house. Tyler had given her a key and permission to enter. At least that would be her story if the cops showed up.

She started on the main floor and worked her way up. She didn’t bother to check for prints; she had no database to run them against. That was another downside to being a private investigator. She would love to know what Jean’s background was. If she’d been recruited to play a role, she might be in the military or a contractor thereto. That might give them a lead on her current whereabouts. Maybe McKinney could provide that service if he agreed to team up.

She took a few minutes to walk around Tyler’s room. She imagined how much he was suffering, wondering whether his dad was alive or not. She hoped they could bring him some sort of resolution.

She entered the Wingos’ bedroom. If they were simply playing a role, she assumed the two adults were not sleeping together, not an easy subterfuge in a house this small. She methodically searched through the bedroom and closet and didn’t find anything very helpful. Jean Wingo had taken all of her clothes and apparently most of her personal possessions, since there weren’t many feminine items left.

No computers. No hard-line phone. No cell phones.

She sat on a chair in the bedroom and stared around the space wondering if she had missed something. She looked out a window that gave her a view onto the backyard.

Green trash can by the back door. She might as well go through that while she was here. She heard a loud engine and the sound of hydraulics. She peered out another window in the bedroom that looked out onto the street. The trash truck was coming down the street. She looked at the blue container at the curb. Or maybe it was a recycling truck making its rounds.

The next instant Michelle was running flat-out down the stairs, out the front door, and leaping off the porch, landing on the front lawn. She reached the recycling bin seconds before the truck pulled up to collect it.

When one of the men jumped off the truck’s rear and eyed her she said breathlessly, “Lost my wedding ring in here. You can skip me this week.”

She rolled the bin up the driveway and into the backyard.

She closed the gate behind her and opened the top of the bin. It was half full.

Michelle had realized just in time that no sane person who was about to disappear would take the time to put out the recycling. So maybe there was something in there that she needed to get rid of and didn’t want possibly found on her. Maybe that was what Jean Wingo had been thinking when she’d mixed up the trash and recycling days.

It took her twenty minutes of searching but finally her hand closed around the letter, or rather the envelope. It was addressed to Jean Shepherd, but not at this house. She folded the envelope and put it in her pocket.

A minute later she was racing down the street in her Land Cruiser.

NOT THAT LONG AGO SEAN KING had been cemented in a chair next to a hospital bed in which Michelle had been lying near death. Ever since that time he had loathed the inside of a hospital. If he could have avoided ever entering another one, he would have. But he couldn’t. He had to be here.