J.T. Ellison - Lie To Me

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.”

READ ALL ABOUT IT

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 the house was dark. He’d passed out on the couch.

Smart move, idiot.

He groaned as he sat up, perched on the edge of the couch with his feet on the floor and his head in his hands until the worst waves of nausea passed. Managed to make it to the kitchen and put on some tea. Popped three Advil, drank a bottle of water. The kettle took forever to boil. When it started whistling, pain rippled through his head.

He needed...something. Help. Support. Getting pissed and passing out wasn’t going to solve things. The media wasn’t simply going to walk away because he told them to. There was a story here, and everyone knew it.

The phone was sitting quietly on the counter, innocuous. He picked it up, ignoring the wave of burning bile that forced its way into his throat, and turned the ringer back on. It started to ring immediately. This number he recognized, and wasn’t entirely unwanted.

“Hullo, Bill.”

“Hullo? That’s all you have? Where the fucking hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for two hours!”

“Asleep. Drunk. Like most normal people.”

“It’s been half a day, Ethan. You’re not a normal person, and you’re definitely not in a normal situation. The New York Times is printing a story about Sutton being missing. Since you’ve been ignoring me, I have a flight to Nashville first thing in the morning. We have to coordinate a plan, figure out how we present this—”

“Would you calm down? It’s my wife who’s missing.”

“And I’m your agent. You should have called me the minute you realized this was turning into a story. I could have helped. You really don’t have any idea where she is?”

Shafts of light cruised across the kitchen, first there, then gone, then back again, fading. The beams from the news trucks as they shuffled positions out on the street. The on-again, off-again light reminded him of the past few months with Sutton. If only he could count on the clouds parting. He managed a sip of tea.

“For Christ’s sake, Bill, if I knew where she was I wouldn’t have called the police to start looking for her.”

“You called the police?”

Ethan hadn’t known a man could shriek, but Bill had just offered a full-fledged shout that would make a pterodactyl proud.

“And a lawyer.”

Bill started moaning into the phone.

“Listen to me. Sutton left a very ominous note. I am worried sick. I’m worried she may have hurt herself. She asked for time, but now...something’s not right. She left everything behind, and...it feels wrong. She’s been gone too long. I had to involve the authorities. I needed help. So get off my back.”