“Sean, I—”
“Just take it.”
She did.
“I know you’ve seen the photos,” I said. “I know there were measurements taken, and I know those measurements suggest that the killer was ‘above average in strength.’ Here’s the thing: I asked you to meet me at the scene today because I want you to try it.”
“Try what?”
I gestured to the stray hole in the counter.
“You’re about five foot ten, right? You hit the gym daily. Bench your own weight. Hell, you could probably bench my weight. I challenge you to take the same knife and, with just one thrust, make a hole that deep.”
She was less than enthusiastic.
“Even if the department would allow a—”
“Half as deep,” I said. “The same gouge, half as deep. Forget what’s allowed: I’m fighting for my wife’s freedom here.”
She glared at me.
“This isn’t going to prove anything,” she said.
“Just make sure you grip the handle tight. I don’t want the blade sliding up your palm.”
She gave in. She repositioned the handle in her fist, switched her weight to her back foot, and lunged with everything she had.
Two
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.”
Part I
Chapter 1Sarah Roberts-Walsh
October 12
9:30 a.m.
Interview Room C
“FORENSICS FOUND traces of Costello’s blood on your clothes, so why don’t you tell us what happened?”
We were sitting in a plain white room with a drop ceiling and a mirror I assumed was two-way. Me and Detective Heidi Haagen. She leaned across the metal table.
“This is serious, Sarah,” she said. “Your own husband brought you in.”
“Where is Sean?”
They were the first words I’d spoken since we sat down. My voice cracked like a teenage boy’s.
“Doesn’t matter,” Haagen said. “He can’t help you.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“Then just tell the truth.”
“Where do you want me to start?” I asked.
“That day. Everything you remember. Begin at the beginning and don’t hold back. No detail is too small.”
All right, I told myself. You can do this.
I gripped the sides of my chair, took a breath, started talking. I kept my eyes pointed straight ahead, away from the mirror. I knew damn well who was standing on the other side.
The morning of Anthony Costello’s murder, I woke up to find myself lying on a moss-covered boulder, surrounded by kudzu. I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. I made to stand but my legs were wobbly and my feet kept slipping on the moss. I felt my pockets: no phone, no wallet. For a long while I just sat there, trying to think things through. Maybe I’d gone camping with friends, wandered off by myself, and gotten lost. Maybe I’d forgotten to bring my insulin with me, which would explain why I’d blacked out.
“You’re diabetic?” Haagen interrupted.
“That’s right,” I said. “If I miss an injection, life can get real fuzzy.”
She jotted something in her notebook.
“Go on,” she said. “What did you do next?”
I yelled for help. I
