Willow frowned at him. “I’m going to call the hospital. I need to see her.”
“Did you know Ellie well, Willow?” Lozza asked.
“We’re friends.” She sniffed her emotion back. “Ellie has confided in me, as a friend.” She hesitated. “I . . . Look, it’s not my place to say anything because . . . it’s personal. But . . .” Willow’s frown deepened. “Given the circumstances, it might be relevant. Ellie . . . she’d just gotten proof that her husband was having an affair.”
“What do you mean?” Lozza’s interest was suddenly piqued.
“She’d hired a PI to follow Martin and his mistress, and Ellie had recently received photographic evidence. She told me she was planning to leave him—return to Canada—before he got back from his business trip. But he must have come back early. Which makes it really strange that they’d even go out in the boat together. Especially since Ellie had such an awful experience the first time they went fishing. It doesn’t make sense. None of it.”
“Did you see the photos?” Lozza asked, her brain racing now.
Willow nodded, hesitated, then said, “Ellie had also apparently found proof her husband was moving money out of their joint account. She feared he’d married her in a rush to get access to her money. She even thought he might be drugging her.” Willow swore softly, rubbed her face, then said, “Ellie found a receipt for two plane tickets to the Cape Verde islands. The departure date was in two weeks, and they were not for her.” She paused. “I . . . I can’t believe this. They only got married in May. In Las Vegas. It was a whirlwind thing, Ellie said.”
Lozza stared at Willow. “You mean Martin was getting ready to bolt?”
“I’m not sure. It seems that way.”
“With his mistress?” asked Gregg.
“That’s what Ellie feared.”
“Who’s the mistress, Willow?” asked Lozza.
Willow looked out of the window, clearly conflicted.
“Willow—” Gregg pressed. “This puts everything in a different light. If Martin is lost out there”—he flung his arm toward the picture windows overlooking the sea—“it could be a life-or-death situation. The clock is ticking. But if he’s not—if he’s bolted—there are search-and-rescue volunteers out there right now, good people risking their lives and losing employment hours searching for him. We need to know if there’s a chance he’s fled the country with some woman or something.”
“Rabz,” she said quietly. “It’s Bodie Rabinovitch.”
As Lozza and Gregg walked back to the Commodore parked on the street, she said, “Let’s go find Rabz at the Puggo.”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Gregg, pushing open the gate. “Who’da thunk—Rabz?”
“So is Willow’s witness statement consistent with what you saw of the Abracadabra going out?” Lozza asked.
“Yeah. Two people. One Quinnie. Ellie in a blue jacket and pale-blue cap, hair in a ponytail. Martin with no hat. Around six a.m. I was going to have a coffee, then leave, go home, get ready to go to work.”
They got into the car, and Lozza said, “There were those two suitcases in the Cresswell-Smith house when I found Ellie unconscious in the bathroom. Women’s stuff. All over the floor.”
“Like she’d packed?” He leaned forward and started the engine.
“Yeah. Maybe she was about to leave for Canada, like she’d told Willow, went for a last swim on November sixteen, which is when I saw her on the beach, and suddenly Martin was back. There in the dunes. Ellie looked shit-scared when she saw him. And he looked like bottled pressure ready to blow. Something evil about him. Even Maya said so.”
Gregg pulled into the street. “Maya was with you?”
“Maya and I swam with Ellie.”
He shot her a glance. “Why?”
“That’s the weird thing. She was sitting next to our gear when we came out of the surf. She seemed both terrified of the water—the waves—yet determined to go in. And because she was clearly scared . . . I don’t know, I offered to go in with her.”
“Lozza the savior.”
She gave a shrug. “I felt sorry for her. And then I saw her bruises. It’s consistent with her neighbor saying Martin hit her. This is starting to look really weird.”
Gregg swore. “Yeah, it’s sus all right.”
“So maybe Martin comes back early. He sees her suitcases packed. They have a fight that night, the suitcases get trashed . . . but then why go out in the boat together early the following morning?” Lozza said. “And now she’s in a coma. And he’s vanished.” She paused, thinking. “We need to confirm whether Ellie did in fact purchase an air ticket for Canada. And for what date. We need to know a lot more about those two.”
As they turned into the road that led to the Pug and Whistler, Lozza’s mobile rang. She glanced at the caller ID. Jon Ratcliffe. She connected the call.
“Bianchi.”
“Lozz, Ellie Cresswell-Smith has regained consciousness. I need you guys there.”
Excitement crackled through Lozza. She hung up.
“Detour,” she said. “Hospital.”
THEN
LOZZA
“What happened, Ellie, after you and Martin went out in the boat?” Lozza asked. She sat in a hospital chair beside Ellie’s bed. Gregg propped his butt against the windowsill, his arms folded over his chest, a notebook in one hand, watching. Late-morning sun streamed in behind Gregg, tiny dust motes dancing in the hazy rays.
Ellie appeared confused. Her gaze flickered around the hospital room, and she touched her hand to the bandage on her head. “I . . . I don’t recall going out in a boat.”
On their way to the hospital, Lozza had checked in with marine rescue. Still no sign of the Abracadabra or Martin. And the other Jarrawarra Bay police officers who’d been canvassing residents around the boat launch and along the ridge had confirmed what Gregg and Willow had reported seeing—all had witnessed Martin and Ellie Cresswell-Smith heading out to sea in their Quinnie shortly before 6:00 a.m. No one had seen the boat return.
“Ellie, your husband is missing. He’s been gone since early morning yesterday. Helicopters, fixed-wing aircraft, marine rescue boats, volunteers, police, have all been combing up and down the coast in search of Martin and
