never will.”
CHAPTER 32
M orris couldn’t put his finger on it, and that was what was bothering him.
He was a solutions guy. He liked to fix things. He liked to take a problem and, using a combination of research, experience, and good judgment, figure out the best answer, the best plan, the best course of action. He’d had two careers in his life-football and banking-and both relied on well-thought-out strategies and their proper executions. And, of course, great instincts, which he normally had. How could his instincts have been so wrong about Sheila?
He should have been relaxing over SportsCenter, as he usually did after a long day of work, but instead he was going over every event of the past few weeks in his mind, like an instant replay he couldn’t shut off. Every conversation with Sheila, everything they’d talked about, everything they’d done or hadn’t done. But the analysis wasn’t getting him anywhere. He was a fat hamster running on a little wheel.
He was stuck.
With every passing day, the chances seemed to grow slimmer that Sheila would ever turn up. There were no real leads. Jerry Isaac hadn’t said as much, but Morris knew the PI was running out of ideas. There was nobody left to interview.
Sheila had left him, willingly, just as her phone message had said. Why couldn’t he accept that, instead of throwing money at a guy who was probably only too happy to keep looking so long as Morris kept paying?
His beautiful son was the only bright spot at the moment. Randall had swept back into his life, and it appeared that whatever chip had been on his shoulder all these years had finally been knocked off. Morris knew he had Sheila to thank for that. Regardless of the pain and anger and worry she was causing him, he knew he would love her the rest of his life for what she’d done.
He poured another shot of Johnnie Walker and pushed away the guilt that came with every ounce he downed. So far Randall hadn’t mentioned Morris’s drinking, but it was probably par for the course as far as his son was concerned. He’d never known his father sober.
The thought saddened him.
His BlackBerry rang. He stared at it until it stopped. It was after 8:00 p.m. and they could call back tomorrow. Then he heard his home phone. Not a work call, then. He reached over and picked it up.
“It’s Jerry,” a voice said on the other end. “You busy? You didn’t answer your cell.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m on a hot date right now.” Morris’s laugh was bitter. “Got a cute blonde with me. Hang on while I remove her from my lap.” He looked at the bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold, still in his hand. Close enough. “What’s up?”
“I met with Ethan Wolfe today. I meant to call you earlier but my wife wanted to go out to dinner. It’s our weekly date night.”
“Let me guess, you took her to the Golden Monkey.”
“Don’t knock it, man. Best Chinese food in Seattle.”
“Do Chinese people agree with you?”
“Bite me. Do you want to know what happened with Wolfe or not?”
“Let me hear it.”
Jerry cleared his throat. “I definitely think he was the one Sheila was having an affair with.”
“He actually admitted it?” Morris felt a stab even though the news wasn’t surprising. He thought once again about the night they’d met in Sheila’s office. The way Wolfe had taunted her, and she didn’t even bust his balls. It all made sense now. He poured himself another shot of whiskey, wondering if the PI could hear it through the phone line.
“I have a very strong hunch. After thirty years as a cop, that ought to mean something.”
“So they were screwing. No shock there.” Morris kept his tone light. Holding the phone away, he downed his whiskey in one gulp. “What does this mean?”
“It might not mean anything.” Jerry paused. “But the guy’s a bit weird, you know? Squirrelly. Freaked out when the door closed. Guess he didn’t want to be stuck in a room alone with me.” The PI snorted. “Logically, I can’t blame him for not copping to the affair. Why would he admit it?”
Something Jerry said rubbed at Morris. A pang of familiarity, a twinge at the back of his neck, but it dissipated as soon as he tried to chase the thought.
“Thing is,” Jerry continued, “he was adamant that he didn’t know what happened to her.”
“You believed him?”
“No reason not to.”
“Does he have an alibi for the night she disappeared?”
“And which night would that be?” Jerry sounded annoyed. “We don’t even know when she left town. You were in Japan, remember? She didn’t call you until Sunday. She could have been anywhere by then. In any case, Wolfe doesn’t need an alibi because as far as we know, there’s been no crime.” Jerry sighed heavily.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” the PI said. “Something’s off. Wolfe struck me as off. He was wound way too tight for a guy who grades papers for a living.”
“So what do we do now?”
“I could follow the kid around for a couple days. Seems to be the only option left. But I’ll be honest with you, Morris, I don’t expect anything to come of it. There’s nothing to go on here. It’s more about me wanting to squash the weird vibes I got, if that makes any sense. And it’ll be expensive.”
“Not exactly the same price point as the Golden Monkey.”
That got a chuckle out of Jerry, but then his voice was serious again. “Listen, there’s something else I want you to think about. It’s looking like a long shot, but let’s say that, miracle of miracles, we do find Sheila. She’s now all pissed off you tracked her down. She’s gone somewhere to start a new life and now there you are on her doorstep demanding answers and reminding her of the person she doesn’t want to be anymore. She tells you to get lost. Is that the reunion you envisioned? Is that what you need to move on?”
“I don’t know what I need anymore.” Morris drank straight from the bottle this time. “But I’m not ready to let this go. I need to see her face, Jerry. She needs to tell me it’s over in person. At the very least, I deserve that.”
“Okay then. Just making sure. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Hey,” Morris said before the private investigator could hang up.
“Yeah?”
“About Wolfe. What did you think of him?”
“I already told you. Kind of a weasel, jumpy.”
That twinge again. “No, not that.” Morris hesitated. “Did you think he was good-looking?”
“I don’t know, he’s a dude, ” Jerry said, exasperated. “And you’ve met him already.”
“Yeah, but I want to know what you think.”
“I don’t know.” Another sigh and the sound of knuckles popping. “I guess he’s good-looking. My wife is addicted to this soap opera, The Young and the Reckless -”
“Restless,” Morris corrected. “My ex was into that, too.”
“Whatever, it’s all crap. He looks like he could be on that show. He’s a handsome guy. Probably gets a lot of attention from the ladies because he’s young, fit, got a nice face.”
“Fantastic.” Morris took another swig.
“You asked.” A short silence. “Seriously, man, think about what I said about letting her go. You could spend your whole life wondering, ‘What if?’ The stress could kill you.”
Morris looked at the bottle in his hand. The deep amber liquid glowed in the dim light of the living room. “It already is killing me.”
He rode the elevator inside Puget Sound State University’s psychology building, armpits damp and fists
