sorry. The program was…over the top, I know, but that’s what his audience likes, what they connect to.”
“So?”
“So…after that program, Luke disappeared. He didn’t show up at his health club and you know he always works out after the show.”
She remembered. Didn’t comment about Luke’s obsession with staying in shape. It wasn’t just about looking or feeling good, it was some kind of rabid mania.
“No one has heard from him. I went over to his town house, but no one answered the door. I’ve called his home phone and his cell and he’s not answering.”
“He’ll surface,” she said, refusing to be sucked into Luke’s antics.
“But—”
“I haven’t seen him. Okay? And as he so publicly made certain of, I’m not his wife anymore.” She was angry now, and her tongue wanted to go wild. “I don’t keep tabs on him. Why don’t you talk to his girlfriend?”
“Nia…yeah…Luke and Nia…”
When he trailed off, she asked impatiently, “What?”
“Nia doesn’t know where he is.”
She could tell he’d been going to say something else. Whatever it was, she didn’t care. “Maybe she does and she’s not saying.”
“This isn’t like him.” Maury sounded worried. Really worried.
Good. Let him stew about Luke’s whereabouts. To her surprise, Abby didn’t care about Luke’s shenanigans or his love life at all. And she wasn’t worried about him. Luke was known to pull all kinds of publicity stunts. He was just the kind of guy to fake his own death to give the ratings a shot in the arm. “I haven’t seen Luke since last weekend when he picked up Hershey, the dog we share custody of. Sorry, I can’t help you. And he’d better be taking care of my dog.”
“Okay, okay, but if you do hear from him, have him call the station immediately. The producer’s ready to tear Luke a new one.”
“Oh, great.” Just what she needed to hear. She hung up and refused to consider what Luke was up to. It didn’t matter anymore. They were divorced. Period.
And his things were out of the garage.
Still, she walked into the bedroom and opened the second drawer of her nightstand, on what had once been Luke’s side of the bed.
There, as it had been for years, was his father’s service revolver. Picking up the .38, she felt a pang of guilt for having lied to her ex about the weapon, but her remorse was short-lived.
For now, she was keeping the gun.
“Okay…so what have we got here?” Detective Reuben Montoya, in jeans, T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, stepped carefully toward the door of the small, dilapidated cabin in the bayou. Morning sunlight was crawling through the trees and brush, burning off the last of the night fog. The smell of the swamp was thick in his nostrils: slow-moving water, rotting vegetation, and something else, a stench he recognized as that of decaying flesh. His stomach turned a bit but he contained it. For the most part he’d always been able to button down his emotions, work the scene, and not lose his lunch.
“It looks like a murder-suicide,” the deputy, Don Spencer, theorized. He was short, with pale blue eyes and reddish hair buzzed into a military cut. “But not everything adds up. We’re still figuring it out. Crime-scene team’s been at it for an hour.”
Montoya nodded and looked around. Several officers had already roped off the crime-scene with yellow tape and were positioned around the perimeter of the little cabin stuck in the middle of no-damned-where. “You the first on the scene?” Montoya asked as he signed the security log.
“Yep. Got the call into dispatch from a local—a fisherman who admits to trespassing. He was on his way to the river, noticed the door hanging open, and walked in.”
“He still here?”
The officer nodded. “In his truck, over there.” Spencer hitched his chin in the direction of an old, battered Dodge that had once been red, but had faded after years of abuse by the hot Louisiana sun. In the bed
“So?”
“So…after that program, Luke disappeared. He didn’t show up at his health club and you know he always works out after the show.”
She remembered. Didn’t comment about Luke’s obsession with staying in shape. It wasn’t just about looking or feeling good, it was some kind of rabid mania.
“No one has heard from him. I went over to his town house, but no one answered the door. I’ve called his home phone and his cell and he’s not answering.”
“He’ll surface,” she said, refusing to be sucked into Luke’s antics.
“But—”
“I haven’t seen him. Okay? And as he so publicly made certain of, I’m not his wife anymore.” She was angry now, and her tongue wanted to go wild. “I don’t keep tabs on him. Why don’t you talk to his girlfriend?”
“Nia…yeah…Luke and Nia…”
When he trailed off, she asked impatiently, “What?”
“Nia doesn’t know where he is.”
She could tell he’d been going to say something else. Whatever it was, she didn’t care. “Maybe she does and she’s not saying.”
“This isn’t like him.” Maury sounded worried. Really worried.
Good. Let him stew about Luke’s whereabouts. To her surprise, Abby didn’t care about Luke’s shenanigans or his love life at all. And she wasn’t worried about him. Luke was known to pull all kinds of publicity stunts. He was just the kind of guy to fake his own death to give the ratings a shot in the arm. “I haven’t seen Luke since last weekend when he picked up Hershey, the dog we share custody of. Sorry, I can’t help you. And he’d better be taking care of my dog.”
“Okay, okay, but if you do hear from him, have him call the station immediately. The producer’s ready to tear Luke a new one.”
“Oh, great.” Just what she needed to hear. She hung up and refused to consider what Luke was up to. It didn’t matter anymore. They were divorced. Period.
And his things were out of the garage.
Still, she walked into the bedroom and opened the second drawer of her nightstand, on what had once been Luke’s side of the bed.
There, as it had been for years, was his father’s service revolver. Picking up the .38, she felt a pang of guilt for having lied to her ex about the weapon, but her remorse was short-lived.
For now, she was keeping the gun.
“Okay…so what have we got here?” Detective Reuben Montoya, in jeans, T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, stepped carefully toward the door of the small, dilapidated cabin in the bayou. Morning sunlight was crawling through the trees and brush, burning off the last of the night fog. The smell of the swamp was thick in his nostrils: slow-moving water, rotting vegetation, and something else, a stench he recognized as that of decaying flesh. His stomach turned a bit but he contained it. For the most part he’d always been able to button down his emotions, work the scene, and not lose his lunch.
“It looks like a murder-suicide,” the deputy, Don Spencer, theorized. He was short, with pale blue eyes and reddish hair buzzed into a military cut. “But not everything adds up. We’re still figuring it out. Crime-scene team’s been at it for an hour.”
Montoya nodded and looked around. Several officers had already roped off the crime-scene with yellow tape and were positioned around the perimeter of the little cabin stuck in the middle of no-damned-where. “You the first on the scene?” Montoya asked as he signed the security log.
“Yep. Got the call into dispatch from a local—a fisherman who admits to trespassing. He was on his way to the river, noticed the door hanging open, and walked in.”
“He still here?”
The officer nodded. “In his truck, over there.” Spencer hitched his chin in the direction of an old, battered Dodge that had once been red, but had faded after years of abuse by the hot Louisiana sun. In the bed
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