Just One Look (Page 47)

“And?”

“And he’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“No sign of him. I can’t find work records for him. I can’t find any sign of a Shane Alworth on the tax payroll. I can’t find any hit on his social security number.”

“For how long?”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gone back ten years. Nothing.” Duncan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another photograph. He handed it to Grace. “Recognize him?”

She took a long look at the photograph. No question about it. It was the other guy in her photograph. She looked up at him for confirmation. Duncan nodded.

“Creepy, huh?”

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“From Shane Alworth’s mother. She claims her son lives in a small town in Mexico. That he’s a missionary or something and that’s why his name doesn’t pop up. Shane also has a brother who lives in St. Louis. Works as a psychologist. He backs up what the mother said.”

“But you don’t buy it.”

“Do you?”

Grace put the mystery photograph on the table. “So we know about three people in this photograph,” she said, more to herself than Duncan. “We have your sister, who was murdered. We have her boyfriend, Shane Alworth, the guy over here. He’s missing. We have my husband, who disappeared right after seeing this photograph. That about right?”

“Pretty much.”

“What else did the mother say?”

“Shane was unreachable. He was in the Amazon jungle, she thought.”

“The Amazon jungle? In Mexico?”

“Her geography was fuzzy.”

Grace shook her head and pointed at the picture. “So that leaves the other two women. Any clue who they are?”

“No, not yet. But we know more now. The redhead, we should get a bead on her pretty soon. The other one, the one with her back to the camera, I don’t know if we’ll ever know.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

“Not really. I’ve had Geri’s body exhumed. That took some time to arrange. A full autopsy is being done, see if they can find any physical evidence, but it’s a long shot. This”—he held up the picture from the Web—“this is the first real lead I’ve had.”

She didn’t like the pitch of hope in his voice. “It might just be a picture,” she said.

“You don’t believe that.”

Grace put her hands on the table. “Do you think my husband had something to do with your sister’s death?”

Duncan rubbed his chin. “Good question,” he said.

She waited.

“Something to do with it, probably. But I don’t think he killed her, if that’s what you’re asking. Something happened to them a long time ago. I don’t know what. My sister was killed in a fire. Your husband ran overseas, I guess. France, you said?”

“Yes.”

“And Shane Alworth, too. I mean, it’s all connected. It has to be.”

“My sister-in-law knows something.”

Scott Duncan nodded. “You said she’s a lawyer?”

“Yes. With Burton and Crimstein.”

“That’s not good. I know Hester Crimstein. If she doesn’t want to tell us anything, I won’t be able to apply much pressure.”

“So what do we do?”

“We keep shaking the cage.”

“Shaking the cage?”

He nodded. “Shaking cages is the only way you make progress.”

“So we should start with shaking Josh at the Photomat,” Grace said. “He’s the one who gave me that photograph.”

Duncan stood. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You’re going there now?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come along.”

“Let’s go then.”

• • •

“As I live and breathe. Captain Perlmutter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Indira Khariwalla was small and wizened. Her dark skin—she was, as her name implied, from India, more specifically Bombay—had started to harden and thicken. She was still attractive but not the exotic temptress she had been in her heyday.

“Been a long time,” he said.

“Yes.” The smile, once a dazzler, took great effort now, almost cracking the skin. “But I’d prefer not to rehash the past.”

“Me either.”

When Perlmutter started working in Kasselton, he had been partnered with a veteran a year from retirement named Steve Goedert, a great guy. They struck up a deep friendship. Goedert had three kids, all grown, and a wife named Susan. Perlmutter did not know how Goedert met Indira, but they started up. Susan found out.

Fast-forward past the ugly divorce.

Goedert had no money left once the lawyers were through with him. He ended up working as a private investigator but with a twist: He specialized in infidelity. Or at least that was what he claimed. To Perlmutter’s thinking it was a scam—entrapment at its very worst. He would use Indira as bait. She would approach the husband, lure him in, and then Goedert would take pictures. Perlmutter told him to stop. Fidelity was not a game. It was not a prank, testing a man like that.

Goedert must have known it was wrong. He hit the bottle pretty good and never came out. He too had a gun in his house, and in the end he too did not use it to stop a home invasion. After his death, Indira struck out on her own. She took over the agency, keeping Goedert’s name on the door.

“A long time ago,” she said softly.

“Did you love him?”

“None of your business.”

“You ruined his life.”

“Do you really think I can wield that kind of power over a man?” She shifted in her chair. “What can I do for you, Captain Perlmutter?”

“You have an employee named Rocky Conwell.”

She did not respond.

“I know he’s off the books. I don’t care about that.”

Still nothing. He slapped down a crude Polaroid of Conwell’s dead body.

Indira’s eyes flicked to it, ready to dismiss, and then stared there. “Dear Lord.”

Perlmutter waited, but Indira said nothing. She stared for a little while longer and then let her head drop back.

“His wife says he worked for you.”

She nodded.

“What did he do?”

“Night shifts.”

“What did he do on the night shifts?”