Chapter 6
Him
Sid’s Auto and Body Shop wasn’t much to look at.
Just a circular dirt driveway with a large, one-bay garage and glass-enclosed office at the midpoint.
Next to the garage were a dozen cars, all in various stages of rusted decay, and still on the back bed of the tow truck was the Tahoe they’d pulled from the river.
The driver’s side front door hung open at an odd angle, which told me it’d been wrenched open by the Jaws of Life.
I could feel both my anger and frustration building.
The Tahoe should’ve been covered with a tarp and sealed until a team of CSI could carefully pick it apart, hunting for clues.
It’d been here for at least twenty-four hours, and anybody could’ve strolled by, stopped, and rooted around inside, not to mention whatever scavenger hunting Sid might’ve done before we got here.
Seeing the Tahoe like that made my blood boil. “I’m gonna kill this Sid asshole for leaving that door open and the interior exposed.”
Oscar withdrew his weapon. “Shoot first, ask questions later. Got it, sir.”
I stared at Oscar.
He stared back.
“…”
“…”
“Smart-ass.”
He holstered his weapon, doing his best to hide a smirk. “Just trying to follow your lead, sir.”
I settled Eggy onto the middle seat, tucking the blanket around him, then got out of the truck’s cab.
Walking over to the tow truck, my gaze tilted up to the SUV, which was caked in mud and slime and smelled god-awful.
My heart hammered against my rib cage as I took it all in.
If they’d wrenched the door open and hadn’t found a body, that should’ve made me feel a little better, but I couldn’t let go of the possibility that she’d been in the SUV when it went into the river.
What if Abby had managed to get out of the Tahoe before it sank but still got swept downstream and drowned?
It was a thought that sucked the air out of my lungs. If she’d fought to get out of the car, would there be signs?
Oscar reached the Tahoe first. He paused to gaze up at it while pulling out two sets of latex gloves from his coat pocket, handing one pair to me. I put them on while inching closer to the open door.
The interior of the Tahoe was dark due to the silt and mud still covering the windows, but enough light got in to let me know that the entire SUV had been completely submerged for a fair amount of time.
At least the past month or two, which gave me pause, because someone had obviously dumped it after the initial searches of the river.
There’s no way we’d missed it given the multiple sweeps with sonar we’d conducted up and down the river.
From my own coat pocket, I pulled out my Nitecore flashlight—the best flashlight used by LEOs on the market—and pointed the beam inside the Tahoe.
It was hard to tell what was what, with all the mud. Nothing looked disturbed. Or rather, there wasn’t much inside besides mud that looked like it could’ve been disturbed.
That also gave me pause. I’d had fishing equipment stored in the back, and Abby had brought along a bag of books that I remember she’d not taken out of the SUV, preferring to sift through the contents, select a book, then bring it into the cabin with her.
The book bag and my fishing equipment weren’t visible. In fact, the SUV looked empty, save for something large and rectangular laying at an odd angle in the back seat.
I pointed the flashlight’s beam at it, and the light glinted off something metallic.
Immediately, I knew what the thing was.
Abby had been collecting designer handbags created by a woman who’d stopped making them due to her failing health.
You could only find them secondhand these days, but Abby didn’t care.
She scoured her resale sites for bags by the designer in great or like-new condition, and she plunked down some of her hard-earned money for one in enough colors to go with any outfit she wore.
The designer’s name was Sophie-something…
Sophie Hulme, if memory served me. The most coveted bag of Ms. Hulme’s that Abby had scoured the internet in search of was a handbag big enough to double as an overnight bag.
Big, black, and with brass accents, the thing was as long as Abby’s fibula. She loved it.
Back in October, I’d warned her that carrying that thing was going to garner her a few odd looks when she’d toted it into town that rainy Saturday morning, but she hadn’t cared.
The black leather bag with its brass accents completed the day’s outfit, she’d argued.
She’d been wearing a bold red sweater, long and thick matching red scarf, jeans, and that goddamn monster of a handbag.
I closed my eyes, calling up the memory of her in the doorway, looking like some chic model about to strut for an Instagram post. She was so beautiful, it hurt to remember.
She’d waved to me before grabbing the sheepskin coat I’d gotten her—a gift for our trip. After shrugging into it, she’d fluffed her hair, winked, and blown me a kiss like she was the lead in some romantic movie. Then she’d walked out the door and out of my life.
I didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse that the last time I’d seen my wife was when she’d been too gorgeous to describe. I longed for her in a way I couldn’t put into words.
I stared at the mud-covered handbag for a long minute. Abby wouldn’t have left it behind if she’d walked away from the Tahoe willingly. It’d been a prized possession. She’d loved it. And I’d loved her.
I closed my eyes and tried not to picture a scenario where we’d discover Abby’s handbag but not her. I’d seen far too much death in my career. Crime-scene photos fluttered across my mind’s eye, and it was impossible not to imagine Abby’s lifeless face among the images.
“Oscar,” I croaked, opening my eyes and lifting a finger to point to the odd shape in the backseat.
He inched closer and peered into the dark interior.
Turning away, I walked a couple of steps, working to push out of my mind the images of Abby lying dead, but I couldn’t.
Why was her handbag inside the Tahoe but she wasn’t?
She would’ve taken the bag inside the store with her; of that, I was positive.
She never would’ve left it behind and exposed to would-be car burglars.
Above the pounding of my pulse, I could hear the crunch of Oscar’s boots. I knew he was moving to where I’d been standing, then I heard him grunt as he pulled himself up onto the bed of the truck.
“The Carry-On,” I heard him mutter.
Muscle memory tugged upward at the corners of my mouth before the reflexive smile faltered.
The handbag’s size, and Abby’s insistence to dangle it from the crook of her arm, had invited the guys at the office to tease her about it.
They’d ask her when her flight was taking off and if she needed a ride to the airport.
Oscar had asked her where the wheels were stowed.
He’d come up with the nickname, “The Carry-On.”
My wife had laughed right along with the Bureau boys, calling them infidels and fashion-don’ts.
The joke continued all throughout this past summer, when Abby had turned the joke on them, showing up each day with a different surprise concealed in the handbag’s depths.
One Monday morning, she’d brought The Carry-On into a packed conference room and nonchalantly removed a terrarium, setting it on the table and grinning as we all broke into howls of laughter.
The next Monday, she’d pulled out a garden gnome, then a fishbowl with a swimming goldfish, and, late in the summer, she’d topped all those surprises by producing a live rabbit. We still had no idea where the bunny had come from, and Abby wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even me.
I turned away from the Tahoe as the memories flooded my mind. I was a mess these days. Anything could set me off. But memories of the humorous audacity of my wife was one thing that guaranteed I’d lose it.
I took a few steps and stared up at the sky, blinking into the bright light, willing myself to get it together.
If I could bring her home, I’d buy her another giant handbag.
Hell, I’d buy her one a day for as many days as she’d been missing, which was one-hundred and seventy-seven days, eighteen hours, and a few minutes.
But who’s counting.
Behind us I heard a door opening, and I glanced over my shoulder to see a forty-something bald guy with a walrus mustache and pale skin, dressed in a gray, grease-stained jumpsuit, holding a half-eaten breakfast burrito. “Hey!” he yelled. “Get the hell away from that!”
Oscar hopped down from the tow truck bed and regarded him casually before pulling out his shield. “Special Agent Oscar Hernandez, Sid. We’re the good guys.”
Sid didn’t seem to agree. “I’m supposed to go over that for evidence.”
“Not anymore,” Oscar told him.
I turned around fully to face Sid, hoping he’d see that the look on my face suggested he’d best back the fuck off.
Sid’s a smart guy. He skimmed me up and down, then promptly held up a hand and added a shrug. “Suit yourself. I got better things to do with my time anyway. But I’ll be sending you guys the bill for the tow.”
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Walking over to Sid, I took out my credit card and handed it to him. “Ring it up.”
Sid stared at the platinum card being shoved at him like he hadn’t thought we’d actually pay up, then snatched it before I could change my mind.
Once he was holding the card, I added, “And get the Tahoe off the bed for us too.”
He shrugged again and moved over to the cab of his tow truck.
Hopping in, he turned the engine over, moved to the flatbed to unhook several chains, and headed back to the cab to slowly tilt the flatbed up while releasing tension on the lone chain wrapped around the chassis, then eased the truck forward foot by foot.
The Tahoe slid more than it rolled off the bed of the tow truck, and dozens of gallons of water whooshed out of the cab as the angle of the Tahoe was tilted up. Oscar and I stepped out of the way of the flood of water, which ran in a steady stream toward the street.
Finally, when the Tahoe was level on the dirt driveway, Sid got out of the cab and made a show of unhooking the final chain.
Then, without a word, he left us to go run my card.