Before he knew what he was doing, he was kneeling by her side, his head in her lap, crying. She cried with him. They ached together in their loss. The loss of Dashiell, the loss of their marriage. The loss of each other.
That they’d make love was inevitable. He was not expecting it to be quite so aggressive, quite so wild. They both went a little crazy. And when they were finished, slick and hot and sated, Sutton said, in a small, quiet voice, “I’ve missed you.”
And Ethan’s heart broke all over again.
THAT MAN IS LYING THROUGH HIS TEETH
Now
So two people were now pointing fingers at Ethan Montclair—Ivy Brookes and the anonymous caller. The blogger wanted $50,000 for information, and they might now have a year-old murder on their hands. The moment word got out, the whole town would be turned on its collective ear. But before Holly did anything, she had to write things down. She didn’t want to screw up. So she sat in her car and transcribed her notes, everything she’d just learned, about Wilde, about Montclair, about the bottle of diphenhydramine, and about Ivy Brookes. When she felt like she had things clear in her head, she called Moreno, ran him through her day thus far. She finished with, “We need to find this blogger, now. Jim in IT already has the files. I can call and ask him to start a trace.”
“I’m three steps ahead of you. You ain’t going to believe this. You need to come in. Right now.”
* * *
Holly walked through the halls of the Franklin Police station, her heart kettle-drumming in her chest. Moreno had commandeered a conference room, and that’s where she headed. The stench of burnt coffee clung in the air. Wanted posters lined the walls, along with framed motivational quotes—their chief was big on supporting her troops.
Jim from IT was sitting at the table, three laptops open in front of him. His square black glasses were sliding down his nose, as usual. He gave her a big smile when she walked in, shoved the glasses up. He was cute, Jim, in a geeky kind of way.
“There’s the champ. Great job, sister. You’ve gotten everything we need to nail this son of a bitch.”
Three other detectives and Sergeant Moreno were also present. Moreno looked up from a stack of papers. “Graham, you know everyone?”
She did. Alex Young and Walt Teal were from Missing Persons, both young and agile. Carlie Cox was a homicide detective with a reputation for closing cases. They were all seasoned, experienced investigators, and Holly felt a short qualm.
“Hi there.”
Moreno said, “Graham has been on this case for a couple of days now, and she’s managed to extract a ton of information from both the suspect and the victim’s friends. Tell them everything you just told me.”
She didn’t have time to be nervous, or worry about missing something. She opened her notebook and began to speak.
“We have a he said, she said. Ethan Montclair insists he had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance. He’s been convinced his wife disappeared on purpose, but now he’s worried someone hurt her. The wife’s friends are split on whether Montclair is responsible, but one, Ivy Brookes, who appears to be the closest to them both, just broke it all open. She claims Montclair killed the baby, was abusing his wife, that there are photographs on Mrs. Montclair’s phone to prove this, and she is convinced he’s done something to her. Brookes also handed over a bottle of generic Benadryl she claims was used to OD the baby. Which is odd to me, because Montclair also allegedly got his wife pregnant by switching out her birth control pills. It seems strange someone who wanted a baby so much would kill it.
“Brookes also pointed out that Montclair’s timeline could be completely off, that it’s possible he’s lying about when he saw his wife last. We’ll have to figure that in to everything.
“Montclair claims he’s being blackmailed by an online blogger who’s been hassling the family for months. He tried to pay the ransom but the blogger never showed. Happily, there are a number of loose threads—phone calls, texts, and emails—which means Jim will be able to sort through them all. Montclair’s phone is now tapped, as I understand it, so if there are any more demands from the blackmailer, we’ll know right away.
“The one fact we have, there has been no word from Sutton Montclair for at least forty-eight hours. Even though the note she left is compelling, the revelations of the past two days are too important to ignore. I believe someone has hurt Sutton Montclair. I’m not entirely convinced it was her husband.”
Moreno nodded to Jim. “You’ll change your tune when you see what Jim’s found.”
Jim crooked a finger. “Come here. Check this out.”
Holly obliged. The screen was filled with numbers. “I’m not the most tech savvy, you know that.”
“Then I’ll use small words and speak slowly.”
She smacked his arm and they all laughed. “Okay. Enough foreplay. Tell me.”
He clicked a button and the screen turned black, showing a dotted-white outline of the United States. There were multiple solid lines that looked like tracer fire shooting out of a small green dot in the middle of Tennessee.
Jim started tracing the lines. “The friend, Brookes, is telling the truth, or at least her suppositions are right. Looks like Ethan Montclair was trying to drive his wife batty. All of the traffic from the past couple of days, and before, is coming out of the Montclairs’ house. All the contact with the reviewer, all the contact with the blogger, all the contact with the friends, and with us, is shooting through the router in Ethan Montclair’s office. The emails, the phone calls, the whole shebang.”
“How is that possible?”
“A very sophisticated VPN, a virtual private network, which I was able to trace back to Ethan Montclair’s world. He purchased the program over a year ago. We have the credit card statements going back three years, so we looked for anomalies and found this. Also, he bought spoofing equipment, so he could make calls to the house look like they came from outside, and burner phones. There’s a rather sophisticated keystroke analysis program on Sutton Montclair’s computer, too. Everything she did, every move she made, he’s been tracking. All the files are on the router, in a hidden directory.”
Holly couldn’t help but think of Montclair’s beseeching eyes when he’d asked her, “Is it possible for passwords to be changed remotely?”
“How hidden?”
“Took me about an hour to find it once I knew what I was looking for. The IP address on the email view wasn’t a fluke. It looks like Mr. Montclair is behind this whole thing, and was betting on us not finding this hidden directory. It’s a slam dunk, Graham. Dude’s guilty as hell.”
Moreno shut the file in front of him. “We’re in a unique situation, Officer Graham. We’ve done this backward. Mr. Montclair gave us permission to search his files and his wife’s computer, something we’d normally need a warrant to do. We’ve found enough to open a possible homicide investigation. We are getting a warrant right now to search the house. We’re also revisiting the baby’s death. Carlie’s on that.”
The older woman nodded. “If you can believe it, some of the tissue samples haven’t been run yet. Though the case was ruled SIDS, the official COD hasn’t been stated. There are still some outstanding tests. We’ve asked for them to be finished and sent as soon as possible.” She checked her watch, a large dial with a white band. “Speaking of...I’m off to go run them down. Welcome to the team, Graham.”
“Thanks. Good luck.” She turned back to the rest of them. “What about the phone? Ivy Brookes told me we’d find photos of physical abuse on Sutton Montclair’s phone.”
Jim opened a new screen. “It’s not enough for court, but there are some indications. Have a look.”
She watched him open the pictures. Most were impossible to identify. They looked like blurry smudges, though one was clearly a female forearm with two distinct fingerprints de
nting the flesh, and another showed a bruised and swollen nose.
“If this is Mrs. Montclair’s arm, that’s a nasty bruise made by someone’s hand. That nose looks broken. But that’s all I’ve got on here. The rest are selfies and sunsets.”
“What about the baby?”
“Nothing. Not a single shot.”
“Strange.”
“Not really,” Moreno said. “When you lose a child, it’s often difficult to have the constant reminder. Some people get their energy from looking at the old photos, setting up shrines. Some just want to forget.”
“How sad,” Holly said. “Well, we know she got hurt at least twice, and we’ve had a number of domestic calls to come out and defuse fights, though Mrs. Montclair always claimed she didn’t call the police in the reports. We should look and see where the calls originated.”
“Already did,” Jim said. “They all came from the house, from her phone.”
Moreno stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “She was probably lying to save face. That happens. I see it all the time on domestic calls. The woman’s already been scared and beaten up. By admitting she called for help, she can be signing her death warrant.”
The MP detectives chimed in. Walt spoke first. He had a gentle but distinct Southern accent. Holly knew he was from West Tennessee. “We’re going to be doing a full-on grid search through the area. I’ll be leading the exterior team, Alex will be in charge of the house itself. We’ll start in the house and its proximity, then move everywhere around the neighborhood, and start working our way out. With your relationship to the suspect, you should stick with Alex. You’re already somewhat familiar with the house. You can guide us there.”
“Actually, I may want you here to interview Mr. Montclair,” Moreno said. “Depends on how he reacts when we show up to toss the place and bring him in for questioning. You’ve definitely developed a rapport with him. He might just admit it all once we get him inside an interview room.”
“Assuming his lawyer is going to let you talk to him,” Walt said. “Joel Robinson isn’t anyone’s fool.”
Moreno shrugged. “With any luck, Montclair is so convinced we’ll never figure out he’s behind this that he’ll come on in like a good little boy and leave Robinson out of it.”
Holly listened carefully to everything, nodding, taking notes, thinking. When they’d finished running her through the plan, she pocketed her notebook and crossed her arms on her chest.
“Sir, I appreciate that I’m new to the investigative field, but I have to say, something feels very strange about all of this. Mr. Montclair either has a split personality or he doesn’t know all of this is on his computer. He’d never give us the goods to arrest him. He’s too smart for that.”
“You don’t think he did it? We have a preponderance of evidence the man is playing a serious long con game, first with his wife, and now with us. His friends are abandoning ship. The second we name him as a suspect, they will all come forward with stories. Trust me. I’ve seen this before,” Moreno said.
“I know you have, and trust me, I appreciate your experience here. But...why bring us in? To what end? If he wanted to get rid of his wife, why didn’t he just kill her and dump her somewhere far away, and not call us in?”
“Pretty boy wants to play,” Jim said.
“Come on. I don’t buy it. I don’t disagree that everything is pointing to a purposeful murder, and all of this looks really bad for him. But there’s something bizarre about it all. For example, the video of Sutton Montclair at the reviewer’s house. Both Ellen Jones and Mr. Montclair agree that it isn’t Sutton.”
“How hard is it to hire an actress to go do something stupid for you?” Jim said.
“Let me guess,” Holly quipped. “There’s a receipt for a hired actress for the date in question?” She looked at Moreno. “Sir. Something’s weird here. This is so pat, so convenient. I don’t buy it.”
“Hey, Golightly, there’s nothing convenient about this. I said I’d use small words, Graham, but trust me, this wasn’t an easy hack. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing, exactly where to hide the files.”
“Why keep evidence that can be used against you? Montclair is a writer. I’ve talked to him at length, researched everything I can find about him online. I won’t go so far as to say I know how he thinks, but it’s clear from our conversations that he thinks through every permutation. I can’t buy the idea that he’d be so dumb as to leave a trail of bread crumbs to his own door.”
Moreno smiled. “And yet, young Graham, this is exactly what we have. Here’s the thing about criminals. They’re stupid. They think they’re brilliant. They think they can get away with it. Some of them are total sociopaths who can, but the vast majority are ego-driven little psychopaths who get their jollies trying to out-puzzle us. The thing is, we’ve been trained. We know how they think, how they pretend. In the end, a small bit of evidence, a hair, a fingerprint, a flake of blood, is all it takes to catch them in their lies.
“Now, it’s going to take a little time to set everything in motion. You’ve been at it for two days nonstop. Go get a shower, get some food, get some rest. We’re going to hit this hard very soon, and you won’t have a chance to breathe for a while.”
“But, sir—”
“No buts. You earned yourself a couple of hours off. Go. And, Graham?”
“Yes, sir?”
“We will find the truth that Mr. Montclair thinks he’s hiding. Believe me.”
When he put it that way, so vehemently and so plainly, she almost did. Almost.
A CRY, BUT NOT FOR HELP
Another nasty, empty morning. Ethan thought he might still be drunk. He was definitely hungover. His hands and wrists ached. He had crawled into bed somewhere around three in the morning, after writing nearly eighty pages of material. He’d never tapped in so completely. His previous one-day record was fifty pages and that had taken sixteen hours, with regular breaks, when he was young and dumb and didn’t know any better.
He’d written almost a third of the story in one sitting. And it was good. Solid. Usable.
He did some light stretching, popped a few Advil and drank a liter of water, made tea, choked down some cereal, and reopened the manuscript.
His thoughts bounced between the story and Sutton. He was consumed by images of her. The lines were becoming blurred. Whose story was he writing? His? Hers? Theirs?
Waking, sleeping, writing, he couldn’t escape her. He didn’t want to, reveled in the memories. When he needed a break, he looked at old photos. Then he turned back to the pages, and wrote. He didn’t know what to make of this. His wife missing, his life interrupted, but his block broken.
The tone and texture of the book was changing, altered by the subliminal situation brewing in the back of Ethan’s mind. He typed and thought, typed and thought.
They’d been so happy. He thought they were happy, at least. The Saturday date nights, dinners around town, expensive bottles of wine. The walks on Sunday down the Franklin streets, arm in arm, dodging baby carriages and young mothers in baseball caps, then with their own three-wheeled running carriage, the finest he could buy. The parties to which they were invited, their photos always making it into the society magazines. They were such a great couple, everyone said so. Such an adorable family.
Yet he’d screwed it up, again and again and again.
He was human. He was a man. He was even semifamous, and beloved among many.
Where were all the sycophants now?
His world had narrowed to three components: eat and drink, sleep, worry about Sutton by writing the story of a lifetime.
Eat was making itself known again. He made a late lunch with the last bits of the groceries. The tea tin was nearly empty; he scraped the last of the butter on his toast. He added the groceries needed to the iPad built into
the refrigerator and clicked Order Now. The grocery delivery service would automatically bring the items requested in two hours. All hail modern technology.
As he chewed, the same refrains played, over and over. Where did she go? Where had she gone? Why had she taken money and disappeared?
How will it end? How will I draw the story through? Where is the next turn? Stay away from that saggy middle, it’s getting marshy.
At the end of the day, he had another hundred pages. This, this was his atonement. This was his punishment. He was bound to the story, to the computer. Bound to the idea of a lost life.
And while he wrote, while he hid, while he lost himself, the police made the case against him.
THE GREEN GRASS ACROSS THE WAY
Every case breaks. Especially when there are so many moving parts, so many edges, crevasses to climb in, dark, moist corners ripe for dissection.
The blackmail was a stroke of genius, truly it was. Everyone rushed off in the wrong direction, and here I am, left to pick up the pieces.
We’re reaching the endgame. I can’t imagine she won’t be found soon. And when she is, Katie, bar the door.
Isn’t that a stupid phrase? It’s a Southern thing. It means a tempest is brewing. A storm of epic proportion is about to blow in your door. A woman will lose her temper, a man will become a raging beast.
These are the inevitabilities of life. We are afraid to die, and so we are afraid to live.
Do you think Ethan is to blame? That he put his hands around the pale stalk of her gorgeous neck and squeezed until no breath would ever be drawn again?
Do you think the cop will be smart enough to figure any of this out? Truly, how much more does she need to put it all together?
Lie to Me Page 16