This was possibly true. “Think what you will, but it’s my decision.”
The silence that followed was not what she’d hoped for. Fine. Whatever. You be the bad guy, then. Those were the sorts of responses she had anticipated.
“Very well,” he said on an exaggerated release of air. “You’ve left me no other choice. I will be contacting my attorney and pursuing primary custody.”
A rusty laugh burst out of her. “Like that’s going to happen.” They had been down this road already. “Tori has lived in Birmingham her whole life. The judge is never going to rule in your favor. Particularly considering the circumstances of your abrupt departure from our marriage.”
“She’s thirteen, Kerri. Tori’s testimony will carry more weight than you realize, and she’s ready for a change. You’re never home, and you have no one to back you up.”
Outrage blasted her. “I have a sister who is always happy to back me up.” If he thought the little tart he now called his fiancée was going to compete with a loving aunt who had been a part of Tori’s life from the beginning, he was dead wrong.
“I guess we’ll let the court settle the disagreement.”
She opened her mouth to let him have it, but he ended the call before she could utter another word.
“Bastard.”
She strode from the kitchen and into the hall. At the bottom of the staircase, she bit back the urge to demand that Tori come down and explain herself. Wouldn’t help. It would only make bad matters worse. After a couple of deep breaths to find some sense of calm, she called out, “I’m going. Have a good day, and be safe!”
No response, of course.
After snagging her jacket from the back of a stool as she walked through the kitchen, she stopped at the back door and pulled it on. No matter how hot the summers got in Alabama, most detectives wore lightweight dress jackets to cover their shoulder holsters and to give a more professional appearance.
Everyone, she amended, except her partner.
As if the thought had conjured him, his black Charger turned into her driveway. She locked the door and shoved the key into her pocket. He rolled right up behind her Wagoneer and powered down his window.
He lowered the volume of the music vibrating his vehicle like an oversize stereo speaker and said, “Morning, Devlin. You ready to rock this case?”
“I don’t recall deciding you would drive.” She lingered on the stoop, considered the reality that she’d barely slept last night. Between the case and the fight with her daughter, she’d been far too keyed up to manage more than a couple of hours.
“A good partner senses the needs of his other half.”
“Other half?” She shook her head and descended the two steps. “Do me a favor, Falco,” she said as she walked toward his car.
“What’s that?”
Kerri waited until she’d opened the door and settled into the passenger seat. “Never call me your other half again.”
He grunted and shifted into reverse. “You’re the boss. Where we headed first?”
“The parents.” She fastened her seat belt and stared up at the window that was her daughter’s as they rolled out of the driveway. “Hopefully they can tell us something more about the wife.”
The APB on the wife had garnered no hits. A few calls had come in after the press release last evening, but nothing that panned out. One would think the woman had simply vanished.
Except that wasn’t possible. Basic physics. Mass occupies space.
So far Abbott’s staff and his parents were the only people who seemed even remotely close to the couple. None of the neighbors admitted to knowing them other than in passing and by reputation. Some folks were private that way and didn’t allow anyone too close. Kerri imagined that in Abbott’s line of work, enemies were difficult to see coming. Sometimes it was easier to avoid close personal connections altogether in an effort to lower or eliminate the potential for deception.
Kerri understood the concept better than ever these days. The fact of the matter was, you never really knew a person—no matter how close the connection.
Case in point, she had not seen her husband’s affair coming.
Then again, maybe she just hadn’t been looking.
Abbott Residence
Saint Charles Drive, Hoover
Ben Abbott’s parents lived in a gigantic house that had to be twenty thousand square feet if it was one. A member of the household staff—quite possibly a butler—led Kerri and Falco through the vast entry hall with its marble floors and towering muraled ceiling. The interior of the house resembled a museum rather than a home. Pausing at an open set of french doors, their guide gestured for them to enter.
Beyond those classic double doors, which stood a good ten feet in height themselves, was a richly paneled den with coffered ceilings and the most elaborate molding Kerri had seen anywhere. The conversational grouping of chairs and sofas stood in the center of the room. A family area complete with all sorts of entertaining pieces—including a massive television and a sprawling bar featuring every sort of libation imaginable stored along the mirrored shelves, as well as an elegant billiard table—was only steps away from the seating area. Above the space was a second-story gallery bordered with shelves from floor to ceiling, every single one lined with books.
“Detectives.”
The man who spoke was clearly Ben Abbott’s father. Kerri had seen photos of Daniel Abbott in the newspaper and on the net, but even if she hadn’t, the resemblance was undeniable. The shape of his face, the nose. She thought of the man in his big comfortable bed with the bullet hole in his forehead.
Kerri blinked the image away and thrust out her hand. “Mr. Abbott. I regret this interview is necessary.”
Mr. Abbott gave a nod and turned to Falco and shook his hand as well. Falco offered a similar sentiment.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Abbott gestured to the chairs. “My wife will be along shortly.” He shook his head. “This nightmare has devastated the both of us. Every minute of every hour has been an incredible trial.”
Kerri didn’t want to imagine. Losing a child had to be the most painful agony any parent could face—no matter if that child was fully grown with a family of his own. “We’ll try to keep our questions focused and brief so as not to drag out this painful meeting any longer than necessary.”
“Is there any word on Sela?” Mr. Abbott asked, his face shadowed with worry.
“Not at this time, sir.” No point in beating around the bush. Kerri understood this man would not want the facts softened or embellished in any way. Not to mention, he had friends in high places. He likely knew the answer before he asked. “I assume you’ve still had no ransom demand of any sort?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.” He glanced around. “Well, let’s get down to the reason you came this morning.”
Kerri waited before doing as he asked, since Mrs. Abbott entered the room. She was a petite woman with soft blonde hair in one of those short swing styles so popular with older women. Her eyes were red and swollen. The black suit emphasized her overly pale complexion. She was grieving, and she took no measures to hide it.
Abbott rose, as did Falco. As soon as Mrs. Abbott settled on the sofa, the two resumed their seats. A handkerchief was wadded in her hand. She rolled and shifted it back and forth between her fingers while her husband made the introductions. The woman’s gaze lingered on Falco for a time. No doubt she wondered how a man who looked more like he’d just crawled out of a box under the expressway bridge than he did a homicide detective could possibly find her son’s killer.
Kerri glanced at her partner. She was quickly learning that this particular book could not be judged by its cover. She was glad. Strangely enough, she kind of liked Falco. A little, at least.
“I only want to know one thing,” Tempest Abbott said, her voice thin, frail. Her attention now fixed solidly on Kerri.
Kerri waited for her to go on.
“What are you doing to find my grandchild?”
“We’re doing everything possible,” Kerri assured her, “to find Sela, as well as the person or persons who did this. We hope to have some answers very soon.”
Mrs. Abbott collapsed against the back of the sofa, as if it had taken every ounce of wherewithal she possessed to hold up long enough to ask that single question.
“We have a few questions,” Falco said. “Your responses could help us find the answer you want more quickly.”
“Ask us anything,” Mr. Abbott urged. “We want to help. We need to help.”
The urgency in his tone tugged at Kerri’s own sense of urgency. Already twenty-four hours had elapsed, and they basically had nothing.