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reluctantly.
    “What’s Sarah’s driver’s license number?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Okay, I’ll get it through the DMV. Social Security number?”
    “Don’t know it, sorry.”
    Holman sucked on his teeth. “No problem, I can get that too. Let’s move on to some things you should know. Describe Sarah for me—height, weight, hair and eye color, et cetera—okay? Those sorts of details.”
    Terry nodded. “She’s five-five with light brown hair with blonde streaks.”
    The sheriff rattled the keyboard. “Dyed?”
    “No, it’s her natural hair color.”
    “Okay. Eye color?”
    “Gray.”
    “Weight?”
    “A bit over nine stone.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Oh. Sorry.” Terry did the mental calculation. “About a hundred thirty pounds.”
    “Have you got a picture?”
    “Yes. I brought one. I thought it might help.” Terry brought out a snapshot from when he and Sarah had met in Costa Rica. The picture was a little dog-eared. It featured Sarah weigheddown by her backpack, smiling with a tropical jungle behind her. She was without makeup and damp looking—not her finest hour, but that was the Sarah he’d fallen in love with. He handed the photo to Holman and the sheriff examined it.
    “Does she have any distinguishing marks like tattoos, scars—anything of that sort?”
    “Sheriff, she’s not a sailor.”
    Holman cracked a smile. His face creased like it was antique leather. “I didn’t mean it as it sounded. So I can take it that the answer is no?”
    “Correct, but she does have a heart-shaped birthmark on her right hip.”
    “Good to know. Who is her employer?”
    “She’s a freelance journalist. She works features for magazines and newspapers, but I don’t know which ones.”
    “How about friends and family?”
    “Her parents are both deceased. I’ve never met her friends. I just have names in an address book, so I’ve sent them e-mails asking for their help. None of them seem to know anything.”
    “Credit cards?”
    “Probably.”
    “But you don’t know the numbers?” Holman asked with a sigh.
    “Right.”
    Holman slid his chair back from his terminal and sat back, resting his hands across his trim stomach. “Mr. Sheffield, let’s make this a little easier for both of us. Why don’t you tell me what you
do
know about your wife?”
    “She likes animals and travel, adores horses, and loves me.”
    Holman exhaled. “That it?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “If your wife is a journalist, it’s possible that she’s off investigating a story.”
    “Possible. But she would have left word for me.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I know because she’s my wife. She wouldn’t have run off and left me stranded.”
    “How long have you known Sarah, Terry?”
    Alarm bells were ringing. Holman was using his first name. Terry knew something was coming. “Eighteen months.”
    “And how long in each other’s company?”
    “Why?”
    “Indulge me.”
    Terry didn’t like where Holman was going with this line of questioning, but he indulged the sheriff. He totaled up the amount of time they’d spent together. It was embarrassingly short.
    “Eight weeks.”
    “Eight weeks?”
    “Maybe nine,” Terry added.
    “Okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt—nine weeks. You’ve known this woman just over two months.”
    “We kept in contact by phone and e-mail,” Terry interjected.
    “Big deal.”
    “It is a big deal. When you don’t have the luxury of living in the same country as another person, you have to make do. You improvise and do whatever you can to maintain that bond. Don’t knock it purely because you don’t understand it. You don’t know me, and you don’t know Sarah.”
    “No, I don’t, Terry. I don’t know you or your wife, but I’m having a hard time believing in the seriousness of your relationship with this woman. Remind me, where did you get married?”
    “Las Vegas,” Terry said with a sigh.
    Holman shook his head and smiled wryly.
    “Who was