P is for Peril Read Online Free PDF Page B

wife, but nothing sinister.”
    He leaned back in his chair. “Half a million to a million people run away each year. It’s tough on family and friends. You’ve probably seen it yourself. At first, they get into denial. Can’t believe someone’d do such a rotten thing to them. Later, they get mad. Anyway, I called the current Mrs. Purcell and made an appointment for Friday afternoon. This was September 19. Frankly, I stalled, assuming she’d hear from him.”
    â€œWhich she didn’t?”
    â€œNot then and not since. From what she says, he wasn’t suffering any physical condition that raised a flag on that score—no heart problems, diabetes, no history of mental illness. She said she’d called and talked to him at the office—this was September 12, shortly after lunch. Purcell told her he’d be late, but there was no mention of his not coming home at all. By Saturday morning, she was frantic, calling everyone she knew—friends, relatives, his colleagues. Hospitals, CHP, the morgue—you name it. There was no sign of him.
    â€œI sat with her for an hour, this was at the house in Horton Ravine. She’s got another place at the beach she stays most weekends. I went through the drill. Asked about habits, hobbies, job, country club memberships; had a look at his bedroom; went through his chest of drawers, phone bills, credit card receipts. I checked his credit card accounts for any recent activity, address book, calendar—covering all those bases.”
    â€œNothing surfaced?”
    He held up a finger. “I’ll get to that in a minute. Over the next couple weeks, we went through the mail at his home and at the clinic, arranged a mail cover, talked to his associates, entered him in the DOJ missing persons system, and put a stop on his license plate. Meantime, you have to understand, we’re not talking about a crime here, so this is strictly a public service. We’re doing what we can, but there’s no evidence to suggest we got a problem on our hands.”
    â€œFiona tells me his passport’s missing.”
    Odessa smiled ruefully. “So’s mine for that matter. Just because his wife can’t lay hands on it, doesn’t mean it’s gone. We did come across a recent statement for a savings account at Mid-City Bank. And this is what caught our attention. It looks like he made a series of cash withdrawals—thirty thousand dollars’ worth—over the past two years. Balance drops from thirteen grand to three in the past ten months alone. The last activity on the account was August 29. His wife doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”
    â€œYou think he was prepping for departure?”
    â€œWell, it sure looks that way. Granted, thirty thou won’t get you far in this day and age, but it’s a start. He might’ve milked other accounts we haven’t come up with yet. It’s always possible the guy’s a gambler and this is his stake. She says he’s not, but she might’ve been kept in the dark.”
    â€œCould we go back to the passport? If Purcell left the country, wouldn’t Customs have a record of it?”
    â€œYou’d think so. Assuming his was the passport he used. He might have traded in his personal ID—driver’s license, birth certificate, and passport—for a set of phony papers, which means he could have flown to Europe or South America under someone else’s name. Or he might have driven into Canada, booked a flight, and left from there.”
    â€œOr he might be lying low,” I said.
    â€œRight.”
    â€œWouldn’t someone have spotted his car?”
    â€œNo guarantee of that. He could’ve run it off a cliff, or driven into Mexico and sold it to a chop shop. Park a car like that in South Central and see how fast it disappears.”
    â€œWhat kind of car?”
    â€œFour-door Mercedes sedan. Silver. Vanity plate