The Pocket Wife Read Online Free PDF Page B

“She is really . . .”
    â€œYeah,” Jack says. “She is really. You look like a fawn.”
    â€œI think she might like me.” Rob’s eyes are still a little glazed, his mouth half open. He is seriously starstruck.
    â€œJust might.” Jack drags himself to his feet. “Close your mouth, will ya,” he says, and then he walks out to the break room, grabs another cup of muddy coffee, pins his hopes on the caffeine.
    He swivels his chair over to the reports on the Steinhauser case. The husband is due in soon. Ronald. They met briefly at the hospital, and then there were the phone calls back and forth about the family dog that had gone missing after the murder. He senses that Ronald’s hiding something, but the question is never whether people are hiding something, it’s whether what they’re hiding is what he needs to solve the case, especially a murder case, which this clearly is. He knows he has to be on his toes, but he feels as ifhe’s moving through a fog; the day is thick like honey. He walks over to the men’s room and splashes cold water on his face. When he gets back to his desk, Ronald is already there.
    â€œMr. Steinhauser,” he says, and Ronald clears his throat, sticks out a shaky little hand. “Good to see you again,” Jack says. “Thanks for coming in.”
    â€œSure,” Ronald says, and Jack is surprised by the strength of his grip.
    â€œFollow me,” Jack says, and together they tromp down the hall to the interrogation room. “Have a seat.” He reaches out, pulls a chair over closer, sits down as Ronald sags onto the chair on the other side of the table.
    Jack picks up his pen. “So.” He thumbs through the police report, looks at the places where he’s penciled in an R. “You ever find the dog?”
    â€œNo,” Ronald says. “But I’ll go back tonight and search the neighborhood.” He leans forward over the table.
    â€œYou got home at eight-thirty last night. That right, Ronald?”
    â€œYes.” Ronald nearly whispers. He’s leaning in so close that Jack can smell his breath, still pungent with last night’s scotch; it wafts out in small, rancid puffs.
    â€œWas that normal for you, getting home so late?”
    â€œNo. There was an accident. A rear-end collision. It was like dominoes, all the cars. This young woman, this texter, was . . . um, texting. ”
    â€œWhat time do you generally get home?”
    â€œIt varies,” Ronald says. “Usually between six and six-thirty.”
    â€œDid you phone your wife to tell her you’d be late?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy not?” Jack leans back in his seat, waving the pen like a small baton in the air over his ear.
    Ronald shrugs. “I don’t know why. She— Celia. My wife taught class sometimes in the evenings. I lose track of when. Lost track.”
    â€œSo you thought she might be at work?”
    â€œI guess so. I didn’t actually stop to figure out if it was her work night or not.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” Something’s definitely off. If Jack were two hours late getting home, he wouldn’t even think about whether Ann was at the house or not; he’d just speed-dial her and leave a message if she didn’t answer. He feels almost smug for a second, and then he remembers Ann taking off in the Honda, half the contents of their bedroom crammed into the backseat.
    â€œWhy’s what, Detective?”
    â€œWhy didn’t you stop to figure out if she’d be home or not?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHazard a guess,” Jack says, and he flips the pen around again, twirling it.
    â€œShe would have been pissed,” Ronald says.
    â€œSeems like she would’ve been more pissed when you didn’t call her. I know my wife would hit the roof if I came strolling in two hours late without calling.”
    Ronald shrugs.
    â€œYou