"I know that." His silver eyes bored into hers. "What is it, darling?"
Shifting out of his arms, she turned to face him, placing her hands flat on his chest. "What if they don't find her?"
"They will. Aside from Angelo, I have a retinue of private investigators at my disposal and they're combing every stone to find who the culprit is."
"If in fact it's true that this person has suffered loss, it could account for her state of mind. There's a lady in my group who lost three of her quads and she never recovered."
His expression sharpened. "Have you told this to Angelo?"
"I did," she admitted. "He had her checked out. It's not her, Samuel. I knew that before he did his investigation. That woman is so depressed, she can barely function." Her arms came around his neck. "I just want it over."
"It will be. Soon," he vowed.
Chapter 15
He had more than enough time to think it through, and after a miserable night on his friend's lumpy sofa, he had come up with a plan. It was one that was going to get his wife the help she so desperately needed. He had failed her. Had allowed her to carry the burdens of their hopeless life all on her own. He had been so mired down in his own unhappiness that he had failed to see that she was unhinged. And if he did not stop her, she was going to make the biggest mistake of her life, one that would end up with her being killed or thrown in jail.
He couldn't fathom that. Milton, his friend, had naturally assumed that Maxy had thrown him out because of his drinking, and he had allowed him to think that. He could not afford to have anyone knowing of his plans.
For once in his ill-gotten life, he was going to do the right thing.
So, early that morning, he stood outside the local precinct, a tattered watch cap covering his balding pate, his demeanor one of pure nerves. He was willingly stepping inside a police station to inform on his wife. He felt lower than dirt. And it was cold as a bitch.
Taking a deep breath, he dodged a few uniformed cops streaming down the steps and made his way uncertainly toward the entrance.
Even this early in the morning, it was busy. He glimpsed a used-up-looking hooker sprawled on an uncomfortable chair, her blonde wig askew as she slept off a hard night. A few cops were hauling a fierce-looking man with tattoos all over his face toward the back.
The female cop at the front looked harried and busy. Frank wondered if this was a sign that this was a bad idea. Maybe Maxy was just blowing smoke. His wife was not a violent person; she went to church several times a week, for Christ's sake! He was just building up something in his mind and was still drunk. But then he recalled the gun in the drawer and the look on her face the last time he had seen her.
Besides, the lady cop was looking over at him.
"May I help you?"
"Er..." He cleared his throat. "Yes." He approached the wide desk and willed his rapidly beating heart to slow down. "I... I have to report a crime."
The woman's mahogany eyes sharpened, and she ignored the ringing phone at her elbow.
"Is it a crime in progress?"
"No." He shook his head. "Yes." He took another breath, and the female cop realized he was scared. "Why don't I get a detective to speak to you in private?"
Frank nodded, a look of relief on his florid face.
Within minutes, he was inside what he realized was an interrogation room. Instead of quieting his nerves, the room had him jumping out of his skin. They kept him waiting for thirty minutes before a balding, middle-aged man came in and closed the door.
"Mind if I record this? By the way, I'm Detective Granger. Officer Lowe said you had a crime to report. Name?"
"Frank..." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Bell. Why am I being recorded?"
"To avoid legal tangles." Sharp gray eyes stared at him. "So, do you?"
"No." He shook his head. "No."
"Good. Now what's on your mind?"
"It's my wife."
The detective stopped writing and stared at him. "Your wife is committing a crime?"
