“Yeah, but we also need something solid in order to secure the warrants.” Mal crouches down, wipes mud off the rear plate. She takes a photo of the registration and a few more shots of the Audi exterior and tires.
Once back inside their unmarked vehicle, she sends the images to Lula. Benoit starts the engine, and Mal tries once more to call Daisy Rittenberg. Again, it flips to voice mail.
Mal says, “Ty Binty at the Pi Bistro claims the Rittenbergs moved back to Vancouver to be closer to Daisy’s parents. What did he say her father’s name was?”
“Wentworth,” Benoit says as he backs their unmarked into the residential street. “Labden Wentworth.”
“Pull over across the road. I want to wait here until we can get surveillance on Rittenberg. He looks ready to bolt.”
While Benoit parks under trees across the road from Rose Cottage, Mal places a call requesting surveillance detail for Rose Cottage. She gives the Rittenberg address, then asks to be put through to Lula again.
“Lu, can you find us a phone number and address for a Labden Wentworth? He’s the father of pregnant Daisy Wentworth. She’s not at her home, and we have reason to fear for her and her unborn child’s well-being.”
“On it,” says Lu.
Mal hangs up and quickly punches the name “Labden Wentworth” into a search engine. A host of links associated with the name “Labden Wentworth” pop up. Ty Binty was correct—the Wentworth nameisbig.
Mal scans the linked articles. “Says here that Labden Wentworth founded TerraWest Corporation, which is a global developer and operator of luxury mountain resorts. The company also owns ancillary businesses, including a chain that sells outdoor gear. They employ more than fifty-five thousand employees worldwide. Annual revenues around 5.2 billion. Apparently Wentworth’s wife, Annabelle, is a big name in her own right, in luxury urban real estate. She owns her own company. They live on the North Shore, up in the British Properties area, but no phone numbers I can see so far.”
While they wait for the Rose Cottage surveillance detail to arrive, and for Lula to come up with contact details, Mal quickly texts Peter.
Everything okay?
No response.
Her worry about her husband deepens. This is probably going to be her last case. She’s going to need to step away sooner than she’d hoped in order to care for Peter.
Her phone rings. It’s Lula with Labden Wentworth’s number and address.
“Four four five six Eyrefield Drive, British Properties,” Lula says on speaker. As the details come through, a police cruiser approaches slowly down the street. Mal exits their unmarked and hurries through the rain to speak to the officer inside the cruiser. He winds down the window, and she bends in to talk to him.
“If Rittenberg leaves, call it in, and stay on him.” She explains the situation, then hurries back to Benoit, waiting in the unmarked. As she buckles in, he pulls out, and they start toward the bridge that will take them over to the North Shore. As they drive, Mal phones Labden’s number.
It goes to voice mail.
She calls Peter. When her husband answers, her relief is sharp. She consciously tempers her voice. She must remain calm with him.
“Hey, how’re you doing?” she asks.
“Good. You going to be late?” He’s forgotten already.
“Yeah, looks that way. Got a new case. You’re not checking your texts?”
“Oh. I...ah...”
“No worries. Did you manage to warm the lasagna?”
Silence.
“You got my note about the lasagna?” Mal curses at her framing of the question. She’s been getting advice on how to talk to Peter in ways that don’t force him into confronting the fact he can’t remembersomething, because it puts him on the defensive. It doesn’t help anyone.
“Yes, I warmed the lasagna, Mallory.”
She closes her eyes at his patronizing tone. “Great. Don’t wait up, okay?”
“A homicide?”
“Looks that way.”
