The First Wife (31 page)

Bailey tapped the pen on the journal page. What did she know of the women who had
gone missing? She recalled that day at Faye’s; the newspaper spread out on the table
in front of her, headline shouting:

Second Woman Disappears from Wholesome

A brown-haired young woman. Abby something. No, that wasn’t right. Amanda. Yes, Amanda
LaPier.

She wrote the name down, then searched her memory for the other. It popped into her
head. Trista Hook. Four years ago.

Now, Dixie Jenkins. The one Logan was accused of— She couldn’t finish the thought
and made note of both names.

Bailey studied her notes. Three missing women. Not counting True. Six items in the
box. She frowned and wrote:
“Would a killer take more than one souvenir per victim?”

Amanda, Trista and Dixie. No, not Dixie. She’d been abducted after Bailey’s accident
and Henry had given her the box
before
.

Bailey made a note and drew a line through the woman’s name. That meant, excluding
True, only two women had gone missing. Neither with the first initial
N
. Had either of them attended Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge? Bailey wrote
a reminder to get online and find out.

Six items in the box. Six trophies.

But only two missing women.

It didn’t make sense. Unless she was wrong about the box. Maybe, like the shoe, they
were simply items Henry had collected over the years, cleaned up and stored in an
old box he’d found in one of the barns or the garage.

They had nothing to do with the missing women or with Logan.

L.W.A. May 2, 1988.

But incredibly damning. If the police had the box, they would think the same thing
she had. Of course they would.

Maybe they had. Maybe that was why Logan had been arrested?

She rubbed her arms, chilled. Billy Ray claimed Abbott Farm was where the bodies were
buried.

Billy Ray. His display board. Not two women. Not even three or four.

With True, six? Or seven? More?

She pressed the heels of her hands to her head. Why couldn’t she remember?

“Bailey?” Raine tapped on the door. “Your phone rang, so I answered for you. It’s
Logan’s lawyer.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Wednesday, April 23

3:45
P.M.

Billy Ray stood back and let the sheriff’s boys do their thing. They’d allowed him
a place in viewing, which sat just fine with him. He supposed he could be pissed.
It’d started out as his jurisdiction, his case. He’d made nailing Abbott his mission
in life.

Precisely the reason he needed to step back. Watch and make notes from the distance
of the viewing room. Abbott’s lawyer, Terry King, was one of the best and Billy Ray
hadn’t made a secret about his agenda. Nothing skewed a jury faster than a claim of
prejudicial law enforcement.

Billy Ray refocused on the video monitor. King had just arrived; the fun was about
to begin. Abbott looked smaller in his jail jumpsuit, not so high-and-mighty. But
if he was worried, he didn’t show it.

Billy Ray smiled grimly. Before this was over, Abbott would sweat. And Billy Ray couldn’t
wait to see it.

In the interview room, Rumsfeld began. “Mr. Abbott, you’ve had adequate time to confer
with your attorney?”

“I have.”

The attorney stepped in. “My client has assured me you have the wrong man. The Saturday
in question, he was nowhere near Wholesome or The Landing.”

“Where were you, Mr. Abbott?”

“With my wife at Saint Tammany Hospital. She had a riding accident and was in a coma.”

“When Detective Carlson and I questioned you yesterday at your home, you indicated
you left the hospital for a short time.”

“That’s right.”

“However, you weren’t certain of the time.”

“That’s correct.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him. Nary a tremor,
Billy Ray noted.

“You said—” Rumsfeld glanced at his notes, although Billy Ray knew that was simply
a ruse. The detective knew exactly the time Abbott claimed to have been out of the
hospital. “—really late. Two, maybe three in the morning.”

“I said I wasn’t certain, but that it’d been very late. That’s correct.”

“Why, Mr. Abbott? It seems odd to me, to be so unaware of time.”

“Have you spent much time in a hospital, Detective?”

“Thankfully, no.”

“If you had, you wouldn’t ask that question.”

“I don’t know about that, Abbott. You wear a watch, I see. A very nice one. You have
a phone, I assume?” Abbott nodded and Rumsfeld continued. “And every patient room
is equipped with a wall clock, for exactly that reason.”

Abbott leveled him with an icy stare. “My wife had been in a coma for two and half
days. I’d hardly slept or eaten and was out of my mind with worry. Quite frankly,
I wasn’t watching the clock.”

“And yet, you left the hospital.”

“I felt like if I didn’t, I was going to explode.”

Yes, Billy Ray thought. Spoken like a true psychopath.

Rumsfeld jumped right on it. “Interesting choice of words. ‘Explode.’ Tension that
was going to erupt.”

Billy Ray noted that Abbott dropped his hands to his lap.

“I was afraid. For my wife. I needed a moment to center myself.”

“A moment. Is that how long you were gone?”

“Of course not.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Again, I wasn’t watching the clock.”

“What were you doing, Mr. Abbott?”

He blinked, looked away. “Praying.”

Billy Ray wanted to shout, “Bullshit!” but contented himself with thinking it.

Rumsfeld pretended to skim the notes again. When he looked back up at Abbott, his
gaze was steely. “You weren’t worried she would come to while you were gone?”

Abbott flinched slightly, expression stricken. “I did worry about that, yes.”

“But you went anyway?”

“I told you, I felt like I had to. Like I was going to go crazy if I didn’t.”

“Explode, you said.”

“You know what I meant. We’ve all been there at one point or another.”

Rumsfeld cocked an eyebrow. “Have we?”

Deliberately aggravating him. Working his way toward that last nerve. Billy Ray smiled
grimly. And they’d only just begun.

King stepped in. “Let’s get on with it, Detective.”

He nodded, then re-pinned Abbott with his gaze. “Would you be surprised to learn you
were gone two hours?”

“That’s not possible.”

“We have time-stamped video of you leaving and reentering the hospital.”

“Not possible,” Abbott said again.

The attorney leaned over and whispered something in his ear, Abbott nodded. “But as
I said twice now, I wasn’t watching the clock.”

“Two hours is a long time to pray.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Billy Ray snorted. He’d just bet he didn’t. Because the truth would get his ass fried.

“Where did you go during that time?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand and looked up. “I don’t know.
I just drove. I was in a fog.”

Rumsfeld’s eyebrows shot up. “Let’s see, you were about to explode, afraid you’d go
crazy and in a fog. A man of many emotions.”

Color flooded Abbott’s face and Billy Ray silently congratulated the sheriff’s detective.
The man knew his stuff.

“My wife was in a coma. You try it and see how you feel.”

“How is your wife, Mr. Abbott? She recover her memory yet?”

“No.”

“It’s ironic, it’s seems you’re both suffering with amnesia.”

“If you’re so concerned about my whereabouts, check my cell phone records. Can’t you
all follow the pings, or something like that?”

“We have, Mr. Abbott. Your cell phone never left the hospital.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your cell phone never left the hospital.”

Abbott looked at his attorney. Rumsfeld went on. “I find it strange, that a man who
professes to be out of his mind with worry over his wife, who hasn’t left her bedside
in days and wanted to be at her side when she awakened from her coma, would not only
leave the hospital for two hours, but would also leave his cell phone behind. If you
wife had awakened, how would the hospital have reached you?”

Abbott blanched. “I didn’t realize I’d … I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Actually, I think you were thinking quite clearly.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You tried to cover your tracks by leaving your cell phone behind.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You knew about our ability to trace your whereabouts tracking your cell pings, so
you deliberately left it at the hospital.”

Abbott shifted in his seat.
He had begun to sweat
. Billy Ray smiled. They had him. And he knew it.

King stepped in. “You’re making an assumption you’ll never prove in court. In fact,
assumptions are all I’ve heard so far. If you plan to make this stick, I hope you
have more than a concerned husband forgetting his cell phone or being confused about
time and place.”

“Oh, we do, Mr. King. And we will. I promise you that.” He turned back to Abbott with
a thin smile. “You own several vehicles, is that correct, Mr. Abbott?”

“It is.”

“And which of your vehicles were you driving that night?”

“My pickup truck.”

Rumsfeld flipped through his notes. “A black Ford F-150?”

“That’s right.”

Rumsfeld leaned forward, looking as delighted as Billy Ray felt. His gaze bored into
Abbott’s. “What would you say if we told you we have a witness who saw Dixie Jenkins
getting into your truck that night?”

A desperation Billy Ray had waited all these years to see came into Abbott’s eyes.
He looked stricken and Billy Ray wanted to stand up and shout it from the rooftops.

It was Abbott’s fault True was dead.

And finally, he would pay.

“I’d say that was impossible.”

“You have my client’s answer. He and I need some time alone.”

“I’m sure you do, Mr. King. But don’t plan on going anywhere. We have lots more to
talk about.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Wednesday, April 23

5:25
P.M.

In Billy Ray’s opinion, attorney-client privilege was total bullshit. Just one of
the many ways offenders like Abbott went free, time after time. Guilty was guilty.
If someone knew that for certain, he should be forced to say so.

Of course, Billy Ray didn’t make the laws, but he was forced to abide by them, so
he’d played nice with the other detectives, reviewing the video and eating sandwiches
all the while knowing Abbott was in the next room plotting with the lawyer on how
he was going to wriggle free.

Not this time, Billy Ray promised.

A uniformed deputy tapped on the door. “They’re ready.”

Billy Ray’s mouth went dry. This one was for all the marbles. “You have the information?”

Rumsfeld nodded, although something in his eyes got Billy Ray’s back up. Like he felt
sorry for him or something. This was his moment, the last thing he needed was anyone’s
pity.

“Good. Make it count.”

He took a seat in front of the monitor, ignoring the feeling of the eyes of the room’s
other occupants on him. He sent them all a silent F.U. and hunkered down to watch.
He didn’t want to miss a thing.

Rumsfeld greeted the pair. “I trust you two had the chance to catch up?”

“Absolutely,” the lawyer said.

“Good. Is there anything about your client’s previous statement he’d like to amend?”

“Not a thing.”

Billy Ray snorted. Of course there wasn’t. This slippery fish wouldn’t go down without
a fight.

“We do have a question, however.” Rumsfeld nodded and the detective continued. “You
say a witness saw Ms. Jenkins getting into my client’s truck.”

“That’s right. A black F-150.”

“Did the witness actually lay eyes on Mr. Abbott?” As if knowing the detective wouldn’t
answer, King went on. “How about a license plate number?”

“No comment on that just yet.”

“How many Ford trucks are registered in Saint Tammany Parish? Last I knew, round these
parts Ford’s the truck of choice. Now, you say it was an F-150 and that it was black,
but it was dark and very late. Our eyes can play tricks on us, our minds fill in the
blanks. But that, of course, has nothing to do with reality.”

Billy Ray wanted to reach through the monitor and throttle the man. Rumsfeld, on the
other hand, looked calm, collected and totally in control.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

“The night in question, Mr. Abbott was nowhere near The Landing. And that’s just the
fact.”

“We believe a jury will see it differently.”

“Wishful thinking, my friend. If that’s all you’ve got, I suggest you release my client
now and save yourself—”

Rumsfeld cut him off. “Not happening. Let’s move on.” He turned his attention to Abbott.
“I want to pass a few names by you, Mr. Abbott. Do you remember a young woman named
Nicole Grace?”

“Of course I do.”

“How do you know her?”

“You’re serious?”

“As a judge.”

“Her mother worked for my family. She was around the farm a lot as a kid.”

“And?”

“She was murdered.”

“The case was never solved, was it?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“You two were friends.”

“Hardly. She was more than a decade younger than me. I remember her being a sweet
kid.”

“She had a crush on you, didn’t she?”

“What?” He looked at his lawyer. “No. Not that I know of anyway.”

“Do you recall what you were doing the day of her murder?”

“I don’t even remember what day that was, let alone what I was—”

“June fourteenth. Two thousand and five.”

Abbott just stared blankly at him. After several moments, his lawyer leaned over and
murmured in his ear. Abbott blinked and shook his head. “No clue.”

Billy Ray watched and made notes as the interrogation went on. Questions about the
summer Abbott and Trista Hook dated. How serious had it been? Why had they broken
up? When was the last time he saw her?