Dear Wife - Kimberly Belle Page 0,41

in the car, charging in the cup holder. I was hoping one of you could identify it for us.” I pull an evidence bag from my desk drawer, holding it up to show the Samsung smartphone inside.

Ingrid releases a loud, relieved breath. “That’s not Sabine’s. Are you sure the car you found is the right one? Maybe you made a mistake.”

Again, not the answer I was expecting. The phone was found in Sabine’s locked car. Who else’s could it be? “Are you positive? We haven’t been able to check it. Not without the code.”

“One hundred percent,” Ingrid says. “Sabine has an iPhone. A white one. The newest model.”

I look to Jeffrey for confirmation. “It’s true, she does have an iPhone.” He stabs a finger at the Samsung. “But that’s probably her burner phone.”

Ingrid’s face whips to his. “What the hell are you talking about? Sabine doesn’t have a burner phone. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yes, Ingrid. She does. The one that for the past five months, she’s been using to talk to her lover.” Ingrid twitches, and his smile is a mix of mean and condescending. “Looks like she doesn’t quite tell you everything, does she?”

Ingrid slumps in the chair, and Jeffrey turns to me. “Dr. Trevor McAdams, Chief Obstetrician at Jefferson Regional Hospital. I believe you spoke with him last night. I’m guessing if you crack the code on that phone, every number on the call log will be his.”

“Try 8-2-6–6-3-7,” Ingrid mumbles. “It’s the one she uses for her iPhone.”

I pluck a plastic glove from the box on the sill, wriggle my hand inside, then shove it in the bag and tick in the code. The log-in dissolves into a colorful home screen with neat columns of apps. The icon for phone has a bright red number in the top right corner, twenty-three missed calls. I tap it, and they’re all from the same number, which matches the one scribbled on my pad. “You were right. It’s the number for Dr. McAdams’s cell.”

Ingrid shifts in her chair with a huff.

I reseal the bag, peel off the glove and drop both in my desk drawer. “This doesn’t explain where the iPhone is, though. We’ve put out a trace on that number, but we’re not finding anything. Looks like wherever it is, she’s turned it off. And according to her bank, the transaction at the Super1 was the last purchase she made. She hasn’t used her credit card or ATM card since. There were also no big withdrawals in the weeks before, which tells me she wasn’t planning on making a run for it.”

“Of course she wasn’t,” Ingrid says. “Sabine wouldn’t run, not without telling me.” Sometime in the past few minutes, she’s started to cry. Her face is messy with it—red eyes; mottled cheeks; swollen, dripping nose. She sniffs and swipes at it with a sleeve. “So, what now? Where do we look next?”

“Well, we’ve begun questioning Super1 staff who were working Wednesday’s shift. We’re hopeful that one of them saw something out of the ordinary, or maybe someone out of the ordinary. I’ve also put out an APB for anyone matching Sabine’s description, which means we’ve got a lot more than just our eyes looking for her. We’re going through her bank records, her credit card usage, anything that will help us trace her movements. We’ll be interviewing her friends, her colleagues, all the people in her life—and before you ask, that includes Dr. McAdams—and we’ll be asking them the same question I’m asking you—where were you Wednesday afternoon, from 1:00 p.m. on?”

An alibi. I’m asking them for an alibi.

The two exchange a look.

Ingrid folds her arms across her chest, her expression a mixture of insult and concern. “I work at home. I’m a virtual assistant. People pay me to arrange their schedules, type up reports, handle their social media. Things like that.”

“Was anyone there with you?” I ask.

“I live alone.”

“Okay. Is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts? A neighbor, maybe, or a client who called on the house line.”

“No,” she says, then brightens. “But I was online all day. I can prove I was there with the IPs from websites I visited, and the emails in my Sent folder.”

“You know how to do that?” Jeffrey sounds dubious, like he doesn’t think she’s that capable.

“Yes,” she says, slow and satisfied. “I have a degree in computer science.”

Mentally, I shuffle the sister to the bottom of my list. Ingrid is a spinster, the kind of woman who lives alone, works