on a case is ask questions. I ask them of anybody and everybody. Some of the questions are informed or even perceptive, but many are fishing expeditions. I get as many answers as I can and sift through them in my mind. Sometimes this helps me figure out the truth, but at the very least it helps me think of more questions to ask, which is fine.
Our situation in this case is so bad that I can't even come up with people to question. I can't get near Petrone, I can't find Stynes, and on behalf of the FBI, Special Agent Hobbs smiles and gives me nothing.
My plan for today reflects that lack of options. I'm going to go to Oscar Garcia's neighborhood and question some of the people that identified Laurie as having been in the area. I'm certainly not going to shake their stories; Laurie has admitted that she was there, keeping an eye on Garcia. I'm just going to see if they know or saw anything else, something, I hope, that can help my case.
An early phone call changes my plans for the day. It's from a woman who says, "Mr. Carpenter, I know you're very busy, but I saw you on television last night, and I'd like to talk to you about my husband."
"Who is your husband?" I ask.
"Alex Dorsey."
She gives me directions to her apartment, coupled with the disclaimer that she's only lived there for about a month and isn't really sure if the directions are correct. They turn out to be exactly correct, and it takes me about fifteen minutes to get there. It would have been less, but I had Kevin park around the block, and then I sneaked out the back way and took his car. I don't know what Dorsey's wife wants, but I certainly don't want the press or Dylan to know she wants it from me.
Celia Dorsey lives in a small complex of garden apartments. She watches me from the window as I get out of the car, and opens the door before I can ring the bell.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Carpenter. Please come in."
I enter a one-bedroom apartment a little bigger than your average phone booth. Every square inch of the place is filled with furniture, photographs, and trinkets. She has said she's only lived here for a short time, yet this place already has the meticulously cared-for look of a longtime residence.
She is a petite woman, reserved and quiet. I didn't know Alex Dorsey that well, but I would never have placed them together. He was high-energy, gruff, and dominant in any room he occupied. If you added them up and divided by two, you'd be left with one normal personality. So, on second thought, they'd be perfect together.
She offers me coffee and I accept, mainly because it seems she couldn't handle the disappointment if I said no. Once we're set, coffee cups on coasters and sitting on her couch, she says, "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here."
"You said it was about your husband."
She laughs a sad laugh. "I'm not even sure he's still my husband."
"What do you mean?"
"I filed for divorce three months ago. The final papers just came through yesterday, but I don't know if one can divorce a deceased spouse. Of course, now there is very considerable doubt that my spouse is deceased, which seems to complicate things even more."
She starts to cry, softly, as if she's afraid if she lets it out full blast, it would disturb me. Of course, it probably would, so I just wait until she's finished. It only takes a few seconds, and she continues.
"I know the police don't believe your client, but I do. My husband is alive."
"Why do you say that?" I ask.
"Well, for one thing, I simply cannot picture him dead." She smiles. "But you probably are hoping for something more concrete."
"Yes."
"I heard him talking about faking his own death."
Yesss! Finally, a positive development. "When?"
"Two years ago, when he was being investigated by the department."
"Who was he talking to?" I ask.
"I'm not sure. You have to understand, in the last five or so years of our marriage, and perhaps long before that, my husband kept a great many things from me. On some level I was glad he did; I sensed that there were things I wouldn't want to know. But there was one man he spoke to very often, and he got secretive whenever he did. But I overheard things, and