Thanks to Colleen, we’ve finally had a breakthrough in the case. We now know Joanna Harris walked into the women’s clinic in June posing as Mandy McKnight. Considering she’d miscarried a month earlier, it shouldn’t have had anything to do with her pregnancy, but then, why?
I stare at my screen and realize I’m still searching for a needle in a haystack. And I don’t know even know what the needle looks like. It keeps pricking the edges of my mind, so I know it’s there…somewhere. I have to keep digging.
Why am I finding it so much harder to do my work without Karen at my side? Is it this case in particular—the first high-profile homicide since she was taken from me—or is every case going to be this way from now on?
We need to know who last saw Joanna alive. Clearing my throat, I push papers across my desk and straighten out the notes I’ve taken regarding the month of July last year. I create a timeline and work my way through it.
On July sixteenth, Michael and Joanna’s wedding anniversary and the day she went missing, Michael claims he only saw her in the morning. He’d worked long hours that day and made dinner plans for them that night, but she never showed. He’d received her final text instead.
His story is clear-cut and hasn’t changed.
“All right,” I think aloud, sifting through my notes. “You went to Pilates that morning and had a blowout with Rachael. Let’s assume you were killed on the evening of July sixteenth, after you sent that text to your husband. Where were you between those times, Joanna? Who were you with?”
I run through everything backward.
The last call Joanna made was to Gary Danko’s restaurant at six o’clock in the evening. I already called. Asked them to check their reservation log. There was nothing listed under Michael’s or Joanna’s name. The Harrises’ bank account doesn’t reflect a charge from the restaurant, either. We checked under the name Mandy McKnight too, in case Joanna had gotten into the habit of using that alias. Again, nothing.
“Why,” I mumble, snatching the Rubik’s Cube from my desk, “would you call the restaurant in the first place?”
To make a future reservation she ultimately decided against? To check if someone was there?
I quickly shift sides of the cube around as my thoughts race.
Maybe someone else picked up the bill….
“You had a date,” I whisper, fingers curling around the toy. “You went with someone. Someone who wasn’t your husband.”
On instinct alone, I search the number for the restaurant online and make the call.
“Good morning,” a woman says cheerfully. “Thank you for calling Gary Danko, this is Lisa, how can I help you?”
“Good morning, Lisa.” I’m about to introduce myself properly when, mid-breath, I flip my approach. If I admit I’m a detective, she’s going to be wary about revealing sensitive information, especially when I can’t show her proper ID. She’ll be guarded and give away little or nothing, and then I’ll have to drive into the city. But Patel’s on his way over to meet with me. I can’t leave the station now. “I have an odd question, and I was hoping you could help me.”
“I’ll try,” she says. But her voice has turned wary.
“Last July, I took my wife to dinner for our wedding anniversary. The food was amazing, the staff exceptional, and we had a terrific time. The night was really special to her, but you see, I can’t remember the name of the restaurant. It’s near Ghirardelli Square, I know that much, but other than that, I’m at a loss. I’ve been searching online, but haven’t had much luck. If I ask her, I’m afraid she’ll suspect that I’m planning something for her. Do you understand?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Her birthday is coming up,” I go on, “and I’d love to surprise her with another fabulous night at her favorite restaurant. Do