THIRTY-FOUR
BOB MILLER
Brad isn’t at the station when I arrive the next morning, so I sit in an interrogation room alone, refusing to speak to anyone without my lawyer present. Once again, I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m not going to give them the chance to twist any of my words, so I’ll wait silently until he arrives. Hudson and Olson didn’t handcuff me to the metal table, which is good because it means this chat is voluntary and they don’t have anything to hold me for . . . at least not yet.
I can’t see what’s beyond the two-way mirror off to the left, but I can guess that they’re watching me, seeing how I react. Am I panicking? Do I look nervous? Am I sweating? Are my eyes bouncing back and forth at a hundred miles per hour while I try to twist the skin off my hands, wrenching them over and over in fear? No. I sit calmly, staring forward, biding my time. They think they’ve caged me, that they have the upper hand on their home turf. But they’re wrong. This isn’t my first rodeo, and
I’m sure it won’t be my last.
The door creaks open and Brad enters.
“Have you said anything?” he asks, getting straight to business before he’s even taken a seat. He’s dressed in a sharp navy suit, a freshly starched bright-white shirt, and a red tie with whimsical patterns dancing all over it
in a way that signals it could only be from one brand. He looks the part of a high-powered defense attorney, which is exactly what I need right now.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
A moment later, Chief Deputy Olson enters the room, closely followed by Sheriff Hudson. He closes the door behind him, and they take their seats across from me and Brad.
“Would you care to tell me why you’ve requested my client to your station for questioning twice in one week?” Brad pulls a legal pad and pen from his designer briefcase.
Sheriff Hudson eyes Brad. “We’ll get to that,” he says and then turns his focus to me. “Bob, do you know a Carissa Brooks?”
My brows shove together, and I look to Brad for guidance. He nods, indicating I can answer if I choose to. I know all the things I would tell my own client to do, but I’m paying Brad for a reason. Because sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you.
I have no idea where they’re going with this or why Hudson is asking me about a hairstylist. I figured I was summoned here to be reinterviewed about the Kelly Summers case or that they would follow up with more questions related to Stacy Howard’s disappearance.
“Yes, I know Carissa. She cuts my hair.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Olson asks.
“Sunday night.”
“About what time?”
“My appointment was at eight, but I was running a few minutes behind.”
Hudson nods. “And what time did you leave?”
“Nine fifteen, maybe nine thirty. Not sure on the exact time,” I say.
“How was she when you left?” Hudson asks.
I look to Brad so he’ll know to interject. “My client can’t give you an assessment of Ms. Brooks’s state of mind.”
“Let me rephrase that then. Did she seem okay when you left?”
“Define ‘okay,’” Brad says.
Hudson lets out an exasperated sigh, and Olson cuts in, “Did anything odd or out of the ordinary occur during your appointment?”
“No,” I say, just wanting to get this over with . . . whatever this is.
“Did you and Carissa argue at all?”
I answer no again.
“Have you ever argued?”
“No,” I say pointedly.
“Have you and Carissa ever been intimate?” Hudson asks.
“What! No, absolutely not,” I say, incredulous.
Sheriff Hudson twists up his lips. “How did the salon look when you
left?”
“The same as when I arrived.”
Brad clears his throat. “My client is a highly respected attorney, and he’s here voluntarily, so with all due respect, Sheriff Hudson and Chief Deputy Olson, can you please get to the point?”
“We’re getting there, Mr. Watson,” Hudson says to Brad and then looks to me. “Mr. Miller, we received a call for a B&E at Cuts by Carissa yesterday morning, and when we arrived, we found that the place had been ransacked. Nothing was taken but there was blood everywhere. Ms.
Brooks’s purse, cell phone, and car were all left behind. According to the salon’s appointment schedule, you were Carissa’s last client on Sunday night and presumably the last person to see her.”
My eyes go wide. This can’t be happening. Everything was fine when I left . . . well, besides Carissa seeming a bit off. Did she know something was coming? Was she expecting someone?
Hudson leans forward in his chair, placing his elbows on the table.
“Given your connection to the Stacy Howard disappearance, it seems a bit
odd, don’t you think? Two women going missing in the same week and Bob Miller is the last person to see either of them.”
“That is speculative at best. There is no way to prove my client was the last person to see either of those women before they went missing,” Brad argues. He’s animated, sitting forward in his chair and waving off the implication.
“There’s always a way to prove anything, Mr. Watson,” Hudson says coolly.
“My client has already stated that he hadn’t had any communication with Ms. Howard in weeks. If you can prove otherwise, then I’d like to hear it. In terms of Ms. Brooks, having a hair appointment isn’t evidence of anything other than my client having been a customer at the salon, which he already said he was, and you can tell by his hair, he recently had it cut.”
Brad motions to me.
The sheriff leans back, places his hands behind his head, and looks to Chief Deputy Olson.
“We found Stacy’s abandoned car,” she says, staring into my eyes. “And inside her car, we found your business card and her cell phone. There were text messages exchanged to a contact labeled Bob Miller. Do you know anything about that?”
“What number is connected to that contact in her phone? Is it registered to my client?” Brad lifts his chin.
Hudson deflates slightly and drops his hands. “We’re still looking into that.”
“Exactly,” Brad says. “You’ve got nothing.”
The room quiets while the sheriff and his chief deputy share what appears to be a smug look. Fuck. I know what’s coming. My stomach drops, and my throat dries, making it nearly impossible to swallow.
“But Stacy did text a phone number registered to your client a few weeks ago. Isn’t that right, Bob?” Hudson cocks his head.
Before I can explain, Olson is already pulling out a piece of paper and
sliding it across the table. Shit!
“This is a text conversation we pulled from Stacy’s cell phone. It’s from
three weeks before Stacy went missing, and it’s between her and your
client’s registered phone number,” Olson says. “Do you remember this
exchange, Bob?”
Brad forces a puff of air out of his nose, clearly frustrated that I failed to
mention this to him.
STACY HOWARD
Hey Bob, I have a proposition for you.
BOB MILLER
Who is this?
STACY HOWARD
Stacy, your favorite one-night stand
BOB MILLER
How’d you get my number?
STACY HOWARD
I knew we had future business to settle, so I snagged one of your business cards on my way out.
BOB MILLER
Yeah, along with my Rolex and all the cash in my wallet.
You’re lucky I didn’t file a police report.
STACY HOWARD
I knew you wouldn’t because you wouldn’t want your wife to find out about us, now, would you?
BOB MILLER
What is it you want from me?
STACY HOWARD
What everyone wants. Money.
BOB MILLER
How much?
STACY HOWARD
You tell me. How much is your marriage worth?
BOB MILLER
Don’t you fucking play with me. You’re a goddamn thief and a whore. You meant nothing, and if I hadn’t been wasted, it would have never happened. You know that just as well as I do.
STACY HOWARD
The only thing I know is that you cheated on your wife, Bob.
Now, how much is my silence worth to you?
BOB MILLER
It was a mistake. You took advantage of me.
STACY HOWARD
Lol I think I got the short end of the stick, literally.
BOB MILLER
Fuck you, bitch!
STACY HOWARD
You already did.
“You must have been livid, Bob,” Hudson says, arching a brow. “I
mean, Stacy was trying to extort you, even made fun of your manhood. That
had to have made your blood boil.”
“Don’t say anything,” Brad instructs, pursing his lips firmly together.
Hudson’s trying to corner me, but I’ve done nothing wrong . . . well, at
least nothing that he’s aware of. I know I didn’t send a text to Stacy after
that, despite her continuing to message me. I stopped responding to her for
a bit because I was due in court, and by the time I was going to reply, Sarah had already found out.
“This evidence is damning,” Olson notes, gesturing to the piece of paper.
“It’s circumstantial at best,” Brad says. “Where’s the rest of the conversation, or is this all you got? The only thing this proves is that Stacy’s an extortionist.”
“There was also blood found on the steering wheel of Stacy’s vehicle.
We have forensics examining the DNA from both scenes as we speak. Is there something you want to get off your chest before those results come back, Bob?” Hudson asks.
“No,” is all I say because I know it’s important to always say as little as possible when dealing with the police. The more words you give them, the more they can twist them into a whole new story, particularly in court.
The sheriff squints his eyes as he studies me. “That cut on your neck looks pretty fresh. How’d you get that?” he says, pointing to my throat.
I reflexively reach up and feel the long thin scab on my neck. Shit. I forgot about that. I should have mentioned it right away. They’re going to find my blood at the salon. “Carissa nicked my skin when she was shaving me.”
Brad gives me a strained look. He’s pissed I’m just bringing it up now.
“That must have been painful. Did that make you angry, Bob?” Olson
asks.
“No, it was just an accident.”
“I’d be pretty mad if someone cut me,” Hudson says.
They’re clearly trying to lead me down a path of speculation where I’m this enraged lunatic who lashed out in a spurt of anger, but I’m not falling for it. I just have to keep my cool and give him the complete opposite of what he thinks I am.
“I wasn’t. Carissa’s usually a very good stylist. She was just off on Sunday night.”
Olson gives me a pointed look. “What do you mean by ‘off’?”
“Not her normal self. She seemed almost paranoid, like she was watching for something or someone. The door was locked when I arrived too, which it never is. And she relocked it as soon as she let me in. I think that’s why she accidentally cut me. She was distracted, worried even.”
I can tell Olson is starting to believe my story, but Hudson is still hell- bent on not believing a single word that comes out of my mouth.
“Maybe you worried her, Bob?” he says.
“No, she was already anxious before I got there.”
“But no one can verify that except you . . .” Hudson tightens his eyes.
“My client has already told you everything he knows,” Brad interjects.
“Do you own a burner phone, Bob?” Sheriff Hudson stands from his
chair.
“A what?”
“A burner. A disposable phone. Whatever you wanna call it. Those prepaid flip phones you can purchase from shitty convenience stores. Do you own one?” He’s moved to the side of the table, resting one hip on it as he positions himself right in front of me.
“No. I have a regular phone with a wireless plan through Verizon. I’m sure you can check that for yourself,” I say, pushing my chair back to create some distance between myself and the sheriff.
“Yeah, of course we can look up that one. But not a burner phone.
That’s the exact reason why they appeal to criminals. You’re a lawyer, Bob.
I’m sure you know all about burner phones, don’t you?”
It’s a gotcha question, so I don’t answer it. Something in Hudson’s eyes flickers.
“We’re done here,” Brad says. He stows his legal pad back into his briefcase and stands.
“We’re not finished yet, Mr. Watson.” Chief Deputy Olson rises.
“Oh, I think we are, and I’ll make this very simple. Are you charging my client with anything?”
“Not yet, but he’s admitted that his DNA is all over a crime scene,”
Hudson says.
“You mean the hair on the floor from a haircut he received at the salon?” Brad belts out a single staccato laugh.
Hudson points a finger directly at my neck. “Let’s not forget the blood too.”
Brad shakes his head and addresses me. “Let’s go, Bob,” he says, walking toward the door.
The blood is a problem. Brad knows it and so do I. That’s why he ignored Hudson’s comment.
I stand from my chair, making eye contact with Hudson and Olson.
They clearly think I’m the main suspect in the disappearance of not one, but two women.
“I told you everything I know. I get that the circumstances seem . . . suspicious, but that’s all it is, optics . . . and it’s exactly what Sarah wants.”
I don’t mean to say that last part aloud, but I do; it just comes out quieter.
Brad snaps his head in my direction.
Hudson and Olson exchange a look of pure confusion. “What was that?” she asks.
“Yeah, what do you mean it’s ‘exactly what Sarah wants.’ Why would your wife want any of this?” Hudson tilts his head.
Before I can say anything else or clue them in to what is really going on, Brad cuts me off—and that’s probably for the best.
“That’s enough!” he yells, herding me toward the exit. “My client is under a lot of pressure and stress right now, both personally and professionally. If you have any further questions, you can contact my office.” He guides me to the door, opens it, and pushes me to the other side.
I keep walking down the hall, through the lobby, and out the front entrance. The fresh air feels nice, like a piece of life is being pumped back into my body. I close my eyes and look up to the blue sky, inhaling through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth, letting the tension in my shoulders ease away. Suddenly, a hand presses against those same shoulders and shoves me forward.
“What the hell was that in there?” I turn around to see Brad squaring up to me, his face red and his eyes darting back and forth quickly between mine, searching for answers.
“I’ve already tried telling you this. Sarah is setting me up.”
He huffs. “Even if that were true, you don’t tell them that, especially since you have zero proof. You’re in the midst of a divorce, and you’re in there blabbing to the cops about your wife setting you up for abducting women? My God, Bob, that’s insane, and you know it.” Brad pauses and rubs his forehead, letting out a sigh of frustration. “The reason I’m here is so you don’t have to answer anything, but you’re just freely offering ludicrous theories to the police who are pegging you as the bad guy.”
“I’m telling you. This is all her. It has to be.” I turn from him, looking away at nothing in particular. I know this is Sarah, but how is she doing it?
How can I prove it? How do the pieces fit? I could see her paying off Stacy to skip town. But the salon break-in doesn’t make any sense.
“What is it that you think she’s doing, Bob? Help me understand.”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
Brad steps forward and places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man, but I think you’re paranoid.”
I shrug his hand off. “I’m not paranoid. You just have to trust me.”
“Fine. I do trust you, okay? But me trusting you doesn’t change anything. If you really think Sarah’s behind all of this, then you need something concrete, something definitive. Because right now you look like
a deranged, paranoid asshole who’s unable to deal with the consequences of
his own actions.”
“None of that’s true.”
“I didn’t say it was, but those are the optics right now. And what about those text messages with Stacy? Why didn’t you mention those before?”
“It slipped my mind,” I say with a heavy sigh.
“Jesus, Bob. My best legal advice for you right now is to lay low, leave your wife alone, and stay far away from this investigation.”
“No, I’m going to prove Sarah’s behind this. I’ve got eyes on her, and she’ll eventually slip up,” I say, pressing my lips firmly together.
“Hold up.” Brad lifts his hand. “What do you mean you have eyes on Sarah?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. I put a tracker on her car too. So, I’ve got all my bases covered, and if she goes anywhere out of the ordinary—”
“Bob!” he interrupts, gritting his teeth. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? If she finds out about any of that, you’ll be even more screwed than you already are!”
“How could it get any worse than it already is?”
Brad pans his hand across the air in front of him like he’s reading the marquee of a theater. “After wife of cheating husband files for divorce, she finds GPS tracker on her car placed there by said cheating husband. How does that sound? Do you think you’ll have a shot in hell of getting any custody rights for Summer?”
“I just need to figure out one thing, that’s all, and then it’s over, for good.”
Brad scrunches his face at me. “Whatever you’re cooking up, you need to do it quickly and quietly. As your friend, I understand why you’re not doing your best right now, but as your lawyer”—Brad steps toward me and pats the side of my arm—“you need to get your shit together or a divorce is going to be the least of your worries.”
I nod in reply. I know he’s right; I know I must seem like the crazy, desperate, spiraling husband, but he doesn’t know what I know. He doesn’t know what lengths Sarah will go to to get what she wants. I just need to beat her at her own game, and the only way I’m going to do that is if I accelerate my pace and do what she thinks I’m incapable of. Because if anyone can best Sarah, it’s me.
Brad turns to head toward his car. “Hey, remember that thing you told me about?” He stops and snaps his fingers. “The one you said that would ensure you get full custody of Summer. What is it?”
“It’s a smoking gun with the trail wisping right back to Sarah. But . . .” I pause, deciding whether or not I should bring Brad in on this.
“But what?”
“It has far more implications than just helping me get custody of
Summer,” I say.
“Okay, but what exactly is it?”
I let out a heavy sigh, staring at the ground for a moment before I meet Brad’s gaze. “It’s better if I show you.”
