Chapter 8 - The Missing Attorney
Rebecca Shaw disappeared at 1:16 p.m.
Her phone was found beneath her car.
Her purse remained inside.
There were no signs of struggle.
Police initially treated the disappearance cautiously.
Claire did not.
Rebecca would never abandon her phone.
Detective Marcus Reed interviewed Claire that evening.
He was forty-seven, calm and irritatingly patient.
“What did your husband say?”
Claire repeated Daniel’s words.
Ask Rebecca who sent the first message.
Reed wrote them down.
“Did Ms. Shaw send the anonymous messages?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never asked?”
“I did. She denied it.”
“Did you believe her?”
Claire hesitated.
“Yes.”
That was not completely true.
Rebecca knew too much.
But she had also saved Claire’s life.
Or tried to.
“What about Vanessa?”
“In the hospital.”
“Condition?”
“Stable.”
Reed closed his notebook.
“The substance in the glass appears to be a sedative.”
“The same kind Michael Trent was given?”
Reed looked up.
“You’ve spoken with Trent?”
Claire realized she had said too much.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Reed leaned back.
“Mrs. Mercer, I need everything.”
Claire told him.
The accounts.
Michael.
Kessler.
The insurance policy.
Peter.
Her father.
When she finished, Reed remained silent.
Then he said:
“Daniel Mercer posted bail twenty minutes ago.”
Claire stared at him.
“How?”
“His attorney argued there’s no proof he put anything into the glass.”
“There’s video.”
“There’s video of him pouring something.”
“You have the packet.”
“No usable fingerprints.”
Claire stood.
“He tried to drug me.”
“I believe that.”
“Then arrest him.”
“We did.”
“And you let him leave.”
“A judge granted bail.”
Claire grabbed her bag.
Reed stood.
“Don’t go home.”
Claire stopped.
“Why?”
“Because if your theory is correct, Daniel isn’t your biggest problem.”
“My uncle?”
“Maybe.”
Reed handed her a card.
“Go somewhere nobody knows.”
Claire almost laughed.
Daniel knew every friend.
Every property.
Every hotel she preferred.
Then she remembered Michael.
Lake Geneva.
“No.”
She changed her mind.
If Daniel knew she had spoken to Michael, going there would endanger him.
Claire booked a room under Rebecca’s assistant’s name at a small hotel near O’Hare.
At 11:43 p.m., someone knocked.
Claire froze.
Three knocks.
Pause.
Two knocks.
“Who is it?”
Silence.
She called Reed.
The handle moved.
Claire backed away.
“Police are coming!”
A piece of paper slid beneath the door.
Footsteps disappeared.
Claire waited until Reed arrived.
He picked up the paper.
It was a photograph.
Claire’s father.
William Bell.
May you like
Alive.
The date printed in the corner was six months after his funeral.
