“I appreciate you sharing that. As I said, the feeling was mutual.”
He shot the cuff of his sports jacket and checked his watch.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay long. My girlfriend’s flying in tomorrow, and I need to make arrangements for her to be picked up at the airport.”
He reached in his back pocket for a wallet.
“I’ve got this,” I said. “I’m going to be meeting another reporter for a drink in a few minutes, and I’ll add it to the tab.”
“I wish I had something of value to offer. When my mom called me, it was a bit earlier than we usually talked and I had a few papers to finish grading. I feel awful about it now, but I kind of rushed her off the phone.”
My brain, always a sucker for discrepancies, zeroed in.
“Did she explain why she was calling earlier than usual? Was she on her way somewhere later, perhaps?”
“She didn’t say,” he said glumly.
“Please don’t beat yourself up about the call. From what your mom told me, she made her discovery on Sunday morning, so even if you’d had more time to talk on Saturday, she wouldn’t have had anything to share. But do me a favor. If you think of anything else that’s odd, will you let me know? Even something that seems inconsequential.”
“Will do.” He rose from the table.
“And when you finalize plans for her service, would you mind letting me know the details?”
“Yes, of course. Good night, Bailey.”
As he trudged through the bar, his head lowered, my heart ached. Because of my father’s death, I knew something about the kind of loss he was experiencing, the feeling of being thrown overboard and trying desperately to keep your head above the waves. But Ben had now lost both parents, and one of them under horrible circumstances.
As I waited for Matt Wong to show, I nursed my wine and wasn’t surprised when he ended up being ten minutes late. After spotting me, he strode toward the table like a guy who owned the room. He was wearing a tight cotton plaid shirt half-tucked—intentionally—over a pair of slim-fit rust-colored chinos, the kind that were sold broken-in.
“Good, you started without me,” he said, nodding toward my wineglass. “Something important came up and Ihadto deal with it.”
He let it hang there, hoping perhaps that I’d assume he was following a red-hot lead or had been short-listed for a Pulitzer.
“Who’s been in tonight?” he asked once he’d ordered a Heineken.
“Who’s beenin? I don’t know what you mean, Matt.”
“What otherreporters?”
I told him I had no idea, and from there he launched back into his theory from earlier—the fact that video waseverythingnow and he needed a sizzle reel that could totally showcase his talents. I briefly humored him and then directed the conversation back toward the case.
“How long do you think all these reporters are going to be buzzing around?” I asked.
“Not much longer. From what I hear, the cops have squat from the retreat center, and you know as well as I do that these kinds of cases can go for years without being solved. If there’s nothing to report, the press will go on to the next big thing.”
“Who told you the cops had squat?”
“Now, now, Bailey, you can’t expect me to share my sources. That would be unprofessional of me.”
“I’m not asking for the nuclear codes, Matt.”
“Well, if you were less stingy with your own info, I might be more willing to share.”
“I gave you that tip yesterday—about Page’s boyfriend lying when he said she wanted to split.”
He rolled his eyes. “Please, that didn’t leadanywhere. Maybe the dude did embellish the truth, but the cops had other reasons for thinking those girls had left of their own accord. For one, they never found Amy’s car. Plus, Page had taken two grand out of her savings account the day before.”
Okay, how had he managed to unearththatnugget?
