At the front door, he stared up into the shiny dome lens of the camera as Will knocked. Everyone had their own surveillance nowadays. Maybe it would prove useful.
A white male opened the door. Late forties. Thinning, longish hair. He was tall, with lean muscles knotting him together. His face was red, as if he’d been exerting himself, but he was wearing a crisp white shirt and an expensive suit the color of sharkskin. His glasses sat squarely on his nose, eyes pale and sharp. Something about him struck Reyes, persisted in a recessed corner of his mind like the buzzing of a gnat.
“You Mr. Davenport?” Will asked.
“Yes, that’s me,” the man intoned. “Henry Excelsior Walden Davenport.”
“You called about a missing woman?” Will continued.
“Yes.” The man held the door open. “My wife. Come in.”
Reyes followed his partner inside. They were greeted by an elegant foyer and an expansive den. Wide plank floors ran throughout. The navy sofas had that down cushioning that made them look so inviting. The coffee table appeared to be teak. And there was a hint of something citrus in the air. But the furnishings were decidedly masculine, the colors academic. You’d almost assume a woman didn’t live here at all. He closed the door behind them.
“I became worried when I texted my wife after lunch and she didn’t respond,” the man told them, his face grim. “I rushed home and found this on our bed.” He held out a sheet of linen stationery. It was covered in dark pink script. “Her car is still in the garage.”
“Set it there, please,” Will told the man, indicating a large kitchen island that overlooked the den.
Stepping up to the marble counter, Reyes studied the letter. It was brief, full of agonizing apologies and a hopeless perspective. She was saying goodbye, telling her husband she wished shecould have made him happy, apologizing for letting him down, explaining that by the time he found the note it would be too late, she intended to jump, and not to look for her.
Reyes had seen a number of suicide notes in his time as an investigator, but this one stood out. Less from what it said than what it didn’t. In every note he’d read before, the person professed their love for those they were leaving behind. They knew they were hurting someone by making this choice, and that’s the only thing that had made them hold out for as long as they did. But this woman never saidI love youorI’ll miss you.She didn’t even sign the letter with her full name. Just a splash of whatever strange ink she’d used and a large letterP.
“What is this?” Will asked the man. “This substance? She have a special pen or something? Was this her favorite color?”
The man shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he stated plainly. His lips turned down at the corners. “My wife was an interior designer,” he said by way of explanation. “She has a flair for the dramatic.”
“Did you search the house?” Reyes asked him. “Look for her?”
“Of course,” the man snapped.
“I mean,reallysearch it?” Reyes reiterated. “I don’t mean to be morbid but sometimes people will find a hidden place within the home to take their life, one that feels safe but might seem unexpected. You went through closets? The attic?” As he spoke, Will began bagging the letter.
The man pinched the bridge of his nose, more irritated than upset. “Yes, yes. I looked everywhere. What are you doing?” he asked Investigator Poole. “That’s my letter.”
“We should get this analyzed,” the detective said. “See if we can identify what the substance is.”
Reyes nodded in support. “We’ll do our best to confirm a suicide,” he told the man. “But in the absence of a body, a case will need to be opened, an investigation carried out.”
“An investigation?” the man questioned. “Are you implying someone took her?”
“No, sir,” Reyes told him. “Just following procedure. This will likely be over very soon. Do you mind if I take a brief look around? Confirm that your wife isn’t in the house?”
The man agreed, but his lips were tight against the ridges of his teeth.
Reyes wandered through the house. Now that it had been mentioned, he could see the wife’s designer influence throughout the flow of rooms, a quirky, almost unsettling touch that made them stand out, yet was immaculate in its execution—an oddly shaped mirror or an unexpected color of curtain. Things the average person wouldn’t gravitate toward, or even know how to find. The element of surprise. It reminded him of the note. But in stark contrast to her obvious presence in the design, she was strikingly absent everywhere else. No framed pictures of her. Nothing personal or with her name on it. Not even a bit of jewelry or pair of shoes lying around.
Whenever he came to a door, he opened it and checked inside. But nothing appeared out of place. When he reached the master bedroom however, the bedsheets and blankets had been torn from the mattress and strewn across the floor. The doors to large his and hers walk-in closets were hanging open. His was impeccably organized, arranged by color and season, outfitted with cherrywood drawers and racks. Hers had likely been the same, but the clothes were now torn from their hangers, the drawers spilled open onto the carpet. He turned and found the man watching him from the doorway, eyes narrow and cold. He never heard him approach.
“Is it always like this?” he asked, watching the man’s jaw tighten.
“Most certainly not,” he answered quietly. “I found it this way when I arrived.”
“This could indicate a struggle,” Reyes told him. “It could shift the focus of the investigation.”
The man shrugged coolly. “A tantrum more like,” he said. “My wife is prone to fits.”
“Fits?” Reyes asked.
The man smiled stiffly. “She was unwell. Emotionally unstable. We moved out here to protect her reputation, give her privacy,” he said as he entered the room. He bent down and picked up a green sweater with little white flowers on it. His knuckles whitened around the knit. “I thought it would help. She had a large circle of friends and clients in Charleston who didn’t understand. She was embarrassed.”
