“There’s no conflict here,” Jack said. “I can remain objective.”
Daniels scoffed.
I called Isabella, caught her up to speed, and asked her to see what phones pinged the tower from Dr. Latham’s office during the time of the murder.
After a few taps of the keys, she said, “I’ve got one phone that belongs to Dr. Latham. I’ve got a prepaid as well. No other phones ping the tower from that location until this morning.”
“Can you tell me where her husband is right now? His name is Greg Latham.”
“Let me see if I can find a cell number for him. Hang on.” Her fingers danced across the keys again. After a few more minutes, she said. “I found a cell phone in his name, but it is off the grid and has been since last night.”
It was a little suspicious.
I thanked her for the info and said I’d be in touch.
We left the professional building and set out to find Greg. JD and I hopped into the Porsche and drove to Greg’s house in Whispering Heights. It was a nice neighborhood with manicured lawns, picket fences, and modern French colonial homes.
I rolled my window down to match Jack's. We’d cleaned up all the remaining fragments of glass. The weather was good. As long as it didn't rain, the broken window wasn't a big deal. With the sunroof open, the wind swirled around, and we soaked up the morning sun.
Jack parked at the curb at 619 Tarpon Trail. He cut the engine, and we hopped out, pushed through the gate at the picket fence, and hurried up to the veranda. I rang the video doorbell.
There was no reply.
I rang a few more times and still nothing.
The neighborhood was calm and quiet at this hour. A lawn service worked the yard down the block, and the distant sound of a leaf blower buzzed.
"Where the hell do you think this guy is?" JD asked.
"Maybe he killed his wife and took off. Whoever did this had a lot of animosity toward her.”
We banged on neighboring doors, but nobody had seen Greg recently. We talked to a woman named Jillian across the street and got a little bit of gossip.
She was in her mid-40s with a short blonde pixie cut. She answered the door in a sports bra and blue yoga pants. Jillian had a figure toned by Pilates, and a flat midriff that looked well sculpted.
"You know, they're going through a divorce." In a salacious tone, she added, “I heard he beat her."
"Did Laura ever talk to you directly about that?”
"No. But that's just the gossip on the block. You didn't hear that from me, though.”
"Did Greg move out?"
"I would have kicked his ass to the curb a long time ago. I'm not really sure where he is. I haven't seen him in a while. He could be staying with a friend.”
"Do you know if he's got a girlfriend?”
"I would imagine he does, but I can't say he’s much of a looker. Laura could have done so much better than that. And, I think she did,” she said in a sly tone.
"Did you ever see other men at the house with Laura?"
"Well, I don't like to gossip, but yes, I have seen a few different men who weren’t her husband. And honey, let me tell you, I wouldn't have kicked a one of them out of bed."
I dug in my pocket and handed her a card.
She took it with delight and surveyed it for a moment.
"Please get in touch if you happen to see Greg or know where he might be.”
