David laughed. "Let me tell you boys something. I love my wife. We have a great relationship. I keep her happy and satisfied in every way. She has no reason to run around on me, least of all with the tennis pro.”
I bit my tongue.
“Now, I'm well aware of Liam’s reputation with some of the ladies at the club. But Blair is not one of those kinds of women. I don't expect you to take my word for it. I know you've already spoken with her, and I'm sure she told you as much.”
JD and I tried to keep a straight face.
“As far as my whereabouts at the time of the murder, I was at a business dinner with several colleagues. All of whom will vouch for my presence. I can give you their numbers.”
"Please. That would be fantastic," I said. I handed him a card. Then I stroked his ego a bit. "I'm sure you're dialed into the gossip around the club and privy to exclusive information. Canyou think of anybody who didn't have a good relationship with their wife? Someone who might have violent tendencies?”
"You really think this was someone at the club?"
"I think that's the obvious direction to look.”
"You might need to look for less than obvious suspects.”
"You might be right. Do any less obvious suspects come to mind?”
David thought about it for a moment. "I don't know. I'm no detective. But if that guy was banging my daughter, he wouldn’t be breathing for long.”
"You're talking about Stephanie Wescott.”
David shrugged. "You do your homework. I don't like to gossip, but…”
“You're saying we should talk to her father.”
“That's a pretty obvious suspect to me. Might want to look at Stephanie's boyfriend, too. Maybe he found out and didn't like it so much.”
It was certainly something to consider.
I couldn’t tell if David was in complete denial about his wife's dalliances, or if he truly believed they were a happily married couple. Maybe he knew and just didn't want to admit it. It's not always an easy thing to acknowledge.
I thanked him for the information, and we left the office. We walked back down the hallway and showed ourselves out. When we stepped into the elevator bay, Jack said, "You can't tell me that guy doesn't know his wife's fooling around.”
"He's probably fooling around too and doesn't want to stir the pot.”
“Those people have everything in the world, and none of them seem happy,” Jack said and shook his head.
We took the elevator down to the lobby and walked back to the Porsche. I started dialing the numbers of David's business associates. One by one, they each confirmed his alibi. On the phone, driving stick, multitasking, talking to these guys, I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have been.
Before I knew it, a silver 4-door was on our tail, riding our bumper.
I downshifted, put my foot to the floor, and put some distance between us.
The sedan sped up.
I took a hard right, downshifted into second, and the shifter popped out of gear. The synchros were still messed up. Jack hadn’t had time to take the car into the shop. Bullet holes still scarred the door from our last encounter, and the driver's side window had been shattered. We drove around most of the time with the windows down and the sunroof open.
The Porsche slowed, and I shifted into third and tried to get the RPMs up into the power band. Lacking a lot of torque, we weren't going to win any races.
The sedan squealed around the corner and caught up to us. It was embarrassing.
Out came a machine gun from the passenger window.
Muzzle flash flickered, and bullets streaked toward us.
The rear window webbed with cracks, and shards rained down.
