She took a sip and closed her eyes. "I needed this."
Tom studied her oval face. Long wisps of hair had strayed out of the silver barrette at the nape of her neck and twined around the collar of her blue denim shirt. He looked into her crystal-blue eyes and noticed the tear-stained makeup on her cheeks. She sat stiffly and rubbed the rim of the glass with her finger.
"Okay, Angie," he said, scooting forward to the edge of the couch. "Tell me what's going on. You told me a little on the phone, but start at the beginning and tell me the whole thing."
Clutching her glass with both hands, she leaned back in the chair. "As you know, Bud plays golf every Saturday morning."
"Yes, I've even joined him on occasion."
"He left before I woke up, but I really didn't get concerned until about two this afternoon. I called Ken and he told me they'd had a short meeting after their golf game, but he assumed Bud had headed home as usual. That's the last any of us has seen or heard from him."
"Where'd they have this meeting?"
Angie shrugged. "They could have talked at the clubhouse or over at the office. I didn't ask."
"Maybe Bud had an unexpected call from a client and had to meet him someplace. Did you try calling him on his cell phone?"
"I already thought of that, but it's upstairs on the dresser. He never takes it golfing. That's the one place he doesn't want to be disturbed."
Tom nodded and stared into his glass. "Is there a favorite bar where he might have stopped off?"
"Not that I know of. He's never been one to do that."
Tom set his glass on the coffee table, rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands together. "What about Marty? Did she see him before he left?"
"I don't know. I gave her Saturday off, so I haven't talked to her."
He remained silent for a moment, then with a serious expression looked into her eyes. "I'm going to ask you some personal questions, Angie. But as a police officer, I need to know. Did you and Bud have a fight in the past week or so?"
She shook her head.
"Does Bud have a mistress?"
She stared at him silently, then lowered her eyes. "I have no reason to believe he has one. But, of course, the wife would be the last to know."
Tom cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
A slight twinkle showed in her eyes. "Bud's all I can handle."
He managed a strained grin. "I hope you realize these are routine questions. I just need to know where we stand at the moment. Has he mentioned anything about problems at work or with his health?"
Angie furrowed her brow. "Strange you'd ask. Last week, he mentioned there were problems at work." She glanced up at the ceiling. "But with Ken's girls hurt in that school bus wreck and all, we never had the chance to discuss it. But talk to Ken, he might know."
"I'll do that." He picked up his glass and stared at the melting ice cubes. Her answers puzzled him. He'd always thought she and Bud were so close, yet she seemed to know so little about the company. And he didn't know how to put her fears to rest. Taking a business card from the inside pocket of his jacket, he wrote a number on the back and stood, handing it to her. "You can't always reach me at home or the office, but that's my cell phone number. It's always with me. If you haven't heard from Bud by morning, call me and I'll start checking."
Reaching for the card, she looked up at him, her eyes pleading for some assurance.
He solemnly shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine, Angie. I don't know what to tell you." He rubbed the stubble on his chin and headed for the front door. Angie followed. Before he stepped out on the porch, he gently grasped her shoulder. "Hang in there. I'll keep in touch."
He winced at the sight of her pinched face and hastened down the steps, but before climbing into his car, he glanced back toward the house. Angie's silhouette, outlined by the foyer light shining through the door, appeared to be frozen to the spot.
Chapter Four
Tom's eyes flew open when the loud jingle jarred him awake. He kept the phone on the far side of the room so he'd have to get up to answer it. But last night, he'd placed his cell phone on the bedside table just in case Angie might call. Half awake, he fumbled with it until he realized the constant ringing came from the other one. He groaned, yanked off the covers and rolled out of bed. "Coming, coming."
"Yeah, Tom Hoffman here." After a few moments of listening, he frowned. "I'll be right there."
He threw on some clothes, grabbed his jacket off the chair and charged out of the house. The sun's rays were just beginning to peek over the surrounding hills. He drove fast and knew he didn't have far to go when the odor of metallic smoke and burnt flesh scorched his nostrils.
Parking behind one of the fire trucks, he leapt out of the car and dashed around the large yellow vehicle, but came to a sudden halt behind the yellow tape separating the street from the accident scene. Glaring spotlights lit the area like daylight. He blinked and stared at the rear end of a charred Porsche. It appeared that the car had missed the sharp turn and careened over the embankment, hitting a huge oak tree head-on. The exploding gas tank had ravaged anyone or anything inside the car. He stepped over the tape and walked slowly toward the wreckage. The two technicians glanced up momentarily from their meticulous work, removing what remained.
His eyes watered from the lingering smoke, but he managed to write down as much of the curled license plate as he could make out. After tucking his notebook back into his pocket, he walked back up to the road and studied the surrounding terrain. Odd there weren't any skid marks. He glanced back at the Porsche and made a mental note of its position. The fumes made breathing painful as he stumbled back over the rough ground toward his own car.
He gripped the steering wheel and muttered. "Get hold of yourself. Just because that car is a Porsche, doesn't mean it's Bud's."
Not wanting to talk to anyone at the moment, he drove down the road a half mile and parked. After getting away from the sickening smell, he took several deep breaths and gathered his composure before making a call to the station. He remained on the line while they ran a check on the license plate.
"Detective Hoffman, Bud L. Nevers does have a white Porsche registered and the license plate contains those last three numbers. But I'll need the rest of the figures to confirm that it's actually his."
His worst fears realized, Tom couldn't speak for a moment, then choked out. "That's fine, thank you."
Fighting the lump in his throat. He stared across the hood of the car where the early morning sun played across the dark blue metal. It all blurred together like an oily puddle of water. How will I tell Angie? He remembered the pain when he learned of Sara's cancer. Even though he'd tried to prepare himself, it wasn't easy to lose the one you love. Sara's slow death still haunted him. His large shoulders shook with deep sobs.
Several minutes passed before he forced himself to turn the car around and head back to the crash scene. Two officers remained at the site, supervising the tow truck which had the car on its platform.