Chapter Twenty-One

Peter Carillo

Peter went to three houses on his street before he found exactly what he was looking for.

Mrs. Emily Carmichael lived across the street, three doors down. Carmichael was an eighty-year-old widow, and her son had installed security cameras after a string of robberies in the neighborhood last year. She was a nice-enough lady for a busybody, and knowing that Peter was a cop, she waved to him when she saw him.

He talked his way into her house to look at her computer, where the security footage was stored for two weeks before it auto-deleted. He knew this because he'd talked to Emily's son when he first installed the system.

He made up an excuse—that Annie had seen a prowler, but he didn't have a camera on the side of his garage. And to ease his wife's mind, he wanted to just check.

Emily hovered, chatting about her kids and grandkids and two great-grand kids. Peter blocked it all out while he searched the footage for Sunday morning at 7:00 a.m.

Then he watched.

He saw himself leaving. He fast-forwarded until seven thirty-two when a Jeep pulled into his driveway. A moment later, the garage door went up; the Jeep pulled in, and the door went down. Thirty-six minutes later, the Jeep left with Annie in the front seat. A woman was driving—a woman wearing a baseball cap. He couldn't see her face well, didn't recognize her.

The children had to be in the back, but he couldn't see them through the tinted windows.

He copied the clip and saved it to a flash drive, thanked Mrs. Carmichael while politely ignoring her questions, and left.

He had a license plate. An Arizona plate.

One of the perks of being a state trooper was taking home his patrol cruiser. Most cops didn't have such a privilege.

He sat in the car, turned on the laptop, and ran the plate. Yes, there would be a log of his action, every single thing he did in the system was logged, but no one looked at the information—there was no need to. If down the road someone did inquire, he'd come up with an excuse. He ran plates all the time—dozens, sometimes hundreds a day.

The Jeep was registered to Margaret Elizabeth Angelhart. She lived on North 14th Street in Sunnyslope, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Phoenix, near the Phoenix Mountains Preserve.

Why was that name familiar?

Angelhart.

Well, shit. He knew the name because there had been a prosecutor named Angelhart.

He shut down his work laptop and went inside to his personal computer. Bringing up Google, he typed the name. It was an uncommon last name and all the top results were for Angelharts in Phoenix.

Cooper Angelhart went to prison three years ago for murder—killed a fellow doctor at the VA. Now Peter remembered the case. It had been wall-to-wall coverage for weeks. Cooper Angelhart was married to a lawyer, Ava, who was the daughter of retired judge Hector Morales. Peter didn't remember working with Ava when she'd been a prosecutor, but he found her biography on a website for Angelhart Investigations.

The woman was now a private investigator.

Ava Maria Morales Angelhart graduated from the University of Arizona with a degree in criminal justice and a minor in history. She attended law school at Arizona State University to be closer to home as she began her family with her husband, Cooper.

After law school, Ava took a job as a prosecutor for Maricopa County. Ten years later, she was appointed as County Attorney when George Fieldstone resigned following a heart attack. She was elected twice to the post, but declined to run for a third term. Instead, she and her sister, Rita Morales Garcia, opened their own law firm, Arizona Legal Services, where they handle a variety of cases both civil and criminal. Ava is the cofounder of Angelhart Investigations.

Who was Margaret? A kid? Grandkid? Did she work for the firm? Was a former prosecutor responsible for taking his wife and children from him?

It took him fifteen minutes of digging around on the internet because none of the Angelharts had a large digital footprint. He found Angelhart Investigations—but no Margaret. Ava, Jack—a former Phoenix PD officer—and Teresa were the principal investigators. Maybe this Margaret was a nobody, a secretary...

Why was she here? Where had she taken his kids? His wife?

After thirty more minutes of frustrating searches, he finally identified her. Margaret went by Margo and she, too, was a private investigator but didn't work for the family. A lone wolf, working from a tiny storefront near where she lived, likely not much more than a mail drop.

Margo Angelhart would know where his wife was. If she didn't cooperate, he would consider going to her mother.

Why? Why did you leave me, Annie?

Maybe he had on occasion been a bit rough on Annie when she irritated him. She understood what he liked, what he expected, what he expected of her. That was no reason to disappear with his children.

But, he didn't know what she might have told the private investigator. She may have lied, exaggerated, blew everything out of proportion.

Maybe Annie was at Margo's house.

Was that even a possibility? For Annie to leave him, take his children, to another house practically in his backyard? Why? To punish him for putting his foot down on her unacceptable, selfish behavior?

He didn't know what he would do to Annie when he found her. He loved her, didn't want to hurt her.

She couldn't leave him.

He took Annie's car, not his cruiser. Her practical minivan—that he bought her because it was safe for her and the children—wouldn't stand out. It was still light outside, not yet eight in the evening. He headed down Highway 17 and navigated to Angelhart's house in the hills bordering the southwest boundary of the Phoenix Mountains Preserve.

He parked across the street and looked at the small, cinder block house. No lawn, just rocks and cacti, though someone kept it free of weeds. Potted plants on the small covered porch, a couple of chairs. He looked west—the front yard had a nice view of the sunset.

The garage was at the end of a narrow driveway to the left, and he couldn't see if anyone was home. He finished his coffee, exited the car, and walked to the front door. Knocked. No answer. He didn't hear anyone inside. He knocked again. Silence.

He tried the door. Locked.

Peter was nervous. Angelhart was a PI, likely had a weapon, and he wasn't in uniform. He needed to walk away now or he would be trespassing. He glanced around, didn't see any neighbors lurking, no one walking their dog.

She took your family from you.

Emboldened, letting the anger fuel him instead of his nerves, he walked around the side of the house to the back, grateful that it was near dark. There was a gate, but it didn't have a lock on it. He slipped into the backyard and immediately felt relief at the privacy—no one could see him here.

The backyard was mostly rocks with a couple trees that provided shade, much needed in Phoenix. The cracked patio had seen better days, but the woman kept the yard tidy. A small peanut-shaped swimming pool was clean, and a separate raised hot tub looked to be new. Two sliding glass doors led to the house; he tried both of them.

Locked.

He shook one of the doors. Dammit!

He studied the locks; they were old.

Be smart, Peter. Think.

He slipped on latex gloves and then wiped the doors that he'd touched. He checked all the windows—they were locked as well.

He went back to one of the sliding glass doors and looked inside.

A large bed, a dresser, white comforter, colorful pillows. Her bedroom was neat, her bed made. A night-light came from the adjoining bathroom, casting shadows in the rapidly diminishing light.

He studied the lock. Old, but he'd come prepared. Maybe he had known this was what it would come to for answers.

Taking a screwdriver from his pocket, he removed the handle on the door. Then he used the narrow end of the tool and inserted it in the center hole, wiggled it until he found the lock mechanism, and pushed it down.

He smiled as he put the handle back on the door and opened it. He quickly stepped inside, listened. No one was here.

The house was under twelve hundred square feet and had been updated. Margo Angelhart was a tidy woman. The floors were fake hardwood. Easy to clean and maintain. Her bedroom was a bedroom—no desk, no papers, no clutter. Pictures on the walls of friends and family, he supposed. A large print of the Grand Canyon. As he looked closer, he saw that a family was centered in the photo, though the picture focused on the beauty of the north rim.

A man and woman, five young children. He picked out the teenage Margo—he had her driver's license memorized. She had dark blond hair, lightened from the sun.

He glanced through her drawers; nothing of particular interest other than a .38 in the nightstand. A stack of books, a mix of fiction and nonfiction. The bathroom was barely big enough for a shower, sink, toilet. Down the short hall was another bathroom and then a small bedroom in the front of the house. This had a couch, desk, laptop.

He opened the laptop. It was off, not asleep.

He closed it. Looked through the drawers. Banking, financial documents, insurance documents, everything well-organized. Files for what he presumed were clients.

He looked through them, didn't see his wife's name anywhere.

He grew angrier with each passing minute.

The office had bookshelves, a filing cabinet, more pictures, many with Margo in uniform. Army, he determined upon closer inspection, when she was much younger.

Peter frowned. Why would this woman, this private investigator who'd been in the Army, a woman with connections to law enforcement and the DA's office and a criminal defense lawyer and God knew who else, why would she take Annie?

Why would she help Annie disappear?

His wife had lied. Plain and simple, she had made up some bullshit story to convince some do-gooder bitch to help her screw with him. The man who had taken care of her for seven years. The man who had provided, given her a home, done more for her than anyone! Her mother was dead, her father a deadbeat. She'd been barely scraping by working at that coffee shop, living with a pot-smoking roommate in a crappy apartment when he met her, when he fell in love with her, when he promised to love and protect her for the rest of their lives.

He pounded his fist on the desk. The knickknacks and photo frames jumped; one fell over. He righted it, looked again around the room. Lots of books, framed pictures, a cork board with notes and snapshots. He scanned them; they all seemed personal.

Order balloons for Austin's birthday.

Call Grandma A on Sunday.

Confirm Sat. party.

A wall calendar looked out of place; it was from St. Dominic's Catholic Church. Above the calendar was a simple carved wood crucifix mounted on the wall. He flipped through the calendar's pages. Here she had written birthdays, anniversaries. Her birthday was at the end of this month; someone named Austin was two days later. An anniversary this weekend. June, July, August... In September, there were four birthdays in a row—Adam (21st), Uncle Rafe (24th), Mom (25th) and Josie (27th), then an anniversary on the 30th—Uncle Tom Aunt April, #34.

Every month had at least one birthday or family event. How much family could one person have?

He opened the closet. It was smaller than the closet in her bedroom, but just as organized. Shelves with more books, office supplies, a couple warm coats and sweaters hanging in plastic bags. A tall narrow safe. Guns? Papers? Information about his wife?

He didn't even attempt to open the safe.

Peter walked through the rest of the house. It was as tidy and organized as the bedroom and office. He could respect a woman who kept a clean space. He opened the refrigerator, frowned. The door was filled with beer, the shelves practically bare. Some fruit in the drawers, a few condiments on the top shelf, a container of leftovers—some sort of stew—not much else.

The kitchen opened into the eating area and family room. It looked like someone had taken out some walls and opened the place up. There was even a large laundry room off the kitchen with built-in cabinets, a counter, and walk-in closet that had been converted into a pantry. She stocked a lot of staples—at least twenty gallons of water, canned food, flour, cereal, the top shelf packed with military rations, another shelf with stacks of ammo—at least 500 rounds each of .38, .357, .45, 9mm, 30-30 rifle ammo as well as more than a thousand rounds of 5.56, used in the popular AR-15. Paranoid or prepared? A quick glance told him she wouldn't have to leave her house for weeks if she was under siege.

He hated this woman—she'd taken his wife—but he was certainly intrigued by anyone who was both organized and disciplined.

Margo Angelhart was his adversary. He would need to be cautious when dealing with her.

The side door from the laundry led to the driveway and the garage. Peter unbolted the door and exited, doubly cautious. He didn't hear or see anyone. The sun was down, a thin red line to the west. The night was so clear he could see the remaining glow framing the White Tank Mountains twenty-five miles away.

He would check out her storefront, see if it was legit, find out if she had anyone working for her. Maybe he could pick up some clue. Something to tell him where this woman, this bitch, took Annie.

First things first. He needed to report that Annie was missing. He should have done it today, but he had hoped she'd come back on her own. Now? He had no choice. She was missing and he was concerned about her and the safety of his children.

Because Annie Carillo was mentally ill. That's the only reason she would leave him.

He headed home. Who would believe him? He had to be clear, focused in how he answered questions. Annie was ill, certainly. In fact, he'd noticed a change in her behavior and personality after Marie was born. He had wanted her to go to the doctor. Perhaps she suffered from postpartum depression. She wouldn't go to the doctor... Yes, it all came clear to Peter as he drove.

Annie was sick. She needed help.

Why hadn't he called the police right away? They would ask...

Because she left him a note... He thought she would return. Called friends. But now he's very worried.

He smiled. He would find her or the police would find her. She would come home. He would be the best, most attentive, most loving husband in the world. He'd take a leave of absence, have his mother move in to help with the children. When the time was right, when enough months had passed that Annie thought he'd forgiven her, he would punish his wife.

Annie was not going to get away with putting him through this hell.