Page 111 of You'll Never Find Me

That confused me. “What do you mean by that?”

“He just found out that his wife not only was having an affair, but she tried to set him up. He’s going to have complex emotions. Sometimes your bedside manner is a bit...indelicate.”

I wanted to laugh. Indelicate? “You mean I’m too blunt.”

“I can hear you now, Margo. Logan, she’s a bitch, get over it.”

I winced. I think I called Jack’s ex a bitch before he was ready to hear it. I guess my bedside manner is a bit indelicate.

“I call ’em as I see ’em,” I said lightly. “But I’ll try to be sensitive.”

Now Jack laughed. “You do that.” Then, in a more serious tone, he said, “Be careful, Margo. You know what I mean.”

I did. “Back at you.” I ended the call.

After checking in with my uncle after Mass, I was heading to North Scottsdale when my phone gave off an odd chime. I looked down as soon as I hit the stop sign. My new security system alerted me that someone was on my front porch. A uniformed officer and a plainclothes, probably a detective. I didn’t recognize either of them.

I turned right rather than left and three minutes later was pulling into my driveway. The two cops were back in their cars, but hadn’t left yet.

I parked in my driveway and walked to the curb, curious. They each got out of their vehicles. The detective approached me first. “Margo Angelhart?”

“Yes. You?”

“Detective Grant Sullivan. This is Officer Archie Nunez. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. My brother was on the force, until three years ago. Worked out of the 900.”

“Jack,” Nunez said with a nod. “I didn’t know him well, but the name sounded familiar.”

“I know Jack,” Sullivan said. “He doing good?”

“Yeah. If you came by last night, you could have had beers with us.”

I leaned against my Jeep. I knew why they were here—Detective Sullivan was the primary on the Annie Carillo “disappearance”—but I wanted him to talk first.

This day was going to come, and I’d gone round and round with how to respond. No lies—but I didn’t plan on telling the whole truth. I really wanted to tell Sullivan that Peter Carillo was an abusive prick, but I hadn’t seen the abuse—the marital rape or emotional manipulation. Only Annie could testify to that. I could tell them but then they’d want to speak to Annie.

“What can I help you with?” I asked.

Detective Sullivan said, “We’re investigating a missing woman, Annie Carillo. Do you know her?”

“I do.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Sunday.”

He wasn’t expecting my prompt answer, but I knew if they were here, they saw me or my Jeep on a security camera. No way Carillo would have told them, though he may have pointed them in the right direction.

“What was her state of mind?”

I shrugged.

“Was she upset? Angry?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Did you see her kids? She has a boy, nearly four, and a baby, eight months.”