had hidden in her back pocket were not going to be exposed by him. Maybe one day she’d share her past with him, but he didn’t intend to push her.
* * * *
Matthew Martin reached absently for the phone on his desk, not bothering to glance at the caller ID. He quickly swallowed the bite of sandwich he’d been eating while working through lunch and pulled his gaze from the computer screen to concentrate on the caller. “Martin here.”
“Is this Matthew Martin?” The formal voice made Matthew sit up and take notice.
“It is.”
“Sir, this is Graham Walker of the Minneapolis Police Department. Are you the spouse of Elizabeth Martin?” The officer’s voice was hopeful.
“Yeesss. What’s this about?” It had been over two years. Did people really need to keep contacting him? He’d already done everything a grieving spouse was supposed to do and he just wanted to forget the selfish bitch for dying on him and move on. He didn’t need to keep pretending his life was a shambles in her absence.
“Sir, I’m sorry to report that your wife has died.” Officer—what was his name? Walker?—sounded terribly bereft.
“No shit, Sherlock.” When were these idiots going to stop bugging him to death?
“Pardon me?”
“Of, course she’s dead. I don’t need you to keep calling me to tell me that. What did you find now? A shoe? An arm? I truly don’t care anymore. I really wish you people would leave me alone so I can get on with my life.” Matthew was about to hang up the phone on this loser.
“Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What we found was her body. Under a bridge in downtown Minneapolis.”
The detective’s words made him freeze, his arm hanging over the receiver, and his lunch threatened to make a second appearance. “What?” Was this guy crazy? He must be mistaken.
“She must have passed in her sleep last night. How long has it been since you last saw her?” The officer’s voice was growing very sympathetic.
“Saw her?” What the hell was this all about?
“Yes, how long has she been missing? I assume she was missing?” Graham cleared his voice, probably hoping he hadn’t said too much.
“Missing? I hate to bust your bubble, man, but my wife died in 9/11. She was in the South Tower on the eighty-sixth floor.” Something about the officer’s words was niggling at Matthew.
“I’m sorry, sir. Truly I am. There must be some mistake. Your wife’s name was Elizabeth Martin, correct?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure there are several people with that name. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Wait.” Matthew was scrambling to organize his thoughts. “What made you think this woman was my wife?”
“Her purse. It was with her when she died. She has a Mr. Matthew Martin listed as next of kin with the number I dialed. The driver’s license is expired, but I don’t suppose she’s had a car for quite some time. The picture is smudged out, so I can’t confirm whether or not the woman matches the picture.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow and stood to pace his office, yanking the base of the phone around dangling by the cord. “Are you telling me that you found a woman dead under a bridge this morning with my wife’s purse? Can you describe this purse, Walker?”
The room was suddenly very hot. Even tugging on his tie to loosen the knot did not keep the sweat from running down his chest. Was it possible someone had Beth’s purse? No way. The authorities had assured him her entire floor in the South Tower had been obliterated. There’d never been anything recovered from that area, not one single body or even a sock. If Beth’s purse wasn’t harmed, then…God Almighty.
“It’s a brown satchel-type purse made of imitation leather. Wait, I have it right here. Hang on a sec…” A clank indicated the officer had set the receiver down on the desk.
Matthew was seething. His mind raced considering the possibilities. That fucking bitch ! If she wasn’t
* * * *
Matthew Martin reached absently for the phone on his desk, not bothering to glance at the caller ID. He quickly swallowed the bite of sandwich he’d been eating while working through lunch and pulled his gaze from the computer screen to concentrate on the caller. “Martin here.”
“Is this Matthew Martin?” The formal voice made Matthew sit up and take notice.
“It is.”
“Sir, this is Graham Walker of the Minneapolis Police Department. Are you the spouse of Elizabeth Martin?” The officer’s voice was hopeful.
“Yeesss. What’s this about?” It had been over two years. Did people really need to keep contacting him? He’d already done everything a grieving spouse was supposed to do and he just wanted to forget the selfish bitch for dying on him and move on. He didn’t need to keep pretending his life was a shambles in her absence.
“Sir, I’m sorry to report that your wife has died.” Officer—what was his name? Walker?—sounded terribly bereft.
“No shit, Sherlock.” When were these idiots going to stop bugging him to death?
“Pardon me?”
“Of, course she’s dead. I don’t need you to keep calling me to tell me that. What did you find now? A shoe? An arm? I truly don’t care anymore. I really wish you people would leave me alone so I can get on with my life.” Matthew was about to hang up the phone on this loser.
“Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What we found was her body. Under a bridge in downtown Minneapolis.”
The detective’s words made him freeze, his arm hanging over the receiver, and his lunch threatened to make a second appearance. “What?” Was this guy crazy? He must be mistaken.
“She must have passed in her sleep last night. How long has it been since you last saw her?” The officer’s voice was growing very sympathetic.
“Saw her?” What the hell was this all about?
“Yes, how long has she been missing? I assume she was missing?” Graham cleared his voice, probably hoping he hadn’t said too much.
“Missing? I hate to bust your bubble, man, but my wife died in 9/11. She was in the South Tower on the eighty-sixth floor.” Something about the officer’s words was niggling at Matthew.
“I’m sorry, sir. Truly I am. There must be some mistake. Your wife’s name was Elizabeth Martin, correct?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m sure there are several people with that name. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Wait.” Matthew was scrambling to organize his thoughts. “What made you think this woman was my wife?”
“Her purse. It was with her when she died. She has a Mr. Matthew Martin listed as next of kin with the number I dialed. The driver’s license is expired, but I don’t suppose she’s had a car for quite some time. The picture is smudged out, so I can’t confirm whether or not the woman matches the picture.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow and stood to pace his office, yanking the base of the phone around dangling by the cord. “Are you telling me that you found a woman dead under a bridge this morning with my wife’s purse? Can you describe this purse, Walker?”
The room was suddenly very hot. Even tugging on his tie to loosen the knot did not keep the sweat from running down his chest. Was it possible someone had Beth’s purse? No way. The authorities had assured him her entire floor in the South Tower had been obliterated. There’d never been anything recovered from that area, not one single body or even a sock. If Beth’s purse wasn’t harmed, then…God Almighty.
“It’s a brown satchel-type purse made of imitation leather. Wait, I have it right here. Hang on a sec…” A clank indicated the officer had set the receiver down on the desk.
Matthew was seething. His mind raced considering the possibilities. That fucking bitch ! If she wasn’t
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