Free Out of Range: A Novel by Hank Steinberg

“You found out that she went to London and not New York. You knew she must have been running around on you, so you bolted from work, ready to tear her head off. Your office is downtown, only twenty minutes from Disneyland, why not head over there and confront her? You get there, maybe you realize this is not the best forum for it, so you follow them. When they head home, she calls you, not even knowing that you’re right behind her on the freeway. Now, you can’t resist. You start arguing. Maybe she figures out you’re stalking her, maybe not. Either way, your daughter melts down, your wife pulls over. You tear into the gas station. Maybe to continue the argument, maybe to beat the crap out of her. The second you pull in, she recognizes your vehicle. She drops the gas nozzle, hops in her car and hightails it out of there. You chase her. She makes a wrong turn, winds up at a dead end street. She knows it’s going to get ugly so she tells the kids to sit tight, don’t open the door for anyone, not even Dad.”
    “She never said that. That is not what Oliver told anyone.”
    “It was implied,” Albez continued, unruffled. “She didn’t want to freak the kids out about their daddy. So she says ‘not anyone.’ She gets out of the car to confront you. Oliver hears an angry male voice.”
    “Voices,” Charlie insisted.
    “Maybe. With a six-year-old, it’s hard to tell. At any rate, you and she brawl out there. Only question is, what happened next? I think you lost your cool, hurt her in a way you never really intended. Now it’s panic time. You got to get rid of the body and do it fast. You’re also going to need an alibi and an explanation for why you’re not home, what you’re doing in that area. You start calling every fifteen minutes or so—make it seem like you’re a concerned guy. But you never leave a message ’cause you’re not sure you can sell it.” Albez pointed at the video screen. “Then you realize maybe that camera there picked up your car going into the gas station. You double-back to check it out, find the doll, and now we’re back to where we started.”
    “You’re wrong.” Charlie was seething. “Dead wrong. And while you’re in here pointing the finger at me, someone out there’s got my wife. Doing God knows what to her.”
    Charlie looked from Reamer to Albez. Their vacant, cynical expressions said it all.
    “You know what I do for a living? You think I won’t have your names splattered all over the front page of my paper when all this goes south? When I prove you rushed to judgment—against a man with no record of violent behavior?”
    Reamer stepped forward with concern, her voice gentle. “Mr. Davis . . . when did you find out that your wife was cheating on you?”
    Charlie knew it was over—that there was no convincing them.
    “You charging me with something?”
    Reamer and Albez exchanged a look. “Not yet,” she offered brightly.
    “Then I’m going home.”
    Charlie stormed out and hurried down the hallway, searching for the room where the Social Services lady had taken his children.
    He found them in a grungy office, half asleep on a weary old couch.
    “Come on, angels,” he whispered, leaning down to them. “We’re going home.”

Chapter Ten
    H olding one sleepy child in each arm, Charlie shook with anger as he strode through the precinct parking lot at almost two thirty in the morning. He passed a trio of cops, standing by a squad car, drinking coffee and cackling about the wacky events of their graveyard shift. He was sure they had no idea who he was, or why he was here, but their laughter felt personally directed toward him. He wanted to grab them. To shake them. To order them to put away their French fries and get out there and find Julie. Instead he climbed into his car, phone clutched in his hand. The moment the door was closed, he dialed Julie’s sister.
    The phone rang and rang before finally going to voice mail. Becca’s clipped English voice