Tony looked wildly around the room. “There has to be a reason!” he cried. “This is absurd! He must have left a note or something!”
“You and I should go,” I said to Macguire. “We have an appointment to do food.”
“Well,” my ever-committed assistant protested, “who’s going to call the sheriff’s department? They should jump right on this.”
I exhaled patiently. No question about it, Macguire was romanticizing police work. Once he spent a couple of months trying to track down drivers’ licenses and reports of missing persons’ vehicles, he’d change his tune.
When we came out to the stone foyer, Marla was slumped on the floor next to Tony. Both faces were studies in misery. Lena kept murmuring into a cellular phone about Albert being gone.
“I’ll call you,” Marla promised me.
But she did not.
