“I trust my wife,” he said.
I asked Khan if anyone might have wanted to hurt her: a coworker, a competitor, a stalker, or a jealous friend.
“Ali is successful, yes. And there are always jealous people, but she is a wonderful woman. She’ll be home when she’s ready. I’ll have her call you the minute she comes home,” he said without a shred of sincerity.
Khan was sure Alison was alive. Or he didn’t give a damn about her.
I said, “We have video of the woman we believe is Alison. If you can identify her, we can at least establish her whereabouts last Monday afternoon.”
“Naturally, I’ll look at the film.”
I asked if I might use the bathroom and he said, “You mean you’d like to snoop around my house? By all means, have at it,” and he turned his back to me.
By all means, I would.
CHAPTER 43
WITH KHAN’S PERMISSION, I gave the second floor a thorough visual inspection, concentrating on the marital bedroom. Like the great room, the bedroom looked like a photo in a lifestyle magazine: expensively furnished and entirely untouched.
The bed was precisely made. There were no clothes on the floor, no clutter on the dressers, no sign of pets, handcuffs, dust bunnies, or bloodstains.
We had one possible witness to the Four Seasons bloodbath: Alison Muller. She was also our only suspect. In the absence of the flesh-and-blood woman, and without a warrant, this was my only chance to frisk her clothes.
I walked past the tower view of the bay to the far wall, slid open the closet doors, and turned on the lights.
Alison’s closet looked like a designer showroom: twenty-five feet long by ten feet deep, with built-in drawers and treed shoes under the eighty linear feet of clothing racks.
Her executive wardrobe filled one section with silk blouses, expensive suits, boots made in Italy, and six-hundred-dollar red-soled high-heeled pumps. Next to her office apparel was a frankly dazzling evening wear collection—casual, formal, all with European designer labels. Above and below the racks were shelves of wraps, bags, and boxes of strappy heels.
I saw no A-line, knee-length black leather coat.
While the presence of that coat might confirm Alison Muller as the blond-haired woman at the Four Seasons, the absence of the coat proved nothing. She might still be wearing it. Or she might have been buried in it.
As I was wrapping up my tour of Ali’s wardrobe, I saw an anomaly: a nearly hidden seam between two sections of built-in drawers.
I pressed on one side of the seam and a door sprang o
pen—revealing a stash of racy, lacy, extremely fine lingerie.
I was examining a boned bustier when Khan came through the closet doorway.
“Find anything, Sergeant? A murder weapon, perhaps? Or a pile of bloody clothes?”
He stopped short when he saw the display of sexy underthings.
“What is this?” he asked.
“You haven’t seen it before?”
“That’s not Ali’s style at all.”
“And still, here it is, in a secret closet. Have any thoughts on this, Mr. Khan?”
He blinked at the lingerie, then returned to the bedroom door and stood there until I made my exit. He followed me down the staircase, and when Conklin and I were standing at the open front door, I thanked Mr. Khan and gave him my card, saying, “Call me if you hear from Alison.”
“Absolutely,” Khan said stiffly. “The very first thing.”
CHAPTER 44