“Is that your mom?” I asked.
“A hundred percent. Those glasses are her Guccis. That’s her Zak Posen coat. And check out her hand on the phone. What did I tell you? She’s not wearing her wedding ring.”
Conklin showed Caroline the DMV photo of Michael Chan. He asked, “Have you ever seen this man?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Duh. It’s all over the Internet. I can read. You think my mom had something to do with him?”
“We’re asking everyone if they know him,” Conklin said.
My partner thanked the girl, gave her his card, and told her to call anytime. Then she got out of the car. I got out, too, and watched her walk up the block with her chin tucked down. When she turned up the walk to her house, I got back into the passenger seat.
My partner said, “Here’s what I think. Alison Muller is a cheat, a narcissist, and a terrible mother. Going out on a limb, here, she’s also a pathological liar. You know where that leaves us?”
He touched his thumb and forefinger together, held up the zero for me to see.
“Exactly,” I said.
I called Brady to check in.
He said, “Monterey PD forwarded the Muller file to me an hour ago. They’re treating her as a missing person. Detectives talked with neighbors, friends, business associates. They’ve got nothing.”
That made all of us.
CHAPTER 45
I HAD TOLD Conklin that I was just fine after my beating last night, that I was cleared by the hospital and fit for duty. But even the pressure of buckling my seat belt caused a starburst of pain to radiate out from my ribs, wrap around my back, and shoot up to the top of my head.
I did my best not to wince. Or scream.
We were heading north on Ocean View Boulevard, Conklin saying we should stop off somewhere and grab something to eat.
I said, “Fine,” but I was preoccupied.
I was looking into the side-view mirror, seeing a black BMW crossover holding steady a few car lengths behind us. I thought I’d seen that car parked across the street from the Muller-Khan house through the bedroom windows. And now I was thinking I’d glimpsed it peripherally when I was watching Caroline Khan return to her home.
“Rich, the BMW behind us. The Asian guys who got into my face outside Claire’s office the other night. They were driving a vehicle like that.”
Conklin flicked his eyes to the mirror and said, “OK, we’ll keep our eyes on it,” adding that there might be a few thousand identical cars in this town.
I tried to relax.
Monterey Bay was on our left, with gorgeous houses along the right, as we headed in the direction of downtown Monterey. The view was a fine backdrop for my roiling mind. I was thinking about Ali Muller, wondering where the hell my husband was and what made Joe any different than Ali Muller. I didn’t like where my thoughts were going, so I glanced into the side-view mirror again.
The BMW had dropped back behind a panel van, but it was still keeping up with us when we passed Lovers Point Park and veered right onto the arterial.
“It’s still on our tail,” I said to my partner when we stopped at a light in downtown Pacific Grove. We took a right down a street lined with shops and restaurants, most of them closed on a Sunday, and yes, there it was. The black BMW was two cars behind our taillights.
The Pacific Grove post office was ahead on our right.
“Rich. Pull up over there.”
Conklin braked at the curb, and while the SUV had time and distance enough to slow and cruise past, the driver freaked. He jerked the wheel hard, then hit the gas and shot through the stop sign at the corner.
“Go,” I said to my partner.