CHAPTER 17

122 Hours Missing

Alex

The portrait photo on Sullivan Arms’ website of Larry Reyes reveals more than the grainy black-and-white screenshot. Thick eyelashes frame dark brown eyes, and a charismatic smile rounds out the image of a consummate professional. Jack said he’s a rising star within Sullivan Arms and currently serves as the youngest senior executive. When asked how his company defines senior executive, he said anyone with an SVP title. Larry recently divorced and doesn’t have any children.

The same style portrait of Cliff Hartman shows a balding older man with heavily salted hair and a paisley bow tie. The business executive serves as Chief Compliance Officer for the organization. He and his wife have a second home in San Diego, and when they are in town, he comes to visit Jack.

When asked why his wife never visited, Jack said the pair are separated. Apparently, once their oldest went off to college, Mrs. Wheatley expressed her dissatisfaction with the marriage.

“Explain to me the ATF connection,” I say to Ryan as I study these photographs.

“I can only assume it has to do with his role in sales within the company. It’s possible the ATF watches all executives at arms manufacturers. But I doubt it. US law is written to expressly protect gun manufacturers’ privacy and rights. We’ll learn more in tomorrow’s meeting. What do you think?”

“Do you think it’s odd Jack is divorced, and these men are, too?”

“Last I heard, the divorce rate is at fifty-two percent.”

Ryan takes a phone call and leaves into another room.

He’s right. A divorce by itself is meaningless. And these men are colleagues. Visiting Jack’s house doesn’t mean anything either. We’re grasping at straws searching for a proper theory.

On a whim, I call Jack. He answers on the first ring.

“Alex. Do you have something?”

“No, I’m sorry.” I should’ve realized he’d get hopeful when my name flashed on his phone. “How are you holding up?”

He exhales, and it comes across like a wind tunnel.

“How can I help you?” He mutters, and it sounds like profanity strung together. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m sure this is hard on you, too.”

“I am concerned. And frustrated. But I can’t begin to grasp what you’re going through.”

A shorter exhale relays more static.

“There’s something we learned about in Sophia’s folders. It could be nothing. At all. But I meant to ask you about it.”

“I thought you said you didn’t find anything.”

“I didn’t. At your house. But Arrow’s team went through her electronic files.”

“What’d they find?”

“She had one folder. It’s full of articles on affairs. What it means when someone cheats. The impact to a family. That kind of thing. I mean, this is probably grasping—”

“Fuck.” He mutters the expletive so low I barely hear it. “I didn’t know Sophia knew.”

I close my eyes, overwhelmed with gratitude we didn’t discover the Geese folder until after we knew she’d been abducted. Otherwise, I would have taken it as a probable motivation for leaving her father.