“Yeah,” I add, “but at least we know a good attorney.”

He gives me a smile. “She was interesting, I’ll give her that. Poor SOB she’s married to—he’s probably forever stuck with her telling people he’s not just any waiter but the headwaiter.”

“We don’t know anything about them,” I remind him.

“And they don’t know anything about the case. Miss Independence and Mr. Migraine. Jesus! What a pair! I almost feel sorry for the people of Hawaii. Those two are going to be the most annoying thing that happened there since that moron sounded the false missile-attack alarm.”

We talk a little more as we head back down the hall to our offices.

“All we got is the husband and the dog walker. The husband didn’t have his glasses on, and the dog walker is in his eighties.”

“He’s seventy-seven,” I say.

“Whatever. My point is our eyewitnesses are not exactly ‘top of the line,’” Montrose says, echoing Connor Moss’s remark.

“They saw someone take Sophie,” I say.

“Adam Warner says that. The old guy walking the beach saw Sophie and a struggle. He couldn’t say for sure who was dragging her off.”

“Then what do you think happened? She’s gone, you know.”

“Yeah. Right. She’s gone. And I don’t know what happened. The ‘some weirdo abducted my wife’ story seems far-fetched.”

“It happens every day,” I remind him. “Just not in places like here.”

Montrose gives a little shrug. “No doubt,” he says. “But in broad daylight? At eleven in the morning?”

“The time is unusual,” I allow. “I wouldn’t expect such a bold move from someone who wasn’t after her specifically.”

“And she drops a wineglass,” he says. “Was she an alcoholic or what?”

“I didn’t get that from talking to her folks,” I say. Immediately I feel foolish, because I didn’t even ask them. Eleven a.m. is early for a drink. Even on vacation. While I didn’t think to ask about the wine, something inside makes me doubt her folks would tell me if their daughter had a drinking problem—certainly not in the first hours of an investigation.

“The truth is,” Montrose says, now sitting in his ancient office chair, held together by duct tape, a MacGyver fix that he considers a badge of honor, “we don’t know a goddamn thing about Adam and Sophie Warner.” He pauses a bit. “I mean, I don’t. But you do, don’t you, Lee?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ADAM