Page 147 of The Homewreckers
“Davis Hoffman. I’ve been trying to track him down for questioning, but he’s gone. Not at the jewelry store, not at his house. I’m running out of places to look.”
Hattie felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle. “Have you talked to his ex-wife?”
“Elise Hoffman claims she’s been looking for him too. He’s not answering his phone.”
“What about his mom? When I saw him a couple days ago, he said she’d asked him to come out to their house here to cut the grass.”
Makarowicz had a pained expression on his face. “Mrs. Hoffman was not what I’d call forthcoming about her son’s whereabouts.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Sylvia.”
“Thought I’d ride over here and see if you have any idea of where he might go,” the detective said.
Hattie pointed in the direction of the pale gray house two doors down. “Did you check the Titanic?”
“Mrs. Hoffman refused to give me permission to enter the house, but I walked down the driveway before I came here, just to see if his car was there. I looked around outside. No sign of him.”
She felt another ripple of dread. “Up until I went to see him about buying my engagement ring, I’d mostly lost touch with Davis over the past few years. He was more Hank’s friend than mine. I don’t have a clue where he might be.”
Makarowicz nodded. “Any chance he bolted after you talked to him the other day?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I tried to act nonchalant after I saw those burns on his hand and chest, but maybe he saw how spooked I was. Can you search his house or something?”
“Not without a warrant, which I can’t get because I don’t have enough probable cause yet. But his ex-wife has a key, and she says there’s nothing out of place in the house.”
“Davis knows you want to talk to him, right?”
“I left messages for him at the jewelry store and on his cell,” Mak said.
“Do you think he’s like, dangerous?”
“I’ve never met the man. You tell me.”
Hattie bit her bottom lip. “I’m starting to think I never really knew him either. Davis was always such a nice guy. He was… there. Not in the center of things, but maybe on the periphery. Cass says he was always watching, waiting for a chance to pounce, but I never saw that in him.”
She heard a horn toot from behind and looked in the rearview mirror. “Oh, Mak, that’s my camera crew. We’re headed into town.”
“Let me know right away if you see or hear from Hoffman,” Makarowicz said.
“I will,” Hattie promised. She felt that icy ripple start at the back of her neck again, but then Leetha, who was in the truck with the guys, beeped the horn again.
Lynn, the owner of Clutter, roamed through the tightly packed aisles of the consignment store, plucking lamps and paintings from displays, with Leetha and her camera crew squeezed in between a mountain of rolled-up Oriental carpets.
It was too hot to leave Ribsy in the truck, so he crouched near the front door, watching the goings-on with interest, thumping his tail every time Hattie spoke.
“Just don’t leave that door open,” Hattie warned. “He’s a flight risk.”
She pointed to an oversized pair of blue-and-white ginger jar lamps. “I want those for the console table in the living room.”
Lynn unrolled the corner of a jewel-toned Heriz rug and Hattie gave it a thumbs-up. “That’ll work in the dining room. What do you have for the living room? Trae’s looking for something big and bold to make a statement.” With the toe of her shoe, Lynn pointed to a lumpy bundle of reds, greens, and blues. “This is a palace-sized Kashan. The fringe is worn, but it won’t matter under a sofa.”
“Let’s do it,” Hattie said, consulting her list. “We need bedroom rugs, too. Blues and greens, and more earth tones for a larger nine-by-twelve. Do you have any dhurries?”
“Over there,” Lynn said, pointing to the front wall of the store. “I’ll get Johnny to take them out to the parking lot so you can unroll and choose which ones you want.”
“Good. Now. Art. Need a large statement piece to go over the fireplace, and maybe four or five other pieces for the living room.”
“Contemporary? Abstract? Traditional?” Lynn gestured toward the paintings and prints hung, gallery style, on every inch of wall space in the consignment shop.
