Eleven Hours by Paullina Simons Page A

“Juan? What’s going on, man?”
    â€œJust standard procedure,” Juan mumbled.
    â€œThere’s a lot that seems to be standard procedure around here,” exclaimed Rich. “Tell me, is it standard to have a young pregnant woman abducted from a shopping mall? Huh?”
    No one said anything. Finally Rich said in a slow, flat voice, “I found the pretzel bag that belonged to my wife. I knew it was my wife’s because I smelled her hand lotion on the bag.”
    â€œIf she put it on in the morning, it must have been very faint,” noted Scott in a casual voice.
    Rich got defensive anyway. “Okay, so? It was faint, yes. You wouldn’t have been able to recognize the smell, certainly. And if it smelled of someone else’s wife, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But it smelled of my wife. Of all the people in the world, don’t you think I would know that?”
    Scott nodded, exchanging a glance with Chief Murphy. “Sure, of course.” He nodded again. “Let’s not worry about this anymore,” he said to the chief. “I’ll take care of it.”
    â€œTake care of what?” Rich said, even though Scott was not talking to him.
    Suddenly Scott’s expression changed. “God help you if you’re lying to us. If you’re lying to me. ”
    â€œOh, for Christ’s sake! Look, give me a damn lie detector test if you have to. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. Every minute you’re standing here interrogating me, he’s one mile farther away from us.”
    Scott and Chief Murphy stared at each other for a moment, and then Scott nodded slightly. He tilted his head to one side and smiled at Rich. “All right, man,” he said in a comforting voice. “The spouse is always under suspicion at first. Standard procedure. Listen, even when you think we’re not working, we’re working. I’m on the job five minutes and we may already have a small breakthrough.”
    Rich’s eyes brightened. “Breakthrough?” he said.
    Scott lifted his hand. “Now, don’t get your hopes up.”
    Blood rushing to his face, Rich said, “God, what, what?”
    â€œWell, this is what we have. At three thirty-five, ten miles south of Dallas on Thirty-five E, a report came in on police radio from a lady about a disturbance in the car next to her. She called nine-one-one on her cell phone.”
    â€œWhat kind of disturbance? What did she say?” Rich’s heart pounded in his chest.
    â€œShe said that she was driving her car minding her own business, when she noticed that in the car to the left of her a woman was turned to the window while the driver, a man, was hitting her with an object.”
    â€œOh God,” said Rich, and thought, maybe that’s not Didi.
    â€œThe lady said,” Scott continued, “that the woman looked young and had long brown hair. The woman was saying something through the window, but the lady couldn’t make out what it was. She also said the woman was holding her hands up to the window as if in prayer, so she might have been saying something like ‘please’ or ‘help me.’”
    â€œOh my God,” Rich said, his fists helplessly clenched.
    â€œWe don’t know anything for sure, you understand?” Scott said.
    Rich noted that Juan and Chief Murphy had said nothing during the conversation. Scott had a cocksure and intimidating manner that didn’t allow for interjection.
    â€œIt could have been some couple having a domestic fight,” Scott said. “It does happen, you know.”
    Rich knew it happened. But he had to believe it was his wife and his wife was alive. That was the most important thing. Not knowing what had happened to his wife was the unbearable part. Not knowing if she was all right.
    Had Scott said 3:35? What time had Rich called the cell phone? It had been about three-thirty.
    The