To Love and to Perish by Lisa Bork Page B

it was in the general direction of home. He repositioned the GPS on his dash and turned to face me. “I got it. Wayne Engle sells insurance. We sell cars. Cars and insurance go together.”
    â€œThat’s true, but how are we going to segue into talking about Brennan’s crash? How are we going to ask him why he wasn’t in the car at the time of the accident?”
    Cory slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “I don’t know, Jo. We may just have to tell him the truth. He was Brennan’s best friend. Don’t you think he’d want to help him, if he could?”
    â€œIt’s hard to say. If he thinks, or worse, he knows that Brennan was drunk that night, he might not want to help him. He might want to see him punished, even if it is all these years later.”
    Cory swallowed. “Maybe he knew Brennan was drunk, so he didn’t get in the car.”
    â€œI hadn’t thought that far through it, but that makes sense. Imagine the guilt if you’re the only one who didn’t get in the car. Imagine the survivor guilt after learning Monica Gleason died in the crash. Imagine if he knew Brennan was drunk and did nothing to prevent him from driving those two girls home.”
    The stricken expression on Cory’s face made me stop. His imagination was pretty damn good—what actor’s wouldn’t be? My words horrified him.
    I laid my hand on his arm in comfort. “Then again, we don’t even know if he was supposed to be in the car. He could have a different story altogether. Why don’t we go with telling the truth and see what he says?”
    Cory nodded and turned the key in the ignition.
    I thought I’d reassured him, but as the estimated drive time on the GPS inched upward with each passing mile, I realized Cory was no longer in such a hurry to find out the truth.

Eleven
    A tiny Cape Cod on a rabid thoroughfare housed Wayne Engle Insurance. The road had one of those irritating meridians dividing the eastbound and westbound lanes, and Cory had to make a U-turn at a busy four-way intersection in order to swoop back around to the company’s driveway entrance. Four other cars occupied the lot: a Civic, an Accord, and a Geo—all popular economy cars—and a brand spanking new Mercedes convertible.
    I offered to bet Cory that the Mercedes belonged to Wayne. He passed.
    Inside the office, the phone lines rang incessantly as two women tried to keep pace with the volume of incoming calls. Both women wore heavy makeup, short skirts, high heels, and less than adequate tops revealing plenty of cleavage. It was impossible to determine their age, but quite obvious what they were selling. Two other desks sat empty, but leftover coffee cups with bright red and pink lipstick indicated women had occupied the desks earlier in the day. Each desk had a name placard. Pam and Missy answered the phones; Beth and Silvia were missing, perhaps still at lunch?
    Cory and I waited for a couple minutes while the women dealt with their callers. Finally, Pam placed her call on hold to greet us. “Can I help you?”
    â€œWe’d like to speak to Wayne Engle, if he’s available.” Cory flashed his pearly whites, turning on the charm.
    Pam glanced at the closed office door. “Do you have an appointment?”
    â€œI’m sorry, we don’t. We’ll only need a minute of his time.”
    Her lacquered fingernail pressed a button on her phone. “What can I tell Mr. Engle it’s regarding?”
    Cory glanced at me.
    I shrugged. “Go for it.”
    â€œBrennan Rowe.”
    _____
    Wayne Engle opened the door of his office five minutes later. Dressed in a navy business suit, a white shirt, red tie, and wingtips, he looked spiffy enough to be running for president. His handshake was firm, but his eyes wary as he ushered us inside the office, which held an oak desk, multiple chairs, a credenza, bookshelves, and a conference table. A