Chapter 4: THE WOMAN IN THE RED CAR
By the following morning, the investigation had expanded beyond the Chesapeake Police Department.
A financial crimes investigator had been assigned to the case, and military authorities had been notified about the possible misuse of my identification documents.
Detective Sarah Whitmore visited me at the hospital shortly after eight.
She carried a thin folder.
“We’ve identified the woman in the photograph.”
I sat upright.
“Her name is Vanessa Cole. Thirty-two years old. She works for a private financial services company in Norfolk.”
“Is she having an affair with my husband?”
“We believe so. But that’s not the most important part.”
Whitmore opened the folder.
Vanessa had previously worked for the same investment firm that employed Derek.
The company had been investigated for fraudulent transfers two years earlier.
Several employees had been questioned.
One had disappeared.
His name was Daniel Mercer.
And according to the records, Daniel Mercer had transferred more than four hundred thousand dollars into an account bearing my name.
“I’ve never heard of him,” I said.
“We believe you.”
She placed another document on the table.
“Your husband has been building a financial trail that makes it appear you received money from a criminal operation.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
Then she showed me a second photograph.
It was taken outside our house.
A red sedan stood in the driveway.
Vanessa was carrying a cardboard box toward our front door.
The photograph had been captured by a neighbor’s security camera two nights before Derek left for the cruise.
“She was at my house?”
“Yes.”
“Was Lily there?”
“We believe she was.”
My fists tightened.
“Then she knew my daughter was being abandoned.”
Whitmore didn’t answer immediately.
“We’re investigating exactly what she knew.”
At that moment, her phone rang.
She listened silently.
Then her expression changed.
“When?” she asked.
Another pause.
“Secure the scene. Don’t let anyone inside.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?” I demanded.
“Officers went to Vanessa Cole’s apartment.”
“And?”
“The front door was open. Her car was gone. And someone had destroyed several computers.”
My stomach dropped.
“She’s running.”
“Possibly.”
Then Whitmore hesitated.
“There was something written on her kitchen wall.”
“What?”
She looked directly at me.
“HANNAH WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO COME HOME.”
