The phone calls, interviews, and random bits of information swirled around his brain, giving him a raging headache. He opened his drawer and fumbled for the bottle of ibuprofen. Three empty coffee cups littered his desk. A greasy sandwich wrapper sat crumpled on top of his notebook, the one filled with more questions than answers. A million thoughts raced through his head. Who bought the surveillance tape? Who was the woman? A vague description—dark wig, oversized sunglasses, and khaki-colored coat—wasn’t much to go on. The manager thought she might have been tall, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t notice her shoes. Why would the anonymous woman go to so much trouble? What was her connection to Vandenberg? To Michael? Just a good citizen? Highly unlikely. The two women connected to the investigation and with the most to lose sprang to mind. Closest to Vandenberg, of course, was his wife. It wouldn’t be the first time a wife had turned on her husband, but her involvement with the surveillance tape seemed improbable, although not impossible.
