Grace met his eye. “That I’m a hysterical bimbo whose husband ran out on her.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all. It’s just… Well, we really can’t investigate any further at this point. Unless…” He leaned a little closer. “Mrs. Lawson, is there anything else you can think of that could help us here?”

Grace tried not to squirm. She glanced behind her. Officer Daley had not moved. She had a copy of the strange photograph in her purse. She thought about Fuzz Pellet Josh and the store not opening. It was time to tell them. In hindsight she should have told Daley about it when it first showed up.

“I’m not sure it’s relevant,” she began, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a copy of the photograph and passed it to Perlmutter. Perlmutter took out a pair of reading glasses, cleaned them with his shirttail, and pushed them into place. Daley walked around and bent down over the captain’s shoulder. She told them about finding the photograph mixed in with her others. The two officers stared at her as if she’d taken out a razor and started shaving her head.

When Grace was done, Captain Perlmutter pointed to the picture and said, “And you’re sure that’s your husband?”

“I think so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

He nodded in that way people do when they think you’re a lunatic. “And the other people in the photo? The young lady somebody crossed out?”

“I don’t know them.”

“But your husband. He said it wasn’t him, right?”

“Right.”

“So if it isn’t him, well, this is irrelevant. And if it is him”-Perlmutter took off the glasses-“he lied to you. Isn’t that correct, Mrs. Lawson?”

Her cell phone rang. Grace grabbed it fast and checked the number.

It was Jack.

For a moment she went very still. Grace wanted to excuse herself, but Perlmutter and Daley were both looking at her. Asking for privacy was not really an option here. She hit the answer button and brought the phone to her ear.

“Jack?”

“Hey.”

The sound of his voice should have filled her with relief. It didn’t.

Jack said, “I tried you at home. Where are you?”

“Where am I?”

“Listen, I can’t talk long. I’m sorry about running out on you like that.”

His tone was aiming for casual, but it wasn’t hitting the mark.

“I need a few days,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where are you, Grace?”

“I’m at the police station.”

“You called the police?”

Her eyes met Perlmutter’s. He wiggled his fingers, as if to say, Give me the phone, little lady. I’ll handle it.

“Look, Grace, just give me a few days. I…” Jack stopped. And then he said something that made the dread grow tenfold. “I need some space.”

“Space,” she repeated.

“Yes. A little space. That’s all. Please tell the police that I apologize. I have to go now. Okay? I’ll be back soon.”

“Jack?”

He didn’t reply.

“I love you,” Grace said.

But the phone was dead.

Space. Jack said he needed space. And that was all wrong. Never mind that “needing space” was one of those lame, cloying, namby-pamby, New Age we-are-the-world terms that was worse than meaningless-“needing space”-a terrible euphemism for “I’m soooo outta here.” That would have been a clue perhaps, but this went much deeper.

Grace was home now. She had mumbled an apology to Perlmutter and Daley. Both men looked at her with pity and told her that it was all part of the job. They said that they were sorry. Grace offered up a solemn nod and headed for the door.

She had learned something crucial from the phone call.

Jack was in trouble.

She had not been overreacting. His disappearance had nothing to do with running away from her or fear of commitment. It was no accident. It had not been expected or planned. She had picked up the photograph from the store. Jack had seen it and run out.

And now he was in serious danger.

She could never explain this to the police. First off, they wouldn’t believe her. They would claim that she was either delusional or naïve to the point of a learning disability. Maybe not to her face. Maybe they would humor her, which would be both a tremendous irritant and waste of time. They’d been convinced that Jack was on the run before the call. Her explanation would not change their minds.

And maybe that was best.

Grace was trying to read between the lines here. Jack had been concerned about police involvement. That was obvious. When she said that she was at the police station, the regret in his voice was real. That was no act.

Space.

That was the main clue. If he had just told her that he was leaving for a few days, blowing off steam, running off with a stripper he’d met at the Satin Dolls, okay, she might not believe him, but it would be in the realm of possibility. But Jack hadn’t done that. He had been specific about his reasons for disappearing. He even repeated himself.

Jack needed space.

Marital codes. All couples have them. Most were pretty stupid. For example, there was a scene in the Billy Crystal movie Mr. Saturday Night when the comic Crystal played-Grace couldn’t remember the name, barely remembered the movie-pointed at an old man with a terrible toupee and said, “Is that a toupee? I, for one, was fooled.” So now, whenever she and Jack saw a man with a possible toupee, one would turn to the other and say, “I for one?” and the spouse would either agree or disagree. Grace and Jack started using “I for one” for other vanity enhancements too-nose jobs, breast implants, whatever.

The origin of “Need space” was a bit more risqué.

Despite her current predicament, Grace’s cheeks couldn’t help but flush from the memory. Sex had always been very good with Jack, but in any long-term relationship, there are ebbs and flows. This was two years ago, during a time of, uh, great flow. A stage of more corporeal creativity, if you will. Public creativity, to be more specific.

There had been the quick nooky in the changing room at one of those upscale hair salons. There had been under-the-coat manipulation in a private balcony at a lush Broadway musical. But it was midway through a particularly daring encounter in a British-style red phone booth located, in of all places, a quiet street in Allendale, New Jersey, when Jack suddenly panted, “I need space.”

Grace had looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, literally. Back up! The phone receiver is pressing into my neck!”

They’d both laughed. Grace closed her eyes now, a faint smile on her lips. “Need space” had thus joined the ranks of their private marital language. Jack would not use that phrase haphazardly. He was sending her a message, warning her, letting her know that he was saying something he didn’t mean.

Okay, so what did he mean then?

Jack couldn’t speak freely for one thing. Someone was listening. Who? Was someone with him-or was he afraid because she was with the cops? She hoped the latter, that he was alone and simply didn’t want police involvement.

But when she considered all the facts, that possibility seemed unlikely.

If Jack had been free to talk, why hadn’t he called her back? He’d have to realize that she’d be out of the police station by now. If he were okay, if he was alone, Jack would have called again, just to let her know what was going on. He hadn’t done that.

Conclusion: Jack was with somebody and in serious trouble.

Did he want her to react or sit tight? In the same way she knew Jack-in the same way she knew that he’d been sending her a signal-Jack would know that Grace’s reaction would not be to go quietly into that good night. That was not her personality. Jack understood that. She would try to find him.

He had probably counted on that.

Of course, this was all no more than conjecture. She knew her husband well-or maybe she didn’t?-so her conjectures were more than mere fancy. But how much more? Maybe she was just justifying her decision to take action.