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right,” she said, her voice tight.  “I met Peter about a year ago.  He was doing some consulting work for my company, and he was out here for a week.”
    “Where’s here?” I asked.
    “Willow Grove.  A suburb of Philadelphia.”
    “What happened?”
    “We worked through the week, and the last night Peter was here, I took him to dinner.  It’s standard practice for the company, a courtesy kind of thing.  The VP who was supposed to go with us canceled at the last minute, so it was just Peter and me.”  I heard the sound of a horn honking.  “Hey, watch it,” Sheila yelled at another driver, then to me in a quiet voice, “Oh, sorry.”
    I relaxed some and smiled.  “No problem.”  I can relate to rush hour traffic.
    “Anyway, we went to dinner, and afterward Peter invited me up to his room for a drink.  My husband was out of town, so I said yes.  One thing led to another.  Do I need to paint you a picture?”
    I chuckled.  “Your honesty is astounding.  Let’s try another question.  Have you been seeing Peter since that time?”
    “Yes.  Whenever Peter came out here, we made it a point to get together.”  She seemed smart enough to realize that the email I had read could’ve been dated at any time over the last year.
    “How often did he work with your company?”
    “Not that often, but we’d get together whenever he came East, not just when he came to Philly.  He made trips to New York, Washington DC, sometimes Baltimore.  I’d go wherever he was if I could get away, or he’d come here when he finished with his business.  Whenever we could work it out.”
    “Your husband never suspected anything?”
    “No, he doesn’t know anything.  He travels a lot, so I have plenty of time on my own.”  It sounded like a familiar story.  A big, lonely world.  Spouses not happy in their current situation.  And everybody left to their own devices.  Poor babies.
    “Did you see Peter on this latest trip?”
    “Yes.  I picked him up at the hotel on Friday and we spent the weekend at a cabin outside of Philadelphia that my husband and I own.  I took him to the airport on Monday morning, dropped him off, and that’s the last I’ve seen of him.  I didn’t know anything might be wrong until you emailed me.”  For the first time she seemed concerned, but whether it was for Peter or for the possibility of her involvement in his disappearance, I wasn’t sure.
    “No emails from him, or phone calls?”
    “No, nothing.”
    “Have you tried to contact him since then?”
    “No,” she said.  “Look, I’m almost home.  Haven’t I answered enough questions?”
    “You don’t seem very upset about all this.”
    “Hey, I’m no fool,” her voice took on a cautious edge.  “I enjoyed my time with Peter.  We had a good time in bed, had some nice conversations, but that was all.  He has his life and I have mine.  If he’s missing now, my first thought would be to see what other women are involved.”
    “Spoken like a true saint.”
    “Don’t judge me, Mr. Ferguson.  I’m trying to help you now,” she said.  “Please don’t contact me again.”  The connection died.
    I hung up and stared at the pictures of Peter.  I still didn’t know if one of the women was Sheila.  Not that it mattered.  It seemed Peter had a girl in every port.  A little fun on the side, no strings attached.  A wife at home who didn’t say a word about it.  “You must be really good,” I said to his smiling image.  “No wonder you look so smug.”
    I stood up and stretched, thinking about the conversation.  I could now place Peter at the airport in Philadelphia on Monday.  According to Detective Merrick, Peter hadn’t taken his scheduled flight, or any other commercial flight, back to Denver.  So where was he?  The credit card transactions could help me narrow that.  Had the police already checked this?  Amanda could fill in some of these holes.
    I glanced at the clock.