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Hoffman, a friend of theirs who worked as a police detective.   The two men had known each other since high school.   She remembered meeting Tom shortly after he'd lost his young wife to cancer.   He had never remarried, but devoted his life to the police force, working his way up to Detective in the homicide division.   Angie liked Tom and thought of him as a close friend.
          She lifted the receiver, then let it fall back on the cradle, feeling foolish.   The police couldn't take any action; Bud hadn't been gone long enough.   She dropped her head on her arms and wept in frustration.
          Her tears spent, she went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on her face, then wandered into the study, where she flipped on the television for background noise in the silent house.
          Sandy called a little after eleven.   "Have you heard from him?"
          Angie gazed out the kitchen window into the darkness and wiped her hand across her forehead.   "Not a word."
          "Did you two have a fight?"
          "No.   I wish it were that simple."
          "Maybe you should call the police."
          Angie fiddled with a tea towel, rolling the fringed edge between her fingers.   "I thought about calling Tom, but what can he do?   Bud's only been gone for hours, not days."
          "Call him anyway, he'll understand.   After all, this is out of character for Bud.   That might mean something."
          She felt relieved that Sandy had suggested the very thing that had crossed her mind.   "You're right.   I'll call him."
          "I'll talk to you in the morning.   Try not to worry."
          Angie hung up and drummed her fingers on the table.   She still hesitated to call Tom, but her fears had heightened.   Bud could be lying in his Porsche at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding to death.
          She dialed Tom's home first, but got no answer, so she flipped open the phonebook to the non-emergency police number and asked for Detective Tom Hoffman.   While on hold, she closed her eyes and whispered.   "Please Tom, be there."   When the familiar voice came over the line, she breathed a sigh of relief.
          "Detective Hoffman here."
          "Tom, Angie Nevers.   I'm so glad I reached you."
          "What can I do for you?"
          "I'm concerned about Bud."   She explained her husband's uncharacteristic absence.   "Tom, I'm really worried."
          "It definitely doesn't sound like Bud.   Are you home right now?"
          She gripped the phone.   "Yes."
          "Call me if you hear from him.   I'm off duty at twelve.   I'll drop by if you haven't heard from him by then."
          "Thanks Tom, I'd appreciate it."
          Sweeping wisps of hair out of her face, Angie went into the television room.   She sat rigidly on the couch, staring at the flickering screen.
     
    *****
     
          After hanging up from Angie, Tom Hoffman leaned back and stared at the phone.   He'd known Bud for years.   The behavior Angie had just described definitely seemed out of character for Bud Nevers.   It concerned him.   He hoped it was only a miscommunication that had occurred between a man and wife.
          He made some notations on the file atop his desk, then rolled his chair backward, depositing the folder into the filing cabinet.   Standing up, he stretched his arms and flexed his shoulders, hoping to relax the tight muscles across his back.   He shrugged on his jacket and pulled a cigar from his inside pocket.   Placing the unlit stogie between his lips, he left the station, waving at the officer in charge as the door swung shut behind him.   On the way down the steps, he lit his cigar, savoring the long awaited flavor.
          He pulled to a stop at the large iron gates that protected the Nevers' property, pushed the button on the call box and identified himself to Angie.   Within a few seconds, the big iron gates