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swung open.   He drove through, glanced in his rearview mirror and watched the tall shadowy forms close.  
          Driving over the small hill that separated the house from the front gates, he saw the warm welcoming glow from the porch light.   He parked in front, snuffed out his cigar in the ashtray and brushed the stray ashes from his coat.   He took the dozen or so stairs that led up to the large entry veranda two at a time and had just raised his fist to knock when Angie opened the door.
          "Oh, Tom, I'm so glad you're here," she sobbed.
          Startled by her tears, he pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment, then pushed her back at arm's length.   Putting his finger under her chin, he tilted her head upward and looked into her eyes.   "There's probably a simple explanation for Bud's absence, but I can see you are imagining the worst."
          "I'm worried sick and don't know what to do."   She dabbed at her eyes, then locked her arm into his and led him into the study.
          Tom had been a visitor in the home so many times that he felt comfortable going to the wet bar and mixing himself a scotch and water.   He then made Angie her favorite, gin and tonic, before sitting down on the leather couch opposite her.
          She took a sip and closed her eyes.   "I needed this."
          Tom studied her oval face.   Long wisps of hair had strayed out of the silver barrette at the nape of her neck and twined around the collar of her blue denim shirt.   He looked into her crystal-blue eyes and noticed the tear-stained makeup on her cheeks.   She sat stiffly and rubbed the rim of the glass with her finger.
          "Okay, Angie," he said, scooting forward to the edge of the couch.   "Tell me what's going on.   You told me a little on the phone, but start at the beginning and tell me the whole thing."
          Clutching her glass with both hands, she leaned back in the chair.   "As you know, Bud plays golf every Saturday morning."
          "Yes, I've even joined him on occasion."
          "He left before I woke up, but I really didn't get concerned until about two this afternoon.   I called Ken and he told me they'd had a short meeting after their golf game, but he assumed Bud had headed home as usual.   That's the last any of us has seen or heard from him."
          "Where'd they have this meeting?"
          Angie shrugged.   "They could have talked at the clubhouse or over at the office.   I didn't ask."
          "Maybe Bud had an unexpected call from a client and had to meet him someplace.   Did you try calling him on his cell phone?"
          "I already thought of that, but it's upstairs on the dresser.   He never takes it golfing.   That's the one place he doesn't want to be disturbed."
          Tom nodded and stared into his glass.   "Is there a favorite bar where he might have stopped off?"
          "Not that I know of.   He's never been one to do that."
          Tom set his glass on the coffee table, rested his arms on his knees and clasped his hands together.   "What about Marty?   Did she see him before he left?"
          "I don't know.   I gave her Saturday off, so I haven't talked to her."
          He remained silent for a moment, then with a serious expression looked into her eyes.   "I'm going to ask you some personal questions, Angie.   But as a police officer, I need to know.   Did you and Bud have a fight in the past week or so?"
          She shook her head.
          "Does Bud have a mistress?"
          She stared at him silently, then lowered her eyes.   "I have no reason to believe he has one.   But, of course, the wife would be the last to know."
          Tom cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.   "Do you have a boyfriend?"
          A slight twinkle showed in her eyes.   "Bud's all I can handle."
          He managed a strained grin.   "I hope you realize these are