“We are not asking,” Harris said.

The officer’s radio crackled to life, a burst of static filling the quiet room.

“Unit 4, Detective Miller is requesting a patch-through to the complainant’s room,” the dispatcher’s voice droned.

Harris reached for his shoulder mic. “Go ahead for 4.”

“We have the husband’s cell signal,” the detective’s voice came through, loud and clear.

“He is currently checked into the Atlantis Resort.”

“We are dialing his international number right now from the precinct.”

“I want Mrs. Bellamy to stay on the line with us while we make the call,” Miller said.

“We need her to identify his voice for the official record.”

Harris nodded at me and pulled out a secondary mobile unit, setting it on the bedside table.

“He is going to patch the call through this speaker,” Harris told me.

I sat down on the edge of the vinyl mattress, my hands clenched in my lap.

The speaker beeped twice, indicating a conference line was open.

Then, the sound of a telephone ringing began.

It rang once.

It rang twice.

The sound of wind and distant steel drum music came through the line.