My Darling Husband
Page 10
“Thanks, Ed. I really, really appreciate it. I owe you one.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. Alissa still needs to sign off on this plan, and even then, I don’t see how any of this takes place today. It’s going to be tomorrow morning at the earliest before I have that kind of cash.”
I close the door and jog down the alleyway to the truck. “Life or death, Ed. I need the money by closing time.”
Ed puffs another defeated sigh. “Then you’d better let me go so I can get busy.”
T H E I N T E R V I E W
Juanita: After that phone call from Jade, why wasn’t your first call to the police?
Cam: Because those were the marching orders. Bring home $734,296 by seven and don’t call the cops. Jade made it perfectly clear what would happen if I didn’t obey.
Juanita: Seven hundred, thirty-four thousand...
Cam: And two hundred ninety-six dollars.
Juanita: That’s an awfully big number.
Cam: Yeah, no kidding. And an hour before the banks were set to close.
Juanita: Almost like he wanted you to fail.
Cam: Or like he wanted to torture me, because I sure as hell didn’t have that kind of money lying around.
Juanita: How can that be? You owned five restaurants consistently named as the best restaurants in not just the city but the country. Before the fire, your Buckhead steak house had a six-week wait for a Saturday night table. You were featured in magazines and newspapers, and were a regular guest on the morning news shows. You even beat out Bobby Flay on Iron Chef. You’re very successful.
Cam: Was very successful. Was. But after Iron Chef, investors were tossing me money like they’d just hit the jackpot in Vegas, more cash than I ever thought imaginable. Like a fool, I grabbed on with both hands, never stopping to think through the consequences of opening another shop before the one before it was paid off. Because here’s the thing about investors, Juanita—they really like you a whole lot better when you pay them back.
Juanita: What happens if you miss a payment?
Cam: Depends on the investor. Most were pretty reasonable. A thirty-day cure provision, meaning I had a month to get my act together and cough up the money. After that, it depends on the terms of the contract, how much I was willing to put up as collateral.
Juanita: What were your terms?
Cam: They were 50 percent interest in the shop, 50 percent of the profits and a personal guarantee.
Juanita: So, a lot.
Cam: Everything but the wife and kids.
Juanita: And the others? The ones who were less reasonable?
Cam: [smiles] They were the first to get paid back.
Juanita: Did you ever consider shuttering one or more of your restaurants?
Cam: Of course I thought about it. For about three seconds.
Juanita: Why so short?
Cam: Because in the restaurant world, closing your doors for any reason is equivalent to failing. Especially if people were ever to find out the truth, that I closed because of money problems. The Lasky brand would have suffered. The rest of my shops would have fallen like dominoes.
Juanita: And then there’s also the fact that Jade had no idea you were experiencing money problems.
Cam: [sighs] And then there’s that. The point is, I had no choice but to keep trying to dig myself out of the hole.
Juanita: What made you decide to keep your money issues from her?
Cam: God, I don’t know. A million and one reasons. Because her father never liked me. Because her sister would have never let us hear the end of it. But I guess it all goes back to the fact that I was too proud, am too proud. I mean, all that time I told myself I kept going because of her, but that’s a lie. It was because of me. Because I couldn’t admit I was a failure, because I couldn’t stand the thought of ending up just like...
Juanita: Like your father?
Cam: Yeah, like him. I remember what it was like after he lost all his money, the way Mom and I went from this giant mansion to a seedy hotel, all the whispers that would start up the second she left a room. Do you know that’s the reason I chose steaks as part of the Lasky brand? Because to me it was the ultimate status symbol, being able to afford a hundred-dollar meal on a regular old Tuesday.
Juanita: So your ambition stemmed from not wanting to make his mistakes.
Cam: If you’d asked me a year ago, I’d say it was because I didn’t want to put Jade and the kids through what I went through as a kid, but that’s not the truth. It was about me. I didn’t want to go through that again. So okay, maybe I was an asshole to my employees, but it was because I was drowning, trying to keep my business afloat while taking on water.
Juanita: Even more reason for calling 9-1-1. The Atlanta Police Department has a Special Weapons and Tactics unit. They have officers specialized in hostage negotiation, ones with specific skills and decades of experience. They know what to do in hostage situations, because they respond to more reports of home invasions in a month than many other cities do in a year.
Cam: [sarcastic laugh] Doesn’t say much for our fair city, does it?
Juanita: My point is, the police would have known what to do.
Cam: Or they would have come in, sirens wailing, busted down my front door and started shooting until somebody was dead. Which as you know, they did.
Juanita: You could have told them not to use the sirens.
Cam: I did what I had to do, what I thought was the best thing at the time.
Juanita: But police officers are trained for this exact situation. They know how to respond in order to save lives.
Cam: Look, lady. You and whoever’s on their cushy couches at home can sit there and judge me all you want, but let’s talk again when it’s your wife chained to a chair, begging you to hurry home with money you don’t have while your children scream bloody murder in the background. Until then, until you’ve stood in my shoes with the weight of a thousand elephants on your chest because you can’t cobble together the ransom to save the people you love most, I suggest you save your judgment for someone else because you don’t know what that’s like. You can’t know until you’ve been there.
Juanita: Point taken. But tell me this, knowing what you know now, if you could go back and do things over, what would you do differently?
Cam: [leans forward in the chair] Every single goddamn thing.
J A D E
4:19 p.m.
The man watches me from above. “Who’s ‘him’?”
I frown, more concerned with the strip of duct tape dangling from his fingers like a shiny silver snake. My skin still stings from where he ripped it off the first time, and I’m not looking for a repeat.
“Please don’t put that over my mouth again. I promise I won’t scream.”
Screaming would only scare the kids, which I really don’t want to do. They’re being so brave, so sweet and quiet in their playroom, and I know from experience this peaceful state won’t last long. Especially if they hear their mother across the hall, screaming her face off.
And even if I did scream, the nearest house is a quarter acre away, separated by multiple layers of stone and plaster and double glass. No way anybody outside would hear, not even if they were standing on the front stoop.
He moves closer, and I crane my head back until it’s flush against the wall. “You promised to take me to my kids. You said you’d let me see them after the call.”
“Yeah, well, I lied. Now answer the question, Jade. Who’s ‘him’?”
“What?”
“Just now. Cam asked if I was him. You said you didn’t think so. Who’s ‘him’?”
I’m barely listening, still reeling from the fact that I don’t get to see my kids. I stare at the door and the slice of empty hall and try not to cry. “Just some guy who’s been following me around town.”
Admitting I have a stalker is one thing, but granting him insight in my thought processes, my fears, is another. I give him the most obvious answer.
“Your build is different. He’s shorter and smaller, skinnier. And he has a man bun, which I’m pretty sure you don’t have under that mask.”
He barks a laugh. “A man bun. No, I don’t have a man bun.” His tone says ridiculous.
I add another item to my mental list: mainstream hairstyle, traditional cut. Or possibly bald. Either way, not the type to sport a man bun.
“But it is interesting, don’t you think, that another man has been following you, too. What do you think he wants?”
I lift a shoulder but remain silent. I’m not about to get into my theories with this man—not that I have all that many. Until that guy showed up at Beatrix’s violin lessons today, I always just assumed running into him was random.
And I don’t miss this man’s choice of words, that someone else has been following me. I think back to all those times I raced through Whole Foods, bracing for the man-bunned man to pop around the corner. Was I so distracted by looking for him that I didn’t notice the other, more sinister man trailing me up and down the aisles? Did he follow me to the gym, the coffee shop, the post office, Beatrix’s violin lessons, too? As I go about my normal day, am I really that oblivious?
He sinks onto the edge of the bed directly across from me, the mattress springs creaking under his weight. “But it does make you wonder, though...” He shakes the tape from his fingers and it flutters to the floor, landing upside down on the rug.
I stare at him, waiting for him to finish.
“How much do you know about your husband’s business?”
I try not to let on how surprised I am at his words, how much this question disturbs me. It’s a little surreal how perfectly he dropped it into the conversation, too, in a voice so casual and offhand, shooting it off like a poisonous dart. These words were meant to rouse suspicion. I’m not about to give him the satisfaction.
“Cam and I are partners. He tells me everything.”
The truth is, this only used to be the case. Cam and I fell in love while building his brand. Some of our best date nights were spent making the rounds, bouncing from restaurant to restaurant so he could check on things in the kitchen while I schmoozed with the customers and made sure the lounge pillows were fluffed and the flower arrangements fresh. Yes, it was work, but there was plenty of time for socializing as well—sending over free apps whenever we spotted friends, popping by their table for a glass of wine, offering folks a free cocktail at the bar. Every night was work and one big party all rolled into one. Once upon a time, it was how Cam and I connected.
But that was before kids, and homework and bedtime rituals and early-morning carpools that had me crawling under the comforter by ten. Cam and I make it a point to eat lunch together most days, but we rarely talk about work. Not for a while now.
“What about Cam’s business?” I say.
Across from me, the man’s lips spread in a hideous smile, and I know I’m giving this asshole exactly what he wants, but my reasoning is more than just bald-faced curiosity. Every hint he drops, every tiny tidbit he buries in a sentence he thinks I won’t notice...they’re all clues. At some point this man will make a mistake and say something revealing. The more I know, the more chances I have to survive this thing. At some point, I will catch my enemy off guard.
“I can’t decide if you’re playing with me,” he says, his words slow, thoughtful, “or if you really don’t know.”
He falls silent, a long, strategic pause as he watches me with dark, observant eyes. He’s waiting for me to engage, to beg him for information, but I don’t respond. If Cam were here, he’d tell me I’m being too proud.
Baxter’s singsong voice carries across the hall, the sound too low for me to pick out his words from the TV soundtrack, and his chatter both soothes and terrifies me. It means Baxter and Beatrix are conscious, that they’re safe—as the man said, for now. Assuming Cam can scrounge up three-quarters of a million dollars and somehow make it home by seven—two colossal assumptions. I just have to keep the kids alive until then, but how am I supposed to do that when I’m stuck in this chair?
The man twists around on the bed, facing the open doorway. “Yo, Bax.”
I try to think of something to stop him, to keep his focus on me, on right here in this room, but my mind is thick as peanut butter.
A stomach-fluttering pause, then a high voice floats across the hall: “Yeah?”
The man glances back, just long enough to flash me a wink. “Everything okay over there?”
This is all for my benefit. This man is manipulating me again, dangling my most precious carrot and daring me not to snap it up. Calling out to the kids now is punishment—for not taking his bait fast enough, for not playing along with his stupid, diabolical game. I’m a rat, trapped in his maze.
The words burst out of me, high and frantic. “If I really don’t know what?”
He lifts a finger to his lips and tilts his head, pointing his ear at the door.
“The commercials are taking forever,” Bax calls out. “But can you come over here? I got a cramp.”
The man puffs a laugh, turning back to me with a look I recognize through the mask. Crazy kids. He doesn’t know that this is classic Baxter, and that “cramp” is an excuse. A word that can mean virtually anything, from help changing the channel to bringing him a snack, getting him a glass of water, reading him another book, giving him your undivided attention. He says it so often, the word has infiltrated the Lasky family lexicon. When the recycling bin needs to be rolled to the curb, I tell Cam I have a garbage cramp. When Cam wants sex, he tells me he has a penis cramp.
And now Baxter is using the word with this man as if he’s here to help us, not hold us hostage. He’s too young to understand what’s really happening here. He’s too trusting to be scared. One stupid magic trick downstairs, and Bax is buddying up to the monster.
“If I really don’t know what?” I say again, red-hot adrenaline thumping in my veins. “Please tell me what you know about Cam’s business. Because if there’s some kind of problem, if he’s hurt you in any way, I can help. Cam listens to me. Please let me help.”
“You want to help.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, a series of frantic and fast bobs of my head.
The man pushes off the bed. “I gotta tell you, Jade, I wasn’t expecting you to be this accommodating, not with that temper of yours. Remember when you lost your shit after the valet couldn’t find the key to your car? You threatened to have him fired.”
Oh, I remember. We were trying out a new sitter, a friend of a friend of a friend’s nanny, a high-strung girl who had just called in a panic after Baxter projectile vomited his spaghetti dinner over the antique Beni Ourain and was running a 102-degree temperature. Cam was in the kitchen, cooking for a CEO roundtable, leaders of Atlanta’s Fortune 500s crammed into the private room, and his truck was in the shop. With my car stuck in the lot, it took me twice as long to get home in an Uber.
But the bigger point is that he remembers, which means he was there. He saw me throw that fit.
A Lasky employee, then? A client?
“Tell you what,” he says when I don’t respond. “Let’s stick a pin in this subject for now. Just until I get back, so...don’t move, okay?” He laughs—another stupid, pathetic joke. “Hang tight while I go check on the kids.”
* * *
As soon as he’s gone, I lurch forward at the waist and tug at the rope with my teeth. The guy is smart, positioning the knot on the far side of my wrist, too far fo
r me to reach with my mouth, so my first task is to somehow rotate the rope until the knot is on top. I bite and pull, bite and pull, nudging the rope along with little flicks of my wrist. It drags over the skin of my arm in millimeter increments, painful and excruciatingly slow.
Words float in disconnected fragments across the hall.
...Mommy...talk to her...very important.
Bax again, speaking in Baxter code. The more trifling the request, the more urgently it is delivered. He wants to tell me about a pretty blue bird that’s perched on the windowsill, probably, or an unreachable itch in the center of his back. How long have we been upstairs—twenty minutes at the most? Even with the cartoons blaring, it’s long past the limit for a six-year-old to sit still and be quiet. The question is, how much will the masked man tolerate?
The man’s voice comes in a low murmur, too faint for me to hear.
I work at the ties and do the math. My watch says it’s a few minutes before 4:30—a little more than a half hour until the banks close and two and a half hours before Cam’s deadline. Whoever this man is across the hall, whatever he thinks he knows about my husband, I wonder what he knows about the restaurant business. Three-quarters of a million dollars is a lot to have just lying around, liquid cash Cam could stuff in a bag when his system is geared to cashless transactions, credit cards and Apple Pay and touchless payment apps. Even if Cam raided all the tip jars and valet stands, there’s no way he’d get anywhere close. He’s going to have to make a trip to the bank.
Questions beat through my mind like razor blades.
Who is this guy? A fired waiter? A bartender or chef? He’s stronger than me, faster, too. Even if I managed to wriggle myself loose from this chair, can I sneak across the hall and surprise him with the lucite bowl to the temple? Can I kick the gun from his hand and then use it to shoot him in the face?
And then, darker, more dangerous thoughts: three-quarters of a million dollars is a lot. What if Cam can’t get to the bank in time? What happens to us then?
For a bleak moment, I think about how the kids and I will end this day. How difficult Cam’s task is, how helpless and outmatched I am stuck to this damn chair. One false move, and the man could kill everyone in this house—bang bang bang—and still have bullets left over for Cam when he arrives. Maybe that’s been his plan all along, to kill us, then take the money and run. Maybe this whole afternoon is just part of his evil game.