by Allen Eskens
He went to the closet and looked in the clothes hamper. He lifted out a few garments, until he came to a shirt he had worn the day before he left for New York. She hadn't washed clothes in the past three days. He started to put the clothes back but then noticed something—not what was in the hamper, but what was missing from it. Desi's blouses. She had a line of blouses that she wore under her suit jackets. A few were dry-clean-only, but most of them found their way into the laundry hamper after the workday. There were no blouses in the hamper, at least none above his shirt, which meant that she hadn't deposited a blouse into the hamper since he left for New York.
He checked her dry-cleaning bag and found no blouses there, either. He squatted down, putting a hand on the floor to steady himself. How many possibilities were there to explain the lack of a blouse in the hamper? He could come up with only two, and neither looked good for his marriage. Either she hadn't been going to work, or she had been going to work but not coming home afterward. In either case, the next question would be, where had she been going?
Alexander pulled out his cell phone and dialed Desi's office, using the *67 prefix to keep his number private. Desi's market-research firm employed around a hundred and twenty people, and only a handful knew him by sight. As the phone rang, he tried to recall names and terminology that he had heard Desi use over the years.
“Castro, Docherty Marketing. How can I help you?” the receptionist's voice came through clear and professional. Alexander had never met the receptionist, but he had called there enough over the years that he disguised his voice this time.
“Desiree Rupert, please.”
“I'm sorry, she's not in. Would you like her voicemail?”
“Hmm.” Alexander had always been a fast thinker, able to conjure a believable cover story out of dust in the time it took most men to blush with guilt. “That's not good,” he said.
“Sir?”
“This is Christopher Kennedy.” Alexander was certain that he'd heard Desi use that name before. A VP from the Chicago office, he thought. “Desiree was supposed to get the Hormel Brand Loyalty Study to me this week. And…well, it's Friday and…”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but Ms. Rupert has been out sick since Wednesday. Can I put you through to her assistant? Carrie might know if the report's ready.”
Alexander's shoulders slumped. Out since Wednesday—the day he left for New York. He looked around his bedroom at the undeniable absence of a sick wife.
“No,” he said. “It can wait. No need to disturb her if she's sick.”
He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed as unsettling thoughts swirled inside his head. Had he become that guy? The guy who never saw it coming? The guy who bathed in comfortable ignorance and blind faith as his marriage falls apart? He was a detective, for God's sake. It was his job to notice things.
When did it start—the dissatisfaction? He thought back to the day they met. He was the bad boy from the world of the working class, the guy she brought home to shock her parents. Had their marriage been a dare? A fuck-you to her family? Later, when he bulked up and dressed in denim and T-shirts to work the streets, she couldn't get enough of him. He was her hero.
Then he got shot.
Is that when things began to change? The cane. The limp. They couldn't make love for the better part of a year, at least not in a way that didn't hurt his hip or leave her restless.
Alexander replayed their life since the bullet. Like watching a play from the wings of the stage instead of from the mezzanine, he saw the past few years from a different perspective. It was Desi who wanted him to climb that ladder, become a captain. It was Desi who pushed him to obtain a higher status, a higher salary. Together they earned enough to pay their bills, yet Desi found fault with that existence. “None of my friends are just paying their bills,” she would say. Wasn't it Desi who insisted on this house, in this neighborhood? Wasn't it Desi who continually added to her wardrobe and jewelry? Wasn't it Desi who insisted on meeting her coworkers every Thursday evening for wine?
Alexander closed his eyes as a new question landed hard on his chest. Had she been drinking wine with coworkers? Or had she been with him—the man in the nice suit? He clenched his fists as the depth of his ignorance burned its way up his throat. He remembered the hint of wariness he felt back when she first started her “wine nights.” How she came home looking slightly tousled. How she acted toward him, a degree or two colder than normal. He hadn't imagined that, had he?
Had she become that woman? The woman who whispered lies to her friends, making her husband out to be a monster in order to justify her own treachery. The woman who says “it just happened”? Is this what they had become?
He expected to feel a surge of emotion wash over him. He wanted to erupt with anger or sadness. He needed to feel something. He braced for it, but it never came. No anger. No sadness. It felt as though a great chasm had peeled open inside of him, the abyss swallowing his ability to feel. The only emotion remaining was a burning need to get away, leave the house before she returned to find him in this state.
There would come a time, soon, when he would lay the evidence on the table in front of Desi and make her face her lies. When that day came, he would have to be ready for her decision. Would she ask for his forgiveness or pack her bags? And did he prefer one alternative over another? Could he even forgive her if she asked for his forgiveness?
He pushed those thoughts away for now. He didn't want to think about the answer. He had time to prepare for that moment, and by then, he would know. Until then, he would mirror her icy politeness back to her. If she could live with duplicity, so could he—at least until he had the proof in his hand.
He had been staring at their dresser, letting his thoughts bounce loose in his head, when he noticed something else out of place, a small, porcelain dish atop the dresser where Desi kept some of her jewelry. There, peeking out from between two pearl earrings and a gold rope necklace lay her wedding ring. How long had it been there? Alexander thought back, trying to remember ever seeing it absent from her hand. He reached out to pick it up, but stopped when he noticed that his hand was trembling. He squeezed his fingers into a fist to stop the shake.
He left the ring where it lay and made his way back to his car. He didn't have a plan. No destination. He didn't know where to go or what to do. A jumble of emotions simmered just below the surface, waiting as he drove his car, moving with the current of the traffic. He told himself that he would follow the bumper ahead of him, think about nothing in particular until things settled down.
Yet, even as he told himself that he would drive without a compass, his car moved inexorably in the precise direction of Ianna Markova's apartment.
Also on Friday morning, the private jet carrying Drago Basta landed at a small airport in Teterboro, New Jersey—just another business traveler, returning home for the weekend. He waited patiently in line to display his passport identifying him as Walter Trigg. The passport was spot on, one of the benefits of Patrio's close ties to the heart of federal power. As a defense contractor, Patrio handled dirt that the State Department or Department of Defense couldn't touch. That opened doors for men like Wayne Garland, giving him direct access to things like counterfeit passports and federal databases.
The TSA agent at Teterboro studied the passport and driver's license, and said, “Welcome back, Mr. Trigg.” A town car brought Drago to an unremarkable, five-story office building on Manhattan's Upper East Side, the kind of building that might have been a lackluster hotel in a former life and now housed the home office of Patrio International. The exterior slumped with decades of neglect, but once inside, it was like stepping out of Dorothy's farm house and into the land of Oz. Garland had spent lavishly to make the interior a rival of any modern office.
Garland's personal office, a monstrosity that took up half of the top floor and looked like the set from The Great Gatsby, stood as a perfect testament to the man's unchecked hubris. Garland stood to greet Drago as though they were old
fraternity brothers who hadn't seen each other in years. In fact, it was only eight months ago that Garland sent Drago into the mountains of Afghanistan to extract tribute from a particular tribal chieftain who forgot the rules of the game.
Lots of money had been delivered to that chieftain in exchange for his allegiance to the American effort, money that would never appear on any ledger or in the minutes of a congressional committee meeting. They had made a simple arrangement: Garland, through Patrio, would have the money delivered to the chieftain, ostensibly to improve the lives of his people and persuade them to undermine the Taliban. In return, the chieftain would show his appreciation by giving a percentage back to Garland—not Patrio and not the United States, but to Wayne Garland—deposited into a secret account in Switzerland. The chieftain, however, didn't reciprocate as he had agreed.
Garland sent Drago to change the man's mind.
Drago flew to Afghanistan, crossed mountains full of hostile inhabitants, and slipped into the chieftain's house. He killed three bodyguards on the way to the chieftain's bedroom, where he found his prey. He stuffed a scarf into the man's mouth before cutting off his pinky finger, ring and all. Drago had memorized enough Dari to whisper in the chieftain's ear, “Pay your debts.” Drago brought the finger and ring to Garland, who later mailed the ring back to the chieftain with a cryptic thank-you note for the payments received.
“I'm glad you could come at such short notice,” Garland said, as he closed the thick office door behind Drago. “I couldn't tell you over the phone because…well you never know who's listening these days. It's about our friend from the yacht.” Garland sat down behind his desk and motioned for Drago to sit in the chair. Drago didn't sit.
“Our friend has surfaced?” Drago asked.
“Not yet,” Garland said. “I got a call from a detective in Manhattan. She said she's reopening the case on the disappearances of Richard Ashton and Jericho Pope.”
“Did she say why?”
“No. All I know is that she's coming here this afternoon to talk to me about it.”
“Who is she?” Drago asked.
“Her name is Louise Rider. I did the research myself. I didn't want anyone else knowing about this. The wrong person knowing our business is what got us into this mess to begin with.”
Drago snarled his upper lip just enough to show that he didn't appreciate the insinuation that he shared some of the blame for not killing Jericho Pope all those years ago. Drago had learned a valuable lesson that night. He had learned never to allow anyone else to interfere with his planning of a mission. The half measures that Garland insisted upon—the yacht, the hookers, the presence of a captain and first mate—led to the massive fuckup. Pope had become a piece of unfinished business, a singular failure that ate at Drago and kept him tethered to the loathsome Garland.
“So tell me about this Detective Rider,” Drago said.
Garland pulled a file from his top drawer and opened it. She's twice-divorced, no kids, both parents alive and living in New Jersey. She's been a detective for six years, mostly general crimes. Nothing in the file tells us whether we can buy her off or not.”
“‘Buy her off ’?” Drago repeated, with a trace of indignation in his voice. “Didn't you learn your lesson with Ashton? You Americans throw money at every problem without thinking about how it only creates more problems. If you try to bribe this detective and she refuses, she will know that she is on the right path.”
“Then, we'll just have to dispatch her,” Garland said.
“And by we…are you going to pull the trigger?”
“We each have our particular talents,” Garland said. “And I pay you handsomely for yours.”
“If you will not be killing this detective, what talent are you bringing to the table?”
Garland sat up in his leather chair, his belly pressing hard against the single button of his suit jacket. He pointed a crooked finger at Drago, but Wayne Garland didn't say a thing. His face flushed red for a moment, but he let his finger settle back into his palm. “Drago,” he said, “we have a lot at stake here. If this thing gets stirred up, there is no place on Earth either one of us could hide.”
“So you think we should kill the detective?”
“I do.”
“No,” Drago said. “We will hear her out—see what she knows. You will get her to tell us what new piece of information has brought her to see us after all this time.”
“But what if she knows too much already?” Garland asked. “What if she has pieces of the puzzle but just hasn't put it together yet? We have to do what needs doing. We have to make sure this stays buried.”
Drago watched as a trickle of sweat dribbled down Garland's temple. He could see a gray fear in the folds of Garland's skin, and the frailty of self-preservation hiding behind the man's eyes. Drago smiled to ease Garland's fears, and said, “When the time is right, I will do what needs to be done.” And then, in his thoughts, Drago finished the sentence, Even if that means killing you.
Alexander had an obligation to visit Ianna Markova again, at least that's what he told himself. He needed to probe her memory, to find anything that might explain what happened on that yacht.
“It's good to see you again, Detective Rupert,” Ianna said at the door to her apartment. She turned and walked in, which Alexander took as an invitation for him to follow. She wore a thin, cotton sundress—white with small flowers splashed across it—that fluttered in cadence with her saunter.
“Please, call me Alexander.”
“Okay, Alexander.”
“I have a few more questions. Is this a good time?”
“It's not a bad time.” She motioned him to the love seat. “I was just thinking that it would be nice to have some company. Can I get you a drink? You strike me as a beer man, something local?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“I've always been able to read a man and know his tastes. It's a talent of mine.”
“Thanks, but I'll have to pass on the drink for now.”
“As you please,” she said and sat on the couch across from him.
“I don't mean to doubt your talent, but if you can read men so well, how did you misread James Putnam so badly?”
Ianna went quiet, and Alexander watched as she curled into herself, pulling her arms and legs in tight. “I've been asking myself that question ever since your last visit,” she said. “I've gone over our relationship, sifting through the days, and I can't understand it. To be with someone for years…thinking that you know that person…only to find out that you don't know them at all. You have no idea how that feels.”
Alexander knew exactly how it felt, but he kept that to himself. “Did James ever mention the name Jericho Pope?”
“Jericho Pope? No.”
“Maybe he said the name in his sleep?”
“Who's Jericho Pope?”
“Jericho Pope is the true identity of the man you knew as James Putnam.”
Ianna leaned back on her couch and slowly raised her fingertips up to cover her lips. She looked at Alexander, her eyes searching his as if looking for an explanation from him. When no further explanation came, she lowered her hands and said the name out loud. “Jericho Pope.” She repeated it as though practicing a new language and then asked, “How do you know?”
Alexander told Ianna about his trip to New York, about the yacht, and the exploding dinghy. He didn't tell her everything, though. He left out the parts about the hookers, and Prather, and the death of Richard Ashton. Ianna received Alexander's news with a quiet dignity, appearing to line up the new facts against what she knew of the man she called James Putnam.
When Alexander finished, she nodded and said, “You must think I'm a complete fool.”
“Not at all. Pope had the whole world fooled. You had no way of knowing.”
“So why did he do it? What was he hiding from?”
“We don't know. But a detective in New York is opening a new investigation into what happened on that
yacht.”
“Does that mean you're off the case?” Ianna's eyes showed a hint of concern that somehow made Alexander feel good about himself.
“Not yet,” he said. “I need to follow up on some things I found. That's why I'm here. I found some accounting ledgers that don't make sense. Do you know anything about payments he would have received every year on the first of December?”
“Payments? Like money from selling stock?”
“These weren't stock sales. They were large cash payments.”
“Cash?”
“Half a million dollars.”
“Oh my God.” Her eyes grew wide with what Alexander believed to be genuine surprise.
“Deposited into his account every year on the same date. Did he ever talk about it? Maybe mention it after a few drinks?”
Ianna appeared to give the question her honest consideration, then said, “Every now and then would I ask him how he made his money. He would tell me that if I wanted to know the secret of his success, I would need the wisdom of Solomon.”
“Do you know what he meant by that?”
“I've been called a dumb blond before, but never so politely.”
“You're no dumb blond, by any stretch,” Alexander said. “And I don't think that the wisdom of Solomon had anything to do with his success, because this money fell out of the sky, every December.”
“Hey, do you think that trip he took every year has anything to do with it?”
Alexander smiled because she made the same connection he had. “You tell me.”
“Now that I think about it, he would go on that trip every year around the first or second day of December. That was a sore spot with us. He'd leave in the afternoon and come back the next day.”