Sweet Little Lies

by Bianca Sloane

  Kelly sorted the statements from her accounts and the accounts she and Mark had together into two separate piles. She looked over the trust papers for Mark Monroe, Jr.’s college fund. She examined the credit card statements for Geneva. Geneva was obviously a big spender. Major shopping trips almost every day, extravagant lunches at expensive restaurants, manicures and pedicures every week. Nothing, it seemed, was too good for Geneva Monroe.

  “Well, if someone else is footing the bill,” Kelly mumbled to herself, shaking her head at the excess this woman indulged in. There was one Visa gold card with a hundred thousand dollar limit and a gold American Express. Some assorted department store cards. The checking and savings accounts combined totaled on average about two hundred thousand each month. As Kelly shuffled through the papers, she got angrier and angrier.

  “Alright, Geneva. You wanna play? Let’s go,” Kelly mumbled to herself as she pulled out Mark’s phone and dialed the eight hundred-number on the Visa statement. She punched up the account code. When it asked for the social security number, Kelly guessed it was Mark’s.

  There was a balance of seven thousand, with a minimum payment due next month. She asked it to repeat the most recent charges and wrote them down. Kelly pressed zero for the operator. She waited a few moments before the line connected.

  “Thank you for calling Visa today, how may I help you?”

  Kelly cleared her throat, cupping her hand over her mouth to keep her voice from echoing across the library. “Hi, this is Mrs. Monroe, and I would like to report my card stolen.”

  “Ok, ma’am. When was the card stolen?”

  “Well, it was a few days ago. You see, I’ve been having some problems with identity theft.”

  Kelly heard the woman on the other end tapping on her keyboard. “Ma’am, can you tell me the last four charges you made on the account?”

  Kelly looked down at the statement. She counted up four spots from the bottom and began to read. “Well, I had lunch at Outback on the tenth for $57.30, then I got my nails and hair done at Mario Tricocci that same day for $240. On the ninth, I made a purchase at Macy’s for $350. And on the eighth, I made a purchase in the amount of $675 at Carson Pirie Scott.”

  Kelly held her breath and heard more tapping.

  “Okay, Mrs. Monroe. We have cancelled the card and will send you a new card shortly, if you will just confirm your address.”

  “Well, I’d like to hold off on getting another card until I can get to the bottom of all of this. I am concerned you may get a call from the woman who I believe has stolen my identity trying to reinstate charge privileges. How can I keep her from doing that?”

  “Well, ma’am, if she tries to use the card, the merchant will be instructed to confiscate the card and call the police. Additionally, we can password protect the account with a series of questions only you would know the answers to.”

  “Perfect. How many questions, and what are they?”

  “Four. Mother’s maiden name?”

  “Spencer.”

  “Mother’s birthplace?”

  “Atlanta, Georgia.”

  “Okay. Almost done. Your date of birth?”

  Kelly thought fast. Her birthday would be easy enough to find out. She’d make one up, just like the rest of this so-called identifying information.

  “December fifth.”

  “And lastly, your birthplace?”

  “New York City.”

  Kelly heard a few more taps.

  “Alright, Mrs. Monroe, you are all set. When you are ready for us to send you another card, please call and let us know. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

  Kelly smiled. “Oh, no. You’ve been wonderful. Again, thank you very much.”

  She called American Express and did the same thing, as well as all the department store cards.

  She started punching up her various checking and savings accounts to look at the amounts. She then did the same for Mark’s checking and savings accounts as well as their joint account. She kept pulling up accounts and writing down amounts.

  When she was done, she put her hand over her eyes. Something had been bothering her since yesterday. She picked up her pen and stared at the inside flap of the file folder holding all her documents. She wrote “Mark” at the top. She wrote “Geneva” next to it, and underneath she wrote “Mark, Jr.” She let out a clipped sigh, doodling as she did.

  Where in the world could Mark have possibly have met this woman?

  He’d moved to Chicago about ten years ago from New Orleans; they’d met about four years ago and had been married for a little over three. She looked down at where she had written “Mark, Jr.,” and circled it. She had figured he was about nine or ten. She wrote “age nine or ten” down and circled it. Mark had gone to law school at Tulane, so that must have been where it started. Had they gone to school together? No, no, it was pretty obvious Geneva was allergic to work, so she wouldn’t be doing anything as difficult as law school.

  Kelly thumped her fist against her temple, trying to knock memories from the recesses of her mind. She remembered him saying Tulane was tough, a competitive environment. He said he liked New Orleans okay but had no desire ever to go back. He talked about his courses, some friends…girls he dated…one girl in particular…was her name Geneva? Kelly shook her head. No, no it was something else. Sabrina or Selena, something like that. There was something else though…what?

  Suddenly, she remembered in startling detail what had been nagging at her. And she remembered why she was so bothered, had been bothered, and it became so clear to her what she had to do. She made one slow, scrawling, final notation in the folder. This would require more than a phone call.

  First things first.

  Cherie…

  She looked around to make sure she was still alone before she picked up the phone, dialed the number from memory, and waited.

  “Just hang on for Mama a little bit longer, baby,” she whispered as the cell phone

  beeped in her ear, indicating the battery was dying. She’d charge it when she got back to the car.

  “Bonjour?”

  “Bonjour, yourself, Monsieur.”

  She heard a pause on the other end.

  “Cherie? Cherie, is that you?” The French accent began to rise a few octaves. “What the hell is going on? It is all over the papers, ‘former supermodel kills husband.’ I’ve had reporters from all over the world calling me, all goddamned day and night. This is bullshit, yes?”

  Kelly sighed. “‘Fraid not,” she said quietly.

  “Well, what the hell happened?”

  She leaned over and cupped her hand over her mouth and the phone. “Well, let’s see. About thirty-six hours ago, I found out Mark was cheating. A little over twenty-four hours ago, I found out he was married to her—with a son. And now, she’s planning to sue me for everything I’ve got. How’s that?”

  Patric Pierre let out a low whistle. “Oh, cherie. I am so sorry. What can I do?”

  “I’m so glad you asked. I need to move my money so she can’t get to it. I mean…it wasn’t enough she was married to my husband;, she now wants to ruin me financially. Help me.”

  “You call my banker. He will handle everything with the utmost confidentiality. He’s Swiss, of course.”

  Kelly smiled. “That’s what I was counting on. Could I call him now? I mean, I know it’s ten there.”

  “No worries, cherie, no worries! You tell him I sent you, he’ll get off his ass real quick. What else?”

  “Can you wire me some money? I’m pretty sure Western Union lets you do that online. I’m afraid to go to the ATM. They may be watching my cards. About three thousand, American?”

  “Done. Ah, cherie. I’m so sorry. I…well, I thought he was a good guy. I cannot believe any man would…do that to you. To anyone, but especially not you.”

  “Oh, Patric.” She stopped. Though Mark was the love of her life, Patric would always have a special place in her heart. He was silent from Pa
ris.

  “If I hadn’t been so stupid, you’d be here with me now instead of the shit you’re in. Well, what is the expression, ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’” He was quiet for a moment before she heard him take a deep sigh. “Where do you want me to wire the money again? Are you sure you don’t need more?”

  “No, three should be enough. Just…text me at this number with all the info, and I’ll go pick it up later today.” She paused. “Patric?”

  “Oui?”

  “Merci. Forever and always, merci.”

  “Of course, cherie, of course. Call Hans. Hang on, let me get the number.”

  Kelly scribbled down the number on the inside flap of the file folder.

  “Goodbye, cherie.”

  “Goodbye, Patric.”

  Kelly turned off the phone and leaned her head back, lost in memories. She’d met Patric Pierre when she was twenty and her career was in overdrive. Patric was a huge movie star in Europe, and at the time they met, he had just been cast in his first American movie, an English version of one of his most popular French films. She was in Paris to do a shoot for French Vogue and to headline the Giancarlo spring show. Patric had been front and center at the show and afterwards had gone backstage to find her. Upon finding her, Patric had grabbed her hand and didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

  It wasn’t long before they were involved in a passionate affair. Patric had been her first lover, and Kelly fell hard. For a long time, they were the picture of bliss. Patric became a major star in America, and Kelly was THE supermodel of the time. The tabloids ate it up. He attended all of her shows, and she went to all of his movie premieres, even doing cameos in some of his movies. For four years, they crisscrossed the globe living a jet-set life; Italy, London, New York, L.A., Miami, but Paris was their home base.

  The paparazzi followed their every move, and there was endless, breathless speculation about when they would marry and have children. Patric had been married once before, and everything had been great until he discovered his new wife was a raging cokehead and sex addict. After a long and expensive divorce, he had vowed never again. Kelly had desperately wanted to marry Patric but eventually realized she would never change his mind. She made the painful decision to end the relationship and came back to the States permanently. It was about that time she’d decided to step back from the modeling game; the business was changing, and the supermodel was becoming an endangered species. Kelly had done numerous spokesmodel jobs, but the project that was perhaps closest to her heart was the time she spent as the face of Cherie, the perfume designed exclusively for her. When she’d been approached about getting her own perfume, she’d insisted that be its name. It had been a bestseller.

  She propped her head up and got back to the business at hand. She called Hans and explained her situation, and with a few taps on his computer, he immediately transferred her funds into Swiss accounts, completely untraceable.

  The last hurdle to tackle was Runway. She’d worked damn hard to build that company from scratch, and she sure as hell wasn’t letting Geneva get her grubby hands all over it. She thought about her executive leadership team and knew there was only one person with the chops to take over. She made a quick phone call to make the management change, satisfied she’d covered all her bases. Let Geneva try and come after her. She was ready. Kelly gathered up all her papers, thinking about her next move.

  What About Her…?

  Hanson shook his head as he watched the news. Channel Seven had broken the story on its early news, and now the other stations were carrying it on their noon newscasts. Never in a million years would he have thought this. He’d seen some wild things, but this…this was crazy. He was already running a background check on this Geneva woman, and he and Didi were obtaining a search warrant for her house.

  The search of Mark Monroe’s office hadn’t really yielded anything. They did see Kelly on the surveillance tapes in the garage, her arms filled with a bulging file folder. They had their safecracker open the safe and found various statements for accounts for Mark and his wife. They were loaded, and Hanson was trying to figure out why either one of them worked. If he had the kind of money they had, he’d be gone without so much as a goodbye. Of course, Mark Monroe would have been the one who stood to gain financially by killing Kelly. A second safe was empty, and Hanson knew its contents must have been what Kelly Ross had absconded with, things she didn’t want anyone to know. Was that when she found out about her husband’s other wife? He and Didi had gone through evidence from the Monroe’s house and couldn’t find a stitch about an extramarital affair. No extravagant trips or gifts that didn’t seem to include Kelly. Monroe was a lawyer, so he was no dummy—obviously he’d covered his tracks pretty well. He was waiting for Monroe’s financials, hoping that would drum up something about Geneva Monroe.

  Hanson was more perplexed than ever. Nothing he’d seen pointed to an affair, much less another wife. Geneva had to be making that up. He was curious to see what the background check turned up on her. Hanson frowned as his thoughts turned to Geneva Monroe. How in the hell had Mark Monroe gotten mixed up with her? Kelly Ross—now she made sense…

  But what about this other woman?

  Harvey…

  Harvey Jackson leaned back in his leather desk chair in his South Loop office, cherishing the few moments he had before the phone started to ring off the hook again. He’d been fielding calls all day ever since his ambush press conference.

  He’d been surprised yet intrigued when he’d gotten the call from Geneva Monroe Sunday afternoon. Apparently, she’d gone on the Internet and found him on some website called findalawyer.com or something like that. Harvey had made his reputation on being somewhat of an ambulance chaser, bringing—and often winning—lawsuits against companies and individuals for negligence, accidents, that kind of thing. It kept him living comfortably in Hyde Park which, for a brother who grew up in Cabrini Green with roaches and rats as his only friends and food stamps his only currency, was his definition of success.

  This line of work suited him perfectly.

  Harvey wasn’t a handsome man but what one would call mildly attractive and more than a little flashy—jolly even, given his rotund middle and squat legs. He kept his small Afro tidy, his black pushbroom mustache trimmed free of any scraggly hairs, and a gold pocket watch dangling from the vests of his colorful three-piece suits. The watch had ceased to tell time years ago, but Harvey hung onto it because he thought it was the kind of thing a lawyer should have.

  Geneva Monroe had presented an interesting challenge. She said she’d liked the fact that his name was Harvey, because it sounded like a lawyer name. She’d asked if they could meet and, at a dimly lit diner on the South Side, told him her story, producing the necessary proof to back up what she was saying. Harvey was floored. He knew Mark Monroe. Hell, everybody knew him. And the truth was, everyone who knew him was damned jealous of him. Good looking, rich, rubbing shoulders with the elite. And the wife…Harvey wouldn’t have minded having a go at her.

  When Geneva came toddling into the restaurant, Harvey about fell out of his chair. The woman was just plain ugly—no fugly was a better word. Personally, within the first five minutes of meeting Geneva Monroe, Harvey decided he didn’t like her.

  Still, he was no dummy. When it was all said and done, he stood to gain a lot of notoriety from this case. As things progressed, he expected he would be giving many more press conferences before this was all over. Maybe when it was all done, some cable station would want to bring him on as a regular legal contributor. He could write a book…maybe get his own talk show. So, so many places he could go. Speaking of shows, he wondered if Kelly Ross had found out about his and Geneva’s little dog-and-pony one and what her reaction had been.

  Well, it wouldn’t really matter. She was going to fry for what she did to her husband, and he was going to put himself on the map thanks to her. Harvey smiled a contented smile.

  Boy, this was
going to be fun.

  Insanity…

  A few city blocks away, Sam Gordon was reclining in a similarly commanding leather desk chair. He, however, was outright laughing. Mark Monroe…married to another woman. He never would have guessed. He was still irritated Kelly Ross had stood him up. He defended a lot of high-profile people, but he had to admit, this one made him salivate more than a little. And now, with this new tidbit of information, he was downright foaming at the mouth. It had money, sex, fame, and power. In other words, tailor-made for him. Whenever he read about big-time cases in the news, he always liked to think strategy, how he would handle the case if he were the defense.

  He thought Cochran handled the Simpson thing brilliantly. Like many, he thought the guy did it, but Cochran was nothing short of genius and pulled it off. How would he handle Kelly Monroe? Insanity defense was one way to do it. Crime of passion? Even better. And what about the race card? Police try to railroad a successful black businesswoman into jail? Hmm. Just then his phone beeped at him.

  “Yes, Nina,” he said, somewhat perturbed at the interruption.

  “Mr. Egan is here.”

  He’d forgotten about that. “Alright, I’ll be right out.”

  Sam took a sip of water from the glass on his desk before he rose to go out to his meeting.

  People You Think You Know…

  Now that they were both retired, Candice and Harry Ross liked to sneak out of town for a few days on impromptu vacations. Newspapers and phones weren’t allowed, and the Rosses simply relaxed and enjoyed each other’s company.

  If you could imagine what Ken and Barbie would have looked like as a black, middle-aged couple, that would just about describe Candice and Harry Ross. Candice could still wear the same size four dress she’d worn the night she was crowned Homecoming Queen at Urbana and had passed on her beauty and metabolism to both her daughters. Harry’s lifelong nickname was Belafonte, due to his somewhat passing resemblance to the legendary performer. He didn’t really see it, but to each his own.