The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken

by Passananti, Mari

  The little voice in my head, who’s been so conflicted all weekend, barks at me to stop making silly rationalizations. The FBI would not be involved if the allegations weren’t extremely serious. Oscar probably flew to the Caribbean without me this weekend, strolled into a bank, and deposited that enormous check with his Andorran passport. A surprise honeymoon would have just improved his cover story. Instead of beating myself up, I should be glad I was bright enough—or lucky enough—to detect a problem. At least I wasn’t blindsided by the police banging on the door at midnight. They would have hauled Oscar away, and left me in the bed, scrambling to cover myself and make sense of what just happened. Alone.

  “Zoë, say something. Are we okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re okay.” I manage a smile. He doesn’t need to know that he’s on double secret probation.

  “So okay that I can spend the night?”

  “Of course.”

  The little voice in my head groans and scolds me for thinking below my belt.

  I silently snap back that she’s got it wrong. Now that I’ve opened the briefcase and spoken to Max, I want a look at Oscar’s computer. If he’s involved in something unsavory, I want to see for myself. Maybe because it would give me a sense of control over how it all ends. She sighs and mutters something along the lines of, “Okay, Mata Hari.”

  The little voice shuts up when she sees I can’t bring myself to have make-believe make up sex with Oscar. I tell him my period came early and he falls asleep before Jon Stewart comes on.

  Angela’s email hits my BlackBerry during the first commercial break. Claudio took her to Pastis, and she broke the news before their table was ready, over an untouched glass of Veuve Clicquot. She says at first he looked confused, then he smiled and gave her a huge hug, right in front of everyone, and ordered himself a scotch, which he doesn’t normally drink. She thinks the news began to set in an hour or so later, when the waiter cleared the soup, because he started to get a bit white in the face. It took him until the arrival of the dessert menu to ask if she’d thought about what she was planning to do. She told him she wanted to have it, and he said his family would insist they get married. As he took care of the check, he suggested that Angela take a few days to consider if that’s what she really wants.

  I write back: “Glad you told him. It must be a relief, at least somewhat. You don’t have to marry him because his parents would expect it. Or because of whatever yours would want. You don’t have to do anything because of anyone, actually. I’d give him a day or two to digest the bombshell, see if he’s in or out, and go from there.”

  I scroll back through my reply before hitting send. It’s a sudden, almost seismic role reversal for us. Angela usually dispenses the advice that I eagerly accept. It feels strange, and also kind of good, to be in the opposite role.

  An epiphany, which I imagine by definition is supposed to come as a beautiful illumination, instead hits me like a blinding flood of search lights, as soon as Oscar gets out of bed to leave shortly after six in the morning. Even if, as I’ve been hoping against all reason, Oscar hasn’t done anything illegal, something is not right. In this rare moment of pre-dawn clarity, I concede to myself that the primary problem could be one of several things.

  The most obvious possibility is that, after our first couple of dates, Oscar hasn’t much cared what I think about anything. He’s lavished me with attention, but made no attempt to solicit my opinion on us, or where we’re going. He kind of steam rolls ahead, certain his chosen course will be right. Some people might say it’s old-fashioned, charming and romantic, but now, in the absence of any mind-altering postcoital glow, I think it’s off-putting. It’s like Oscar has this slot in his life to fill, he’s decided to place me in it, and he’s assuming I will go along with all of it, happily.

  Another possibility I consider as I hoist myself up, fish my slippers from under the bed, and pad to the kitchen to make coffee, is that maybe we had too much spark and not enough substance. Which would explain why my initial suspicions revolved around the possibility of another woman, despite a complete absence of evidence of one’s existence. I imagined he had somebody somehow superior to me, who could give him whatever it was I lacked. Perhaps our initial connection wasn’t much more than a physical one, we tried to pretend it was more, and now it’s run its course. Which I guess would be the easiest scenario to deal with, if he hadn’t just presented me with an apartment, not to mention the ring I rejected over the weekend. There’s no way it was worth less than $25,000.

  I wait for the coffee to brew before letting my brain contemplate the worst case scenario. Oscar might truly be leading a double life. I’ve watched enough tabloid television, particularly in the weeks right after the Brendan break-up, to know that it happens. Some criminals look like criminals, but many others fool everyone, sometimes for decades. Everyone has seen those interviews with neighbors, who say they’re shocked, they had no idea. That could be Oscar. Or all this could be my imagination running amok. Still, it’s easier to wrap my brain around the more sinister possibility after seeing the check for half a million dollars and the extra passport.

  And if I’m convinced he’s capable of something so reprehensible, I suppose I have my answer, whether he’s actually guilty or not. It’s time for the two of us to part ways. As if the other, more common reasons for moving on aren’t enough.

  By the time I reach to refill my coffee, it hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m not even sad about the looming break up. Disappointed, yes, but nowhere near devastated. What I feel, more than anything, is an insistent curiosity. I need to know whether Oscar is up to something rotten. I’m not sure why, if I’m planning to cut him out of my life. Maybe it’s a desire to know if I’ve once again grossly misjudged a romantic interest. Or maybe it’s mere, cheap, garden variety fascination with the criminally seedy. Or a little of both. Either way, it means I can’t give him the it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech quite yet.

  That night, I lie awake into the wee hours while Oscar snores softly beside me in his king size bed with the luxurious Pratesi sheets I’ll probably never experience again. At a quarter to three, I slip out, wrap myself in the fluffy pink bathrobe he bought me a few weeks back, and fish his wallet out of his pants pocket. My heart feels like it’s about to burst through my ribs as I remove the computerized security card that generates a new password every few minutes. I replace the wallet and slink down the dark hallway into his study. It takes what feels like five minutes to slide the door shut without a sound. I tiptoe across the room and switch on the desk lamp before settling into the leather chair and moving the mouse. The screen lights up and asks for a password. I type in the twelve digit code from the card and Oscar’s desktop pops up. The Internet Explorer history shows he checked three email accounts yesterday: his work one, his Gmail, which I use most of the time, and a Hotmail account. I click on that one and hold my breath. I can hear my heart thumping.

  The computer thinks for a second. It can’t possibly be this simple.

  Except it is. “Welcome, TS45JQ7!” flashes on the screen. “You have no unread messages.”

  I freeze for a second and listen. No sound, other than the white noise hum of the heater. I grab a pen and scrawl the login name on my left palm. I exhale and click on his inbox, which is empty. The Drafts folder, however, contains 127 messages. The first shows $4,500 hitting some bank account. The second shows a $7,300 deposit into a different account. There are no transaction comments or details listed, other than today’s date.

  I keep reading. There are dozens of emails showing various amounts between $1,000 and $9,999 entering and leaving various accounts, all today. I start to do the math in my head, but the numbers get staggering.

  I scroll down to the messages dated yesterday and the day before, and count twenty-three, which seems like a lot of emails to have in progress.

  They’re all innocuously titled and many have unnamed attachments. The first several contain short cryptic missives, like “Units 7347-
7353 transferred to residence BT. Confirming 23:45 travel 12/12,” and “Units 8413 and 8414 from KL to BH 12/14 at 4:50.” I have no idea what I’m reading, but its appears unrelated to Oscar’s work in advertising. I open the first attachment. The PDF displays several pages of naked full body photos of girls, most Asian, but some white, each staring listlessly at the camera and holding a card with a number. At least two of them can’t be very much older than my niece. I feel vomit creeping up my throat as I hurry to click the message shut and pray the image won’t be seared in my mind forever.

  With shaky hands, I click on sent items and trash, but both are empty. The only other messages in the account are spam ads for cheap Cialis in the Bulk Mail folder.

  I click back on the Drafts folder and mark all the messages as unread. I’m signing out when the door swings open.

  Oscar stands in the doorway, looking especially imposing in the dim lighting. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Checking email,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep.” I reach for the mouse to sign out, but Oscar’s across the room before the screen changes.

  “You mean you’re checking my email.” He’s trying, and failing, to keep his voice level. And probably cursing himself for not closing out of the account. Or for choosing such an inquisitive girlfriend.

  I want to say something that makes him the villain, but I appear to have lost the ability to form words. Oscar’s ears burn bright red and the veins on his neck bulge. I wonder again if his violent streak could ever be directed at a woman. I can’t believe my stupidity and impatience. Why couldn’t I have come here to look around sometime when he was at work?

  Because I was over eager, of course.

  Oscar folds his arms across his chest and glares at me. His liquid brown eyes seem to harden. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “I think you’re up to something illegal,” I blurt, stunning myself. “You have way more cash on hand than any other ad exec in Manhattan, and last weekend, I heard from a reliable source, that you could be involved in that big sex trafficking ring.”

  “You can’t possibly believe that,” he says, almost dismissively.

  “Judging by what I just saw, I think it might be true.” I fold my arms across my chest defensively.

  I can tell by the look on Oscar’s face that he wasn’t expecting an answer even remotely close to the one I just recited. As if to underscore my point, he says, “And I thought you might be snooping for evidence of another woman.”

  “Well, I wasn’t. Should I have been?”

  “No. I’m not in the habit of proposing to one girl while keeping another in the wings.”

  “How gentlemanly of you. So did you really buy my apartment with money from child porn?” I’m surprised at how bold I sound, since I’m still wondering whether he could get angry enough to throttle me.

  “I’m good at my job, Zoë. And whatever else you saw was spam.” I can tell by his voice that he doesn’t truly expect me to buy this.

  “Most people don’t store their spam.” I wince as this comes out, and half expect him to lunge at me, but evidently Oscar’s too calculating for that. I can tell he’s trying to figure out what, if anything, I could possibly know.

  Before he can re-group, I push myself out of his big leather chair and say, “I think I should go.” My voice wavers and I feel tears coming on. I expect him to reach out and grab me, or block my way, but he lets me walk right past. I grab my purse off the kitchen counter before dashing out the door.

  “I have side deals with clients that are over your head.”

  Wow. I guess now I’m sure he was never with me for my intellect, because even if I bought this dumb excuse about side work, I don’t think—at least I hope—I’d never stay with a man who claimed something to be beyond my mental capabilities. Anger and indignation move in and push out any residual sadness I had left. There’s nothing left to say.

  I bolt for the hallway.

  My heart is racing by the time I reach the elevators, only thirty feet down the hall. I pound on the call button, as if that will make it arrive faster. I can’t believe he hasn’t come after me.

  I’m sick to my stomach by the time the elevator doors close. The graveyard shift doorman looks more than a little surprised as I fly through the lobby, out onto the sidewalk. Only then do I recall that I’m barefoot and wearing a bathrobe. A very fluffy feminine one at that. The street is eerily calm, quieter than I’ve ever seen it. A light but steady drizzle sparkles against the street lamps and adds a rawness to the already chilly fall air. Only a few cars pass, and there’s not a cab in sight. Not that most taxis would stop to pick up a crazy lady in a robe, even if it’s accessorized with a Marc Jacobs bag, and even if the whole scene is playing out in New York.

  I try the cab company whose number is programmed in my phone. The woman who answers warns me of a ninety minute wait. I consider walking for about half a minute. That would be foolish at 3 a.m., even with shoes and without the cold rain. Sheepishly, I do something I’ve never seen anyone under fifty do: I go back inside and ask the doorman if he can find me a ride.

  He tries his best to look unfazed and professional, as if there’s nothing strange about having one of the residents’ girlfriends come down half naked in the middle of the night and ask him for assistance. While he calls some undoubtedly overpriced car service to ferry me home, I call Angela’s brother-in-law. He answers on the second ring, sounding totally asleep.

  After apologizing profusely for waking him, I tell Max about the email account, and recite the login name scrawled on my hand. “I’m sorry I don’t know the password. He’s at his computer now, probably deleting stuff.”

  Max says he’s looking into it as we speak, and sounds about a thousand per cent more alert by the time he asks, “Where are you now?”

  “In the lobby of his building.”

  “Good. Don’t go back upstairs. Catch a cab home and call me when you get there. And thanks for the tip.”

  When I hang up, I feel a hand grip my shoulder. My whole body tenses. Oscar has pulled on some clothes and followed me down here.

  “I think you should come back upstairs. We need to talk this thing through.” He’s arranged his expression to look contrite, and he’s obviously determined to make the doorman think we’re having a routine lovers’ spat. As if to underscore his intent, he says, “There’s no need to make a scene.”

  “I should go home.”

  “I really wish you’d come back up.” His hand slides from the top of my shoulder to my arm and he digs his fingers in so it hurts. A lot.

  “Let me go,” I hiss. Inexplicably, the doorman picks this exact moment to disappear from the lobby. I have no idea whether he’s ducking into the men’s room, making some kind of security rounds, or mistakenly thinking we desire privacy, but we’re suddenly alone. Oscar readjusts his grip on my arm and drags me towards the elevator.

  I don’t know why I don’t scream. Maybe it’s too unreal. This is Oscar. The same mushy, romantic Oscar who swept me off my feet in September, who sends me flowers at work and cooks me gourmet meals, who met my family and proposed marriage less than a week ago. I don’t find my voice until the elevator doors slide shut and we start our ascent. When I open my mouth, what comes out is a blood curdling wail I didn’t know I was capable of emitting.

  “These cars are soundproof.” He’s doing his best to sound bored and blasé, but his eyes betray him. Oscar is furious. “So scream all you want.”

  I’m not sure what I’m thinking, or maybe I’m not thinking, but the next thing I know, I’m kicking my now suddenly very ugly boyfriend in the shins. He starts to yowl but catches himself just as the elevator stops and the doors start to slide open. As he grabs my arm, it suddenly occurs to me that this is a high end building. They must have security cameras everywhere. If I can stall long enough, or act distressed enough, sooner or later the bored night watchman will notice and lumber up here to investigate.r />
  Instead of allowing Oscar to guide me out of the elevator, I drop to the floor and sit on the carpet, cross legged. “I’m not following you anywhere. If you think you’re going to drag me into that apartment again, you can forget it.”

  Oscar is obviously fighting to keep his anger in check. He draws a deep breath, exhales loudly, then squats so we’re at eye level. “Zoë, it’s just me. I don’t know what your imagination has cooked up in the middle of the night, but whatever you think, it’s way off. Now could you please get up and come inside before all the neighbors hear us?” He tries to force a conciliatory expression.

  “I don’t believe you.” While I’m disinclined to tell him I looked in the briefcase and found his secret stash, I’d think the emails alone would be enough to alert any normal person to a potential problem.

  “Fine.” He pushes himself off the floor, then in one motion bends down and scoops me up. I kick and punch at him as he carries me the short distance to his door. I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he’s got a surprisingly secure hold on me. I aim my foot between his legs and manage to hit my target on the second or third try. He curses me under his breath and starts to bend forward in pain but catches himself and manages not to drop me until we’re through his door. He slams it shut behind us.

  “Security just saw that whole performance.” I clamber to my feet and close my robe, which had flapped open during the trip from the elevator. “If you wanted to kidnap me, you’d be better off doing it in my lower rent building.” My voice starts to waver. I want to sound confident, but I’m unsure. Maybe nobody noticed the spectacle in the elevator and hallway. Or maybe the man downstairs doesn’t get paid enough to care.

  “I don’t care if Joseph saw our little lovers’ quarrel or not. I’m much more interested in why you’ve been snooping through my emails.” He’s managed to back me against a wall so I can neither dash to the door, nor move further down the corridor into the apartment. I can’t believe any of this is happening. It feels utterly surreal.