Well, Natalie would need her strength when she learned that her children were dead. It would be hard for weeks, even months—Zeke had no illusions about that. But it was the only solution that made everything work out. He'd give her another baby to make up for the ones she had to lose.
He reviewed the plan in his head, glorying in the details. Zeke would call Mark and propose a deal: All the cash he could raise in one business day in exchange for the children. Once that was done, they would meet—oh, so fitting—in the Robbins & Co. storage facility. He would tell Mark and the children to go into the storage vault, promising to send Natalie to unlock the door in a few hours. But in a few hours, Zeke and Natalie would be long gone, taking whatever money Mark had given them.
And when Mark and the children were found, suffocated, it would be obvious to everyone what had happened, even Natalie. Mark was so bitter, so warped, that he'd decided to kill her children to get back at her. It happens. Zeke knew a guy at Jessup who did just that, killed two kids to get back at the wife who was divorcing him. Men are capable of anything. So Mark would be dead—which was the plan all along—and Natalie would inherit his money, which was really Zeke's money.
He never wanted to kill the children, truly. He'd been trying to think of a way around it, truth be told. But Penina and Efraim had seen too much, back on the highway in Ohio. Isaac knew too much and talked too much. They would end up hanging their own mother—and Zeke alongside her. Besides, they'd be happy for a few hours. They'd have hope. Before they used up all the oxygen, they'd think they were preparing for a reunion. Even Mark would dare to be hopeful, thinking his life was about to be made whole again, that Natalie was finally coming back.
Horrible yes, but better for Natalie—and Zeke. They would get a fresh start, they would have the life for which they had planned all these years. There weren't supposed to be any children. He thought he had made that clear to Natalie. It wasn't his fault that she had ignored his instructions. No children, ever. He didn't want to be a father to another man's sons, because he knew how impossible that was.
"Everybody settle in," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "We need to make good time." A sign promised that Washington was only sixty miles ahead, which meant Baltimore was a mere one hundred—not even ninety minutes if the highways treated them right. "Good time means we get to the good times that much faster." Zeke's father always said that when they went on their rare trips, usually just long weekends to Ocean City. There was always too much work to do to take longer vacations. He was the one who taught Zeke the traveling song. "We're hitting the road! (We're hitting the road!) Without a single care! (Withut a single care!) 'Cuz we're going, and we'll know where we are when we're there."
Zeke began singing the song lustily, not minding when the children refused to chime in. This time he sang all the parts himself.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-seven
"BUT I ASKED YOU," TESS SAID, HER VOICE A LITTLE WHINY even to her own ears. "I specifically asked you about Nathaniel Rubenstein when his name showed up on the list, and you said he was still in federal prison. You also said he never participated in the group."
They were in the living room, where Mark had spent a painful half hour stammering through a family history that made Tess realize how uncomplicated—and, really, how unblighted—her own family was. Robbins & Sons had started off as a partnership between Aaron Rubin and Yakob Rubenstein, two young friends who had learned the garment trade from their fathers, both tailors. There had been no sons, and no wives, when they opened their store on Lombard Street, but all that was assumed. They soon married, and both had sons the same blessed year. They quarreled, they went their separate ways. In the same cursed year that Aaron lost his wife to cancer, Leah Rubenstein lost her husband to suicide. The pair married while the boys were in grade school. Everything Mark had told Tess about Nathaniel Rubenstein—the stolen goods accepted to prop up his fledgling business, the credit-card fraud, his refusal to participate in the group—was true.
Mark had just neglected to mention that the man was his stepbrother.
"Besides, he's still in prison, as far as I know. He got two and ten. That adds up to twelve."
"Your arithmetic is great, but your knowledge of corrections is a little sketchy. He probably got credit for the state time. Or he could have been released early for any number of reasons."
Mark held out his hands, almost as if he were a drowning man. "My stepbrother stopped speaking to me years ago, so I wouldn't have any idea if he got out early. I started the group at Jessup for him, but he wanted no part of it, and no part of me. I'm not sure he even knows Boris."
Tess shot a look at Whitney, who was circling the room appraising Mark's art collection. Literally appraising, for Whitney had a complicated formula that identified potential charitable givers according to how much they were willing to spend on the fine arts. In for a Picasso, in for a pound, she liked to say.
"Maybe this is the secret Boris has been dangling like bait all these years. He knew there was something between his daughter and your stepbrother."
"What do you mean by that? Besides, it could be a coincidence. Who knows what Isaac was spelling, if anything?"
Given their quarrel earlier in the day, Tess was reluctant to challenge Mark when he went into full denial mode. Whitney, however, had no such limitations.
"Pull your head out of your ass," she said, distracted from the statue she'd been admiring. "Your runaway wife is on the road with your stepbrother. That's not a coincidence. It's a scheme."
Mark looked furious for a moment, as if he might throw something or order them out of his home. His hands even balled into fists, then quickly came undone.
"I know," he said, his voice low. "I know. But to what purpose? If Natalie… wants to be with him, why couldn't she just tell me? Why run away? Why take the children?"
"I can't forget what Amos said when you showed up on his property," Tess said. "The mountain had come to Muhammad. A job done was a job done. And then he aimed his shotgun at you. Do you think your stepbrother wants you dead?"
"He had no use for me, but he had no anger toward me. Toward my father, on the other hand…"
"What about your father?"
"Nat blamed Dad for everything. The failure of his father's business. His father's death, his mother's death. Nat's own failings, in school and work. But Dad gave him every chance. And when Dad died, there was even a small bequest for Nat. That's what he put into his business—and lost, through his own miscalculation. I tried to stand by him, but he made it impossible. The last time I spoke to him was in Jessup, over ten years ago."
"Where you met Natalie."
"Yes, but what does that prove? I told you. I had started the group, and her father was in it. She approached me and said she wanted to embrace Judaism, live an Orthodox life. From there things followed a natural course."
"Maybe it was your stepbrother who suggested she go to you, not her father. Maybe it was his idea that Boris Petrovich join the group in the first place, and that's the information Boris used to blackmail Natalie."
"Why? If Zeke wanted her for himself, why would he send her to me, encourage her to marry me?"
"Because through Natalie," Whitney brayed, like some horrible WASP Cassandra, "he could get all your money one day. Or at least half of it."
Strange, Whitney's directness didn't seem to bother Mark at all.
"I've been over this with Tess," Mark said. "If Natalie divorced me, much of my money wouldn't be considered a marital asset. The bulk of what I have came from my inheritance."
"The bulk of which, you just made clear, came from your stepmother. But if you were dead and the marriage hadn't been dissolved," Tess said, "Natalie and the children would get all of it."
They sat in silence. At least Mark and Tess did. Whitney resumed trotting around the house studying Rubin's things. Her sky blue penny loafers clattered on the wood floors, little preppy tap shoes.
"What do you want
to do?" Tess asked.
"Kill myself?"
"Seriously."
"I was being fairly serious. I want to scream. I want to talk to my rabbi. I want to go get my gun out of the glove compartment of my car and put it in my mouth. But most of all I want to see Natalie, to ask her what's going on. I don't think she could lie to my face."
"Mark—"
"I know. You're going to say she's been lying to my face for ten years, that she's a coldhearted schemer. But she never told me I was the only man she loved, just that she loved me. Isn't it possible for a woman to love two men? Couldn't she have grown to love me in spite of herself? We have three children, this house, a life together. Wouldn't that have to mean something to her?"
Tess pretended these were rhetorical questions. "Mark, I think we have to proceed with the assumption that your life is at risk, that someone's going to make another attempt. Now, I know you're handy with a SIG Sauer, but you should let me arrange some sort of professional security for you."
"A bodyguard?"
"Yes. And I'd like your permission to go to county Homicide, along with the feds, and tell them we believe that your estranged wife wants you dead."
"Only I don't believe that. Nat—Nat and Nat, Nathaniel and Natalie, how cute—may have some dark fantasies and grudges, but he's not given to violence."
"No, but he's willing to delegate. That's what we have to worry about."
Another long silence, only this time the flap-flap-flap of Whitney's loafers was interrupted by the phone. Mark went to his study, probably terrified of taking the call within Whitney's hearing. Tess seized the opportunity to grab Whitney and ask her to stop behaving like a human wealth calculator.
"Sorry. Force of habit. Boy, he's got it bad, doesn't he? 'My wife ran off with my brother, and now she wants me dead.' It's almost a country song."
"As sung by Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys. Families and business. I swear, there's nothing more virulent. Mark's stepbrother may have taken it to a new level, but this is what happens in too many family businesses. Makes me glad the Weinstein dynasty went bust before I was born."
"Makes me glad I'm an only child," Whitney said.
Tess didn't point out that there were many people who were grateful the Talbots had decided to procreate only once.
"That was Paul," Mark said, returning to the room. "Another of Mrs. Gordon's famous emergencies. But I've decided you have a point. I'll go spend the night in a hotel, and I'll stay out of the office tomorrow. Only you and Paul will know where I am."
"And the bodyguard?"
"No, not yet. That seems excessive to me. But I'll call you tomorrow and tell you what I want to do, as far as the police are concerned."
"Where will you stay?"
"Harbor Court, if they have a room. Or the Wyndham."
"And you'll carry your cell and check in with me?"
"I'll carry my cell."
Whitney handed Mark her card on the way out. "We're nonsecular, but we do good work. Mostly social services with a little symphony stuff thrown in for Mom. I'll send you our most recent report."
She then climbed into Tess's Toyota and fell asleep, in the manner of a hyper child exhausted by her own ceaseless energy.
"How do you know her?" Mark asked with the kind of frightened awe that Whitney often inspired in new acquaintances.
"College," Tess said. "On the Eastern Shore. But she transferred to Yale for languages—and the connections. Whitney was always very canny that way."
"Perhaps I'll send Isaac to the University of Maryland after all."
* * *
TUESDAY
* * *
Chapter Thirty-eight
TESS CHECKED IN WITH MARK AT 9:00 A.M., AND FOUND him at the Wyndham as promised, where his only complaint was restlessness and the lack of a view.
"I don't know what to do with myself when I'm not working," he said. "I need to do something."
"Take a walk," Tess said, then corrected herself. "No, you should stay inside. If you're really bored, I'll phone my aunt's store and ask her to messenger over some books, whatever you want. Meanwhile, I'm trying to decide if I should spend the day doing surveillance at your house or tracking down Lana. Maybe she's surfaced back at the salon."
"Do the surveillance," Mark said. "Keep watching for Lana, at least during the day. Then camp out in my home this evening. After all, anyone who knows me wouldn't expect to find me home during the day."
It was a good plan, and Tess felt a little sheepish about her client's being more clearheaded than she was.
"Maybe I should hang out at your work, then, see if any strangers come around."
"No point to that. Paul will be watching. No, go to the beauty salon, then my house."
"Surveillance is tricky on your block. You have the kind of neighbors that are apt to report a strange fourteen-year-old Toyota parked at the curb. And pedestrians are even more suspect in that part of Baltimore."
"What if I give you the security code, so you can open the garage door and enter the house through the kitchen? We keep a spare key beneath a flowerpot on some shelving that has gardening stuff."
"Jesus, Mark. Natalie knows that. She could have come in—or sent someone in—at any time."
Mark laughed. "She has her own key, Tess. I didn't change the locks. Who knows? Maybe she'll show up tonight, come right through the front door as if nothing ever happened."
His tone had a light, almost elated edge to it, as if this were the outcome he still hoped for.
"Just stay in your room. I know you can't eat the hotel food, but I'll arrange for someone to bring in a kosher meal."
"I've already made those arrangements for myself. I called the Jewish Museum and asked what catering service they use for their monthly board meetings."
"Great. I'll check in again at noon. Be good."
"Feel free to help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. And the various remote controls for the television and the DVD are in the drawer of the coffee table."
"It's surveillance, not babysitting, Mark." But she wondered just how much food Mark would have in the house, after living on his own for a month, and whether she would find any of it appealing. "If I were to order food—say, a pizza, just for example, or Chinese—is it okay if it's not kosher? Or will I somehow violate your house by bringing in treyf?"
"There are paper plates and plastic utensils in the cupboard just to the right of the refrigerator. Use those, take your containers with you, and it should be okay. Although, really, there are some lovely frozen latkes. They thaw in seconds in the microwave."
Hanging out in Mark's house was not unlike the babysitting gigs of Tess's teenage years. Only instead of listening for muffled cries from a child's bedroom, she strained her ears toward any out-of-place sounds on the quiet suburban street. And, just like when she'd been babysitting, she was bored out of her mind in less than thirty minutes.
It had been a long, fruitless day—Lana was still MIA at work and home—and Mark had steadfastly declined to call the police about the possible threat to his life, no matter how Tess coaxed in their phone conversations. "We'll talk about that tomorrow," he insisted over and over.
Uninterested in food, she decided to indulge in another old babysitting habit—unbridled snooping. The house was neat and fairly clean, but there was that indefinable absence, the feel of a missing woman. Everything was just a bit awry, not to mention dusty. After inspecting the bookshelves and the contents of the various medicine cabinets, Tess tried the doors of Natalie's walk-in closet. The clothes, suitable to an Orthodox woman in their style and hues, were clearly expensive. Natalie had dozens of shoes and a shelf of fashionable hats, which she probably needed for synagogue. A built-in safe indicated a cache of fine jewelry. Why hadn't Natalie taken those with her to pawn as necessary? Because she wanted them back, Tess thought. Because whatever's going on is temporary, a contingency. She always meant to get them back. No fur coats, however—could she have sold them to raise
money for her escape? Then Tess remembered it was still storage season. Except for excitable types such as the legendary Mrs. Gordon, who had needed her lynx before she headed off to see the fjords.
Only if the famously difficult Mrs. Gordon were on a cruise—how could she have another emergency? A distracted, lost-in-thought Mark had said last night's call was from Paul. Did that mean Mrs. Gordon had located a ship-to-shore telephone at what must be 3:00 a.m. her time and called Paul at home, demanding to have another coat airlifted to the Norwegian Princess! Dubious. Extremely dubious.
Adrenaline on alert, Tess called Mark's cell phone and got voice mail for the first time that day. She consulted a Rolodex next to the phone in Mark's study and found a home number for his salesman, Paul Zuravsky.
"Last night? No, Mark and I spoke this morning, and that was it. He told me he was going to be with you all day again."
Tess was too upset to care about the disapproving note in Paul's voice, as if he blamed the freckled shiksa for Mark's taking time away from the business.
"Paul, do you know where Mark was calling from?"
"He must have been on his cell, I think, because the reception was bad. But he didn't mention where he was."
"Did he say anything else about what he planned to do today? Was there anything out of the ordinary about the conversation?"
"No. But something odd happened early this afternoon. The vice president from Mark's bank called, pretty agitated. He wanted to talk to Mark about his decision to close an account. I didn't think anything of it, because Mark's capable of getting in a snit with people, forever moving and closing accounts to get better rates and deals. He's a big believer in the well-timed fit."
Tess remembered how he had terrorized the wholesaler from Montreal. Still, she couldn't see how a bank had managed to enrage him just now. Mark had claimed to be in his hotel room all day. But he had told her to call on the cell.
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