by Stephen Frey
“Sometimes me, sometimes Melanie.” I look away. Actually, I was always the one asking for it near the end.
Reggie taps the table. “Did she ever discuss her sexual fantasies with you?”
“That’s none of your damn business! Give me a break, Reggie.”
“Did she ever perform for you?” he asks, ignoring my plea.
“Perform?”
“You know, striptease in the bedroom or the living room before getting to the sex. Did she ever do anything like that?”
“No, of course not.”
“How about bondage?”
I freeze. “Bondage? Jesus Christ! How can you ask me that?”
“The autopsy report indicated that Melanie’s wrists and ankles were bruised, like someone had tied her up and she had struggled. But the coroner determined that the marks were made well before her murder. As much as a day before.” He looks down. “And she’d had sex just a few hours before she was murdered. Rough sex. She had internal bruises and scratches.”
“Oh, no,” I whisper.
“But there were no fluids. Nothing to trace.”
“God.”
“Did you and Melanie have intercourse the night or morning before her murder?”
I put my face in my hands. “No.”
“In your eleven years of marriage, did she have an affair?”
Reggie is relentless. I hate that about him. “Not that I’m aware of,” I answer, my voice low. “But how can you ever really be sure?”
He replaces the cigarette in its pack. “I met with Frank Taylor late last week.”
My eyes flash to Reggie’s.
“He told me that Melanie asked you for a divorce the day before she was murdered. Is that true?”
“Taylor’s an asshole.”
“Maybe, but that’s not an answer to my question.”
I take a deep breath. “Yeah, she asked me for a divorce. But she would never have followed through.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Taylor was filling her head with all kinds of ridiculous ideas. Mel would have come to her senses sooner or later.”
Reggie pauses. “Was Mel your nickname for her?”
“Yes.”
“When did you give it to her?”
“A few years ago.”
“Did she use it? Did she introduce herself that way to others?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Taylor referred to her that way while I was talking to him.”
I take a deep breath and I’m sure my jealousy is obvious.
“Do you think Melanie and Taylor were having an affair?”
“I don’t know,” I answer grimly, rubbing my forehead with both hands.
“Taylor’s face was pretty banged up when I met with him last week. Do you know anything about that?”
“I told you. He’s an asshole. I’m sure there are lots of people who would like to take a swing at him. After all, he’s a divorce attorney.”
Reggie goes quiet for a few moments, but this time he gets nothing out of me. “All right, Augustus. Well, I appreciate your help. Sorry to have put you through all of that.”
I don’t respond. He’s not sorry at all.
“Oh, just one more question.”
“There’s always one more question, isn’t there, Reggie?”
“Were there any insurance policies on Melanie’s life?” he asks, paying no attention to my sarcasm.
I meet Reggie’s eyes. Frank Taylor mentioned the policy at the Grand last week. That must be where Reggie got his information. “Yes.”
“How much was the death benefit?”
“A million dollars. There is a policy on me for the same amount. It was all Melanie’s idea. She filled out the paperwork for both of us. You can check that out. Except for the signature on mine, it was all her handwriting on both applications.”
“When were the policies put into effect?”
I know how this will sound to Reggie, but facts are facts and it’s better for me to be honest. “Several months ago.”
“Who was the beneficiary of her policy?” he asks, his face expressionless. I’m sure he already knows all about this and is just testing me to see if I’ll be honest with him.
“I was, of course.”
“And who was second behind you?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer slowly. “I think she said it was her mother, but I never looked at that part of the application. All I did was sign it, and then she grabbed it and took off.”
Reggie nods. “I appreciate your honesty. Some people might have lied to me, for obvious reasons. Look, I need you to give us a blood sample,” he says, glancing at the fading scabs on my neck.
“Why?”
“Routine,” he says, standing up. “Why don’t you come down tomorrow? Just tell the person at the front desk who you are. They’ll know what to do.”
He’s almost to the door when I speak up. I try to resist, but I can’t help myself. “Reggie.”
“Yes?”
“How did you find me here? I never told you I was coming to Bedford. Are you having me followed?”
“Trust me, we don’t have the budget for that kind of thing.”
“How then?”
“I seem to have a source,” he says. “At least I think I do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This morning, someone left an anonymous phone message for me at the precinct’s front desk informing me of the fact that you’re working here. Somebody wanted me to know how to find you.”
CHAPTER 7
“Will this be all right?” The maitre d’ turns and gestures to a secluded booth in the back of the Capital Grill. The restaurant is buried in the first level of the sprawling three-story Tysons Two Mall, which is connected to our office building. It serves decent food, though nothing as delicious as the Grand’s steaks. But its prices are much more reasonable. Despite the money I’ve come into I’m not going to change my spending habits much. No big home or fast car—not yet, anyway.
“This will be fine,” I answer, as Mary slips onto the bench seat.
The maitre d’ places two menus down on the table, and I slide onto the seat across from Mary. He probably thinks this lunch is a prelude to a tryst because she wears a wedding band and a huge diamond engagement ring on her left hand, while the fingers of my left hand are bare. I took my wedding band off before I started at Bedford.
“This is a nice place for lunch,” Mary says, leaning across the table and touching my forearm for the umpteenth time since we left the office under Anna’s watchful eye. Probably another reason the maitre d’ gave me that knowing smile. Mary was standing very close to me, even leaning against me at one point as we waited for our table. I’m sure she means nothing by all of this, though. That’s just the way she is. A physical kind of person.
The Capital Grill was Mary’s suggestion. I’ve never been in this mall before. Its upscale stores sell items that were way too expensive for Melanie and me, so we never bothered coming to it.
“I like your name,” Mary says, toying with a long strand of pearls hanging from her neck, causing the diamond of her engagement ring to shimmer. “It’s so unusual.”
“Thanks.” I chuckle, thinking about how Slammer called me Gus. “Slammer doesn’t like it much.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Don’t worry about Max,” Mary says. “Don’t take anything he says personally. He’s just very intense.”
“Maybe he’s just never been able to let go of the military thing,” I say. “I’ve never been in the armed forces, so I can only imagine what it must have been like. And he was in special forces. Army Rangers, I think he said. That must have been tough.” I know for sure I’ll never like the guy, but I’m being polite for Mary’s benefit. Who knows, maybe she and Slammer are close. I haven’t been at Bedford long enough to be able to tell.
Mary leans back and runs a hand through her shoulder-length sandy blo
nd hair. Her long nails—painted a stark bloodred—move slowly through the strands so that the boulder on her finger doesn’t become entangled. She’s an attractive woman with delicate features, a deep tan, and lots of freckles. But she’s a little older than I first thought. Daniel Jenkins—the one Slammer calls Freak Show—told me last week that Mary is in her mid-forties.
“Slammer has a vivid imagination,” Mary says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he exaggerates a fact or two along the way.”
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. You know that beat-up old briefcase he keeps on his desk beside his computer?”
“The tan one he seems to take with him everywhere he goes? Even to the bathroom?”
“That’s the one. And he doesn’t seem to take it with him everywhere he goes. He does.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“Well, he says he keeps a loaded revolver in it.” She puts a finger on her cheek and her expression turns serious, like she’s trying hard to remember something. “A forty-four Magnum, I think he said once. But I don’t know much about guns.”
Normally I would dismiss a piece of information like this as ridiculous, just office gossip, but Slammer seems like the type who might do something crazy. I don’t know how else to explain it, but he gets that right-on-the-verge-of-going-ballistic look in his eyes sometimes. And last week I thought I heard him talking about ammunition while he was on the phone. “Has anybody ever said anything to Michael Seaver about the possibility of a gun in the office?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think Seaver should be aware of something like that?”
Mary laughs. “Max doesn’t really keep a gun in his briefcase. It’s all about image with him. He wants us to think he’s tough so he can convince himself he is. Beneath all of that bravado is a pussycat. I bet he wasn’t even in the military. Like I said, I’ve caught him exaggerating before. When we first met he told me he drove a Porsche and owned a four-story town house in Georgetown. Turns out he drives a used Honda and rents a basement apartment from an old lady out in the country.”
“Are you sure there’s no gun in his briefcase? Have you ever looked?”
“I don’t have to. I know his type. All bark and no bite. He’s harmless.”
Our waiter arrives. I order a Coke and Mary has a glass of white wine. I suspected that she wasn’t very serious about day trading, and now I’m certain. No serious trader would let her judgment be clouded by alcohol during market hours.
“What are you doing at Bedford?” I ask when the waiter leaves. Usually I’m not so blunt, but the word on the floor is that Mary has a sugar daddy who keeps her in the expensive clothes and diamonds. That she doesn’t really have to work, and that the day trading gig is simply a diversion.
“You mean, why don’t I just sit at home watching soaps and eating bonbons?”
“That’s not what I mean at all.”
“Yes, it is,” she says confidently, reaching across the table once more. “I know what you think. It’s in your smile.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“The smile’s in your green eyes and your thoughts.” As Mary’s fingers slide from my arm, her nails gently rake my skin and it gives me chills. The good kind. God, it’s been so long since a woman touched me that way. “I can read your mind,” she whispers.
I roll my eyes and chuckle.
“I’m serious, Augustus.”
I chuckle again. I don’t give much credence to the paranormal.
“You don’t believe me.” Mary pouts. “I can tell.”
“Maybe I just don’t have much experience.”
“I’m a very spiritual person. I believe in astrology, extrasensory perception, and reincarnation. It only makes sense that those things should exist when you stop and think about it. So many advanced cultures down through history have believed in them.”
I believe those things are simply ways of explaining coincidence, or are tools used to manipulate, but I don’t tell Mary that. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to talk about it because we’re not going to change each other’s mind.
“I’m not a psychic,” she continues. “I can’t constantly sense people’s thoughts the way those who have the gift can. But sometimes I really believe I can tell what people are thinking. Like just now with you.”
“Uh-huh.” She seems to sincerely believe what she’s saying, and I catch myself smiling at her. She isn’t at all who I expected.
As the waiter delivers our drinks, I glimpse a hulking figure pass a far-off window of the restaurant, and I’m almost certain it’s Detective Dorsey. I strain to catch another look as the guy passes the next window, but I can’t tell for certain whether it’s him and then he’s gone. As I ease back onto my seat Mary’s expression turns to one of sharp interest.
“What did you see out there?” she asks, picking up her wine glass. “My God, your face went white as a sheet.”
I smile lamely, trying to act as though my electric reaction was no big deal. “A woman I thought I recognized.” I doubt Mary will want to dwell on that. “An old friend.”
“Oh.”
The thought of Reggie’s presence shakes me. I don’t know whether to believe him that this morning’s Q&A was just standard procedure, or when he said he wasn’t having me watched. I don’t want to have to explain to him that there’s nothing going on here, that this is simply an innocent lunch between two coworkers. I don’t want to have to explain anything to Reggie because my impression of him is that he’s the kind of man who draws significance from subtleties, and rarely changes his mind once he’s reached a conclusion.
“Are you all right?” Mary asks, taking another swallow of wine.
“I’m fine,” I answer quickly. “You were going to tell me when you first came to Bedford.”
“Actually, you wanted to know what I was doing at Bedford,” she corrects.
“Well, I—”
“My husband died seven months ago. On Christmas Eve.”
I glance up. That was the night my mother passed away. It was the first time Melanie didn’t accompany me to the hospital after my mother had been admitted the week before, so I had to drive those lonely miles home by myself after watching Mom die. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I murmur.
“Thank you.”
She looks down and it’s my turn to reach across the table to comfort her. I hate seeing genuine sadness.
“My husband, Jacob, was a good deal older than me,” Mary explains, her voice starting to tremble slightly. “He was in his mid-sixties, but he was so full of life. He acted much younger than his age. He made lots of money in the nineties as a commercial real estate developer here in Washington, so we were very comfortable. He owned a large house in McLean, but we were almost never there because we traveled all the time.” Her eyes take on a distant look. “We went to exotic places like Tahiti, Africa, and the Amazon. He shared everything with me, and taught me a great deal along the way. He hired me as his executive assistant two years ago, and a week later we were inseparable. I had to divorce my husband at the time so Jacob and I could be together, but I knew the moment I laid eyes on him we would be married. I’m like that. I know when it’s right, and when I get that feeling nothing stops me. Jacob said I was crazy when I first told him we would be together. He admitted how wrong he’d been after we made love the first time.
“Jacob’s children weren’t very happy about our marriage,” she continues, “but ours was a match made in heaven. The age difference was never an issue.” Her expression turns steely. “People accused me of marrying Jacob for his money, but that wasn’t the case. I didn’t have much when I met him, but Jacob’s money had nothing to do with my feelings for him. Money can make people do strange things, even me sometimes, I’ll admit. But it had absolutely nothing to do with my love for Jacob.”
I stare steadily at Mary, thinking about what she just said and wondering if she’s telling me the truth. Wondering if Reggie told me the
truth this morning. Mary seems sincere. So did Reggie.
“When Jacob died of a heart attack last Christmas, he left me two million dollars,” Mary says, swallowing more wine, “and the house. He left the rest of the money to the children. The house is huge, and I found myself lost in it. There were pictures of the two of us everywhere, mostly of us on our trips, and I couldn’t take the constant reminders and the loneliness. I’ve thought about selling the thing, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Anyway, one Sunday morning a few weeks after his death I saw an article in the Post about day trading. On a whim I decided to try it. Now I’m hooked.”
“Just on a whim?”
“Yup, that’s me. Impulsive to a fault.”
I shake my head and smile. I wish I could be like that, but I’m a deliberate man. It took me years to pull the trigger on day trading.
“Augustus?”
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t told anyone else in the office what I just told you. About Jacob and me, I mean. About the fact that he died. So please keep it to yourself.”
“Why haven’t you told anyone?”
“I want people thinking I’m married. Men think single women are vulnerable, which is why I still wear these,” she says, flashing her jewels. “You know it would be more complicated if they thought I was available.” She finishes her wine. “Not that being married keeps men completely away, but it helps.”
“Why did you tell me about Jacob?”
“Because you seem like a nice man.” She looks away, and the sadness I saw before passes over her face once more. “It’s been hard these last seven months without him.”
“I’m sure it has,” I say quietly, thinking about the loneliness I’ve felt over the last few weeks.
“And it feels good to talk about it with someone,” she says, reaching for my hand. “I’ve kept it bottled up inside and that’s been hard.”
“I’m glad you felt like you could open up to me.”
“I told you, I had a strong feeling about you when Seaver brought you out to meet us last week. It was immediate for me.”
I smile at her. Mary has a nice way about her.
“Don’t worry about Slammer,” she says, changing the subject as she reaches for her empty wineglass.