The Wife: A Novel of Psychological Suspense

by Alafair Burke

  “Where’s Snowball?”

  “You just had to ask me that, didn’t you?” His embarrassed smile was sweet.

  “Really? You’ve got her dog?”

  “She’s so cute.”

  “He.” Corrine remembered Kerry correcting her when she was here before.

  “Technically, but Snowball transcends labels. Kerry’s brother wouldn’t take the poor thing. And Samantha said she’s allergic, even though I told her bichons are hypoallergenic.”

  “We’re on day three. Don’t you think it’s about time you started processing this as a crime scene?”

  “Well, seventy-two hours is our general rule of thumb, but there’s been a development. When I went through her phone looking for our mystery man, Jay? I found phone calls to realtors. Apparently she was looking to list her house, and fast. She said she wanted it priced to sell.”

  “That could mean anything.”

  “Maybe she took off for a couple of days to go wherever she was planning to move. She did leave Snowball’s automated food and water bowls totally filled.”

  “Without her purse and her phone?”

  Netter shrugged. “I know. But those real estate calls have to be related. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Just so you know, she told me herself she was kind of a crappy dog owner, leaving Snowball alone all the time. That’s probably why she had those feeders. If I had to guess, she probably kept them full all the time. Do you mind if I take a look around?”

  He obviously had no idea what was permitted under the current circumstances.

  “I want to look in the living room. It’s the only part of the house I saw when I was here before.” She made her way to the threshold of the kitchen entrance and stood there for a full five minutes, scanning the entire room in small sections. She noticed only one thing out of place, but it was important. Once she told Netter, it would change the way he was looking at the case.

  She asked him what the plan was for interviewing the person who had delivered food to Kerry the last night she was seen.

  Netter looked at his watch. “Perfect timing. We’re supposed to meet him at the restaurant in ten.”

  She climbed into her car, pulled a U, and followed Netter.

  Based on what she’d gleaned about the delivery boy, Corrine was expecting someone around twenty years old—surfer by day, Italian food delivery guy by night. Instead, they pulled in front of the restaurant called Grapevine to find a guy older than either of them, probably fifty, a surfboard still strapped to the top of his Toyota Prius.

  He introduced himself as Nick Lowe. “No, not the musician, if you’ve even heard of him. It’s Dominick, legally. My parents called me Nick, and I figured, Yeah, let’s go with that.” She noticed the air freshener hanging from Nick’s rearview mirror.

  She let Netter take the lead. It didn’t take long for Nick to confirm what they already knew: he had delivered a takeout order to Kerry’s house on Wednesday night. If the receipt said the order left at six thirty, he estimated he arrived around six forty-five. Maybe seven, seven fifteen. “There’s a lot of orders, plus suburban sprawl. Carbon footprints are large around here.”

  “Do you remember anything about her demeanor?” Netter asked.

  “I don’t know. She took the bag of food, handed me a five for a tip, and that was basically it. She’s a good person, you guys. She, like, works all the time and eats at home. She’s kind of sad. Why are you asking about her?”

  Corrine realized why it had taken this long to get a statement from Nick. Netter had never explained that they were asking because they were concerned about Kerry. Nick obviously thought she was a suspect.

  Netter struck her as a decent guy, but she was done letting him call the shots. “You deliver to her house regularly?” Corrine asked.

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Every couple of weeks or so, I’d say.”

  “Nick, to our knowledge, you were the last person to see Miss Lynch,” she said. “We can’t find her and are concerned about her safety.”

  His brow furrowed.

  “What else did you notice that night?” she asked.

  “Well, her boyfriend was there.” His tone was more serious now, focused. “That was different.”

  Fuck. They could have found this out two days earlier. She pulled out her phone and searched for a photograph of Jason Powell. “This guy?”

  “No, not him.”

  Something about the way he said it. “But you’ve seen him before?”

  “Yeah. I think so. I mean, wait, isn’t he on the news?”

  “He is, for various things, but did you see him with Kerry Lynch?”

  “Um, yeah. Maybe once. Twice at most. He definitely looks familiar. Like he’s British or something. Not an accent or anything. I never spoke to him. But that kind of vibe. I’d say he was there, maybe three or four months ago.”

  Netter interrupted. “You said a man was there on Wednesday. Was his name Jay?”

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know any name other than what’s on the order. Customers make shit up, too. Hugh Jass. Seymour Butz. People kind of suck.”

  “But you said she had a boyfriend over,” Corrine said, trying to get Nick back on track.

  “Yeah. Or at least, he used to be. But it was a long time ago—like, more than a year. Two, maybe even three years ago. He used to be there a lot. Would answer the door and tip me and everything. I thought he lived there. Then I stuck my foot in my mouth and was like, ‘Hey, where’s your husband?’ And she said he was a scumbag. And all of a sudden on Wednesday, he was back again. That same guy.”

  Corrine googled “Tom Fisher Oasis” on her phone and hit “Images.” She clicked on the first image in the results. “Does this guy look familiar?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s the one who was there on Wednesday. She’s okay, right? She’s a nice lady.”

  Corrine and Netter walked together to the far corner of the parking lot, where they had left their cars side by side.

  “So who’s the dude?” he asked.

  “Her boss. They had an affair three years ago. She told me it didn’t end well. He stayed with his wife.”

  “Oh shit. And she kept working for him?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t comfortable, at least that’s what she said. She threatened to sue, so she was able to keep her job.”

  “Like a cop who barely makes it out of a beef with his badge. It’s never quite the same again. That would be the work trouble her friend mentioned.”

  “And the reason she said Kerry had a weakness for the wrong guys,” Corrine added.

  “So this might not be related to your case at all?” It was barely a question, the way Netter said it.

  “Hard to say, but I don’t think she left on her own. When I was at the house, I did notice one thing. She had a big crystal egg on the coffee table. My guess is around ten or fifteen pounds. It’s gone.”

  “The dog walker didn’t notice.”

  “It’s not the dog walker’s job to notice.” Corrine could already picture it. The dining room table cleared, the dirty takeout containers on the kitchen counter. The glass egg smashing against Kerry’s head. Blood in her dark hair. Moving the body, no neighbors in sight. Someone cleaning blood from either the hardwood floors in the living room or the terra-cotta tile in the kitchen. Maybe even leaving all that food and water for Snowball.

  “I’ll call the crime scene now,” Netter said again. “Why didn’t you say something at the house?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to make of it until we talked to the delivery guy.”

  “Or you wanted to make sure you still got to tag along while I was still assuming she’d turn up.”

  “You should make that call, Netter.”

  It took Corrine nearly two hours to tell Netter everything she knew about Kerry Lynch, including Jason Powell’s suspicions that Kerry might have known more than she was admitting about Oasis’s international dealings. She spent another hour giving him advice on the var
ious steps he might take to work the case, now that it was becoming clear that this investigation belonged in Long Island.

  She had just pulled onto the LIE when her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was Manhattan.

  “This is Duncan.”

  “Hey, it’s Brian.”

  He was Brian again. “From your cell phone on a Saturday. No, I won’t go out with you.”

  “You should be so lucky. Any updates on Kerry?”

  She hadn’t spoken to King since Thursday, when she first found out Kerry was missing. She told him she was driving back from Port Washington and gave him a quick summary of what she’d learned there.

  “So you think Jason Powell is this boyfriend she called Jay? The surfer guy saw them together?”

  “Unclear. There’s a Jay of some sort, who might or might not be Powell. I wouldn’t bet my life on surfer guy as an eyewitness.”

  “And yet you trust him about seeing Tom Fisher there Wednesday night.”

  She recognized the inconsistency. “He seemed certain about Fisher. Powell, not so much.”

  “So are you interviewing Fisher?”

  “How can I? I was already stretching to say if Powell left the city to target her, we had a basis for jurisdiction. But Fisher? Their entire relationship was on the island. If my suspicions about that missing glass egg are right, that crime also happened in Long Island. Not to mention, I’m not even on duty.”

  “Like that would stop you. I can spot a fellow sucker for truth and justice.”

  She did, in fact, want to question Fisher herself, but she knew that she had outworn her welcome with Netter. The second she told him about that missing egg, he had kicked into a higher gear.

  King was silent on the other end of the line, thinking. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, because it’s cold as hell—”

  “Hell’s not cold.”

  “Don’t bust my balls, okay? I hope Kerry’s fine, but shit, I’m actually glad this case is on hold. Gives me an easy out on this phone call I need to return.”

  “Which is . . .”

  “I checked my office voice mail—which I should never do on a weekend, note to self. I had a message from Eric Jordan. He said he’d heard that Kerry Lynch was missing and was wondering if we had opened a grand jury to investigate.”

  Corrine let the information sink in. Eric Jordan was with New Day. His cohost, Susanna Coleman, was best friends with Angela Powell. It couldn’t be a coincidence. If the news of Kerry’s disappearance were going to leak from someone on Long Island, she’d expect it to be to one of the local media outlets, not to a national network morning show.

  “It’s coming from the wife.” Corrine explained the common link between Angela Powell and Eric Jordan. “He specifically asked about a grand jury? That seems weird. I should have known something was off when she came to the door in her pajamas.”

  “I feel like you started having an entirely different conversation at some point.”

  “Sorry, I’m thinking out loud. The first time I went to the Powells’ house, Angela was cool as a cucumber, even as I told her about her husband hiring a prostitute. There was something almost Stepford-y about her. The house was impeccable, despite a teenage son under the roof and her husband in the middle of an investigation. But when I showed up Thursday, she came to the door in her pajamas in the middle of the afternoon.”

  The more Corrine thought about it, the more convinced she was that Angela Powell had been “off” that day. She’d explained her appearance by saying she had a migraine, but Angela didn’t seem like the type to reveal any kind of personal detail—let alone a weakness—to a stranger, let alone a police detective investigating her husband.

  “A second ago, it sounded like you thought Kerry and Tom Fisher might actually have been framing Powell all along, just like he claimed. Now you think Powell’s wife is lying about his alibi.”

  “I’m not sure what’s going on at this point, except that Eric Jordan’s phone call to you was no coincidence. He mentioned a grand jury? That almost seems like a suggestion. Maybe Angela has something to say, and her friend Susanna knows it will take a grand jury subpoena to get her to say it.” Corrine had been telling herself that Angela’s background had nothing to do with Jason’s case, but now she was wondering whether Angela might be more submissive than she let on.

  She passed two exits before King spoke again. “As far as I’m concerned, my case is on hold. Hopefully, by the time it’s not, we’ll have some answers, one way or the other.”

  “And what if Powell’s been telling the truth the whole time?”

  “Are you fucking with me? You were just telling me to open a grand jury to question his wife.”

  “Because I know we’re missing something. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Work your other cases, Duncan. You really drove out to Long Island on your day off?”

  “Port Washington. It’s barely past Queens.”

  “You’re still making me feel bad. I’m going to go drink a bottle of wine and tell myself that Kerry Lynch is on an island somewhere, reading a book.”

  48

  By Sunday, the realtor had decided to list the carriage house for $7.5 million, half a million more than we paid for it. We would end up losing more than that to her commission, legal fees, and taxes, but if it all worked out as planned, we’d have about $1.7 million in equity to show for it—all of Jason’s book money and then some—half of which would be mine, at least legally.

  Jason had handled the news exactly as I expected: objectively and rationally. We were divorcing on paper only. From the moment he told me that his DNA would match whatever evidence Kerry Lynch had provided to the police, I had said I would stand by him, and we’d figure out where he and I stood later. This, objectively and rationally, was consistent with that plan.

  On my behalf, Colin had served Jason with divorce papers at his apartment on Saturday. I had printed the documents off the Internet myself, trying to restrict Colin’s involvement to the role of messenger. As it turned out, New York had only recently adopted a form of no-fault divorce, and even that wasn’t exactly straightforward. It required at least one party to allege that the marriage had “broken down irretrievably” for a period of at least six months. I was certain we didn’t meet the requirement, until I read further. The lack of any physical intimacy counted as “broken down irretrievably.” We had been broken, as far as the law was concerned, for three years, and I hadn’t even realized it.

  My bare-bones documents weren’t enough to actually render us divorced. The process required us to divide our marital property and reach an agreement on spousal support. One simplification was Spencer. He was my child, not Jason’s, at least legally—and this entire arrangement was about legalities.

  Only two hours after Colin broke the news to him, Jason had come back home. We went through our financial statements and filled out the affidavits that we’d need to give to the divorce lawyer Colin had recommended. It felt like the paperwork we filed when we got the loan for the carriage house we were now selling.

  He held me all night as we slept, but we were practically silent as I helped him pack the things he’d need for a while and drove him the few blocks to Colin’s apartment. He reached for the car handle and then stopped. “It’s only on paper, right?”

  “Jason, we talked about this—”

  “I know. You need time. I hurt you. But Angela, I love you. I always have, and that’s not changing. I really screwed up. I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am for where we are right now. But you are everything to me. Always. If this is your way of telling me—”

  “No. It’s like I said, we’re doing this for us, Jason. All three of us.” I had a good shot of protecting at least half of Jason’s money in the event he was hit with a major damage award. Colin said Kerry’s case would get dismissed if she remained missing, but we had no guarantees of that. I was being practical.

  “You’re amazingly stro
ng, do you know that?”

  I gave him a sad smile. “A little bit.”

  He kissed me on the cheek. As he made three trips into Colin’s building, I sat alone at the wheel, frozen.

  49

  Corrine watched from her unmarked vehicle on Union Square West as Jason Powell made a second trip from the Audi into the sleek glass building around the corner on Fifteenth Street. Angela remained in the driver’s seat of the station wagon, hatchback popped open, the engine idling. From Corrine’s vantage point, it appeared as if Angela were staring straight ahead, both hands still on the wheel.

  She had spotted the Powells’ Audi backing out of their driveway when she was still a block from their house. She had hoped to catch Angela alone, but decided to follow them instead. The delivery of boxes a few blocks away could mean anything, but something about Angela’s gaze into the distance told Corrine that the boxes weren’t the only thing being dropped off here.

  As Powell made a third trip into the building, he paused and turned back toward the curb. Corrine couldn’t make out his expression, but the moment struck her as sad. Angela drove away alone.

  Thanks to the direction of the one-way streets involved, Corrine had a head start. When Angela pulled into her driveway, Corrine was standing in front of the garage door.

  Instead of asking Corrine to move, Angela parked the car in the driveway and stepped out.

  “It’s not a good time, Detective.”

  “I’ll be quick. Is your migraine gone?”

  “Yes, thanks. I actually tried that vinegar-and-honey trick. I think it may have helped.”

  It was a good answer, but Corrine noticed the pause when she first asked the question.

  Corrine was certain now. There had been no migraine, and Angela Powell was not the kind of woman who stayed in her pajamas all day without a reason. What else had she been lying about?

  “Did you keep my business card?” Corrine asked, following Angela to the front stoop. “I told you to call me twenty-four/seven, for any reason.”