“Anyone caught your eye?” asked Helen.
“Everyone. I mean, geez, the boys had on The Wiggles the other day and I thought, Wow, that blue one is not half bad,” said Victoria.
“Did you ever notice that he never does anything? He doesn’t play an instrument, he doesn’t sing, he’s not like Jeff, asleep all the time…why is he on there?” asked Leelee.
“You’re right,” said Victoria, cocking her head to the side. “Maybe he writes it?”
“You guys, we’re off-topic,” said Helen.
“Right. It was pleasant for a second,” said Victoria, focusing. But already her friends could sense that she was not as intense as she used to be. Maybe leaving Justin was a great thing for her personality. “Anyway, so I’m divorcing, Helen and Wesley are working on their marriage, Leelee and Brad are status quo, and Eliza is still totally happy with Declan and not ’fessing up about any problems—”
“Hey,” interrupted Eliza. “Sometimes it is better to keep things to yourself. We all learned the hard way what happens when people share their innermost secrets.”
“Well, we still don’t know what happened with Anson’s tapes,” said Leelee mischievously.
“Okay, buzz kill,” said Eliza.
“You totally stressed me out—thank you, Leelee,” said Helen.
“Let’s not worry about it,” said Victoria. “Let’s all make a new pact: the be happy pact.”
“And let’s never mention Anson again,” said Eliza.
“Hear! Hear!” they all said, clinking glasses.
Leelee got home in time to give the girls a bath and put them to bed while Brad watched television downstairs. It took her extra long these days because they had let Charlotte watch Monsters Inc. on the ill advice of a classmate friend, and now she was terrified that there were monsters in her closet. That they were friendly monsters in the movie was lost on her. All she needed to see was that one-eyed Mike voiced by Billy Crystal and she was in tears. That meant more books to read before bed, and Leelee trudged through three Curious Georges until Charlotte was delirious with exhaustion and Leelee could finally take her leave.
After flipping out the lights (“Except for the closet, Mommy!”), Leelee ignored her instinctual pull to her office computer. It was strange not to be e-mailing with Jack anymore. As she put on her pajamas and washed her face, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and thought about how life doesn’t go the way you want it to but maybe that is for the best. Maybe things would not have been all rosy with Jack. He was fun and exciting, but was he emotionally strong enough to sustain a family? Would he have been happy? Would she have felt he was always looking elsewhere? Probably what he loved about Tierney was that she never gave him the time of day. She was never unsatisfied and wanting more. That was probably comfortable for Jack. But Leelee wasn’t like that. And she never could be.
“I did it,” said Brad. He was standing in the doorway and staring at her reflection in the mirror. She had swirls of suds on her face, so she leaned down and splashed water up to rinse it off, then grabbed a washcloth to dry it.
“Did what?” she asked, walking past him out of the bathroom and untucking the sheets on the bed.
“I killed Anson,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” she said, still not looking at him.
“It’s true,” he said sternly.
Leelee turned around to stare at him. She studied his face carefully. His expression was that of serene confidence and determination. Brad killed Anson? “But the police said it was an accident…he drank too much and fell down the stairs.”
Brad nodded. “I made it look like an accident.”
Leelee was stunned. “But why?”
Brad walked toward her and stood right in front of the bed. “Come on, Leelee. I’m not an idiot. I knew Jack was Cooldude. That stuff about Victoria having an affair, well, I found out later that was also true, but I had a hunch. I found the e-mail and then I ran into Anson…” He stopped, unsure what to say.
“Go on,” she urged.
“I know you’ve always loved Jack. I know you wished you’d married him instead of me. I know you were going to leave me for him. I found the letter, Leelee…”
“No, it fell behind the commode,” she said, sinking onto the bed. It fell behind the commode and you didn’t find it. I was so happy. Right?
“I put it there. I read it, and I got angry and I left, and then I got angrier, and I went to Irvine and sat in that conference room and brooded all day. And when I got back, I went straight to Anson’s. I thought you were gone. And I thought Jack was gone. And Anson was the only one left who was a part of this. So I went, and I killed him. And when I came back, I saw the lights on in the house, and you through the windows, so I waited for you to go to the party and I put the note back.”
“Oh my God…” said Leelee.
“I did it for you. To defend your honor. To be the man you wanted. That’s all I ever wanted.”
Leelee felt numb at first. It was so surreal. Brad killed Anson? She never would have put that together. She felt she should be disgusted or scared, but she didn’t feel that. She couldn’t place what the feeling was. Anger? Worry? No…slowly she realized what she felt: excited. Her man, the man she thought was a pathetic wimp for so long, the man she accused of not being a man, had actually gone and killed her tormentor. He had defended her honor. She had never loved him more. She walked over to Brad and kissed him passionately. She wanted him now. She kissed his hands and imagined them pushing Anson, punching him, making him suffer. Such sexy hands. She looked at his mouth and kissed it. This was the mouth that cursed out her nemesis. Brad kissed back and made love to her. Leelee was euphoric. He had proven himself and she couldn’t get enough of him. Brad had finally become her hero.
•• 44 ••
He’d watched through the window as Anson poured himself a large tumbler of vodka. Through the paned glass he saw him walking between rooms—that damn dog yapping and snipping at Anson’s slippered feet. He looked at his watch. It was almost time for the party. He had to get going. Like, really get going. Was this guy ever going to go upstairs and take his shower? He’d watched him the past few nights and knew that was Anson’s routine, and he also knew that he was due at the cocktail party within the hour, so it was time to get a move on, buddy.
He wasn’t nervous at all. You’d think he would be, for what he had planned, but for some reason it didn’t seem at all wrong. He felt exhilarated. It was probably because he was so certain that what he was about to do had to be done. And he didn’t worry about neighbors or anything like that. He knew them all, and if he said he was just returning Anson’s dog, which he’d found roaming the streets, no one would question him. That’s what he had learned about people, what made him successful in business: if you say something with certainty, people will have no reason not to believe you. Power is perception.
Finally Anson went upstairs. “It’s about time,” he sighed, as he crept around back and surreptitiously opened the side door. He heard the dog bark and come running down the stairs, but then Anson yelled to the dog, so it went back up. Luckily it was a windy night, with things rattling everywhere, so Anson wouldn’t be fazed by any odd noise. He waited, not wanting to move, until he heard the pipes and knew that the shower was running. He walked into the living room and found Anson’s sweating highball glass propped on the Chinese cabinet. He supposed it should feel odd that he was in this guy’s house, with the guy upstairs having no clue, but once again, he was unmoved. He took the pills out of his pocket. The pills had been the only tricky part. Neither he nor his wife was a pill popper, so he had to wait until they went to a Christmas party so he could sneak inside the hosts’ medicine cabinet (luckily everyone knew they were major pharmaceutical lovers) and steal the prescription pills. They would never miss them. He couldn’t believe in a way that he was so devious— stealing, breaking and entering, and all that was to come—but it just seemed more like a necessary chain of events than
a criminal act or acts. He carefully opened the plastic pill lid and dumped four tablets in the drink. That should do it. He didn’t want to kill the guy; he just wanted to knock him out so he could come back later and find the damn tapes. He walked out the side door and knew none would be the wiser that he had been there.
That was his plan. He was going to make sure Anson was in for a long night’s sleep, and then he would return after the party and have ample time to search the house top to bottom with no fear of discovery. It was time to end this. The guy was a first-class jerk. Who blackmails women? Regardless of whether they’re faithful, what business is it of anyone’s but their own and their husbands’? He thought adultery was appalling, but what people did was their own business. Why in the hell did Anson think he could appoint himself as moral judge, St. Peter himself, guarding the gates of heaven? The guy was no angel. And now it had to end. He didn’t want Anson to keep blackmailing his wife and her friends any longer. If it meant that he had to steal those tapes, then that is what he would do.
He felt noble, defending his wife’s honor like this. The funny thing was, he knew Eliza would never cheat on him. Since the day they were married, the day they met, actually, he knew that his wife was a good girl. She liked to talk herself into being a bad-ass sometimes, but she was no cheater. She was a good wife. Declan would do anything for her.
•• 45 ••
He couldn’t believe it when Helen told him that she had cheated. How could he be such a fool? He’d never expected it. That was bad enough, but she also told him that Anson was blackmailing her. And he knew why she told him. It wasn’t that she was scared; it was that she wanted him to sort out her mess again. Like with Dirk. Erase all the traces of her. Get those tapes. Those were the unspoken words. Either she was the most cunning bitch in the world, or she was just so hopeless that she didn’t realize what she was suggesting. He actually wasn’t quite sure.
One side of him didn’t want to do it. Let her suffer. Let her squirm. Let her pick up the pieces of her life herself. But then there was Lauren. His adored, beloved Lauren. He would never hurt her. Ever. He wanted to protect her. And in protecting her, he had to protect his wife. It was difficult, but the fact was that despite everything, he did love his wife. And he supposed that he did love that she really needed him. He was born with money, status, even a title, but he had never felt as though he had accomplished anything on his own until he saved Helen. And he knew he saved her, and she knew it. So they were almost saving each other. That had to mean something.
“Sorry to bother you, Anson. I thought we might have a word,” Wesley said as he stood on the threshold of the door. Although he had seen Anson through the curtains in the living room, it had taken him an extraordinary amount of time to answer the door, and Wesley had been compelled to ring the buzzer twice. And when the door was finally opened, it was with a large swing and then a bang, as if Anson were ripping it off its hinges.
Anson squinted and then spoke. “Wesley, old pal,” he slurred.
Wesley noticed that Anson was swaying ever so slightly, and his grip was tightening on the glass he held in his hand. He must have had a lot to drink.
“I wondered if I could have a word,” repeated Wesley, and without waiting he slipped past Anson and made his way into the foyer.
“Come on in,” said Anson.
Wesley looked down at the sniveling dog nipping at Anson’s feet and eyeing him suspiciously. A dog would not be a good thing now, especially if he was protective.
“Um, can you put that dog away? I’m allergic.”
“Samantha? No,” said Anson petulantly.
“Just for a minute. I won’t take up more of your time,” said Wesley, swooping down to pick up the reluctant dog, which squirmed in his arms. Wesley noticed a screened-in porch off the living room and walked over and put the dog inside.
“He’ll be fine in there just for a second,” said Wesley.
But Anson seemed to have already forgotten about the dog. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, making his way to the bar.
“No. Or…yes.” Should he have something to drink? He didn’t want to linger; his intention was to demand the evidence and then leave at once, then destroy it when he got home. In his mind he had envisioned the scenario as slightly hostile, in which Wesley would defend his wife’s honor and humble Anson in the process. But maybe it could be civil.
“Well, which is it?” said Anson, walking slowly to his bar cart. “I’ll take it as a yes.”
“Yes, sure, whatever you’re having.”
Anson twisted the cap off the scotch and took down a glass from the shelf. “Sit down. Relax.”
Despite himself, Wesley sat down on the plush couch, sinking deeply into the pillows. He regretted it immediately, realizing that he should be calling the shots, not Anson. So he stood up again and walked toward the mantel, pretending to admire the oil painting that hung above it. He could feel the dog’s eyes boring into him through the glass door.
“How’s the movie biz these days? Did you see the new Woody Allen? I would say he’s back,” commented Anson while handing Wesley his glass.
“Let’s cut the rubbish,” said Wesley, his pulse picking up speed. He didn’t want to make chitchat with this asshole, pretend all was nice and rosy when they both knew what he was doing to his wife.
“What’s wrong?” asked Anson before plopping down into a worn armchair as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“I want the tapes,” said Wesley firmly.
Anson stared at him, his face puffy from drink, his eyes watery. He didn’t respond at first, but then a slow smile crept across his face.
“Sorry, my friend, but no can do.”
Wesley felt rage slink through his veins. This bloke is really enjoying this. It’s the only sense of power he’s had in ages.
“I won’t take no for an answer,” said Wesley, walking closer to Anson, as if his slight figure could intimidate the larger man.
“You’re going to have to,” said Anson with a flourish, before taking a large gulp of his drink.
“Why are you doing this?”
Anson bent his head back and rested it on the back of his chair. He closed his eyes, and for a moment Wesley thought he might pass out. It was probably only seconds but it felt like minutes before Anson reopened his eyes, and when he did he looked startled to see Wesley.
“I gotta get ready for the party,” said Anson groggily. He heaved his large body up out of the chair, an effort that required extra strength from both arms, and brushed past Wesley on his way to the staircase.
Wesley followed him. “We’re not done, Anson,” he said harshly.
Anson continued on his path but waved his arms at Wesley as if he were swatting away a mosquito. “Ah, patooey,” he muttered.
“Anson,” said Wesley, grabbing Anson’s fleshy arm. He felt his nails seeping in to Anson’s pale and flabby skin.
“Get off me,” whined Anson, jerking away and stumbling toward the stairs.
He is totally out of it, thought Wesley. He must be seriously drunk.
“Where are the tapes?” demanded Wesley.
But Anson didn’t respond, and he was now halfway up the stairs. But when he stopped and glanced at his reflection in the venetian mirror on the landing, taking a moment to smooth his eyebrows, it was the breaking point for Wesley. Before he realized it, he had lunged at him. Anson shouted out, but, weak with alcohol, his body was almost weightless, and Wesley’s jab made him crumble. As Wesley saw the large figure dropping toward him, he instinctively moved to the side, causing Anson to fall even farther down the stairs. It was all done in seconds, and Wesley realized that he was staring at Anson’s limp body at the bottom of the stairs.
“Anson?” he asked softly.
There was no response. Wesley ran down the steps and felt Anson’s pulse. He was still alive. He couldn’t be that hurt; he had only fallen a few steps. He had probably just passed out, Wesley reassured himself. Wha
t should he do? He tried to pick him up, but Anson was enormous and now dead weight. Better not to move him. He’d just go with the premise that he had left and Anson must have stumbled down the stairs, and anything else Anson would say was just the delusional ideas of a drunken man. There was no other way. But now he had to act quickly. First he ran to the living room, took his glass of scotch, and brought it to the kitchen. He found cleaning gloves under the sink, put them on, and carefully washed his glass, and the cabinet door handle as well. He kept the gloves on so as not to leave further prints, and walked through the house, finally locating the office and rummaging through the desk in an effort to find the tapes. He didn’t find them, but in a dusty cabinet he did find a file that held incriminating notes on his wife and her friends. He scooped it up and slipped it under his shirt. He knew he had little time, so after opening cabinets and closets throughout the house and taking a superficial look, he decided to leave. He had done his job. He knew Anson would be okay, and probably accuse him of intentionally hurting him, but Anson was so drunk that he might not remember anything. Wesley could always say that he left when Anson walked up the stairs and didn’t know what Anson was talking about.
Later, he felt a fleeting panic when he heard Anson was dead. It was as if a cold wind swept through his body. It was a surprise, but that was all. He couldn’t say he was sorry.
•• 46 ••
Justin was sick when Victoria told him Anson had tape-recorded everything that went on in their house. He couldn’t care less that people knew his wife—soon to be ex—was screwing around on him, but he was petrified that Anson had recorded some of his conversations with Tad Baxter’s coke dealer. The fact was, Tad had gotten really messed up one night, and he wouldn’t call it rape, but he sort of had sex with an unconscious girl and beat her up a little, and, well, if it got out, Tad’s career was toast. That would be a huge blow to Justin. Even more so if he was the leak. He couldn’t afford that.
The Infidelity Pact Page 24