by AB Plum
“Any chance you could put in a good word for me?”
“Me?” I grip the arms on the chair. My breath slows. God, what if, someday, I hurried into the lecture hall and Michael stood next to Ari?
The thought reignites the panic scalding my stomach.
Ari leans close, his breath warm, full of life. “Does he know you’re in my class?”
I stare over his head. Speaking will unleash the tears.
“He called me.”
“When?” I whisper,
He shrugs. “Same day the MacArthur Foundation announced the new Fellows.”
“With his congratulations?”
Ari wiggles his thick eyebrows. “He volunteered to lecture in any of my classes. He thought the students would find a ‘stand-off’ between us two geniuses entertaining.”
On the day of the MacArthur announcement, Michael’s fury erupted in a toxic spill. Why that fuckin’ little kike? Why not me? Who’d he bribe? A cretin’s smarter than he’ll ever hope to be.
I hug my waist tighter and shift my gaze to the fish whipping in and out among each other, the algae, the small, manufactured caves. “Don’t tell me you refused.”
“Yep.” His smile is so broad I want to cry.
“Do they know instinctively they’re all compatible?” I face my first lover.
“They know none of them is a piranha. Or a mini shark.” His eyes bore past my sunglasses.
The desire to squirm under his scrutiny feels overpowering. I say, “How did I miss that Michael . . .” Was a killer?
“How did you miss what?” His voice is so gentle that I imagine for a split second telling him everything.
Go ahead. Put him in danger. My laugh is so phony I cringe as I inch toward the chair’s edge. “How’d I miss that Michael would love to lecture in your class?”
The hollows in his face deepen to a sadness so profound, I speak in a barely intelligible torrent that propels me to my feet. “I read you got married last year. Honeymooned in Africa.”
“Living the dream.” He dogs my heels to the door. “You and Shosannah should meet. She’s a fourth-year psych resident, but sometimes they let her eat lunch.”
“I’ll give you a few dates tomorrow after class, okay?” The lie comes in another rush. Get out. Get out. He’s already suspicious.
At the door, he offers his hand. “Ever hear from Edward?”
The first notes of Pachelbel Canon override the gentleness of his tone. Ready to puke, I hold up a finger and place the phone against my buzzing ear.
“Forget coffee with your friend. Get home. Right now.”
Chapter 29
HE
After I tell AnnaSophia Detective Patel wants to interview her, she, for once, gives me no backtalk. Ever the liar, she says she’s on her way home. Of course, she is. She disconnects without a goodbye.
Bitch. I smack Patel’s empty water bottle off my desk. It spins on the Turkey carpet, then comes to a stop under the Barcelona lounger. Does she even know how to tell the truth?
Because she is such a liar, I neglected to tell her Patel is with homicide. He warned me against talking to her about the case, but I’m sure he expects me to coach her on what to say.
Little does he know she hates me so much she’d say the opposite of anything I suggest.
Like most people, Patel misjudges my character. But I have him pegged perfectly. There’s no question in my mind that he’ll immediately join Her Legion of the Besotted.
With only two loose strings to tie off regarding Tracy, why worry? My wife will tell Patel I met Tracy at Le Boulanger. That revelation will bring him back for clarification.
Let the mongoose come. This cobra is ready.
Chapter 30
SHE
Ever hear from Edward? Ari’s question clashes in my head with Michael’s command to get home. I am driving too fast across campus. Kids with some of the most brilliant minds on Earth amble from every direction—all but daring drivers to run them down.
Their fearlessness fuels my fantasy of what happened to Edward. He stepped off a curb. Died—
Without warning, a student on a skateboard hurtles directly in front of me. I yelp and tap the brakes. The Mercedes responds beautifully. Shaking, I stare at the long-legged, head-in-the-clouds student—bright as a god in the blinding sunshine.
My chest heaves. I exhale and slam shut the door marked Edward.
Shoulders hunched to my ears, arms straight, I drive with my foot on the brake, the window cracked. The medicinal fragrance of the ubiquitous eucalyptus trees almost overpowers the taste of metal coating my throat. Okay, I’m afraid to think about my first love, but why feel afraid of talking to a Mountain View policeman?
What should terrify me is my stupidity in going to Ari.
Big mistake. One I won’t repeat. Not if I intend to outsmart Michael. Who knows? Maybe the policeman—instead of Ari—will throw me a lifeline.
Junipero Serra’s thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit offers a few easy-driving minutes and the chance to catch my breath. Whatever’s happening—Michael’s flame-out yesterday over John or my sense of guilt for going to Ari or tossing the shitty pants in the incinerator or getting smashed last night—I picture the policeman slapping me in handcuffs.
Perfect solution to all my problems . . . except who’d take care of my kids and Dad?
When I reach home half an hour after Michael’s phone call, I’m a mess. Two unmarked black cars sit at the unopened gate. One vehicle I recognize. Jed Wilson, the “chief” of Michael’s private five-man security force gets out of his car and swaggers toward my SUV. The hairs on the back of my neck buzz.
I detest this man. He’s a spy and a voyeur. Specifically, he’s Michael’s spy and voyeur when he’s not living dangerously. I’ve caught him leering at Alexandra and Anastaysa sunning around the pool on warm days so perfect it’s easy to forget the first snake crawled through the Garden of Eden. When I confronted the pervert, Jed suggested I was imagining something that never happened. When I tried to inform Michael, he sneered I was jealous because Jed had never given me a second glance.
Not every man on Earth thinks you outshine the sun, AnnaSophia.
Jed leans into the driver’s window, his breath coffee-sour. “We have an official visitor.”
I rear back and picture rolling up the window fast—breaking his long, pocked nose.
“Want me to go with you to the house?”
Okay, paranoia is contagious. Or maybe Michael hires only people naturally suspicious.
“I think letting a policeman in the house poses no security problem.”
“Fine, but I’ll follow you and him up the hill,” he says with a trace of superiority.
“If you have nothing better to do.”
“Mr. Romanov reported seeing a coyote last night.”
Interesting what Michael sees in the dark. I press the remote for the gate. “No traps, Jed. Not with the children riding all over the estate.”
His nostrils flare, and his jaw cracks. I’ve offended him with my reminder.
“Mr. Romanov agrees, ma’am, but there’s more’n one way to trap a coyote.”
“And more than one way to escape, I’m sure.” I lock my jaw and press the accelerator. Expecting Ari to help me sidestep Michael’s traps won’t work, but I’ll find an escape.
The thought fades as I repeatedly glance in the rearview mirror. The policeman keeps enough distance between us that I can’t see his face. Not that seeing his face gives me any advantage. He’s probably one of the hundreds of Bay Area cops Michael knows and cultivates.
Only one reason I’ll never go to the police for help.
The sun blazes through the windshield. Behind prescription sunglasses, my eyes water. I swipe at the moisture. Can’t have my visitor catch me with red eyeballs.
Dammit, what is this all about? I stop in front of the veranda, kill the engine and step onto the brick driveway. I grab the safari hat and slap it on. Waiting on the steps
until the policeman joins me seems rude. And unwise.
He approaches, hand extended, before I’ve figured out a greeting. “Satish Patel, Mrs. Romanov. Thank you for making time to see me on such short notice.”
The musicality of his accent—a cross between veddy British and cultured Hindi—immediately soothes my stomach. I still don’t know what to say. I’m hyper-aware sweat is pooling at the top of my scalp and sliding down my neck. I suspect my face is scarlet.
“Let’s step into the shade.” He points to a nearby ancient oak tree.
“It’s too hot out here. Let’s go inside. Would you like something cold to drink?”
“Anything with ice. Thank you.” He falls in step by my side.
His failure to comment on the house or the grounds or the foothills in the distance surprises me. Has he attended one of Michael’s Police Appreciation Luncheons?
“Have you ever visited Belle Haven?” No one has without reverting to hyperbole.
“Never.”
“Please come in.” I open the front door to cool air. “I often think air conditioning is one of the greatest inventions ever.”
“As a native of Madurai, I’d agree.”
A rainbow of colors filters through the stained-glass skylight, flooding the foyer. Until yesterday—when I opened Michael’s “love gift”—this space was one of my favorite spots in this grandiose mansion. Now I hustle us toward the back of the house.
“I’m having iced lemonade, but I have iced tea, sodas, sparkling water, flat water, wine, beer . . .”
“A beer,” he says without batting an eye. He slips his sunglasses into his breast pocket.
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
His laugh is a warm rumble. “Wishfully. Lemonade sounds like a good substitute.”
Halfway to the kitchen, I think about offering a snack. Cheese and crackers? What if he’s vegan? On a gluten-free diet? Lactose intolerant? I settle on a variety of nuts. The more I stall, the more my stomach rolls. A policeman’s in my house.
How hard is it to inform him I’m deathly afraid of my husband?
Damned hard. He’ll want details. He’ll want to turn over all the rocks. Dig in the muck. Force Michael to take action. I’ll never live long enough to—
“Mrs. Romanov?” A tall, slender, thirtyish brunette woman appears on little cat feet.
“You must be the new chef.” Hand shaking, I scoop up several nuts that have fallen from two enameled bowls I knocked over.
“Sorry. I should have warned you I was in the pantry. I’m Jennifer Connors. Miz Alexander had to handle another issue and suggested I get acquainted with the kitchen. We thought you were at your yoga class. I wanted to have lunch ready for you and Master Magnus.”
Master Magnus? I roll my eyes. “I should finish before Magnus gets home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her apple red lips come close to smiling.
I say nothing, load a tray and carry it to the family room. My visitor rises, mumbles something in his cell phone and immediately stuffs it in his breast pocket behind the sunglasses and a crisp, white handkerchief. Did he turn the phone off? If he left it on, will someone be listening to our conversation? Who says paranoia isn’t contagious?
“I’ll go into another room if you need to continue your call.”
The blue in his eyes gleams as he takes the lemonade with a grin. “If air conditioning is a gift from the gods, cell phones are a curse. I never catch up on my voicemail.”
“I hate voicemail.”
He pushes a card across the coffee table, ending our scintillating chatter.
I pick up the card and my stomach rolls. “Homicide?”
“I specifically asked your husband to give you no explanation for my visit.”
“He didn’t.” The urge to raise my hand and add, I swear tingles in my fingertips.
“We found the body of a young woman this morning near Shoreline Park. We talked with your husband because we think he was one of the last people to see her alive. We’re trying to rule out murder.”
“When did she . . . die?”
“I prefer to ask the questions first, then, I’ll answer yours.” He takes a sip of his lemonade without breaking eye contact.
“All right.” I have the sensation of another me sitting on my shoulder.
“What time did your husband come home yesterday?”
“He walked through the front door at ten till seven. A few minutes after he called from the front gate.”
“How are you be so specific about the time?” His eyes—the same deep blue as in the stained glass in the foyer—never waver. Curiosity. No judgment.
“He said he’d be home early. Seven is his usual time.”
“When did he tell you he’d be home early?”
Heat floods my throat. I shift my gaze from his and set my lemonade back on the coffee table. Impossible to take another swallow of the tangy liquid. “He sent me a message.”
“Email?” He sets his half-empty glass on a silver coaster an arm’s length away.
I shake my head. If I tell him about Enrique’s message, do I have to tell him about the box with the pants? “A personal message. Through one of his executive assistants.”
“I’d like that person’s name, please.” A quiet firmness I failed to pick up earlier now reinforces the request.
Enrique’s smiling, affable face flashes. “Did you ask Michael for the name?”
“I thought we had an agreement, Mrs. Romanov. I ask the questions first, then I may or may not answer your questions.”
“You made those stipulations, Detective.” The frost in my clipped tone is enough to raise icicles on our ears.
He regards me for a moment. “Is there some reason you won’t name this person?”
“None except I don’t think we should kill the messenger.”
“Need I remind you we already have one person dead—under rather strange circumstances.”
“If you told me that person’s name, no reminder would be necessary.”
His hard eyes bore into mine. “Tracy Jones is the victim.”
Chapter 31
HE
Nothing elevates my competitive streak like a good game of cat and mouse. Truthfully, I prefer worthier opponents than AnnaSophia, but where to find them? Patel might qualify. After his interview with my dear wife, I will know better. Until then . . .
The Monet beckons me to enjoy the snow a moment longer, but tying up one of those two loose strings takes priority. Before stepping into my private elevator, I go to the door into Regan’s inner sanctum and press my ear against the solid mahogany. Silence. As I expected. Regan, ever the guardian of my privacy, undoubtedly revealed as little as possible about the details of Tracy’s interview and sent Patel on his way.
A thousand-dollar bonus buys a lot of discretion.
I enter my private elevator smiling, get off at the parking garage, and adopt an air of innocent indifference. Passing the Veneno without stopping to admire it requires self-discipline. I pull my shoulders back, keep walking, smile directly at the video camera, and open the trunk of the Benz. I remove the Nordstrom box containing my hazmat suit. The challenge now is to get the suit to my locker without raising anyone’s suspicion.
Too bad this disposal poses more difficulty than the picnic basket I tossed in the incinerator at home last night.
Thank you, AnnaSophia. Your headache offered the perfect opportunity to consign the last evidence of me with Tracy to the fires of hell. With no prying eyes—except those of that damn coyote—I enjoyed my triumph for almost ten minutes.
“That’s a big box, Mr. Romanov.” Peter Bell pushes through the door into the locker room with enough exuberance to smack me in the face and send me stumbling backward, hitting the wall. “Give you a hand?”
Breathing hard, I manage to hold onto the box and force a fake friendly tone. “Any idea why a woman’s coat should weigh a ton?”
“None, sir. Sorry if I caught you with the door.” Hi
s short, blond hair sticks up, giving him the appearance of a recent, eager college grad. Was I ever so young?
“No problem.” I grimace into another camera installed with facial recognition software.
The green light goes on, and Peter opens the door. “I’m happy to help you carry—”
“Thanks. I’ve got it. I’ll take it home tonight. Surprise birthday gift for the wife.”
Aware I’ve fed him just enough information, I shut up and continue into my private cubicle. Five of us execs have our own space. The other lab techs use the communal dressing/shower area, but with individual lockers for their hazmat suits and personal belongings.
Company protocol dictates surrendering each suit if it becomes damaged. The practice, one I insist on, guarantees no one gets injured from exposure to toxic chemicals in the lab, then sues me for a zillion bucks. The cost of a new suit is exorbitant, but a lot less expensive than a lawsuit. As CEO, I could bypass the practice, but since I want to get rid of everything that links me to Tracy, I plan to set the example.
Removing the suit, I drag one sleeve across the lever that latches my locker. After three attempts, I put my finger through the hole. I repeat the process on the opposite leg. Then, I stuff the empty box inside the locker, pick up the suit and stroll into the lab in search of the materials supervisor.
Twenty minutes later, I check out a new suit with no questions asked. With the acquisition three days away, Tracy’s death has dropped to the bottom of my priorities.
Alive, she was a problem.
Dead, she’s a problem resolved.
And . . . I’ve fabricated the perfect cover story for why I granted her an interview.
Chapter 32
SHE
For a few seconds after learning Tracy Jones is dead, the view of the roses I planted for ten years fades in and out. When I turn from the sliding glass door and face Detective Satish Patel, his eyes come into sharp focus. Compassion darkens them to black.
Terror blasts through me—stronger than the sunlight washing color from the floor, furniture, and walls—revealing the harsh truth. Michael killed her.