The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  Chapter 61

  HE

  Vatican City has its escape routes, I have mine. No one but me knows about the secret entrances to headquarters. No Xs show up on the architectural plans. I chuckle and slip out the basement door, into the meadow. This grassy acre is the view from my window. The land’s an asset Moreau has never appreciated and carries a dollar-value of more than five million dollars.

  Layered clothes and hiking boots make the bone-deep cold tolerable. A coffee thermos strapped to my waist adds a bit of warmth. I have the compass on my watch, and a flashlight keeps me on the path. No distractions because I’ve switched off my cell phone.

  No interruptions to spoil the thirty minutes, thirty-five max I’ve allotted to hike to Tracy’s and my final rendezvous. The Mountain View propellerheads must be off investigating other crimes. On the other hand, how many murders occur annually in the capital of Silicon Valley?

  I’ll check that factoid back in my office.

  Stefan Lefebvre, unfortunately—if he is ever found—will add to Palo Alto’s stats.

  Chapter 62

  SHE

  Patrick rejects my plan after the first sentence. The tension in the SUV arcs off him like lightning bolts. I refuse to huddle in the corner and repeat that having such a well-known Stanford professor as Ari Hoffman on my side can only reduce my vulnerability. I have to confide in someone. Why not someone who has known me longer than anyone else?

  Patrick snorts. Confide in a Stanford professor? So what if his mind’s a steel trap?

  “If he really is a frickin’ genius, he’ll laugh in your face.” Patrick refuses to turn the SUV around.

  “He won’t turn me down. He used to be my best friend.”

  “Used to be. I believe that phrase says it all.”

  “His wife’s a resident in psychiatry. She’ll have contacts for abused women.”

  “Your husband has contacts everywhere. He has more money than half a dozen sheiks. He will find you.”

  “You can’t stop me from talking to Ari.”

  “Oh?” He curses colorfully, staring at me with eyes hot with fury, then speaks in a cold, flat tone. “What if I told you I’m working for your husband? That he wants me to have an accident on the way to Carmel? Or on the way home? One casualty. Guess who?”

  A shudder I can’t stop dances down my spine. I whisper, “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Believing me won’t matter if you’re dead.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I can read people. If Andrew trusted you—”

  “What the hell? Andrew trusted that turd Chan and where did that get you?” He takes a quick breath and rushes on. “Or do you just like screwin’ guys? Would you screw ole Ari to get what you want?”

  “Do you deliberately want to sound like Michael?”

  A direct hit in the balls. Patrick’s jaw drops, then slowly, he eases his back into the seat. His fingers open and close on the steering wheel, and his Adam’s apple convulses.

  “I’m probably more like that bastard than I want to admit.”

  “I doubt that, but I’ve lived with a psychopath long enough to know you aren’t one.”

  A faint smile. “My dad will welcome those words.”

  “In case I’ve not said thank you, I do appreciate your thoughts about Andrew.”

  “But you still don’t believe me?”

  A quick headshake. “Not at first. Now, I do.”

  “You’re on your husband’s list. You know that, right?”

  “Right.”

  The urgency in his tone punctuates my worry about fashioning a story Ari can accept. My main purpose in approaching him is to help me and the kids get to safety. If I tell him about Tracy Jones and Andrew, will I throw too much at him?

  Patrick turns the key in the ignition, checks all the mirrors, then pulls onto the pavement, holding the wheels steady despite the slick surface. He turns around with the same efficiency and concentration while I sit silently next to him.

  Once we’re headed back toward Belle Haven, I speak. “Will you consider my advice to leave? Today?”

  “Not today. Give me at least twenty-four hours. I want to figure out some way to stay in contact with you. That way if either of us has an accident or falls off the face of the earth, the other one will know Czar Romanov’s spinning out of control.”

  Chapter 63

  HE

  Exactly twenty-nine minutes to reach the area where I launched Tracy on her last journey. A feeble, nasty yellow glow from a distant streetlight punches through the fog. But Scimetrx’s nearby buildings have disappeared in the gloom. No police cars in the parking spot where Tracy and I met. As I get closer, I sweep my flashlight over the yellow tape blocking off the street, the nearest dunes, and the entrance to the path where I stand.

  Adrenaline still pumps into me, but the rate slows. All right, admittedly, a small part of me had secretly hoped at least one propellerhead still stood guard. If I can hike through the park, what stops other looky-loos?

  Thinking about a guard, I imagine speaking to him. Explaining I couldn’t get the poor girl’s death out of my mind. Adding I can’t help speculating she killed herself because of my rejection.

  To which the propellerhead would reply, From all accounts, sir. She was a troubled girl. I’d say you can rest easy.

  As if I ever rest uneasily.

  Laughing to myself, I slip under the nearest crime scene tape. Christ, I’m tempted to drop something—a monogrammed handkerchief or a cufflink or my wallet. Or my .357.

  God, wouldn’t finding my gun two days later cause an uproar?

  What would the propellerheads do next?

  Contact me. I wipe moisture from my face.

  Grill me. I return my handkerchief to my pocket.

  Provide me with the opportunity to make Patel the fool. I muck up my footprints by stepping across them the opposite direction, then dragging the side of my shoe across the footprints. Good luck getting any usable evidence, propellerheads. The shoes will go straight into the incinerator.

  My business cell phone pulsates. Hard. Steady. Demanding.

  “No interruptions, Sam. Or AnnaSophia. Or whoever.” I don’t miss a step in my examination of the damp asphalt where Tracy and I parked.

  Damn, whoever thinks killing isn’t the greatest sport in the world has never taken another human’s life.

  Probably never tried. Maybe never thought of it.

  Take AnnaSophia, for example. I doubt it has ever occurred to her to kill me. Yes, she hates me, but not enough to ensure I’ll never bother her again.

  By never, I mean make it permanently impossible for me to bother her again.

  Tonight, in bed, perhaps I can push her to at least contemplate the possibility of becoming my executioner.

  Chapter 64

  SHE

  Headlights dimmed, motor idling, Jed waits at the turnoff to the private road. He sticks his hand out the driver’s window, motioning us to stop. My aching stomach clenches.

  “Keep going,” I say to Patrick.

  “Another day.” He stops, cracks his window. “There a problem, Jed?”

  “No problem.” Jed pokes his head out the car window and blinks against the fog’s drizzle. “Glad to see you turned around. Guess the fog’s even heavier past Gilroy.”

  “So you’re just sitting here waiting for us to come home?”

  “Mornin’, Mrs. Romanov.” Jed ducks his head then throws me a two-fingered salute. “Bet you had some hair-raising moments out there.”

  His leering grin makes the skin on my arms crawl. “Patrick is an excellent driver.”

  “Patrick’s a man of many talents.” He withdraws his head. “I’m on duty till noon if you need me.”

  Patrick shifts into drive and proceeds up the hill, glancing in his rearview every other second. I turn and peer out the back window—a useless activity. Despite the defroster and wipers, a thin layer of condensation clings to the glass.

  “What was that all abo
ut?”

  “Your husband’s attempt to remind you who’s in control.”

  “What if we hadn’t turned around?”

  “I suspect ole Jed would’ve given us another twenty minutes then gone buzzing down Eighty-Five—a one-man posse. Ex-cops drive like maniacs. He’d catch up with us. Hang back far enough I might not spot him. Waiting to see which hotel we pulled into.”

  The taste of vomit refluxes in my throat. I roll down my window, stick my head out, and breathe in clean, fresh, cold air. “Is paranoia contagious?”

  He chuckles. “Only if you live with or work for Michael Romanov.”

  I swipe the wet hair off my cheeks, pull my head inside, and scrub my mouth. “I’ve got to get my kids away from him. Before they’re ruined.”

  “You know this better than me, but psychopaths come into the world wired wrong, don’t they? Your kids—from the little I see of them—act normal. Whatever normal means.”

  “They don’t have to be psychopaths to lead messed-up lives. Or to mess up someone else’s life. When Alexandra was born, I still had vestiges of a backbone. By the time Magnus came along, I was MIA. I’m not sure he and I have ever bonded.”

  The security system recognizes the SUV, and the iron gates swing open. Fog, shrouding everything behind the gate, swirls out to engulf us.

  “Jesus, straight out of a Dracula movie.” Patrick snorts. “Loses some impact, though, without the creepy music.”

  I lay my hand on his elbow. “Exactly why you should take off.”

  He frowns. “Because there’s no creepy music?”

  “Stop playing the fool.” Irritation overrides my concern. “Get out of here. Before our resident Dracula destroys you.”

  “Done. As long as you let me follow you to Stanford, then back here afterward.”

  “But that defeats—”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “What? One more ultimatum from another chest-thumping male?” My voice vibrates with all my pent-up frustration.

  We crest the top of the driveway, and he slides into a lower gear, giving me an arched eyebrow. “Chest-thumping? My knuckles drag the ground. Makes chest-thumping difficult.”

  Involuntarily, my mouth twitches. “You’re not funny.”

  “No, I’m worried. If I suddenly disappear—the day after you and I went off together, then came back, then you left, came back, but I’d vanished . . .” He stops. “Any chance you can follow my mind’s twists and turns?”

  “He won’t even notice. Stefan Lefebvre? Here day before yesterday, gone the day after. Michael gives no indication the guy worked here for almost two years.”

  “Uh-huh. But did your loving husband harbor suspicions you were having a fling with the chef?”

  A memory of Tracy flashes. Michael meets her one day, twelve hours later, she’s dead. Distracted, I say in a tinny, mechanical voice, “I think you’re reading too much into . . .”

  “No you don’t. You know I’m right. Don’t ask me what wheel fell off in his brain, but he thinks you’re cheating on him.”

  “But not with you. He suspects . . . I have a friend . . . from yoga.” I shut up. Spilling my insides to Patrick is a very bad idea. “Listen to Michael, and you’ll conclude I’m screwing every guy who walks. On the other hand, consider me and Bradley Chan, me and Andrew. Who’s to say I’m not a whore?”

  “I hope you’d say you’re not a whore.” His eyebrows knit together, then he runs his tongue across his front teeth and under his top lip. When he speaks again, slower, softer, it’s as if he’s talking to himself. “If you don’t deny that kind of character assassination, who will—except me, now that Andrew’s dead?”

  My throat tightens, and I feel like crying. Andrew had driven home the same message but hadn’t lived to see me take the first baby steps toward taking on Michael. I sense Patrick’s eyes on me, but I say nothing. He, like Andrew, has no idea what will happen behind closed doors if I ever assert my rights as a human being.

  Trees dripping fog and leaves, interspersed with towering yard lights, line the staff’s service area. An apartment for the fleet manager, a bunkhouse for the five mechanics-chauffeurs, and a kitchen with dining room surround the fifteen-car garage. Behind these outbuildings, a fenced-in incinerator occupies half an acre. I rarely come here because a mechanic always brings the SUV to the main house.

  Patrick kills the engine, cracks the door, remains behind the steering wheel. “I’m going to leave the keys in the ignition. I should drive out in my red pickup in less than five minutes.”

  “That’s naïve.”

  “Okay.” His steady gaze says he expects me to stay put.

  He slips out of his seat, jogs around the main garage and waves as he turns the corner.

  Chapter 65

  HE

  By the time I slip back into my office ninety minutes before lunch with the board, my black mood dissolves along with the first break in the fog. Anticipating my evening with AnnaSophia, I am ready, in the meantime, for anything.

  Lunch with the board’s a minor pain, but I can handle the board.

  Moreau’s a pain in the ass, but I’m up for his mewling. Preferably in the morning.

  Patel . . . a different kind of pain in the ass, but I hope the good detective calls.

  About Tracy.

  About his discovery at Krebs’ Skole.

  About any damn topic he wants to bring up—including Andrew.

  Going toward my desk, I rub my hands together. I lay the cell phone dedicated to Dimitri in front of the children’s silver-framed picture. In an ideal world, I’d wait for whatever he finds in Sweden. But I believe we create our own ideal world. As much as I hate the cliché, the best offense remains a good defense. That strategy has always worked in the past. Against my mother. Against my brother. Ultimately, even against my father—by far my most formidable opponent. AnnaSophia stands no chance once I undercut her pathetic offensive attempts.

  The Monet glows, drawing me into that pristine world of snow and quiet. My breathing slows. My mind calms, and I smile.

  What would Patel think—what would he do—if I took the pro-active role and called him? Why not put him on the spot for digging around in my life as a teenager? Why not hint that a word from me to the chief—

  The incoming text on the phone in front of me breaks my Sun Tzu meditation. Pissed at first, I refuse to glance at the phone. But the thread of my previous thought eludes me. I grit my teeth and focus on the message.

  KGB

  The hair on my nape stands up. I stare, pick up the phone, slam it on my glass desk.

  Goddammit. I pick up the phone again. On the LED, the three letters blur.

  Tasting bile, I whirl around, then stumble on elephant feet to the closet. I rip open the door, move a fake shutter, and input the password for my safe deposit box. I pull out another phone—used once but untraceable and disposable. I shove it into a trash bag. Fodder for my Belle Haven incinerator. Until then, the bag with my muddy shoes will remain where only I know the location.

  Closing and locking the safe, I take the phone to my desk. Less than an hour until I play brilliant CEO with the board. I could initiate the call to Dimitri’s backup, but I’d violate my own carved-in-stone rules. I’d also send an unspoken message that I’m worried.

  Which I am not. Curious, yes. Dimitri would never trigger the second phase of my strategy without a good reason. If I could have only one guess, I’d go with Patel.

  Illogical. I work my fingers. KGB is code between me, Dimitri, and his chief lieutenant. Its roots lie buried in our Russian days when KGB struck terror in the souls of ordinary citizens. Dimitri’s father was ordinary. My father swam with the oligarchs.

  The need to get out of the office—no more than a glass cage—squeezes my guts. I force myself to sit at my desk and check my email. Nothing worth my time. On auto-pilot, I open the rejection letter to Tracy and read it aloud.

  Tracy,

  After reviewing your work history, we do
not see a match for your skills at Biologics Unleashed.

  Best of luck with your job search.

  Sincerely,

  Michael A. Romanov

  CEO, Biologics Unleashed

  When I finish, I re-read the text and feel the muscles in my neck relax. I exhale. Dimitri can take care of himself. He’s proven that again and again. He won’t panic and neither will I.

  I close the file, go to my washroom, splash cold water on my face, straighten my tie, pull back my shoulders. The board is waiting, and I am ready.

  Chapter 66

  SHE

  When Patrick returns in his pickup and finds me in the SUV, he breaks into a huge grin, leans out his window, and gives me two thumbs up.

  “See, trusting me hardly hurt.” His eyes twinkle.

  His teasing brings an image of Andrew, and I manage to smile. “If anything happens to you, I—”

  “Won’t be responsible. So don’t go there. Think about this instead.”

  In less than five minutes, he convinces me Jed will follow us to Stanford. Ideally, Patrick and I would exchange vehicles. Since Jed isn’t blind, he’d recognize the ploy as soon as we passed him at the private road. Stopping along the way won’t work either.

  “If he rear-ends me, he’ll have to stop,” Patrick says as casually as if he’s talking about the weather.

  Snapping my fingers under his nose, I shake my head. “No way. That jerk doesn’t know the meaning of compassion. He’ll rear-end you and take off.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “Not off the top of my head.”

  “We’ll wait till we turn onto the Stanford campus.”

  I shake my head. “Won’t work. Michael will connect the dots. Why would I go to Stanford except to see Ari?”

  “On Junípero Serra then. My bumper’s extra heavy. Even if he’s traveling thirty-five, I’ll be crawling.”