The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  “We’re smart. We can come up with another plan. A better plan.” He doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree but rushes on. “What if you called Professor Hoffman? He must check his voicemail—”

  “I don’t have his number.” If my tone carried a little life, he might think I was being sullen—like a teenager.

  He throws his hands over his head. “We can get his number. Bradley Chan—”

  “Will help us if I go to bed with—”

  “Forget that bullshit.” He grabs the flashlight, then my elbow. “Let’s go. Thanks to Andrew, I know how to get to Bradley.”

  “How?” I drag my feet—again the sullen teenager.

  “I’ll tell you in the car. Question is, yours or mine? Where’d you park?”

  “In the garage across from the Medical Center.”

  “C’mon. I know exactly where it is.” He drops my elbow and starts off at a sprint.

  For a second, I stare after him. His gentleness surprised me, but he’s young and cocky and macho. Does he imagine himself a medieval knight to the rescue? He stops, turns the flashlight on me.

  “Whatcha got to lose?”

  The question is so ridiculous, I laugh, then jog toward the light. “Not a damn thing.”

  Chapter 71

  HE

  Hot-headed hot-rodder Jed Wilson peals out of the parking garage. How the guy managed to work as long as he did without getting fired borders on unbelievable. I don’t intend to waste another minute thinking about the idiot.

  Not when I have to ensure AnnaSophia does nothing that derails the acquisition.

  “Where are you, bitch?” I want to roar off in the Veneno to track her down, but I drive the Benz. With drivers like Wilson on the street, I opt for common sense. Speed for another time.

  Fog or no fog, I suspect I’ll spot half a dozen Googlers tooling along on their multi-colored bikes. Damn fools act as if they own this part of the universe.

  Bradley Chan lets his phone ring four times before he answers in a loud, exaggerated tone of affability. “Heeeey, Mr. Romanov. What’s up?”

  “The sun somewhere,” I say without raising my voice. I switch my wipers on HIGH. “The moon somewhere else. What an ignorant greeting for an entrepreneur with ambition.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” His voice is soft, but his tone clangs with hostility.

  Feeling a little hostile myself, I flash my badge to exit the garage. “Have you sent me the new data?”

  “Still haven’t found the worm.”

  “What kind of lame excuse is that?” I whip onto Shoreline Boulevard with the intention of passing by Le Boulanger. Where else does AnnaSophia go after yoga class?

  “The truth. Are you in your office? I’m thinking the problem’s on your end.”

  “Think again. I’ve got the best IT department in the Valley.”

  “Better than Google?” His laugh is mocking.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Chan?”

  “What’s wrong with me, Mister Romanov? You don’t want to know. I’m working your problem. I don’t have an answer. Yet. I’ll get back to you in an hour.”

  CLICK. The little bastard hangs up. Has the damn fog rotted everyone’s brain? Has the whole damn world tipped on its axis? AnnaSophia going off on Jed Wilson . . . what next?

  An attack on me?

  Between Unleashed and Google, I see only three bikers. Nevertheless, I drive slower than a hearse in a cemetery. It’s nearly impossible to imagine AnnaSophia navigating the streets in this kind of weather. Surely she didn’t go to her father’s, but another phone call to Serenity-by-the-Sea disturbs me. No one at the facility has heard from the bitch since early morning.

  I flip to an all-news radio station. It exists to deliver murder, mayhem and car accidents via the airwaves. Major crashes up and down the Peninsula as well as inland and on the south coast headline the hourly “breaking news” stories.

  Hope throbs in my veins, but I take a deep breath. Logically, AnnaSophia would have driven Highway 85 South to 101. Is there a chance my biggest worry belongs in the past?

  The “horrific five-car pileup south of Monterey Dunes” leads. Two dead. Seven injured. No identities released until notification of next of kin.

  My breathing slows. No notification from the CHP must mean—

  “Mean zip.” My call to the dispatcher rings busy. People clogging the damn lines trying to find out about survivors. Or reporting more accidents. Or asking about road conditions.

  Or recounting sightings of aliens.

  Since the California Commissioner of the Highway Patrol has attended several of my events for police and peace officers, I have his number on speed dial.

  Of course, calling doesn’t mean getting through. An automated voice informs me “the commissioner is unavailable at this time due to emergency road conditions.” The non-human advises calling a Public Safety Dispatcher.

  “Shiiit.” Stopped at a red light on Shoreline and Villa, I make a quick left onto Villa. What better excuse to see Chief Tobin than anxiety about my darling wife? Once he confirms she’s not one of those injured in the accident, I’ll admit she’s a poor driver.

  Add—with just the right amount of embarrassment—that she’s in a highly emotional state because of her father.

  Hint she stopped taking her meds.

  Ask if cops in the area can be on watch for her license plate? Stopping her might prevent an accident that would hurt her and other unsuspecting drivers.

  Laughing at my ingenuity, I pull into the MVPD public parking lot. Quiet day in town. The lot stands deserted. How serendipitous. I take a second to compose my face. Shoulders back, I stride through the front door and miss getting knocked off my feet by a hair.

  “Mr. Romanov. I didn’t see you,” Satish Patel says, his Indian face blank, his eyes moving up, down, and across my face. “Have you come to give us more information about Tracy Jones?”

  Chapter 72

  SHE

  Patrick refuses to divulge what he will say to Bradley Chan, but he reassures me the guy I’ve been fucking for over a year will send a car for us at the Cantor Museum garage. I agree because he’s right Michael will give our license plates to his police buddies. But I resist Chan’s help, privately admitting most of my resistance stems from embarrassment.

  How will Bradley and I ever face each other after our fuck fests in that cheap hotel room?

  Will he recognize me fully clothed?

  Heat stings my cheeks, and self-loathing uncoils in my stomach. I stop and stand under one of the eucalyptus trees towering over the wide, well-lit walkway.

  “What’s wrong?” Patrick speaks with that gentleness I find debilitating.

  “I’m going to throw up.” Out of the corner of my eye, I focus on the amber light on top of the emergency phones. I gag, swallow, gag—bringing up anything from my empty stomach.

  “Take your time.” He walks toward another dripping tree where he starts texting.

  The shadows and fog creep around my bent body. For a second, I feel safe. Michael can’t find me here. No matter how many police friends he has. He can’t find me, but he knows exactly where he can find Alexandra, Anastaysa, Magnus, and my poor father.

  Lifting my head, I call to Patrick, “Okay. I’m ready.”

  *****

  Five minutes after we reach my SUV, a black, stretch Mercedes pulls up next to us. Bradley Chan’s driver is a young Chinese woman dressed in black—tight jeans, figure-hugging sweater, and boots with five-inch stiletto heels. She gives us a firm handshake and a toothy smile, introducing herself as Liu.

  “I’ll take you to Bradley’s workplace, but he would like AnnaSophia to remain in the car.”

  “Not alone,” Patrick says.

  “I’ll wait also.” A slight hint that Patrick should know procedures.

  “Fine.” As long as I can use a restroom—a subject I’ll bring up after Patrick gets out of the car. I prefer staying in the car.

  Did Patri
ck make that arrangement or did Bradley make the stipulation?

  No one speaks on the ten-minute drive south on Foothill Expressway. We turn right on a street with an obscured street sign. Fog has swallowed all landmarks, but I’m certain I’ve never been in this area. We climb a hill so high my ears pop. Another right turn takes us up higher. At the summit, we stop at a small guardhouse. A uniformed man examines the card Liu shows him, aims a camera at her, returns the card, and waves us on. We then enter a large underground garage filled with twenty or thirty late-model cars. No signs indicate the name of the facility.

  Is it my imagination or do we have bit parts in a spy movie?

  Inside, Liu stops the car under an EXIT sign.

  Patrick opens the door but keeps talking. “I’m sure Liu can provide refreshments and a place for a bio break.”

  “Bradley has covered all contingencies,” Liu says.

  The door into the building opens. A baby-faced Japanese man, dressed as Liu’s clone—minus the five-inch heels—greets Patrick with an extended hand.

  “Do you know Patrick?” I ask Liu.

  “We’ve met.” She turns off the car’s engine.

  Not the answer to my question, but before I can point this out, Liu asks if I’d like to use the restroom. I nod. She opens my door, staying closer than plastic wrap on Jell-O. The need for such secrecy eludes me. We step through the door Patrick used. The non-descript white walls and standard elevators give no clues to our location. The fluorescent-lit restroom reminds me of those in airports. Liu surprises me by waiting in the anteroom.

  When I emerge, she immediately takes us back to the limo and offers water, soft drinks, coffee or tea in the low-key tone of a bored airline attendant. I accept water and a couple of the ham and cheese sandwiches she removes from a mini-fridge under the front seat.

  Between bites, I attempt small talk to distract my imagination. Liu responds in monosyllables. They become challenges to get more than a one-word reply.

  “Did you ever meet Andrew Miller?” According to Patrick, Andrew and Bradley had a long history.

  A curtain slams down over Liu’s eyes, and she turns to stare out the windshield.

  “What’s wrong with admitting you knew him?” I lean over the front seat. “He was a very nice man.”

  “What kind of music do you like?” She reaches for the radio dial.

  “Rap. Heavy metal. Andrew loved them both.”

  Her head whips around like an angry snake. “That’s a lie. Andrew—”

  Her lips snap together.

  “Did Bradley know Andrew?”

  Silence, but since I already know the answer, I don’t care.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  More silence, punctuated by the window between us sliding up.

  “Not nice,” I say, feeling silly and adolescent and confused. What was keeping Patrick so long? I press the intercom. “If Patrick isn’t here in five minutes, I’m getting out of this car.”

  “Shall I give him that message?” The intercom magnifies her voice, intensifying her sarcasm.

  I push on the door handle—already locked. Banging the window, I yell into the intercom, “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Patience. Patrick’s on his way.”

  “I don’t give a damn. Unlock the door.” My skin is clammy, and I fight for breath. I hate being locked in the backseat of a car. It’s one of Michael’s favorite power ploys.

  Click. Patrick opens the back door and slides in beside me oozing testosterone. His eyes flash, and he smashes a fist into his palm.

  “We’ve nailed the bastard. You won’t believe what I found out. That psycho will give you anything you want before this is all over.”

  Chapter 73

  HE

  “I’ve given you all the information about Miz Jones I intend to impart.” I return Patel’s asinine smile with even more teeth. Christ what I’d give to knock out a few of his pretty white chompers. “I’m here to see Chief Tobin.”

  “I hope it’s not urgent business.” His tone rings as sincere as his faux smile.

  “It is rather. I’m hoping for news about my wife.”

  “Your wife? Has something happened to her?” If the man had met AnnaSophia more than twice, I’d say he’d joined her Legion of the Besotted.

  “That’s what I hope Chief Tobin can tell me. She left early this morning for Carmel, but I’ve had no communication with her since she drove away. Her father’s health depresses her, but it’s not like her to forget calling. She knows how I worry—especially when she’s so upset.”

  He frowns. “Chief Tobin isn’t here. He and the brass went to Marin—“

  “Is there anyone on duty who can help me?”

  My irritation fails to penetrate his thick skull. He opens his hands, palms up. “Come back to my office. I’ll make a few calls.”

  “I don’t want to detain you, Detective.” I do not want to sit in his office. The more distance between us, the better right now. “Weren’t you leaving?”

  “I was returning to the site of Miz Jones’s murder, but I can make a couple of calls first.”

  Sooo accommodating. The hair on my scalp prickles. “What can you find at the site in this fog?”

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Isn’t that a waste of taxpayers’ money?” Surely he recognizes he can’t count me as his fan—that I’m impatient, a Veneno capable of sprinting to a 120 MPH in four seconds flat. Standing here, motor idling like a clunky Focus, I tap my foot to keep from blowing a gasket.

  “Today is, technically, my day off. Perhaps the taxpayers will excuse my obsessive-compulsive behavior.” The idiot smiles as if he’s the only person whose mouth muscles go up.

  “All right. I won’t feel guilty about asking you to check on AnnaSophia.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to feel guilty, Mr. Romanov.” No smile this time.

  The muscles in my neck bunch. “You’ll want her license plate number and her CDL.”

  “CDL . . . You surprise me, Mr. Romanov. I’ve met very few civilians who refer to a drivers’ license by that acronym.”

  A small sense of pride eases my tight muscles. I shrug. “I’m not your ordinary citizen.”

  His mouth twitches. God, I wish I could read his mind.

  “Shall we go into my office? He stands aside and points to a closed door. He waits for an affirmative nod, then inserts his badge into the reader.

  “Detective Patel?” A black-haired woman leans across the desk I barely noticed when I entered the lobby. “Remember to sign in your guest.”

  He stops, snaps his fingers, smiles. “You’ll have to show your CDL.”

  “Would you like my fingerprints?” I reach inside my suit pocket for my wallet, and my fingers graze the .357. Shiiiit.

  “You’ll also have to leave your weapon at the desk.”

  Our eyes lock. “That won’t happen.”

  “Department rules. One I’m sure Chief Tobin would uphold.”

  “I don’t agree. I’ll wait out here while you check on the accident victims.”

  “Sorry. You can’t wait in the lobby unless you surrender your firearm.” He sounds non-committal, but I’m certain I detect a gotcha.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You’re an intelligent man.”

  “Exactly why I refuse to let my weapon out of my possession.”

  “You leave me no choice but to escort you off the premises.”

  “Are you stu—” Stupid? Staring into his dark eyes for a hint that he’s pushing me, I see open dislike and contempt. Why?

  Because of Tracy? Krebs’ Skole? AnnaSophia?

  My antennae quiver with building fury. Not the time to lose control. In this kind of situation, silence is golden. Conscious he’s studying me, I twist my mouth. Fuck your opinion.

  Our face-off ends when he goes to the front door, opens it, and waits for me to step outside. As the door closes behind us, he calls to the woman at the desk, “I’ll be
back in a minute or two, Tanya.”

  A laugh bubbles in my throat. The fool’s afraid of me. He wants the desk jockey to watch the clock. If he doesn’t return shortly, she should send out his confreres.

  The fog settles over us and muffles our footsteps. Still, I remain hyper-aware of him at my side. I smell his barely controlled tension. He’s like a cat, down on all fours, muscles tensed, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

  Typical cop misjudgment. I am far from unsuspecting. And farther still from a mouse.

  My own muscles tighten. My brain sorts and resorts my options. Take him by surprise? Show him he’s the mouse, I’m the cat? Instill in him the fear of death if he doesn’t back off from his harassment?

  “I understand you’ve been digging into my time at Krebs’ Skole.”

  “I speak regularly with Herr Larsen. Your name came up.”

  “Spontaneously—like a brush fire that begins without a match.”

  “No, I provided a match. I mentioned I’d met you through a case. He said he remembered you as a brilliant math student. Apparently, you gave him a great deal of competition for math prizes.”

  “Competition?” I laugh because I always believed Erick Larsen cheated on tests. He definitely knew how to flatter our Danish teachers. In any close cases or ties, they always rewarded their Danish pupil over a Russian immigrant. “We both enjoyed winning. I still enjoy winning.”

  “But you haven’t always won, have you?”

  Even though I know he knows about Anika, I am tempted to say, Always. I lock my jaw for a few steps, then say, “Always is a loaded subject in my opinion.”

  “Is Anika Pedersen a loaded subject?”

  “You seem to think so.”

  “Why do you say that? I asked you a simple question.”

  “Far from simple, Detective. As we both know.” Remote in my hand, I stop at the Benz. Common sense dictates waiting until he plays out his bluff.

  “What makes the question complicated, Mr. Romanov? That she accused you of forcing her to have sex?” That you took pictures of her naked?” His voice drops to a raspy, sizzling whisper. “That she was vulnerable?”