The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  Because she’s a flame he can’t resist. He doesn’t care if he gets burned—or consumed by her fire. He’s a moth—drawn instinctively to the brightness. If he only knew . . .

  Pulling the door shut behind me, I step out into the cool night air and take control. “Jed’s body is in the guesthouse. To avoid contamination of potential forensic evidence, we should drive there. I assume you concluded he did not commit suicide.”

  “Scene contamination. Forensic evidence. Watch TV a lot, Mr. Romanov? ”

  “Hardly, Lieutenant Ward.” I focus on his Blood Hound eyes. “I’m a scientist. Contamination is a constant concern at my company, Biologics Unleashed.”

  “I’ve read about Biologics Unleashed,” Detective Luci Camacho says in the eager voice of a student with the correct answer. “You’re over by Google—sort of in their shadow, right?”

  “We’re several blocks from Google’s shadow.” I edge them toward the steps. “Coming Detective Patel?”

  “I have a few questions for your wife . . . about Tracy Jones.”

  A tiny flutter quivers in the pit of my stomach. Still, I fight down a laugh. Christ, he’s easier to read than a child’s primer. “Detectives, go ahead with my driver. I’ll get my wife.”

  “We’ll wait.” Luci takes in the plants and the outdoor brass chandelier.

  Without inviting them inside, I retrace my steps to the kitchen. AnnaSophia stands exactly where I left her behind the sprawling island. Her fox face is suspiciously pink.

  “Eavesdropping?” The longing to shake her opens and closes my fists. “Patel wants you.”

  “All right.” She remains behind the black, granite island—too far away for me to shove her against the rounded edge.

  “Aren’t you curious about the topic?”

  “I’m sure he’ll tell me.”

  “He wants to talk to you about Andrew.” A shot in the dark.

  She gives herself away when the tip of her tongue shoots out. She catches herself and presses her lips together.

  “You can tell him a great deal about Andrew.” My voice drips acid.

  “I’ll answer his questions as truthfully as I can.”

  I laugh, but her attitude of contempt deepens as if I’m worse than something under a rock. As if I am so low, I am beneath her contempt. “Did you call Patrick?”

  Her eyebrows go up as gracefully as twin butterflies. My abrupt change of topic evokes only silence. As if her reserve will intrigue me. Worry me. Push me to lose control.

  The tension in my jaw ratchets into a headache. Remembering she was too busy eavesdropping to call Patrick, I smile more broadly and relax. “The kitchen is not an appropriate place to chat with Patel. Unless you need to comb your hair or fix your makeup or take a soothing bath first, he’s waiting on the veranda.”

  “Is it all right if I ask him to come inside? Sit down? Offer him a cup of coffee?”

  “Sarcasm, Darling?”

  “Sweeter than honey.”

  Beads of sweat dot her upper lip, revealing the truth. Let her posture. She’s worried about the number of nails she has pounded into her coffin. I rein in my smile. Let her see she definitely has reason to worry.

  *****

  Seth stays in the car, so I open the passenger door. Some kind of private signal passes between The Arnez Twins, and Luci climbs in the front seat. Ward goes to the other side and gets in. Rather than create a problem, I slide into the seat behind Luci. She begins right away interrogating Seth.

  Did anyone come or leave the estate after 4:00? What time did I arrive? What about Mrs. Romanov? Did she stay at home the entire day? Did Seth see Jed during the day?

  The pressure to answer one question after another gets to my dumb, second-in-command security guard. He turns the wipers on high, then low, then high with no effect on the fog. Every time he reaches for the ON-OFF switch, I want to reach over Luci’s shoulder and crush his wrist.

  Too bad I couldn’t have crushed AnnaSophia’s head before I got in the car.

  “Are those floodlights always on?” Luci asks me without turning around.

  “No, I turned them on. When I knocked on the door, I saw something in the bushes. I thought it was a wild animal, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “I hate fog, but we should find tracks.” Luci faces Ward. “Just need one good one.”

  “Are you assuming his death wasn’t suicide?” With a bullet hole in the wall behind the TV, I’ve deduced murder, but why share my conclusions?

  “We try to rely on the CSI team and the ME to make that call.”

  A rebuff, but not too unexpected. “Do you want me to come inside with you?”

  “Depends on your squeamish level.”

  Luci’s condescension rankles because she says squeamish level as if she’s speaking to a three-year-old who just witnessed his puppy squashed by a semi-trailer.

  “I don’t practice medicine, but I earned a medical degree and a Ph.D. in human biology. Colleagues and others in the medical profession would rank my squeamish level as high.” My hyper-enunciation of squeamish level carries a glib, patronizing smack. “I also know how to avoid contaminating a crime scene.”

  “Didn’t know they taught that in med school.”

  Seth pulls to a stop about five feet from the cottage. The three of us step onto the brick pathway leading to the front door.

  “Over there is where I saw movement.” I point to the bushes to the left of the house.

  As if on cue, Patrick steps into the clearing, spots the Arnez Twins, and freezes.

  Faster than the human eye can see, the twins pull their service revolvers. Patrick raises his skillet-hands over his head.

  “Do you know this man?” Luci asks, her weapon steady.

  “Patrick Reid. He works for me.”

  “What’re you doing here?” Ward asks.

  “Came to find Mr. Romanov. He left his briefcase in the guesthouse.”

  Chapter 84

  SHE

  The puce-colored skin under Detective Patel’s sad, blue eyes testifies to his need for a caffeine jolt. He refuses my offer of coffee or anything to drink but thanks me in his lilting, refined accent. When I lead him to the front den, I feel his eyes piercing through hair, skin, muscles, and cells. I push all the fragments and remnants of thought into the Do Not Open compartment.

  He begins without preamble. “I’m here about Andrew Miller and Tracy Jones.”

  Andrew’s name confirms Michael’s taunt. I wobble to the armchair and edge into the plushness. “I’ve told you everything I know about Tracy Jones.”

  “Was she Andrew Miller’s girlfriend?”

  “Whaaat?” My voice goes up. His pupils widen, and I hurry to modify my explosive reaction. “As far as I know she was not his girlfriend.”

  “Would he have recommended her for a job at your husband’s company?”

  “He never told me if he did.” He didn’t tell me about recommending Patrick, either.

  “How well did you know him, Mrs. Romanov?”

  Sweat, pooled at the top of my skull, leaks down through my hair. My fingers tingle with the urge to scratch. “I knew him better than I knew anyone else at the company.”

  “Did you have a boss’s-wife-boss’s-trusted-employee kind of relationship?” he lobs back, staring into my eyes.

  “In the beginning.” Is he fishing? How much does he know?

  “A few people have mentioned your . . . emotional difficulty at his memorial service.”

  Who? Not Michael. Never Michael. The effort I make to laugh comes out a cross between a snort and a sob. “Am I allowed to know who my accuser is?”

  “Would a name matter?” He sits across from me, urbane and young, hands over the knee of his crossed legs, his face gentle and kind, empty of judgment but animated by knowledge.

  “No,” I whisper and work the cuticle on my left thumb. Should I risk telling him and lose his respect? Why should he respect me?. “No. A name wouldn’t matter.”

&nbs
p; “I’m taking no notes, Mrs. Romanov. Unless this room is bugged—”

  I nod so hard my neck pops. I point to the desk lamp and to a spot in the drapes. In the brightest voice I can summon, I ask, “Why would this room be bugged, Detective?”

  “Just kidding, Mrs. Romanov. Just kidding.” He taps his fingernails on the chair’s padded arm.

  In that moment, his ad lib changes my mind. I want to tell him everything about Andrew. I stand. “I’ll walk you to your car, Detective.”

  “If you remember anything about Tracy Jones or Andrew Miller, you will contact me?”

  “Of course.” I lead the way back to the foyer, open the closet door and remove a coat.

  We step into the fog, and I inhale the crisp air. Regret and guilt and fear whoosh out of my lungs. I take his arm and charge down the steps without worrying about falling.

  At the bottom, he asks, “What do you really know about your husband’s past?”

  “Very little. He was born and lived in Russia till he was ten—”

  “Not true. He was born in Copenhagen. For some reason, he was sent to Finland while his parents and older brother stayed in Copenhagen.”

  “Are you sure?” My head spun. “That doesn’t fit—I-I’m sure he attended Oxford. Earned a Ph.D in biology. Received his first M.D. from Edinburgh and a second one from Harvard. His parents and older brother are dead—I have no idea when they died.”

  “His mother died while they lived in Copenhagen—shortly after her older son. Her death was declared suicide, but the policeman in charge of the case thinks she was murdered.”

  “Oh, my God. Maybe . . . that’s . . . Michael never, never talks about her.”

  “Or maybe he never talks about her because he killed her.”

  His last words—in that cultured British-Hindi accent, stated so flatly and quietly—clang in my ears. The skin on my arms jumps with goosebumps jockeying for space.

  “Is there evidence pointing to him?” My voice is surprisingly steady.

  “Not enough. In fact, her suicide might seem highly plausible under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” As soon as the words fall out of my mouth, I regret asking. Do I really want to know?

  He studies his mud-splattered shoes, then raises his eyes to meet mine. “The ex-pat community in Copenhagen gossiped openly about an affair. Michael’s father discovered his wife and her lover. He humiliated her and the man in public. She forced him and Michael out of her house—two weeks after the older one fell in front of a bus.”

  “My God—this sounds like … a variation of Anna Karenina.”

  “The day after his brother’s death, your husband visited his mother. He accused her. Taunted her. Ordered her to stay away from the funeral. Told her he wished she was dead.”

  Pinching my lips together, I swallow the sadness and hopelessness as frame after frame after frame rolls out of the scene. Michael lashing out. Face purple. Eyes wild. Standing over his mother, his chest heaving, his muscles jumpy, and his hands fisted—big and lethal as a pugilist’s deadly weapons.

  “Are you curious how I know these details?” Patel locks his jaw.

  A muscle ticks under my left eye, but I nod and hold my breath. For the sake of my children, I want the truth.

  “Her lover fed the story to the local papers and media after her death. There was even talk of a book and movie, but neither happened. Four decades later, the lover still swore she was murdered—right up until he died.”

  “Was he . . . reliable?”

  He shrugs. “He was a Finnish diplomat. Well known, well respected, well liked. The death, by all accounts, left him devastated. Accusations against your husband as a murderer cost the man his career.”

  “Is that why Michael and his father left Denmark? Too much public speculation?”

  “Mrs. Romanov?” His voice becomes so gentle I feel tears filling my eyes. “How long have you known your husband is a psychopath?”

  “Since the first time he raped me.” The answer spills out of me before I can lie or stall by asking what he means.

  “How long ago was that?” His tenderness brings memories of my father comforting me after one of my many childhood accidents biking or jogging or ice skating or rock climbing.

  “The first month after we got married. He swore I still loved my former fiancé. I admitted he was right. Wrong answer. He became enraged.” My voice thickens—as if forced through a damaged larynx.

  “Slow down.” Detective Patel takes a step backward, giving me some space. “Take your time.” His easy, rhythmic cadence envelopes me in quiet and calmness. “Do you want to sit in the car?”

  “No.” My mouth goes dry, and heat flashes through my whole body. “No.” Dizzy, I shake my head. The fog encroaching on the car and misting the windows would stifle me.

  “Then let’s stand here while you tell me what you can.”

  What a clever man not to mention rape. I stand straighter and speak in a hollow tone I don’t recognize. “He called me a whore. For taking the jewelry, the designer clothes, the cars, the allowance to my parents. He said since I was a whore, the least I could do was pretend I enjoyed his lovemaking.”

  “Predators do that, you know. They blame their pathologies on their targets.”

  “I’m sure I learned that in Biology 101. Probably learned it again in med school. For whatever reason—did you know residents sleep less than cops and firemen?—I disregarded my guts’ earliest warnings when we first met.”

  “Most of these guys throw off a lot of charisma.”

  “Michael Romanov was the czar of charisma, but his eyes were deader than old gym socks. My fiancé’s eyes were . . . He was there one day.” Tears welling, I snap my fingers. “Gone the next. No note. No phone call. No explanation. Nothing. I felt flattered Michael wanted me.”

  Wisely, Patel lets me retreat into a moment of silence. I pinch the inside of my elbow and speak in a strangled voice. “Rumors persisted that Edward suddenly disappeared from med school because he was caught cheating. Impossible. He was brilliant.”

  “What if he met someone else?”

  “Fifteen years later, I don’t believe he’d dump me without a face-to-face goodbye.” I hug my waist. When did I first suspect he was dead? “It was stupid to admit I still loved Edward. Chalk that up to guilt. Guilt for sucking up all the gifts and good times Michael’s money bought. My mother adored him. Thought I was Cinderella with Prince Charming.”

  “What’s the real reason you never told anyone about the rape?”

  “Who says I never told anyone?”

  “I don’t bet, but I’d bet my next promotion you didn’t.”

  “You’re right. Again, the reasons don’t matter.”

  “They matter if you’re going to leave him. Take your kids and tell a judge—”

  “What judge do you think will believe a forty-nine-year-old leech? His lawyers will tear me apart—especially once he tells them about Andrew.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re losing sight of your own power.”

  “Uh-huh.” I laugh, then continue talking as if he hadn’t given his opinion. “They—his lawyers—will find out about Bradley Chan—and don’t ask who he is—they’ll find out I’m a slut. He’ll win full custody of the kids. He’ll cut off payments for my father’s Alzheimer’s treatment. He’ll hunt me, he’ll hound me, he’ll harass me—till I accept the only escape is suicide.”

  “Then he wins. You let him win.”

  “He already has won. In case you haven’t figured out? I’m a wreck. I’m beginning to accept I’m also paranoid.”

  “You’re tired. Scared. Confused.” There’s not a trace of patronizing in his matter-of-fact voice. His straightforward gaze reinforces his certainty.

  What a waste of good thoughts. I exhale, then proceed to disillusion him. “Before you told me about his mother, I’d have sworn he killed Tracy Jones. Who needs evidence?”

  I flip my hand in front of my face and coc
k my shoulder, mimicking my image of someone sophisticated and urbane. “I hate him. Ergo, he killed Tracy. Then, today, I decided he killed—or had killed—Andrew Miller. Again, no evidence. How many people can one psychopath murder and never get arrested?”

  “In your husband’s case, more than three.”

  “You are scaring me to death, Detective.”

  “You don’t honestly think Jed Wilson’s death is suicide? Two suicides in your husband’s immediate circle of influence? That stretches the laws of probability.”

  “Only if you don’t know him. To know him is to hate him. To know him is to accept he calls all the shots.”

  “He was asked to leave Krebs’ Skole even though he thought he called all the shots.” The detective speaks hard and fast, as if the words are radioactive.

  Something hardwired in my amygdala throws up a red flag—red because it’s dripping blood. I blink away the image and stare at Detective Patel. His navy eyes soften, and I shiver.

  “Tell me.”

  “At fifteen, he repeatedly raped a young classmate the same age—though she said under oath, she consented. What she did not consent to was the pictures he took. In them, she’s naked, posing obscenely, having sex with another boy.”

  “What’d he do with the pictures? The Internet didn’t exist. Did he sell them to his classmates?”

  “To older men. Men who ran bordellos. Men who sold porn like candy.”

  “Why didn’t he go to prison?” I whisper.

  “Two reasons. The girl swore, under oath, the sex was consensual. They were of legal age in Denmark. That meant his selling the pictures wasn’t illegal.”

  My stomach drops. I put my hand over my mouth and swallow the taste of vomit.

  “Second, his father had money to deliver the best defense in Europe. After winning, Father and Son Romanov agreed to leave the country.”

  “Now, do you understand why I can’t accuse him of rape?”

  Chapter 85

  HE

  The Arnez Twins ask if I have a briefcase. My answer does little to change their attitude. They take their time lowering their weapons. Patrick’s unexpected appearance at the scene smacks too much of coincidence. His insistence he hadn’t entered the house because he thought he’d heard someone in the bushes rings hollow. Someone—not something.