The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  Sickened by my thoughts, I force myself to put food in my mouth, chew, and make small talk while the world I’ve known for fifteen years crumbles.

  Midway through dessert, Patrick calls.

  The wide eyes and open mouths of my three children reflect their disbelief. I have never, in their memory, received a phone call at the dinner table. When, with the phone pressed to my ear, I excuse myself from the table, they suck in a collective breath.

  “Good news about your father,” Patrick says without preamble. “They dogs have picked up his scent. We leave now, we should get down there about the time they bring him back. As I said this morning, I am an excellent driver.”

  “Give me ten minutes. Anything on Stef—”

  “Something’s hinky. We’ll talk in the car. I’m taking the Lexus SUV.”

  “So?” My tone is pissy, but so what? I’ve already started jogging back to the table.

  “Nothing about Monsieur Lefebvre,” I inform Alexandra, cutting off her questions with a hurried explanation. “I’m going to Carmel. The police think they have a good lead on Popi.”

  “I want to go,” Magnus says.

  “I do too.” Anastaysa pushes her chair away from the table.

  Alexandra’s chin quivers, but she says, “We have to stay here, don’t we?”

  Gratefully, I throw her a silent thank-you. “The fog makes driving treacherous. It’s too risky to have you in the car. I’ll call you every half hour with updates.”

  Without waiting for their buy-in, I go to the house phone and call Elise. Sleeping with Michael for the past two years, she is unaccustomed to taking orders from me. Her border-line rudeness hums just below outright rage at my interruption of her shower.

  “Postpone your plans for a while. Pack your bags and leave tomorrow.”

  “What?” Affronted—as if I’m not the boss of her.

  “In fact, pack your bags and leave now. We’ll send your severance pay to wherever—”

  “But Mr. Romanov hired me.”

  “Get dressed and packed in six minutes, or I’ll call the police.”

  Fingertips buzzing with adrenaline I hang up and call the mechanics’ bunkhouse. I speak with one of the men I’d never recognize. “I want someone to drive Elise into Mountain View—or wherever she wants to go—in the next five minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll come right up.”

  Next I speak into the intercom and ask Jennifer to return to the dining room. There, I explain the situation about my father, Elise, and the children.

  Jennifer surprises me and volunteers, “I’ll watch the children while you’re gone, Mrs. Romanov. Perhaps we’ll make popcorn and watch a movie.”

  Popcorn? I doubted such a non-food existed in Michael Andreai Romanov’s house. I thank her, then say to my three children, “Miz Conners is being kind enough to help me during an emergency. I know you three will treat her well.”

  “What about Elise?” Anastaysa asks.

  “Elise is leaving. When I get back, I’ll explain.” I don’t ask them if that’s okay. I hurry to the closet, grab my coat, return to the dining room, and pull them all into a group hug—something I’ve rarely done. “I’ll call every half hour—until nine o’clock. Go to bed as usual. I should be here for breakfast as usual.”

  Their confusion reflects anxiety and uncertainty and fear. Their ordered life has imploded. Asking them to survive, I have to pretend I can do the same.

  Face puffed out, eyes blazing, Elise came down the stairs with two small suitcases. “This is all I could pack on such short notice.”

  “Call tomorrow with a mailing address. I’ll forward your things and your severance package. Tonight, use the credit card my husband gave you for miscellaneous expenses for a hotel, dinner, and breakfast. After that, you’re on your own.”

  She drops her bags and slaps her hands on her hips. “Mr. Romanov won’t like this.”

  “We’ll see.” I point to her bags, escort her to the front door, open it, and wave toward the waiting car. “Your one-way ride into Mountain View, the airport, or to hell.”

  New headlights shine through the fog. Patrick. I shut the door and turn to my wide-eyed children. I hug them each individually, whispering I love them, then gather them for one more mutual hug fest. Tears are running down their cheeks, but I force the corners of my lips into what I hope passes for a smile and leave.

  Patrick opens the passenger door as I reach the bottom step. “I learned a long time ago about Santa, but I’m thinking we all may yet get our heart’s desire.”

  Sniffing, I climb into the front seat. “That’s the Wizard of Oz.”

  “Just testing to see how you’re tracking.” We pull away from the veranda, he adjusts the wipers, watching their back and forth motion. “I’m not like Andrew—full of good cheer and high hopes. For what it’s worth, I think we’ll find your father alive and in pretty good shape.”

  “Andrew’s pep talks motivated me to reconsider the Tooth Fairy.”

  He laughs and barely hits the brakes as we approach the main gate. “The antithesis of Michael Romanov. Which, I think, is why your husband hired Andrew. Enrique Torres has a similar personality. So do most of the mechanics. Jed was the exception. He was your husband’s twin—bottom feeders and vampires, both of them.”

  Mixed metaphor, Michael’s pedantic voice whispers in my brain. As if grammar makes the person—man, woman, or child. I gnaw my bottom lip and gaze out my window.

  The fog blurs the scenery, and my body tenses. We’re traveling too fast. I refuse to glance at the speedometer. “I suspect he hired Stefan for the same kind of optimistic worldview. Please tell me he has no knowledge of sex trafficking.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. In fact, I’m probably the only person who does know. Your husband is a very slippery man.”

  His phone rings. He adjusts his headset without slowing down. “You’re on speaker, Bradley. Mrs. Romanov and I are en route to Carmel. What’s the news about her husband?”

  Bradley Chan’s voice carries a smirk. “He called two other lawyers to help out his Top Hot Dog. According to my resources, the cops are letting him and his shysters cool their heels.”

  “Yessss.” I shoot a fist into the air.

  “Any idea how long?” Patrick asks. “Makes you almost believe in justice.”

  “With his money, not as long as he should. I’ll keep you posted. I called about the Lefebvre email.”

  “We’re listening.” Patrick picks up speed as if the wet pavement is dry and it’s broad daylight.

  “This may not be for Mrs. Romanov’s ears . . .”

  “What?” I try to imagine Bradley Chan blushing, can’t bring up the incongruous image, and throw my head back, cackling more than laughing. “I’m immune to embarrassment.”

  A blip of silence stretches out too long. Patrick shrugs then returns his gaze to the long, desolate stretch of highway parallel to the light rail in Southern San Jose.

  “Monsieur Lefebvre has dropped off the face of the earth,” Bradley states.

  Deep breath. I sit still as death. Hyperbole from the man I often suspect requires no oxygen comes as a surprise.

  As if Patrick or I have challenged his absurd statement, he says, without inflection or emotion, “I can hack any computer system, anywhere, any time. FYI, that includes airplane, train, ship, bus systems. Private jet databases are so easy I could teach a six-year-old. Stefan Lefebvre has not departed from the US or arrived in Abu Dhabi.”

  “What if he bought a car—from a private individual?” Patrick asks.

  “A little more difficult, but not impossible thanks to every state’s DMV.”

  “He still has to eat and sleep somewhere. How can a grown man disappear?”

  “Cash. Doesn’t take much to survive on the street.” Bradley dismisses my idea in a low, gentle voice I find more sympathetic than offensive.

  “Here’s the thing.” He inhales and exhales loudly. “His mother is out of her mind. Doesn�
�t understand why he hasn’t called. Seems he’s a good boy. Calls every night.”

  “Maybe there’s more to her good boy than she knows,” Patrick says. “If he’s emailing an underage girl . . .”

  “Here’s the deal,” he speaks as if Patrick and I have the imaginations of ants. “I hacked into your daughter’s email and double checked the wording.” Something close to an apology lingers in his words. “He claims he’s already in Abu Dhabi, but I will swear he hasn’t left the US or arrived in the Mideast. Not using his own passport, not using a forgery. Immigration data banks are notoriously hackable.”

  My head hurts from trying to follow his logic. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” he slows his speech to about one word per minute, “I think Stefan Lefebvre is dead. Your husband is dangerously unstable. I think he was setting your daughter up.”

  Patrick glances at me. I hold up one finger. The taste of mushroom bisque fills the back of my throat. After two swallows, I say, “He’s dangerously unstable, but is he totally depraved?”

  “You’re asking me—the guy he hired to monitor your GPS? The guy who wants to know your whereabouts 24/7?”

  “Don’t forget Andrew.” Patrick’s voice rises—hard-edged and dangerous.

  “Yeah, don’t forget Andrew.” Bradley Chan’s bitterness crackles.

  “Remember his favorite pastime at Jed’s cottage,” Patrick adds.

  “He’s been monitoring the girls’ emails since forever.” I speak more to myself than to them. “I never protested because I worried about online predators.”

  Bradley snorts as if I’ve made the most ridiculous statement ever. “And all the while, your very own predator ate and slept and showered in the same house as you and your kids.”

  Bull’s eye. Unwilling to let them hear me moan, I mash my thumb into my bottom lip.

  Patrick eyes me. “Enough for now, Brad. You’re on top of this, right?”

  “With pleasure. How far are you from Carmel?”

  “Less than half an hour. What’s up?”

  “The dogs have picked up the scent again. Cops’re asking for more volunteers at the Carmel entrance to Pebble Beach.”

  “Pebble Beach?” Terror bangs in my throat. “That’s three or four miles from Serenity-by-the-Sea.”

  “Hold on.” Patrick shakes his head. “Were they more specific, Bradley?”

  “The Carmel gate. That’s it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “On Lefebvre too.”

  “Understand.”

  Their back-and-forth dialogue fades into fuzz. I try to see Daddy, physically healthy at seventy-three, but so easily disoriented. The man who used to take me out at night into the Minnesota woods without a compass and never got lost is out there—close to the Pacific Ocean, in the cold with only one shoe and no idea where he belongs.

  “Drive faster. If a cop tries to stop us, keep going,” I shout.

  “Hold on.”

  He speeds up. Unlike Michael, he drives fast without taking risks. When his phone rings again, acid fills my throat. This time Patrick doesn’t put it on speaker. Despite my demands, he speaks louder, he gives nothing away in his monosyllables. When he hangs up, he remains silent—sending the message I’ve been dreading.

  “Tell me,” I whisper.

  “You already know.”

  Chapter 90

  SHE

  A fugue-state gets me through identifying Daddy’s body, but I remember not a single syllable the Carmel police and mortuary facility director utter. My hand shakes as I sign the required forms—the letters and numbers dancing and blurry. Afterwards, Patrick takes my arm, leading me to the SUV. He grabs my waist and lifts me into the passenger seat. Once we leave Carmel, his voice fades to a drone.

  Going past the road to Belle Haven, I plunge down a black hole. I can’t shake images of my poor dead father’s surprised, rictus face—superimposed by the smug, laughing façade of my malicious husband.

  The unrelenting fog swallows everything—except my mind. Clear and focused, my brain picks up pieces of the puzzle, lays down a border, fills in the pattern, and decides—like Jehovah—the big picture is good.

  By the time we reach Belle Haven, I know how to right Michael Romanov’s wrongs.

  As if picking up my decision telepathically, he calls as we pass through the main gate.

  “I’ve just learned about your father, Darling.”

  Ever the first to draw blood. Lips stiff, I ask, “Where are you?”

  “At my lawyers’ office. They’re hammering out an agreement with the DA. There’s no evidence I killed Jed. The cops keep harping about my Magnum as the murder weapon.”

  Damn those stupid, suspicious cops. “How much longer will you be there?”

  “Who knows? I feel as if I’m caught in reruns of a bad TV show.”

  My locked jaw cracks. Does he expect sympathy? “Call when they let you leave. I’ll pick you up.”

  A splinter of silence slinks down my spine. Shut up. Shut up. Stop raising his suspicions. Sweat stings my eyes. When he speaks, I have to mentally shake myself.

  “Why, Darling. How . . . thoughtful.” The honeyed words ripple with radioactivity.

  If you only knew. Careful not to say anything that smacks of a sudden longing for his presence, I repeat, “Call me.”

  Electricity jolts into my nerve-endings. I disconnect and force down the smile trying to claw its way across my face.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Patrick jerks to a stop behind Detective Satish Patel’s car, barely visible despite the lights from the veranda. He frowns as the detective’s door swings open. “Does he live here?”

  “He’s a nice man. I wish I’d met him under different circumstances.”

  “He’s a cop.” Patrick’s jaw knots as he pulls out the key. “De facto, he’s incompetent.”

  His antipathy raises the hairs on the back of my neck. Michael wears the same attitude of superiority. The door handle steadies my hand. “Who has Michael in custody right now? The FBI or the Palo Alto police?”

  “A super dumb-ass idea, by the way. Offering to pick him up. I’m betting the cops release him on his own recognizance.”

  Before I reply, Detective Patel opens my door and extends his hand. The SUV step is high, my legs wobbly, his eyes soft with sadness. I stumble, falling against his chest. Time stops—long enough for a small gasp and long enough for a delicate membrane to overlay the hole in my heart. Hyper-aware of Patrick’s glare, I sidestep him, Patel, and the open car door.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Detective Patel says.

  His sympathy punches through my veneer of cynicism. “Thank you. I’m glad I took your advice about driving alone. I’d never have made it without Patrick.”

  The hardness in Patrick’s face softens for a moment while Detective Patel’s softness hardens.

  “I thought you left before us,” Patrick says in that tough FBI-guy way—the tone demanding, What the hell are you doing here?

  “I came back. With some news about your husband, Mrs. Romanov. Can we speak in private?”

  Patrick squares his shoulders and stands straighter—looming over Patel by at least half a foot. “She already knows he’s waiting for his hired guns to cut a deal with the cops.”

  “We’ll see.” Patel ignores Patrick and speaks to me with his refined British-Hindi civility. “I’m going out on a limb with the information I’m about to divulge.”

  “Okay.” Patrick slices his hand through the air, turns, and strolls toward the front of the Lexus. “Here’s proof I have something between my ears besides wood.”

  He slams the door harder than necessary, but he pulls away from the veranda like a person of reason. Patel watches his taillights fade to tiny, red pinpoints in the fog, then waves toward his car. Too tired to argue with his precaution, I let him take my elbow as if I’m a ninety-year-old dowager.

  Behind the steering wheel, he shuns small talk but does flip on the dash light. “Withi
n two to three hours after the Palo Alto police release your husband, I plan to arrest him for the murder of Tracy Jones.”

  My reaction to his bombshell borders on the absurd. First, I shake my head—a hurt, angry child. When my ears start to ring, I lean back and stare at him, speechless.

  “Chief Tobin has reviewed the evidence. He gave the go-ahead. Reluctantly, but he’s on board. Even suggested a tough judge to issue the warrants.”

  Wariness floats through my brain like the fish floating in Ari’s aquarium. “Is it someone Michael knows?”

  “Probably. Doesn’t matter. I think the judge will make a good decision on a search warrant and one for his arrest.”

  “Why are you waiting two or three hours? Why not arrest him as soon as he leaves his lawyer’s office?”

  “He’s probably going to scream police harassment as it is, but the judge won’t grant any warrant without a proper review.” His patience takes on the quality of velvet.

  “What about posting bond?”

  “Not for murder—and in this case, capital murder.” A sharp note of excitement chisels away at the patience.

  The floor tilts. Numbness ambushes my toes and fingertips. Wetting my lips, I whisper, “Doesn’t capital murder carry the possibility of the death penalty?”

  “Yes, but realistically in California, he’ll likely spend the rest of his life in prison—without hope of parole.”

  “But he could appeal—he would appeal—his conviction . . .” Create headlines with every escalation. Expose the names of his children to media prying—everything from talk show snooping to serious journalistic exposés to fictionalized bestsellers.

  “The Constitution protects his right to appeal.” Detective Patel’s smooth brow wrinkles and his mouth tightens.

  What happens to Alexandra’s and Anastaysa’s and Magnus’s right to privacy? I bite back the question. I already see a future plagued by constant reminders of their DNA connection to a psychopathic killer. Afraid Patel will pick up on my reservations, I change the subject.