by Cate Holahan
“Alone?”
“She was—”
A second cough interrupted her, followed by a loud internal gurgling. Susan flipped onto her knees and pressed her palms to the ground, arching her back. A harsh retching followed. The sound of his wife vomiting worked like an alarm for the husband. Out of the corner of her eye, Gabby saw him shoot between the two officers, his hands already reaching for Susan. Detective DeMarco jogged to catch him.
“She’s sick.” The husband didn’t exactly yell, but his voice was elevated. He glared at DeMarco’s hand as it gripped his shoulder.
“The sergeant will handle it.”
Gabby put up a hand, urging both of them to stop. She dropped her notebook and gathered Susan’s brown hair off the back of her neck, keeping it from the stream of thick yellow bile splattering the sand. The sour smell reminded her of the yeasty sweat that stunk up the jail Sunday mornings.
After a minute of hurling, Susan settled back onto her haunches. “I’m sorry.” Her face cracked like a porcelain doll’s. “I’m so sorry.”
Gabby released her hair. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Susan gazed at her as if the platitude surprised. She slumped back on the slope of the dune. “God, Will is only nine. And Chloe adores Rachel.” She wiped the heel of her hand beneath her watering nose. “Ben will have to break it to them, and he doesn’t even know.”
Gabby dipped down to reclaim her notebook and pen from the sand. She wrote Ben’s first name and then asked for the spelling of the surname Hansen, along with the name of the town where they all lived. Years of handling sexual-assault calls had taught Gabby that violence against women was often perpetrated by intimate partners. She’d have to check Ben Hansen for prior violent arrests.
“He’ll have to get his kids from camp.” Susan rubbed her sandy hands beneath her eyes, streaking grit across her cheeks. “They’re in Maine.”
“Ms. Ahmadi.” Gabby hardened her tone. She needed the woman to stop with the kids and start in on the parents. “You said Rachel went for a walk last night around ten. Did she go alone?”
Susan put a hand over her mouth, as though she might be sick again. “Yes,” she said, once she’d settled. “We thought it was a safe area.”
“Her husband didn’t go with her?” Gabby let a note of incredulity into her voice. Safe neighborhood or not, most of the men Gabby knew wouldn’t feel comfortable having their petite spouse trekking along a strange beach, at night, by herself. Gabby’s husband certainly wouldn’t want her doing it—and she carried a gun.
“Ben had gone to talk to her earlier, but he’d already come back by then.” Susan pointed toward the jetty propping up the victim’s body. “I saw Rachel still out there while I was cleaning up the dinner plates in the yard.”
Gabby continued writing, even as she realized that Susan’s statement indicated something unfortunate had occurred between Ben and his wife. “What time was this?”
“Maybe just before midnight? I’m not positive.”
Gabby wrote twelve AM as the “last seen” point in her notebook, along with a question mark. “So, Ben left Rachel out there?” She didn’t try to hide her suspicion. If Ben had given his friends an excuse for that, she wanted to know what it was before grilling him.
Susan’s greenish eyes begged for a break in the questioning. Footsteps shuffled behind her.
“They’d had an argument.” The husband, Nadal, stood between Detective DeMarco and Officer Kelly. Both cops looked at him as though he’d defied orders. He ignored them, gesturing with an open palm toward his wife. “She should know, Susie, or else it won’t make sense.” He faced Gabby. “Ben and Rachel got into a disagreement at dinner, and then Rachel went out to the beach for some air.”
Gabby checked her notes. “For two hours?”
“I think they were both embarrassed at having argued publicly,” Susan said. “Ben went out to apologize. I assume Rachel wasn’t ready to hear it.”
“What was the fight about?” Jason asked.
“It—” Nadal started, but Susan cut him off.
“You would have to ask Ben.” Susan pushed her right hand into the sand to help her up. Standing, she kept all her weight on her left foot.
Gabby tried the question again. “But you heard them argue …”
“That doesn’t mean we know what it was really about. Married couples fight. You should ask Ben. I’d only be guessing, and I’d rather not.”
Gabby made a note to return to the subject with Susan later, after she’d talked to Rachel’s husband. “And you saw Ben return to the house after trying, unsuccessfully, to make up with his wife?”
Susan wrapped her arms around herself. “I think so. I saw him go around to the driveway. Their bedroom’s on the first floor, near the front door. I’m sure he just got something from his car before going to bed.” Susan looked over her shoulder toward the dunes, shielding her eyes from the sun to see her rented house. She pointed toward a line of homes visible behind a strip of scrub forest. “He’s probably there now.”
Gabby asked for the address and made another note on her pad. The house was one of the handful of properties grandfathered into occupying the dunes themselves. Only people with a ton of money could afford those houses. A murdered woman in the Hamptons was already newsworthy. A murdered, wealthy, blonde mom would be a front-page story. Gabby felt her jaw tighten at the thought of the attention. Rachel Klein’s kids would be going through enough without the media speculating about what their dad had done. To spare them, she’d have to solve this quickly.
“You can’t think Ben had anything to do with this, can you?” Susan’s face crumpled like a plastic bumper in a collision. “She’s his wife. It must have been someone who saw her on the beach alone and thought …” Susan’s brown hair swished around her face from her vehement head shakes. “You saw how we found her. Her neck? Ben couldn’t have. He wouldn’t. God, I should have checked on her …”
“We have to inform him.” Gabby placed her notepad back in the interior pocket of her jacket. As she lowered her hand, she let it graze against the bulge of the Glock. She’d never pointed her gun in the line of duty, let alone shot it. But she’d also never tangled with a murderer.
Gabby waved the men toward them before gesturing to Susan. “Please, take us to the house.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DAY OF
The Atlantic Ocean spread out in front of Jenny, a mattress topped with a rumpled sheet of blue, green, and silver. In her peripheral vision, she watched an invisible hand grasp the silken edges at the shore and raise the fabric. Each time, the cloth settled more wrinkled than the last, forcing the frustrated hand to keep lifting and lowering it. The repetitive rustle of these waves echoed the thud of Jenny’s feet. Routine was the solace of the endurance athlete. She could endure anything as long as it followed a pattern.
Jenny ran along the shoreline, restoring her energy through her favorite activity. The outgoing tide had packed the sand into a semifirm clay that kept her sneakers from sinking in with each stride. As she advanced toward the jetty, the anxious energy that had accumulated in her muscles drained from her limbs. Her legs loosened. Her heart rate normalized. Her breathing steadied.
This was her release. Since childhood, the act of putting one foot in front of another, of moving away from whatever had come before, had always made her feel better. She’d turned her coping mechanism into a competitive sport, racing long distance in high school and college. Medaling had never been her primary objective, though. Jenny ran to remember herself and regain control.
“Jen!” The sound of her name distorted the rhythm of her footfalls. She stopped and whirled toward the call. Ben emerged from a path cut into the scrub forest on the side of the house, just beyond the view of the glass wall. He cradled a paper grocery bag in his hands.
Jenny cursed under her breath. Either her neighbors were toasting and Ben was calling her back to clink glasses, or he wanted to discuss what had happened a
fter she’d given him that last injection. The thought of doing either made Jenny want to sprint in the opposite direction. Alcohol was prohibited on her pain medication. She couldn’t confess that fact, however, without also fielding questions about why she was taking pills in the first place. And that was between her and Louis.
Ben set down the brown bag to wave her over. She filled her lungs and walked to where he stood beside the bent trunk of a pine tree. “Hey.” Jenny tried to sound happy to see him.
“I was wondering where you’d run off to.” Ben’s thin lips parted in a half smile. It was the controlled expression of a person pleased about something, yet trying to keep that beneath the surface.
Jenny turned up her palms. “You found me.”
“I did. I thought after all that time in the car with Louis, you might need to settle your nerves with a run.”
Jenny felt her own lips press into a line. It was one thing for her to complain about her husband—in confidence, during a moment of frustration—but it was quite another for Ben to bring it up. “Louis drove fine, actually. No weaving in and out of traffic or blasting the horn.”
Ben’s smile receded. “For once.”
“I really only wanted to stretch my legs.”
His eyes ran from her calves up to the several inches of exposed thigh. The brief look made her painfully aware of how little her husband would appreciate her seemingly sneaking off to chat with the neighborhood’s “Magic Mike,” as Louis referred to Ben behind his back. Ben’s “job” taking care of his two kids and self-publishing mystery novels, Louis insisted, was a cover for his real role of looking attractive for—and catering to—his wife.
The sun beating down on Jenny’s head seemed to get stronger. A droplet of sweat ran down the back of her neck. “Well, I should get back inside.” She started toward the house.
As she passed, she felt a soft pat on her bare shoulder. “Hey, Jen.”
She faced Ben, willing him not to ask what he’d been gearing up to with the pleasantries. His dark-blue eyes probed her expression. As they did, his brow pinched above his Roman nose. “Is everything all right?”
The unexpected question made Jenny feel suddenly exposed. Despite Louis’s dismissal of Ben as a pretty boy toy, he wasn’t shallow or unintelligent. He was strangely empathetic, in fact, with an uncanny ability to pick up on body language. She’d personally witnessed his eerie ability to read people before. Jenny forced a smile. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Beneath your eye, Jen.”
Her hand flew to the spot, betraying that she knew exactly which eye had the problem. The heat was apparently melting her makeup. She needed to slip back into the house and reapply before anyone else noticed. “Oh, that.” She yawned. “All the camp packing kept me up the past few nights. Dark circles.”
Ben hunched his shoulders and lowered his head to meet her gaze. “Jenny. That’s not from being tired.”
She was tempted to tell Ben it was none of his business. But she didn’t want to start an entire week on a confrontational note with one of her housemates. The vacation with the neighbors, which Louis had wanted to go on so badly three months earlier, would be difficult enough without her making things any more awkward.
“Well, I don’t know what you’re seeing. I should run to the bathroom and check it out.” She brushed past him and began jogging to the house, knowing he couldn’t catch her with his arthritic knee. With luck, Jenny thought, she’d make it to her room before anyone else spied the truth written on her face.
CHAPTER SIX
THE DAY OF
Susan should have stuck with wine. Like any good Catholic, she’d first tasted it at age eight, forcing the bitter sip down her throat like expired cough medicine to satisfy her parents. She remembered her mother tapping the tip of her wrinkled nose and giggling. It’ll make you feel better in the future. That future had arrived long ago.
Wine had become the dessert in Susan’s regular diet. Since moving East, she’d gotten into the habit of uncorking a red every other day. Right after tucking in the boys, she’d fill a goblet, sit on her couch, and alternate between sipping and swirling the viscous liquid until only dregs remained.
Wine was her companion all those evenings when Nadal worked past nine. It quieted her when she really wanted to talk to someone about Jamal’s impossible-to-explain “new math” work sheets, or Jonah’s latest space model, or how much more taxing homeschooling an autistic child was compared to her former career as an attorney. As her mother had promised, wine definitely made her feel better.
Champagne was not wine. Bubbles ruined the experience. They acted like out-of-control electrons, charging the liquid’s surface so that it prickled her tongue, sapping the juice of its sugary, sedative qualities. Half a glass in, Susan could already feel the carbonated alcohol fizzing in her brain.
She listened to Nadal, Rachel, and Louis chat in the kitchen, painfully aware of the IQ points dissolved by her drink. What could she contribute to a business conversation between people who measured their worth in quantifiable dollars? She knew nothing about the economy anymore. She barely read the newspaper. The year at home, focused on elementary homework and imparting basic social graces, had reduced her to a simpleton.
“It’s definitely not imminent.” Nadal eyed Rachel as he responded, though it had been Louis who’d asked whether he’d be traveling soon for an IPO roadshow. “We’re considering some investment bank bids for a future offering—that much has been reported. But we’re not pouncing on anything. It’s been helpful to be in New York and get a real feel for how Wall Street views the company as opposed to tech investors. Those guys can be a bit exuberant when it comes to anything they can slap a disruptive label on. I still have to see how some things shake out before I make any moves.”
“Like the insurance thing.” Louis sipped his drink. Susan couldn’t tell from his tone whether he’d made a statement or asked a question.
Nadal shrugged and splashed more scotch into his tumbler, an unusual act for him given the relatively early hour. He brought his drink to the fridge, pulled back the freezer door, and palmed a couple of oblong cubes from the ice tray. Susan couldn’t blame him for discussing work. Though Nadal had tried to change the subject several times, Louis and Rachel had kept bringing it back to his firm.
“I think the insurance question has pretty much been decided.” The freezer shut with a decisive clap. “Doc2Go is a tech company, not a medical group.” Ice cubes clinked in Nadal’s glass. “We’re like a ride-sharing service, but our drivers are physicians willing to make house calls. Essentially, they’re independent contractors operating under their own malpractice policies. Our riders are patients willing to pay cash up front and seek later reimbursement from their health insurer.”
Nadal swirled his whiskey as he answered. When he finished, he took a long sip.
“Those companies cover their drivers when they’re working,” Rachel quipped.
Louis raised his glass in her direction. “There you go.”
Nadal set his drink back on the counter. “Bad analogy, then. Think of Doc2Go as an interactive directory or online marketplace.” Though Nadal sounded measured as always, Susan caught a flash in his dark eyes as he stared at Rachel. “Doctors who use it have their own malpractice insurance to compensate for any unintentional pain and suffering.”
Louis stared into his glass as if tea leaves had settled into the bottom. His eyebrows shrugged as he took a swig.
“Doc2Go also helps the whole system by keeping people with minor issues from clogging emergency rooms.” Again, Nadal gestured to Louis. “You’re in the ER. You know that—”
“Hey, you don’t have to convince me of the premise. I’ve used it, as you’re well aware.” Louis set his glass down and drummed his fingers against the sides. “I think, though, in the rare instances when something unforeseen happens, the company that matched the doctor and patient should share the cost of remedying the situation, the way a hospital does.
Doc2Go is taking part of the doctor’s fee, after all.”
Nadal rubbed the side of his nose with his knuckle. Susan understood the scratch to be a display of annoyance. Doc2Go was Nadal’s other child, conceived without her and, Susan suspected, loved more because of the lack of outside input. He’d invented it, coded it into existence, and established all the necessary relationships to set it up in the world. Even with nearly a hundred people working for him, it operated according to the rules he’d programmed into its DNA and the connections he’d forged. It was as pure a legacy as anyone could ever have. As a result, he tended to take criticism of it (or the amount of time he spent with it) as a personal attack.
“Speaking of fees, this place doesn’t have any for the beach.” Susan walked over to her husband and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Anyone want to check it out? Jenny’s already there, probably getting even more bronze.” She glanced at her exposed arms, made whiter beside Nadal’s brown ones. “I need some color, right, hon?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “Is Ben out there?”
Susan realized she hadn’t been the only person not contributing to the conversation. Ben hadn’t returned after slipping outside to retrieve more stuff from his car. “Maybe he’s—”
“How much of the cost, Louis?”
Susan had been about to suggest that Ben had left to buy food. But Nadal’s terse question shifted talk back to his company. “We’re charging a flat fee of fifty dollars to set up the visit and process the payment,” Nadal added. “That’s less than ten percent of what the doctor typically makes. Hospitals, on the other hand, claim far more and often employ the physicians.”
The back door opened with a whoosh of air. Susan breathed the incoming scent of the ocean and exhaled. The presence of somebody else uninvolved in the tense discussion would help break it up. Jenny or Ben could easily swing the topic toward some safe, guy-friendly arena like the NBA finals or professional golf.
