Maggie breezes around the corner to see Ryan’s broad back and three of her other colleagues facing him. Jim and Bob look like dogs panting for scraps. Karen has a sneer on her face.
“Johnson, you’re disgusting,” Karen lectures. “A woman can’t get ahead without you making up some shit about her?”
“I’m just repeating what I was told.”
“About what?” Maggie asks innocently. She decided a long time ago that jerks like Johnson would never see her sweat. It was the first of many lessons her dad taught her over the years, a solemnly sworn vow made when Maggie was just six years old and dealing with her first schoolyard bully.
Ryan spins around.
At least he has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed to see me.
“Oh, nothing. Heard they’re changing the cafeteria hours.”
“Is that right?” Maggie fixes him with a stare so penetrating it’s almost X-ray vision.
“Yeah. Just a rumor, though.”
“You might want to watch yourself,” Maggie cautions evenly. “Starting rumors is a good way to make enemies.”
“Wait, what? Is that? Are you threatening me?” Ryan shifts his bulk from side to side, suddenly uneasy.
Maggie laughs. “What on earth are you talking about, Johnson? Why would I possibly threaten you about cafeteria hours? Lighten up, man. By the way, I am truly sorry you didn’t make the cut for UC. Better luck next time.”
She shoots Ryan a dazzling smile and links an arm through Karen’s, pulling her into the maze of baize-covered partitions that take up the center of the floor. More senior agents are the ones granted the windowed offices on the perimeter.
“Thanks for having my back,” Maggie says.
“Always, sister. He’s such a pig.”
“True. But he’s not the one starting UC school either, so he can kiss my Latina ass.”
“Half-Latina. Why do you deny your Italian heritage?”
“I don’t when I’m eating my mother’s lasagna. Then I’m a hundred percent Italian.”
Both women laugh. “It’s just that I know it bothers Johnson that I’m both a spic and a girl. He really thinks that’s why I made the cut. That and my supposedly open mouth.”
“Well, fuck him.”
Maggie recoils in mock horror. “Fuck Ryan? Dios mio, what an idea. I bet he can’t even get it up.”
Jerks like Ryan are part of the reason Maggie wants to go undercover. She loves the Bureau and most of her colleagues. The FBI recruits true Boy Scout types, patriotic, dedicated, honorable, skilled, and traditional (which sometimes also means a little sexist or racist). But by and large they are good company men; they play by the rules, and Maggie has always been a bit of a rule breaker. Undercover will be different. Maggie will be more of a lone wolf, coordinating with just one contact agent, not bound (as much) by the rigidities of hierarchy and paperwork. She can’t wait for the new chapter of her life to begin. The next forty-seven days will feel endless; of this she is already sure. A head-down deep dive into wrapping up reports and making sure everything is bright and shiny when she hands over her case files. Dull, albeit necessary, transitional work before her life really begins.
Three hours later, Maggie looks up from her computer and leans back for a stretch. Her shoulders are in knots and her neck is tight. She decides to stroll over to the communal kitchen to get a cup of coffee.
As she passes Special Agent in Charge Bates’s office she can’t help but notice the tall, imposing man sitting in one of the guest chairs.
It’s not only his impressive size that makes him stand out. He’s clad in a charcoal suit that even Maggie’s untutored eye can tell cost thousands. His dark hair is meticulously styled. His shoes seem expensive too, polished black leather that looks as soft as a pair of lambskin gloves. Gold cuff links gleam at his shirt cuffs. A maroon silk tie lies crisply against a creamy white shirt.
Money. Power. Authority. This man reeks of all three. A gray-haired lawyerly looking guy flanks him on one side; Ryan Johnson sits on the other. A smug look passes over Ryan’s face when he spots Maggie.
What the fuck is he up to now?
Coffee procured, Maggie settles back in at her desk. Almost immediately her phone buzzes. It’s Bates’s secretary. Maggie’s presence is requested. She takes one quick sip and beats a fast path to his office. The secretary waves her in. Bates is now alone, Ryan and the visitors gone.
“Guzman.”
“Sir.”
“I’d like you to join Agent Johnson in an interview.”
“Of course, sir.”
“You know who Roger Elliott is?”
It dawns on Maggie. Roger Elliott is the sleek, powerful-looking man who was just in Bates’s office. A wealthy New York developer and businessman, Elliott and his wife, Betsy, had also been fixtures on the charitable social scene. Until Betsy and their six-year-old son, Bear, vanished off the face of the earth thirteen days ago. It was the stuff of headline heaven at first, but as the days went by with no ransom demand and no new information, other more salacious stories have taken center stage.
“Of course I do, sir.”
“He’s had a ransom demand. No way of knowing if it’s legitimate or not yet, could be someone trying to exploit the situation.”
“Any evidence this is federal?”
“The demand was postmarked from a town in Pennsylvania and asks that cash be dropped at 30th Street Station in Philly. So if it’s legit, that’s across state lines.” Bates shakes his head. “First, we need to try to determine the legitimacy of the whole thing. They’re in the large conference room. You’ll interview. Special Agent Johnson will take notes. I’m sure I don’t need to say this, but handle Elliott with care.”
“Yes, sir.” Maggie swallows a comment about being paired with Ryan. I’m counting the days, she reminds herself.
Maggie pivots, heads back into the hallway. Finds her way blocked by Ryan Johnson.
“Just coming to join you,” Maggie says sweetly.
Ryan steps aside with an exaggerated wave. “After you,” he mocks. “Suggesting you lead on this was a favor, you know. You have a reputation for being a bit of a show boater. Kissing some ass will be good for you.”
“Thanks so much for looking out for my best interests. I’ll be sure to return the favor.”
“And, Guzman, Elliott had a reputation as a player before he got married. Be sure you keep it, you know, on the up-and-up.”
Maggie feels the flush spreading across her face, angry that he got a rise out of her. She turns so Ryan can’t see her reddened cheeks but retorts, “Not my type. I like them poor and single, not rich and married.”
Counting the days.
Maggie strides past Ryan and toward the conference room. She pauses to assess Elliott through the glass before she enters. He fiddles with the knot of his tie, pulling it away from his collar. The gesture makes him look unexpectedly vulnerable.
Maggie pulls open the door and enters, trailed by Ryan.
“Mr. Elliott? I’m Special Agent Magali Guzman. Let me begin by saying how very sorry I am. The stress you’ve been under must be terrible.”
Elliott straightens and gives her a quick, easy nod. “Yes, thank you for saying that. It’s very true. This is my attorney, Fallon Marks.”
Maggie nods a greeting. “Mr. Marks. Special Agent Johnson and I will be conducting this interview. Let’s get started, okay? Let’s take it from the beginning. From the day your wife and son disappeared.”
ONLY FRIEND
Eva Lombard,
London, England
Dear Jenny,
I know it’s very unusual these days to write an actual letter and I could just email you of course, but something about living in London has inspired me to take an epistolary path. God, don’t I sound pretentious? I’m laugh
ing at myself as I write this. Truth is, I got tired of lugging my laptop around and pretending I was working, so I just decided to own my situation. Easier to tote a legal pad instead.
Baxter and I are at my new favorite café, the Sly Fox. We’re here every day the weather allows because the owner fell in love with Bax (but really, who doesn’t?) and lets us hang on the outside patio all day, bringing me endless cups of tea and Baxter the occasional bone. I do appreciate the British attitude toward dogs. Particularly since Baxter feels like my only friend right now.
Do I sound whiny? Maybe I do. I feel whiny. It’s been almost nine months and I’m bored out of my skull. I miss my job (even though I hated it when I had it, as you well know). But I miss the sense of belonging somewhere. Having a purpose. A place to go every day. Plus I’m not getting pregnant. It doesn’t help that Pete’s always working. And I mean always. We’ve been reduced to “appointments” ruled by an ovulation kit! So that’s sexy, right?
And with each month that goes by, I feel more a failure. And so disconnected from Peter, I’m not even sure I want to get pregnant anymore. And wasn’t that the whole idea behind coming to London in the first place?
Jen, honestly, I’m a mess. I don’t know what to do with my days. I take Baxter for long walks. I try to think of freelance articles to pitch, but don’t know who to pitch to here. And don’t tell me that with a little networking I could sort it right out! I don’t want to write the same kind of crap I was doing back in New York, and who will take me seriously as a journalist when all I have is a portfolio of articles about celebrity diets and magic healing crystals?
I’ve gotten into photography again, and that’s been good, at least a minor distraction, but the bottom line is I hate my life! And who am I to feel sorry for myself? I’m living in a beautiful townhouse in one of London’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Pete makes more money than I can spend. Maybe when I finally do get pregnant this totally empty period of my life will suddenly all make more sense, but it sure as hell doesn’t now.
I feel angry all the time. That can’t be normal. Or good. Most of my anger is directed toward Peter and I know that’s unfair. But why does he work all the time? Surely, if I was a priority he’d make me one. Why does he want to have a fucking baby if he can’t even make time for me? Sometimes I’m afraid he’s having an affair! I almost wouldn’t blame him. I’m a dull girl here in London, unhappy, lonely, and prickly as fuck.
Eva Lombard puts down her pen. Why had she given up her job, her family and friends, her entire life, for a man who seems to have forgotten she exists? Baxter, her Bernese mountain dog, nuzzles his wet nose into her hand.
“You’re right, Bax, I shouldn’t send it,” Eva says, stroking his head. Why share her misery? Jenny probably wouldn’t understand anyway, since her chief complaints are about being stuck at home with two kids under the age of three. Eva’s cocktail of time, freedom, and money in London must seem an unimaginable paradise to her sister.
Eva rips the lined yellow sheets away from the pad and tears them into strips. She crumples the torn pages. Tucks an errant lock of her brown bob behind one ear.
Eva glances around the café patio. It’s a cozy space, a dozen small tables surrounding a massive old yew tree that rises from the center, its gnarled roots upending the ancient cobblestones near its base.
It’s midafternoon and the courtyard is sparsely populated. A tired-looking young mother with a pram sits with her toddler on her lap. The child is fussy and the mother’s face creases in irritation. A serious-looking young man with thick glasses, maybe a university student, frowns at his open laptop, his hands paused over the keys as if he’s waiting for inspiration. Two middle-aged men in business attire, similar charcoal gray suits and rep ties, lean toward each other speaking softly and urgently.
Eva is on her fourth cup of tea and needs to pee. She double-checks that Baxter’s leash is tied to the wrought iron leg of the café table, then gathers her bag and camera in order to head for the restroom.
Baxter looks at Eva optimistically, as if to ask if they are going for a walk now. Eva gives him a quick caress.
“Soon, boy.”
Baxter obediently settles down onto the cobblestones, his huge tongue lolling. His tail twitches. His eyes begin to close. Eva smiles at him.
“That’s why I love you, Bax. You’re eminently flexible.”
Eva stands, and as she does, a young blond woman enters the patio with a fluffball of a Pomeranian clutched in her arms. Baxter’s eyes flick open with sudden interest.
“What a sweet pup!” Eva croons. She hoists up her Leica and addresses the woman. “Could I take a picture? I’m doing a series on dogs.”
The blonde, fashionable in a clingy sweater dress and high-heeled black leather boots, arches a well-manicured eyebrow at Eva.
“Are you a professional?” she asks in a reedy voice.
“Well, no. It’s a hobby.” Eva gestures toward Baxter. “He inspired it.”
“You’re American?”
Eva can’t read the woman’s intonation. Will her nationality work for or against her? It can hardly matter, she decides, she is who she is.
“Yup,” Eva confesses. “That’s me. An ugly American. Hopefully redeemed by my wonderful Baxter here.”
Baxter cocks his head adorably at the sound of his name and Eva shoots him a grateful glance. Peter has repeatedly told her to try to be more outgoing in order to make new friends. This woman’s about her age, Eva admires her style, they both like dogs, surely there is a basis for friendship in those handful of commonalities.
“I’m Eva Lombard,” she offers hopefully.
“How nice for you,” the woman intones in such a pleasant voice that the rudeness of her words is almost obscured. “But it doesn’t make you even a bit interesting to me. So, no. Bugger off.”
Eva takes a step back as if she’s been struck. She tries to form words, but her mouth just gapes open and then closed, like a gasping, newly caught fish. The woman brushes past her and settles down at a table, her Pomeranian on her lap. She pulls out her cellphone and taps at it furiously.
“Time to go, Bax,” Eva orders. She shoves her pad and pen into her bag, along with her shredded letter. She unloops Baxter’s leash. She wants nothing more than to head back to the house and uncork a bottle of wine. Momentarily she reflects that it has been one too many days in a row that she’s started drinking in the afternoon, but she pushes that unwelcome thought away. What else is she supposed to do? Rattling around that giant place alone all day. No work. No friends. No husband. She fights the burning sting of bitter, resentful tears.
Fuck her, Eva thinks. She raises her camera and fires off a series of shots of the blonde and her Pomeranian. Click. Click. Click.
The woman looks up from her phone and catches Eva in the act.
“Hey,” she shouts. “I said no, you stupid twat.”
Everyone on the patio stares at Eva: the tired young mom, the student, the gray-suited businessmen. She flees. Stupid twat. That’s all she is. The girl with the Pomeranian may be a bitch, but she’s right.
Baxter has to trot to keep up as Eva races the two blocks back to the townhouse Peter’s firm provides for them. Her fingers tremble as she fits the key in the front door. She slams the door behind her and unclips Baxter’s leash. He bounds off to his favorite spot: a window seat tucked into the front parlor’s bay window that gives him a view of the all the comings and goings on the street below.
Eva is shaking. With no further self-recrimination about day drinking, she hurries into the kitchen and uncorks a bottle of pinot gris.
Once her wineglass is in hand and she’s swallowed the first few blessed mouthfuls, Eva starts to relax. She finally pees, in the chilly cream and blue powder room. She wanders back into the kitchen. Tops off her glass.
The kitchen is outfitted with the latest applian
ces, everything gleaming and pristine. The center island is set with a huge butcher block, which remains unscarred. Nothing has been chopped in this kitchen. The coffeemaker is well used, as is the microwave, but any thoughts Eva may have had of creating romantic dinners à deux in their first kitchen roomy enough to actually cook in dissipated rapidly under the relentless pressure of Peter’s job. Either he stayed in the office deep into the night or went to boozy business dinners, coming home past midnight reeking of scotch and cigars. Every couple of weeks, they socialized with business associates of Peter’s, events where Eva felt tense and insignificant, one step behind the jokes, awkward and gauche. Most nights, Eva ate alone, nuking prepackaged foods or picking up a packet of fish and chips from a little place in the neighborhood. The cod was only average, but the owner knew Eva by name (and order) now, and that gave her a small sense of belonging.
She glances out the glass kitchen door to their private garden. It’s a sweet little oasis, well maintained by a gardener paid for by Pete’s firm. Eva never sits out there; it just makes her feel lonely.
Eva curls next to Baxter on the window seat. Rubs his head. He gives her a juicy kiss in return. They both turn their attention out the window. A delivery truck parked with its blinkers flashing as the driver delivers a package. A pair of schoolgirls in uniform whispering and giggling behind cupped hands. The blank faces of the stately townhouses crammed in next to one another across the street, uniformly grand old homes that have been gutted and rebuilt to accommodate modern plumbing and central air.
Then Eva sees him: one of the two gray-suited businessmen from the café. He walks down the street slowly, as if searching for an address, his sharp eyes assessing, weighing, missing nothing. Eva watches as he evaluates the schoolgirls, the driver on his route, the quiet row of townhouses. When he draws close to her house, Eva instinctually pulls back and out of view. She watches him, but keeps herself from his sight. He pauses in front of her building. Gazes up at its façade.
The Empty Bed Page 2
