The Empty Bed

by Nina Sadowsky

  “Did you sleep with him?” It wouldn’t have been Peter’s first question had he been at all strategic, and it shouldn’t have been under any circumstances, but it’s the one that finally snakebites its poisonous way out of his mouth.

  “Alex?” Eva responds, opening her eyes and meeting his. “No. But I wanted to. I kissed him.”

  Peter feels both relieved and angry. Better to know the truth than be played for a fool. Something about the calm clearness in her eyes encourages him to press on. “Why didn’t you come to me, Eva? After you were attacked in the park?”

  She keeps her gaze steady. “I thought you might be trying to have me killed.”

  “Wow.” It’s all Peter can muster.

  “I know,” Eva replies.

  Peter stares out the window of the taxi without seeing anything at all.

  “I’m not deciding anything right now,” Eva finally offers cryptically. “I don’t think you should either.”

  “I love you.” He turns to her and attempts a smile. “Even though you pegged me for a killer.”

  “I know,” she replies ruefully. “But you see the problem, right? You think I’ll cheat on you the first chance I have. I’ve guessed everything from you having an affair and dumping me to plotting to have me killed. No matter how you look at it, we have…issues. If we have a road back, it’s a long one.”

  “Don’t say if,” he entreats.

  “I’m sorry, Pete. But we still don’t know what kind of shit Forrest Holcomb got us involved in. I don’t even know if I’m safe. Or if Alex and his kid will be! I was going to tell you at the airport, but you might as well know now. I changed my ticket. I’m not going back to London with you.”

  ADRIFT

  Eva Lombard,

  Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean

  TO: Jenny Fitzgerald Mooney

  FROM: Eva Fitzgerald Lombard

  RE: Paris!/Oops not so much

  Heya Jen, and guess what? I’m coming home! Long story short, we went to Hong Kong instead of Paris and things got decidedly weird from there.

  Short story long, I’ve been lying to you for months. I hate London. Pete and I are in a place, well, complicated is an understatement. I’m trying to sort out what to do about Bax, keep him in the kennel in London or have him shipped home, but I don’t think I’ll know the answer until I’m back in New York and decide how long I want to stay. I’m planning on taking a cab right from JFK to your house, so tell the kids Auntie Eva is on her way! Then we’ll plop them down in front of the TV and banish Bill to his man cave. We have a lot to cover.

  xo E

  Eva hits SEND and settles into her first-class seat. She waves away the flight attendant offering up a tray crowded with glasses of champagne. For the first time in a long time she feels clear, and she wants to stay that way.

  Piecing together truth is a challenge…

  And there are no absolutes. Perspective creates a kaleidoscope of viewpoints. Isn’t this what confounds us all?

  The justifications for lying are myriad, the consequences of falsehood often less harsh than the truth.

  And then of course, there are the lies we tell to ourselves….

  FLIRT

  Magali Guzman,

  New Jersey

  Her plate piled high with a dazzling array of food including lasagna, salad, and garlic bread, along with tostones and carne guisada, Maggie scans the backyard of her parents’ house looking for a place to settle. The two long picnic tables are crowded with relatives, eating, joking, and talking animatedly over one another. Clusters of folding chairs are dotted about, people cradling plates of food in their laps. Children shriek as they run wild in an enthusiastic game of tag. Maggie smiles. She loves this chaos.

  She spots her brother Diego and dodges a couple of nephews as she makes her way over to him. He’s in a folding chair, shoveling food from a plate on his lap.

  “You’re late,” he greets her through a mouthful of lasagna. “You remember Carlos, right?” He gestures to the man seated next to him, a stocky guy with buzzed hair whom Maggie’s met a few times, a cop who also works at Diego’s precinct.

  “Of course,” Maggie says. “Good to see you, Carlos. Welcome to the madhouse.”

  Carlos rises. “Take my seat. I’ll get another.” He sets his plate on the ground and goes off in search.

  “He likes you,” Diego opines, forking in another mouthful of food.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Maggie retorts. “He just has manners. Unlike you.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Chasing something.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Look, I was going to bring this up anyway, so I might as well do it now. Can you quietly run a photo through DMV facial recognition?”

  Diego stops chewing. Swallows. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s no big deal.” Maggie aims for nonchalance.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Mags. If this was official you’d use official channels.”

  “Okay. Look, there’s a woman. She appears in the security footage from the Elliotts’ apartment building—”

  “Anda pa’l carajo!” Diego protests. “Do you want to blow up your whole career?”

  “Of course not. I’m just running down this one last lead. This woman interacted with both Betsy and Bear; I saw it. The doorman at their building swore she sounded local; he remembered because their other nannies were British. It’s a hunch and a long shot, I know, but—”

  Diego interrupts her again. “Absolutely not! Forget it. Consider it a fraternal act of mercy. You’ve worked too hard to get where you are. So even if you’re stupid enough to self-destruct, I’m not going to let you.”

  Carlos returns with another folding chair. He sets it down carefully, sits, and picks up his food. Maggie concentrates on her own plate, decimating its contents in steady bites.

  “Do you want me to come back?” Carlos asks. “Did I walk into something?”

  “Not at all,” Maggie reassures him, a bit surprised the tension between her and Diego is so obvious. She turns her full attention to Carlos, engaging him with questions about his upbringing, his length of service in the force, local politics, and favorite foods, ignoring Diego’s probing stare.

  The afternoon passes, more or less in the usual fashion of these weekly dinners. Maggie argues sports with her dad, talks college applications with her oldest nephew and reality TV with her sister-in-law. She deflects questions from her aunts about when she’ll be getting married. She dodges her cousin Sandy’s gossip mongering about the Elliott case. She helps her mom clean up in the kitchen and happily accepts the care package of lasagna she knew would be ready for her.

  She avoids Diego, an unfortunate turn of events as he’s her favorite brother, but she’s determined to duck another lecture. Besides, she no longer needs his help.

  Carlos is going to run the photo for her on the down low. In return, she’s letting him take her to dinner next week. She’s actually looking forward to it; she’d enjoyed talking with him, and that makes her feel cleaner about the whole thing.

  I’m sure I’ll do worse once I’m undercover. It’s just a meal.

  Besides, the check will probably come up empty. And even in the unlikely event the software spits out a match, there’s nothing to prove the girl in the footage is involved in the disappearance of the Elliotts.

  Except that she showed up in their lives shortly before Betsy and Bear disappeared. She was careful to keep her face concealed when she suspected she might be on camera, angling her head and making judicious use of hoodies. Most intriguing in Maggie’s opinion is that Roger Elliott couldn’t identify the woman. He claimed to have no knowledge she’d been an employee of the family’s, which was at odds with statements from other people in the building and with his prior stat
ements about their staffing arrangements. He became riled at the mere suggestion that this woman might have worked for Betsy without his knowledge, displaying a hot flash of anger before recovering his usual charm and diffidently asserting that he “left the childcare up to Betsy.”

  Something off about his response. Something off about him. Maggie tingles just thinking about it.

  GOLD STAR

  Catherine,

  London, England

  The lilting chime of the doorbell echoes for the third time. I take a quick scan of the street. There’s some foot traffic and a handful of cars, but no one’s paying attention to this drab lady in her sensible shoes. If there’s no answer in the next five minutes and I can confirm the place is empty, I may just break in. I’ve only been in London a few hours but I am burning bright.

  I press the doorbell one more time. This is it. Then I’m going to Plan B.

  “Yes?” floats a man’s voice from the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

  I hold my wallet up to his peephole so he can get a good look. Move it aside so he can see my face, deliberately softened with a tentative smile. “I’m here about your wife.”

  Peter Lombard cracks open the door of his London townhome. I once again marvel at the easy access granted by official-looking identification and a non-threatening appearance. The ID I’m flashing says I’m with the U.S. embassy in London. The photograph it sports matches my current look: cropped mousy brown hair, heavy, square-framed glasses. It identifies me as Marilyn Phelps.

  A huge dog with a lolling tongue pokes his head out next to Peter, its cavernous black nostrils twitchy and wet. “Who’s this?” I coo, surreptitiously slipping the monster a treat. I was expecting the dog of course; research is truly a girl’s best friend. It was also in London years ago that I learned a doggie bribe is always a useful thing to have on hand (but that is a story for another time).

  “That’s Baxter,” Lombard replies, keeping a tight grip on the dog’s collar. “But if you’re looking for my wife, she’s not here. She went home to New York.”

  I know this too, although I instantly affect a look of mild, sympathetic surprise. “Who could blame her, after the ordeal you two went through in Hong Kong! And you, poor thing, had to go back to work, I assume? I hear how those City jobs are! Brutal, am I right?” I hold up a paper bag. “I brought bagels. Did you even know you could get a good bagel here? Aha! I thought not. Best kept secret in jolly old London town. Can I come in? Have a cup of coffee?”

  Lombard’s hesitation is written all over his careworn face. The man looks frayed to the edge of breaking with his bloodshot eyes, greasy hair, and white-rimmed lips, his handsome features knocked askew like a Cubist painting.

  Lowering my voice to a confidential whisper I continue, “We just have a few follow-up questions regarding how you were treated over there in Hong Kong, particularly, and I hate to say it about a colleague, but how Francesca Leigh handled your situation. Some things have come to light…and, well, they’re not inconsistent with prior allegations….”

  The door shifts open wider as Lombard’s hunger for vindication plays nakedly across his face.

  “Anyhoo, Mr. Lombard, as one citizen to another, you’d be doing us a solid. I mean, how our officials behave and are perceived abroad is crucial to all Americans. Just a few questions. What d’you say?”

  Baxter anxiously stays at his master’s ankles as Lombard ushers me into the kitchen and brews a pot of coffee. I let this ritual rule without speaking a word, knowing full well the universal ache to fill silence.

  Seven minutes later we are situated at a hastily cleared corner of a kitchen island cluttered with take-out containers, beer bottles, unwashed cups, and unopened mail. Baxter settles on the floor near Lombard’s feet and thumps his tail in a slow, mournful rhythm.

  “He misses Eva.” Lombard gestures to the dog. “I do too.”

  I ask him to tell me about the events in Hong Kong from the beginning, but I’ve barely finished my request before words spill from his mouth like flung confetti. His story would make little sense if I didn’t know most of it already, particularly given the sections he omits, glosses over, or artfully reconstructs. Lombard happily nurses his grievances against Francesca Leigh, diving in with rigor to criticize her “lazy-ass attitude,” “prune-faced innuendo,” and “false platitudes.”

  Stephanie and Jake don’t appear in Peter Lombard’s effectively vague version of the truth, except as shadowy, possibly Canadian connections to some equally shadowy Triad members who mysteriously appeared to assist the Lombards, before all disappeared back into the mists. I wonder which one of my two operatives proposed that interpretation of their involvement for Lombard’s narrative. Gold star.

  With no comment other than the occasional encouraging exclamation of sympathy, shock, or shared outrage, I let Lombard rattle on. It’s only when he begins to run out of steam that I ask if he still has the suitcase with the slashed lining. With renewed energy, he springs to his feet and fetches the bag from a hallway closet.

  “I knew I should keep it,” he says triumphantly. “Look!” He unzips the suitcase and points to the savaged interior. It doesn’t occur to him that neither his suitcase’s whereabouts nor its condition has anything to do with the alleged misconduct of legal attaché Francesca Leigh. I don’t remind him of this fact.

  Close examination reveals that Lombard is likely correct; something was hidden in the lining of this suitcase, an expensive Rimowa hard shell with a silky nylon interior. Despite the shredded lining, careful examination reveals that the original seams of the lining were carefully opened and then reclosed, an alteration almost invisible to the naked eye.

  “Did the bag feel heavy to you?” I ask.

  “It did, yes, but only when I thought about it after the fact. I’ve never had hard shell luggage before, you see, it’s the first time we used this set and then, well, when we pulled it out and packed…that night was complicated.”

  “The luggage was new? When and where did you purchase it?”

  “I have no idea what shop it came from. The guys at work were all talking about this brand and I sent my PA out one day at lunch. Look, you believe me, right? Because I don’t know what to do. I think my boss is implicated, but in what I don’t know. I’m afraid to go back to work. Fuck, I’m afraid to go outside. I would have gone home to New York too if it weren’t for Baxter! But Eva was going to let him stay in the kennel until she decided if she was coming back here, and I figured if my marriage had a chance in hell I should take care of the dog while she takes a breath.”

  Lombard drums his fingers on the countertop and shoots a paranoid look out the kitchen window. “But that guy who attacked us in Hong Kong? For all I know he’s in our backyard!” Baxter whines in response, a low, anxious growl from the back of his throat.

  “Is this the man?” I present a photograph of the man Lombard last saw drugged unconscious by Jake’s hand at the Star Ferry car park. Peter doesn’t have to speak; his sharp recoil reveals his answer.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Lombard. You don’t have to worry about this man anymore.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?” His skepticism is apparent.

  “He was found dead yesterday in Hong Kong.”

  “How?”

  “Did he die? He drowned. Accident apparently.”

  “Drowned?” Lombard’s look of shock cycles through to a fascinating succession of emotions: Relief. Confusion. Calculation. Realization. Then the mask of stress and fear returns to pinch his features closed.

  “That’s great. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Lombard opines bitterly. “But I still don’t know what I’ve got us involved in. Just because this asshole’s dead doesn’t mean someone else won’t be right around the corner! And what about Eva? How can I protect my wife?”

  “Would you like me to open an official investigati
on?”

  “Yes! Can you do that? And I don’t know, put men on her, or whatever it is you call it?”

  Better me than anyone else. “I can, Mr. Lombard.”

  “Thank god! It’s just—Forrest, he’s been like a second father to me. I can’t believe it,” he continues mournfully. “But maybe Eva’s right, maybe I was so busy worshipping the guy I couldn’t see what was right in front of me. Like a fucking putz. And Derrick! I mean, I thought I knew these people! That I was part of something.”

  Lombard reaches down to stroke Baxter’s head, and I’m grateful I don’t have to meet the man’s eyes. His words sting like salt on my already open wound; the wound I share with this perfect stranger. Holly can dazzle, crack open all your defenses and summon you to him like a sorcerer. I know it all too well.

  I request and receive Lombard’s permission to record our interview. Pose questions that mirror (and don’t challenge) the sketchy narrative he’s already presented. Collect information that will best allow me to quickly get protection on Eva Lombard in New York. Probe on the subjects of Forrest Holcomb and Derrick Cotter like a dentist scraping an infected tooth.

  Lombard’s twitchy eyes can’t stay away from the photograph of his now dead assailant. I tuck it away as an act of mercy. I won’t tell him the truth, so there is no point in provoking questions that will be answered only by lies.

  The truth does have a delightful if dark resolve, a creamy caramel center of karmic justice for this man who cavalierly abducted a toddler from the arms of his mother in the middle of the street.

  Alerted by Jake, Yuan’s foot soldiers picked up all three of the men Jake and Stephanie left incapacitated but alive in the back of that white panel van. In his report, Jake was quietly proud the Lombards were safely out of the country and the threat to them neutralized without any loss of life. (Stephanie’s report was considerably more boisterous, boasting about the success of the play she largely designed and spewing thrilled outrage about her bullet wound, luckily a clean shot that passed through the meat of her calf.) What neither of them know, and will never need to, is that little Ian Blake’s grandmother plays mahjong with a group of elderly women in the back of her antiques store on Hollywood Road. The longtime coterie of players includes my Internet café–owning friend Gracey and Yuan’s aunt Lydia.