by AB Plum
Ahead of me, going too slow, the BMR SUV Elise drives to pick up Magnus.
No way to pass. No way she can pull off on the narrow shoulder.
Sonuva—I tromp the brakes. To the floorboard.
The Veneneo fishtails. Whips around one-eighty at seventy-five MPH. The engine screams.
“Goddammit.” I ride the brakes even though the engine downshifts.
Little by little, the speedometer drops to sixty. Sixty. Fifty-five.
Too fast to stop before I slam into the gate.
Hands shaking, cursing my decision not to install a gate-opener in the Veneneo, I call Jed. “Open the gate. Now.”
“Yessir. I’m on it.”
And probably debating what I’m on—first ordering him to open and close the gate, then two minutes later ordering him to open it again. He can see on his monitor I’m driving too fast.
Probably thinks I’m in retreat, the bastard. I give the brakes more pressure.
By the time I go through the gate, I’m doing fifty. Too fast for anyone but me to manage. I glide to the bottom of the access road, turn around and whip back through the open gate at a sedate sixty. At least Patel didn’t see the near disaster. No one but Jed knows how close I came to wiping out Elise and Magnus. I slow to forty at the top of the hill and coast to a stop in front of the veranda.
Mouths agape, AnnaSophia, Magnus, Elise, and Patel stand at the front door.
It takes all my self-discipline to get out of the car without preening. Patel’s granite face remains flinty, but I can tell from the angle he cranes his neck he’s impressed by the Veneno.
Probably never seen such a powerful car.
“Papá. Papá.” Magnus runs toward me, his black eyes shiny, his cheeks rosy. “’Tective Patel is a policeman.”
AnnaSophia lurches toward our son, but he’s already scrambling down the veranda steps to reach me. She hugs her waist.
“A real policeman, Papá. He showed me his badge.”
“Yes, I’ve seen Detective Patel’s badge.” I lean against the Veneno, patiently, for my son’s short legs to carry him to me and the car. “Can you say DEtective, Magnus?”
He stops on the second step from the bottom and repeats, “DEtective.”
“Exactly.” I swing him into my arms and pat the top of his head. “Would you like to sit inside my new car?”
“Now?” he asks in a do-I-have-to tone. “’Tec—DEtective Patel is having lunch with me and Mamá. Can you stay too?”
“We shall see. I have a meeting, but perhaps I can postpone it.” I return his kisses on both cheeks, then start up the stairs. “Detective, I thought you’d left.”
“I came back.” His quiet, even tone lacks any hint of the smart aleck. “I had another question for your wife.”
“A question you couldn’t ask by phone?” Holding Magnus’s hand, I reach the top step and wait for AnnaSophia to turn her cheek for my kiss. “Is your cell phone dead, Darling?”
Patel leaps in before she can open her lying mouth. “Face-to-face interviews, I’ve found, yield more useful results.”
Elise is listening with the avidity of a child listening to her parents in the bedroom. I give Magnus a little push toward her. “Elise, take Magnus to wash his hands for lunch.”
“Of course, Mr. Romanov.” Her intelligence counters her curiosity, and she takes Magnus by the hand.
When the front door closes, I brush AnnaSophia’s cheek with my lips. “Well, Darling, you’ve had quite an exciting morning, n’est pas? I am surprised you’re up for luncheon guests.”
The French is to remind her of how little patience I have with her stupidity. Monsieur Lefebvre has decamped for Canada—all because she spent too much time with him eating lunch.
“Magnus was quite excited about meeting a policeman.” She switches her gaze to Patel as if he is some kind of Indian deity. “I thought having lunch with Detective Patel was a big adventure for a five-year-old boy.”
“How perceptive.” What kind of adventure do you fantasize about a forty-nine-year-old slut? “I suppose you are accustomed to such puerile adoration, Detective?”
He laughs. In spite of his sunglasses, I note the wrinkles around his eyes.
“I wouldn’t call your son’s reaction puerile adoration, Mr. Romanov. I think he’s surprised I’m not in uniform. Those guys—and firemen in uniform—they’re the ones who have throngs of hero-worshipers. And for good reason,” he adds as if I’ve contradicted his sermonette.
“Absolutely.” I clap, then clasp my hands in front of my chest. “Ask Chief Tobin. I’m sure he’ll tell you how much I admire the US constabulary, and I’m far from puerile.”
His face remains blank.
The word play, I suspect, has sailed over his head. I’ve yet to meet a policeman with the intelligence of a one-celled amoeba.
Which might explain AnnaSophia’s sudden infatuation. My keen intelligence has always intimidated her. Patel is obviously her equal.
Smiling at my deduction, I lay a hand on her upper arm. A muscle flinches. Her whole arm twitches as if she has just received a jolt of electricity.
“Shall we go inside before Detective Patel faints from heatstroke?” she asks in a concerned-hostess tone.
“Little chance of a heatstroke. Today would rank as a pleasant spring day in Madurai.” He moves his big feet toward the front door, then glances over his shoulder. “Nice color for your Veneno. Custom, I assume.”
“Good deduction.” Mentally, I guffaw. A small leap for a small mind, though, admittedly, I’m surprised he recognizes a Veneno. “It’s called Romanov Guld.”
AnnaSophia glances at the car then opens the door.
“Guld?” Patel tilts his head to one side. “Is that Danish? Swedish?”
“Both,” I say, my jaw tight. I move closer, herding him toward the door. “Do you know either language?”
“My father served as the Indian Ambassador to Denmark when I was ten. He served five years, so I picked up some vocabulary but never became adept at speaking.”
“How interesting. I spent five years in Copenhagen from age seven and found speaking quite easy.” Since this might sound like bragging, I add, “I was born in Russia. I spoke five languages, including Finnish by the time we moved to Denmark.”
The lies slid off my tongue with exquisite ease.
“We’ll have to exchange memories,” he says as if we’re going to become friends. “Copenhagen is one of my favorite cities.”
“One of AnnaSophia’s as well. Isn’t that right, Darling?” Mine, also, but for reasons Patel will never pick up in our memory exchange. And what would such an exchange have to do with Tracy’s death?
Neck muscles tight, I follow him and AnnaSophia into the foyer. What are the chances he’s done some research and already knows I lived in Denmark? So what? He’ll discover nada.
“What school did you attend?” I ask casually, setting him up for a little test.
“Krebs’ Skole.” He speaks with a perfect, flat, Danish intonation.
“Interesting.” So interesting I’m beginning to smell a rat. Behind me, the door slams.
He and AnnaSophia whirl around like puppets on a string. The fingers on her right hand splay over her heart. Patel’s right hand flies automatically for his hip. He pushes his jacket away and simultaneously grips his concealed weapon. He must be swimming in adrenaline.
My scalp tightens, and fear hijacks every muscle in my numb body. Their wide eyes and open mouths reflect particles of my brain splintering into my skull. Forcing the fakest smile I’ve ever delivered, I blow AnnaSophia an air kiss. “The door got away from me.”
Patel’s hand drops at his side. His carotid thuds slower. AnnaSophia remains a shade paler than death.
“The wind,” I say, offering no apology.
AnnaSophia mashes a thumb against her bottom lip. “The whole house shook.”
“You exaggerate, Darling.” I fondle her elbow. “Perhaps we should eat by the pool. Enjoy t
he view.”
Her face hardens, and she swishes beyond my reach. “Setting up takes too much time. Detective Patel has other people to interview.”
“Of course. Is that why you agreed to stay for lunch, Detective? Kill two—oh, excuse the slip of my tongue.” I wink. “Will you interrogate AnnaSophia while you’re eating?”
“No interrogation. I asked my question and received an answer. I’m staying because your wife thought—correctly—that eating here would save me time.”
“AnnaSophia does have a keen sense about timing. But perhaps you have another question for me—saving yourself travel time to my office.”
He shakes his head and pulls AnnaSophia’s chair away from the table. “I prefer not to mix business and meals.”
“Detective Patelllll.” Magnus’s shriek punctures both my eardrums. “Sit here. Sit next to me.”
And damned if he doesn’t.
Next to Magnus. Across from AnnaSophia. She makes busy with removing her napkin from the silver, monogrammed ring. She lays the cloth across her lap without waiting for me to sit at my own damn table.
Once seated, Patel asks, “What school did you attend in Copenhagen, Mr. Romanov?”
Chapter 36
SHE
“Why is it so hard to serve salad after the main course?” Michael asks in the whiny tone of a spoiled crown prince—the attitude he almost always adopts whenever he reminiscences about his Danish experiences.
“I asked for the salad first.” I smile at Jennifer, red-faced, eyes blank. “We didn’t expect you for lunch.”
“Whether I’m here or not, there’s a right way to serve meals. Wouldn’t you agree, Patel?”
Patel? What happened to Detective Patel?
“Customs vary, don’t you think?” Our guest’s voice would soothe cannibals at a pig roast. “Denmark thirty years ago was far more . . . formal, I would say, than India.”
“I’ve never been to India.” Michael sits back as Jennifer sets the salad plate in front of him. She produces the peppershaker immediately and stares at me as if I’m vermin.
“I meet a lot of people who have toured Denmark, but only a few have lived there. What school did you attend?” Patel nods for pepper. Five twists to Michael’s three.
The repetition of the question raises goosebumps on my arms. I pause lifting my fork. Why my husband’s obvious evasion? Of course, he has always told me more about his Edinburgh-med-school days than about any part of his life.
“Magnus, please sit up straight when you eat. We are not cochons in this house. Detective Patel could arrest you for bad table manners.” Michael throws out cochons as if we speak French at our table every day.
Magnus hangs his head. Please don’t let him cry. I shift my gaze so Michael cannot see the heat burning my cheeks and the hatred I feel for him at this moment. My knuckles have turned white from gripping the knife handle. If I throw it and hit him between the eyes, will it do any damage?
“Don’t worry, Magnus.” Detective Patel lays his fork on his plate and leans toward Magnus. “The police arrest bad guys. Not guys with bad table manners.”
Chin trembling, Magnus raises his gaze to his new defender. “What kind of bad guys do you arrest?”
“Guys who steal. Guys who lie to the police. Guys who hurt people. ”
Has my imagination shifted into overdrive? Did he glance—just for a blip—at Michael?
“I bet you put those guys in jail.” Magnus throws out his right arm and grazes his glass.
Shit, shit, shit. Time slows, and the glass teeters. Magnus’s jaw drops. Michael’s mouth opens. Detective Patel shoots out a hand and catches the glass without spilling a drop.
“You are one hundred percent right.” He sets the glass upright. “We do put those guys in jail. And they don’t get anything as good as this salad for lunch.”
Magnus giggles. “I like salad. Me ’n mommy—” His eyes drop to his plate. “Me ’n Mamá eat salad for lunch every day.”
“Mamá and I,” Michael says, his voice weary—as if he doesn’t have the energy to show the anger always lurking below the surface when he corrects me or one of the children.
Detective Patel’s jaw hardens. I close my eyes and bite my tongue. Please don’t say anything. Please. When I open my eyes, Michael is staring at me with such revulsion I flinch. My cheeks sting as if he has slapped me, but I refuse to drop my gaze.
Let him see how much I despise his belittling his five-year-old child. And if loathing is stronger than despising, then I loathe his humiliating me in front of a stranger and in front of our son. The concealed gun he carries only adds to my scorn.
What I despise most is my inability to stand up and cut off his cojones.
Before his poisonous tongue?
His smile is so patronizing I have to excuse myself from the table, adding, “I’d like a glass of that wine I enjoyed last night. Does anyone care to join me?”
“Not me.” Magnus shakes his head and watches his father from under his long, thick lashes.
“I have to work this afternoon.” Michael’s tone rings superior, his implication blatant.
“I’ll take a rain check,” Patel replies.
“The next time you come.” I nail Michael with a curled lip I hope carries even one-tenth of my venom.
Chapter 37
HE
It turns out—serendipitously—that Patel doesn’t get to see my wife become drunk.
Nor do I.
We each receive phone calls at the same moment. We each get up from the table. I point him to the foyer. I step onto the patio off the breakfast area. As much as I’d love to eavesdrop on his end of the phone call, I can’t ignore my call from Dimitri.
Anyone besides Dimitri calling me at home and I’d explode. Regan is my filter against unwanted calls. I focus on AnnaSophia’s pursed lips and smile. This is the first time Dimitri’s called since Tracy’s death, I want total privacy. I find a shaded spot under an orange tree and listen with growing fury.
Dimitri is leaving the country. A friend from Denmark has contacted him. A detective from the United States has been nosing around our records at Krebs’ Skole.
“His name is—”
“Satish Patel. We’ve met. He’s a Krebs’ alum. What’s he digging for?”
“Your personal info. Mine too. I’ll be gone three or four days.”
“While you’re there, ferret out Patel’s personal information. What kind of student was he? Who were his friends? Where did he go after leaving Krebs’? Anything . . .”
“I already have Lars Nielsen on that since my time there is so short.”
“Normally, I’d offer the jet, but that’s not smart with the acquisition.”
“Understand. I’ll call later.”
On that note, we disconnect, and I slip the phone in my pocket. One loose end I’d almost forgotten. This is the phone I used yesterday to talk with Dimitri. Hours remain on the pre-paid card, but so what? I keep at least a dozen disposables in my lab, here on the estate. This one will go into the incinerator later tonight.
Inside, Patel is talking with AnnaSophia. Her face is flushed, her head thrown back, her mouth open like a laughing hyena. Don’t tell me she has no idea the effect her behavior has on Patel? The positive takeaway is they probably aren’t talking about Tracy’s death.
Death is rarely a laughing matter.
As soon as I step into the breakfast area, her laughter stops.
Magnus slaps a hand over his mouth, but can’t quite contain his giggles.
Patel glances at me, shifts focus to Magnus, and winks.
“What’s so funny?” I pin Magnus with a hard-ass stare.
“Not funny,” Patel replies. “Silly. Dumb, to put a finer point on the subject.”
I narrow my eyes. “Sorry I don’t have time for silly or dumb. That phone call requires my attention at the office. Shall we leave together, Detective?”
“You haven’t finished eating,” Magnus points out, his
boyish pitch high and grating.
“I’ll come back another time,” Patel states. No perhaps. No maybe. No tentativeness. Just a flat-out declaration —brazen as Tracy.
Over my dead body. I bite my tongue and fight reminding him not to hold his breath until he gets an invitation on a silver platter.
I approach AnnaSophia, and she freezes—her eyes hollow, her lips dry. Enjoying her anxiety, I buzz her burning neck. Oh dear, she’s embarrassed. I kiss her loudly behind the ear.
“Don’t expect me home for dinner tonight, Darling.”
Her eyes brighten, and she comes to life like a fairytale princess wakened by the prince’s kiss. “Shall I have Jennifer save you something?”
“No. I’ll eat at the office with a few board members.” Moving toward Patel, I stop in his space and wait for him to precede me. “I’ll bring home some lobster-stuffed shrimp one evening. It’s the chef’s signature hors d’oeuvre.”
“Lobster-stuffed shrimp.” Patel stands there like a statue. “Sounds very Danish.”
“Very. Danish.”
“I’m something of a gourmet cook. Perhaps your chef will give me the recipe.”
Perhaps when hell serves ice cream. In no mood to waste more time, I give the gourmet cook a nudge.
Waving his hand over his head, Patel takes the hint and ambles toward the foyer. “Thank you for the delicious salad, Mrs. Romanov. ’Bye, ’bye, Magnus.”
’Bye, ’bye? Is this guy an adult? Is he really the son of an ambassador? Which son? The idiot son?
Enjoying my own private joke, I chuckle.
Patel’s black eyebrows lift, silently asking the same question I’d asked earlier. What’s so funny.
I say nothing and open the front door. The noonday sun is blinding. I put on my sunglasses—glad for an excuse to cover part of my face, to block Patel’s see-too-much eyes.
Chapter 38
SHE
The car’s yellow throws off more brilliance than the sun, but its sparks fade next to Michael’s fury because Magnus and I joined the post-luncheon parade outside. We stay on the veranda while he and Detective Patel spend an eternity admiring m’lord’s new toy.
