by AB Plum
“Then they must see in the damn dark.”
“They see best in the dark.” I turn and swipe a hole in my window. “Jed or one of his goons is probably watching us right now. He’ll report how long we sat here. He—”
“Well, then, let’s cut him off at the knees. You want to call your husband? Or you want me to call? Tell him I’m driving you to Carmel?”
A giant wave of terror swells inside me. Hands shaking, I pull my phone out of my purse and hold it in my palm for a nanosecond.
The silence intensifies Patrick’s unspoken challenge. Go ahead. Call. I dare you.
“I’ll do it.” Meeting and holding his gaze, I jab Michael’s number.
Chapter 57
HE
No smell of sweat. No scent of soap. No essence of me.
Straight out of the box, lying on a bench in the locker room, my new hazmat suit smells like latex. I picture ashes from the old suit mixing with cinders from the disposable cell phone.
The last vestiges of Tracy. No matter what Patel unearthed in Copenhagen, he’ll simply run into a dead end.
My every-day cell phone rings, interrupting the enjoyment of my clever wordplay. Serendipitously, my darling wife’s name appears in the LED. Has she, serendipitously, plowed off the highway, causing her incommunicado state?
“Hello, Darling. Where are you?”
“Entering 280. Patrick’s driving—so you don’t have to worry.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s laughing.
“Nice guy, Patrick, don’t you think? Always ready to go above and beyond duty.”
“He thinks we might get back home by three. I’ve told Elise not to expect me for lunch.”
“I’m sure Magnus will survive. Let me speak to Patrick.”
Patrick identifies himself without saying hello or using my name. The hair at the back of my neck bristles. I’ve sensed for some time a deterioration in his attitude. Another one of AnnaSophia’s besotted admirers? “Is there a problem, Patrick?”
“Paying attention to driving.” He pauses too long for courtesy, then adds, “Mister Romanov.”
“Do that. You’re carrying precious cargo.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Right at the moment, I am under-impressed by his best. I toss out another test. “If the weather gets worse, don’t drive home. Check into a hotel.”
“I’ll keep that option in mind.” An undercurrent of laughter rides his dry delivery.
“Mrs. Romanov should have a credit card.” I finger the collar on the hazmat suit.
“I have one. If we need one.” His tone, so non-committal, immediately heightens my suspicions.
“Tell AnnaSophia to call me later. I’ll keep an eye on the weather.”
“I won’t drive if the fog gets worse.”
Meaning, he’ll pull into the nearest hotel? An odd buoyancy slams into my body. I stuff my new hazmat suit into its original packaging, toss it in my locker, and slam the door. Hard.
“What did you say, Patrick? You dropped off there for a minute.”
Where is the nearest fucking hotel? Los Altos? Mountain View? Each location less than fifteen miles from Belle Haven.
“I said,” his voice rises to shouting, “I won’t drive if the fog gets worse.”
“Exactly, the right answer. Now, I have a meeting. I’ll speak with AnnaSophia later.” Having the last word, I disconnect.
Good, loyal help is almost as hard to find as a good, loyal wife.
On my way to the elevator, Sam Barrett jogs toward me. He’s wearing his CIO face—blue eyes squinted, mouth tight, facial muscles pinched.
“Thank God, I caught you, Michael. I’ve been searching everywhere. Where have you been, for Chrissakes?”
“Obviously where you didn’t search.”
He follows me into the elevator without waiting for an invitation. “I just got off the phone with Louis Saint-Paul. He swears Moreau is ready to nix the acquisition.”
“That sounds interesting since L’Institut’s on the hook for three million Euros. Non-refundable, as you may recall.” I stand a little to one side, trying to get downwind of Barrett. The man must eat garlic by the tons. His sweat would fell a pig.
“Saint-Paul swears Moreau doesn’t care about the money. Claims the old man’s sour on the deal and wants out. Claims you and he argued—”
“Do you believe everything you hear from underlings?” I smack the UP button.
“Saint-Paul’s their CIO. If he’s an underling, what does that make me?”
“Jesus, Sam.” Shouting, I take a step toward him, then return to my previous spot, so I don’t spit in his baby-face. “Isn’t it enough I have to suck up to Moreau? Do I have to stroke your ego, too?”
His nostrils flare, and his chin juts out, reminding me of AnnaSophia’s infantile behavior.
“Don’t start crying,” I say in the teasing tone I use with Magnus.
“Dream on.”
The elevator door snicks open. He storms into my office, bumps the edge of my desk, swears, then stomps into Regan’s domain. She calls his name with a tinge of alarm and worry.
“Wouldn’t go into the lion’s den, if I were you,” he yells a second before the slammed door shakes the Monet.
Chapter 58
SHE
“You see Jed?” Patrick turns left through the gate, continuing toward the private road.
I press my nose against the misted window. “Huh-uh. He’s probably inside watching the security video.”
“Oh, he may be watching videos, but maybe not of us. Jed indulges in watching his porn flicks as much as he works.” The light from the dash frames Patrick’s profile in an unflattering yellow. On the steering wheel, his knuckles are white.
“That’s a serious accusation.” Less serious than accusing me of having sex with Andrew, but close.
“From an eye-witness.” He stops at the private road, rolls down our windows, checks both directions twice—maybe an unnecessary precaution since traffic on this road is rare.
I turn and stare into the gloom behind us for a few seconds. “No headlights.”
“No big surprise, but keep checking.”
“You didn’t finish with Jed’s interesting hobbies.”
“I like the way your mind works.” Patrick bends over the steering wheel and peers at the fog crawling across the hood. “Jed invited the fleet manager, us mechanics, grooms and three of the other security jokers to his place one Friday. He provided all the booze, drugs, food, and CDs. His way of bonding and recruiting spies, I figure. I left once the fun began.”
“Michael would pop an artery if he knew,” I say, my lips thick and numb.
“Ya think?” Patrick takes his eyes off the road long enough to throw me a glance that stops me for a decade.
“I’m certain.” My voice quavers, but I inhale, then speak on the exhale. “He despises porn.”
Patrick shrugs. “Or not. He sat in the front row in Jed’s living room. With Elise in his lap.”
Bile gurgles up in my throat. Lips stiff, I croak, “Stop the car.”
The SUV glides to a slow, easy stop. I slam open the door and lean out. Vomit spews out of my mouth, spattering the open door. Too bad. I clutch the seatbelt that keeps me from tumbling out on my face as my stomach heaves. Sour bits of oatmeal and toast spill out. Eyes watering, I stop, catch my breath, then spit up hot, acidic liquid. When my stomach stops convulsing, I swipe my face and stare at the front of my coat spotted with threads of vomit.
The fog saturates my hair and face. Icy moisture slithers down my neck. Wordlessly, Patrick hands me a box of tissues. When I finish scrubbing my face and coat, he gives me the plastic trash container from behind the passenger seat. I stuff the dirty tissues in the container, then mash another handful against my mouth as my stomach contracts.
This time nothing comes up. “Yuk.”
“Personally,” Patrick intones, “I can’t figure how anyone becomes bulimic.”
/> A shudder ripples across my back. I pull the door shut, grimacing at the tell-tale spots of barf. “I haven’t thrown up since I was pregnant with Magnus.”
“Not even when you learned about Andrew’s accident?”
“I didn’t throw up because I stopped eating. I went through the motions, but I couldn’t eat for two, maybe three days.”
“Your husband didn’t notice?” Patrick eases forward so slowly my stomach remains calm.
“If he did, he never said a word. He was busy with the arrangements. He paid all the funeral costs and a full year of Andrew’s salary to his sister.”
“Damn. I happen to know what Andrew made. Big surprise Andrew’s sister thinks the bastard hung the moon. And the stars.”
“I thought—I think—he was genuinely fond of Andrew.”
“Uh-huh, but you thought he hates porn, too.”
Not fair, I want to cry and change the subject. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“Because I like living? Because I can’t prove a damn thing? Because I don’t trust the cops any more than I trust your husband?” He flicks off the points on his left hand.
“So—”
“Andrew and I were supposed to go to Tahoe together. At the last minute, your husband wanted me—no one else but me—to fly to LA and inspect a vintage Mustang that interested him. Andrew tried to change our reservations, but couldn’t get time off the next week.”
I press my thumb against my bottom lip, taste something bitter, and drop my hand into my lap. “Did you try to delay going to—yes, of course, you did.”
“Before I left, I checked out Andrew’s car. Top to bottom. I told the CHP his brakes would hold up at the Indy 500.”
Suddenly, he slows for a car coming too fast, hydroplaning on the slick pavement, bright lights blinding the driver in the fog.
“Hold on.” Patrick slows to a near standstill, then inches onto the shoulder.
My sweat-slicked hands fly up in front of my face. My feet press against the floorboard. I brace for a collision.
The other car whizzes past as if the road is dry and visibility is perfect.
“Bastard.” Patrick glances in the rearview mirror at the blinking taillights. “See what I mean about someone getting killed?”
Mute, I nod.
Patrick cocks his head. Traffic fifty feet above us rumbles on 280. Fog or no fog, Silicon Valley hotshots go to work. Those drivers who waited past the morning rush created their own traffic snarl.
“Going to Carmel is a bad idea,” he says. “We should wait. See if the fog burns off.”
“I know that makes sense, but this may be my last chance to see my father.”
“Why is that?” Instead of aging him, Patrick’s frown gives him the appearance of youth.
“Michael wants me where he can find me every minute of every day.”
“Did you know he had a tracking GPS installed on this car?”
I smile. “Andrew told me. He also introduced me to someone who disabled it.”
“That must’ve cost a bundle.”
“Yes. An hour in bed with him every Thursday morning.”
Chapter 59
HE
My neck muscles stretch tight enough to function as elevator cables after Sam Barrett’s meltdown. Staying in my office proves impossible. I am a man of action.
The fog hovers over Shoreline Park. Visibility is zero. Going out into the darkness offers an escape route. I won’t have to defend my actions to anyone. Away from the idiots and traitors, I can plan the appropriate payback for Sam’s attack.
Filled with new resolve, I turn from the window. Regan has wisely remained at her desk, but she swings around in her chair at instant attention as I walk through the door.
“No interruptions for the next two hours.” My face hardens. “None.”
“Of course, Mr. Romanov.” She opens her mouth—as if she’s about to offer me sympathy, then she flushes, breaks eye contact, and swivels to face her desk.
“I know I can always count on you, Regan.” I soften my voice on her name because I know how much she likes me to address her personally.
Chapter 60
SHE
Following my announcement that I crawled in bed with Bradley Chan every week after Andrew’s death, Patrick makes noises like a child in the middle of a nightmare.
Or maybe it’s me—whimpering, gulping for air, wishing I could snatch back the confession. My stomach’s empty, but I still feel like puking.
“Bullshit.” Patrick’s roar boomerangs around the SUV’s cabin. “I don’t believe you.”
My laugh sounds like a death rattle. “Believe me. I could lie about a dozen things. If Michael ever confronts me about Bradley Chan, I’ll lie. I’ll even lie to Bradley if he ever mentions the subject.”
“But-but-but . . .”
“You’re stuttering.” The snarky comment brings an image of Michael, so I backpedal. “Sorry. I have no idea why I told you the truth.”
“Bradley Chan.” He moans and runs his hand over his buzzed head. “Nerdy. Skinny as a skeleton. Black hair in a ponytail. Glasses thick enough to see the craters on Mars—”
“Same Bradley Chan.” I nod for emphasis. “A week after Andrew’s funeral, he came to me. Asked if I wanted to continue messing up the reports on my tracking GPS.”
“Let me guess. You didn’t know you had a tracking GPS.”
A nod. “I thought he was playing a scam. Until he convinced me Andrew had paid him for two years.”
Patrick made a fist and slammed the steering wheel. “Paid two years to mess up your system but didn’t know he had one on his car till he saw that invoice.”
“He never told me what he was doing.”
“Figures.” Eyes hard, Patrick cradles his fist. “But his car was clean when I checked it out for our Tahoe trip.”
“Michael would’ve made sure there was nothing to raise the suspicions of the CHP.”
“Removing the GPS sounds like a perfect job for Jed.”
“My God.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Straight out of James Bond.”
“Less complicated than you and Andrew hooking up every week.”
“We were so careful.” Even to my own ears, my protest comes across as childish.
“Lying comes naturally to your husband. Andrew couldn’t lie to save his life. Every time I saw him, it was obvious he was in love. Which must’ve tipped off your bastard husband. Putting you down or questioning you could’ve struck the match.”
“Andrew and I thought about all those scenarios and more. We agreed . . . he swore he’d never defend me to Michael. Never offer to drive me anywhere. Never come to the house without Michael. Never. We agreed.” My voice goes up on each point. By the end, I am shouting. Tears run down my cheeks.
“Hubby aside, some people would consider Andrew a schmuck for nailing the boss’s wife.”
“How articulate.” Tempted to slug him, I stuff my hands under my hips. “You must’ve been an English major.”
“Damn. What gave me away?” The smile that flickers across his face is the kind dying people dredge up to comfort the living.
“The truth is I seduced him.”
He shrugs. “I don’t need details.”
Too bad. “Two years after Magnus was born, I was still fighting post-partum depression —and losing. By then I’d known for a long time Michael was a monster.”
The fog throws off an eerie mixture of mustard yellow and silver luminescence. The glow turns Patrick’s face into a mask—hard and aloof. Narrowing my vision, I continue.
“I was trapped in a golden cocoon. I hated Michael. For treating me like a malingerer. For insisting Romanovs didn’t dirty their hands raising roses. For impregnating me a third time so he could have a son.”
Patrick’s jaw cracks.
“I thought about suicide. Every day. Fifteen or sixteen hours a day. I was a wreck. Andrew simply saved my life.”
“Andrew’s mother kill
ed herself six months after his youngest sister was born.”
“He told me his father tried to get her help.” I exhale. “Thirty years ago, the medical establishment gave baby blues zero respect.”
“He always told me his dad was his hero. He figured out damned fast Michael Romanov should never have been allowed to breed.”
I flinch. “And Michael believed rich men owed the world their progeny.”
“Yeah,” he snorts, “and he thought his money bought Andrew’s soul.”
“Not his soul, but the money helped Andrew’s father retire early. The inflated salary defrayed college costs for two of Andrew’s sisters.” I recite the facts as if talking in my sleep.
“Exactly why I’m quitting. Getting out before I get sucked in and forget how Andrew died. You probably don’t understand about the money—”
“Because I have everything money can buy?” I turn away from him and stare into the darkness. “Because I live in a house fit for royalty? Because I can always divorce the bastard and get half his assets?”
“Did Andrew want you to get a divorce?”
“Andrew wanted to make me an honest woman. He didn’t care if I got money in a settlement as long as I got the kids. He’d pay for my Dad’s Alzheimer’s care. He’d support the kids and me.”
Patrick’s laugh is more of a guffaw. “If he ever found a job again after the great Michael Romanov blackballed him.”
“Also my fear. Andrew made an appointment with a lawyer anyway.”
“What’d the lawyer say?” His tone is more cool and detached than interested.
“That I’d never get sole custody. That Michael would smear me with dog caca and portray me as unstable. That, realistically, Michael had his money tied up in off-shore accounts, and I’d never get a dime.”
The memory of that one and only meeting fills my mouth with bitterness. I try to swallow, but my throat muscles freeze. I swallow, then blurt, “There’s zero proof connecting Michael to Andrew’s death.”
“I’ll find a link.”
