The Dispensable Wife (The MisFit Book 5)

by AB Plum

  “What is his relationship to Andrew?”

  “Andrew and Bradley’s sister were engaged. Four months before the wedding, she was diagnosed with glioblastoma. That’s—“

  “The deadliest brain tumor out there and a death sentence.” God Andrew. “How long did she live?”

  “Three months. Refused treatment. Refused to marry Andrew. He refused to take a hike. Stayed with her to the end. Married her, according to Bradley, two hours before she died.”

  “How long after she died did Andrew start working for Michael?” Saying his name is as disgusting as saying my husband.

  “Six months. He and Bradley set up a foundation in her name at Washington University Medical Center. Andrew didn’t have the computer savvy to work for Bradley, and he didn’t want to run the foundation day-to-day. Working for your hus—for MR, he worked for money.”

  “Why wasn’t he involved in the trafficking then? That must pay even more.”

  “I thought you knew Andrew.”

  “I did and so did Michael. He may lack any human empathy, but he had to know Andrew would never condone anything so sleazy as sex trafficking.”

  “Being a stand-up guy got Andrew killed. Same for you if we’re not careful.”

  “If dying brings him down and protects my children, I don’t care.” This statement sounds so grandiose I’m surprised Patrick doesn’t laugh.

  His mouth tightens. As if waiting for me to retract the declaration, he arches a brow. When I give him a you-heard-me stare, he says, “No one’s going to die.”

  “I hope you don’t think he’ll surrender.”

  “Not easily, but I think there’s a way if we get our story straight about Jed Wilson. I’ll feel a helluva lot better staying at Belle Haven with him out of the picture.”

  I laugh. “Staying at Belle Haven? Do you honestly think he’ll let you back on the grounds?”

  “Listen, o’ ye of little faith.”

  Chapter 77

  HE

  Dimitri’s call comes as I make my second tour of the Wells Fargo parking lot. He’s waiting for his flight to Zurich, then to SFO.

  Before I can ask him to explain that stupid itinerary, he says, “The Stockholm PD told me the quicker I left, the less chance I’d have of learning Swedish in jail.”

  “What the hell—what does that mean?”

  “Cops met me at the airport when I landed. I didn’t even go through Customs. They took me downtown. Reminded me Anika is a private citizen.”

  “How did they know you went there to see Anika?”

  “No idea. I’d guess your Indian cop knows people in high places.”

  “That bastard.” I slow down as a door opens at the yoga studio. An overhead light illuminates a group of five women standing at the entrance as if waiting for a rock star.

  The friend flips off the light in the studio, closes, and locks the door behind him. Dressed in a neon-green, reflective jacket with matching stripes on his long pants, he shakes his head, holds up something with a strobe light in the middle, and points to his bike.

  The women gather around him like a flock of hens around a rooster. He unlocks his handlebars, clamps the light on them, and mounts the bike. An intense blue light on the rear fender provides as much brightness as the taillights on my Benz. The women cluck and fuss as he straddles the bike and removes a helmet with another strobe light.

  For Chrissakes. You’d think he was headed into the deepest coal mine in West Virginia.

  Except they’d have to cut a wider hole in the coal mine. The helmet increases the size of his head by a yard. He eases through the women.

  In my ear, Dimitri drones on and on and on—as if I am hanging on his every word. Ahead of me, the friend turns right onto Church. The women disperse to their cars. I ease forward.

  “Dimitri,” I speak over him. “Go to Zurich, then catch the first flight to our favorite city. Use caution. Call me when you get settled.”

  “I understand.”

  Use caution is code for him to use an alternative passport, to fly Emirates, and to go to my apartment in Abu Dhabi. Making his reservations before leaving Stockholm will lessen the likelihood of harassment by the Swiss police. They, like the Swedes, will want him out of the country as fast as possible—especially when they see his ultimate destination.

  Ahead, I see the friend’s safety lights. Or are they a beacon pulling me toward him?

  A plan is already forming on how to get AnnaSophia to come out of her hidey-hole.

  Checking my rearview mirror, I smile at my reflection. The more balls I have to juggle, the more I perform like a top-notch juggler.

  The bike’s back light pierces the fog as brightly as if we’re out on a clear night. He crosses Shoreline, main drag to Google, the Amphitheatre, and Unleashed. The light turns yellow, and I cross as well. He turns left on the next car-lined street. Many of these pre-World War II homes have only one garage so people park at the curb. It’s the kind of neighborhood where AnnaSophia might rent if she weren’t married to me.

  Does she ever think about practicalities when she’s daydreaming of escape?

  Does the Pope worry about pocket change?

  A car backs out of a drive too fast. The Benz responds beautifully. I blink my lights, but the driver either doesn’t see or doesn’t give a damn. If I weren’t tracking the friend, I’d ram the driver without a second thought. As he turns toward me, I switch on my high beams. The guy stops. Finally. I drive past the music of his swearing. Bozo’s probably going for a six-pack.

  How would AnnaSophia enjoy marriage to a beer-guzzling idiot?

  The green stripes on the friend’s jacket are barely visible after the delay with the neighborhood moron. I speed up, slowing at an intersection with two North-South stop signs. I deduce from experience of driving back streets that the next intersection will have East-West signs. The pattern should alternate until the friend reaches his destination.

  Perfect. Fits my plan with perfect serendipity. Tracy’s face flashes. I hope Patel is off chasing his tail.

  At the next intersection, I take a chance friend still has another block to reach home and whip to the left. Exactly as I deduced. The stop signs now appear in the opposite direction. Light pools in front of the bike rolling toward me. Switching from my headlights to the parking beams, I wait patiently, feeling the burn of his calf muscles, the tightness in his shoulders, the tension in his hands gripping the handlebars.

  He slows. Without coming to a complete stop, he slides into the intersection at the same moment as I coast forward.

  He flies over the handlebars and smacks down on his chest and elbows. He doesn’t make a sound. The bike spins off to one side, landing on top of him. He yelps. A black mat above the bike’s rear tire rips open like a prayer rug.

  I throw on the high beams, cut the engine, and jump out of the car.

  “My God, you ran the sign. I couldn’t stop.” As an afterthought, I squat next to him and drag the bike off his chest—with a little more effort than necessary. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  He is sitting up, shaking his head, holding up one hand. “I’m . . . okay.”

  Based on his croak, I know better. “Let me call 911.”

  “No. Please. My wife is ill. I need to get home.”

  “But—” I try to sound concerned and confused—neither a state I have ever really felt. “Let me take you home. I’ll call my doctor. You could have a broken rib.”

  He gets his feet under him and lurches forward, determined to stand.

  Damn, macho man.

  “No broken ribs. No broken skull. Thanks to the ole brain bucket.” He taps his helmet, then grabs the handlebars and damned if he doesn’t stand. Bent over and breathing hard, but he does stand.

  I offer my elbow, but he ignores it and exhales through his nose. A long inhale follows, repeated by another moronic yogi exhale hissed through his open mouth.

  “That a yoga mat?” I point to the bundle identical to AnnaSophia’s
pad.

  His head bobs. “I’m a yoga instructor.”

  I let my jaw drop. “Really? My wife takes yoga. At the place next to Wells Fargo. Maybe you know her.”

  “I do. You’re AnnaSophia’s husband. I saw you at Le Boulanger a couple of days ago.” He winces—whether from pain or guilt, I can only guess.

  “Funny, I don’t remember you.” Ahhh, Michael Andrei Romanov, you smooth liar, you.

  “I’m John Fuller. I left before you came inside.” A couple more inhales and exhales—which are beginning to gross me out. They sound as if he’s choking on a snootful of mucus. He straightens, saying, “I missed AnnaSophia yesterday and today. I hope she’s okay.”

  Better than you, geezer. His bald-faced boldness makes me want to give him a little shove that will knock him on his ass, but I remain focused.

  “She’s well. She won’t believe how you and I ran—excuse the pun—how we met. She talks about yoga all the time.” Another lie since she rarely refers to the class and never mentions the instructor. “If you don’t let me take you to El Camino Hospital, I swear she’ll kill me.”

  Where my eager, boyish tone comes from, I’ll never know.

  “No, she won’t.” His eyes are glassy, his cheeks wet. “AnnaSophia is one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.”

  Uh-huh. Try living with her, bub. Anyone would assume he’s been hit by a train instead of bumped by a barely moving car.

  “I guess we should call the police.” I pick up his bike—free of visible damage.

  “What for?” He takes the bike, lifts one leg, winces, and leans against the frame. “No one hurt. I live three blocks away. You can follow me home if you’re afraid I’ll pass out, but it’s really not necessary.”

  “I’ll follow you. Give you my cell number and insurance carrier. Just in case you wake up in the morning and decide to sue me.”

  He chuckles. “I probably have AnnaSophia’s number somewhere.”

  I’ll bet you do. I flash the old coot a smile. “At the very least, would you call her, then? Right now? Explain what happened so I can go home with a clear conscience.”

  Chapter 78

  SHE

  Patrick’s “plan” contains holes as big as railway tunnels. Two side-by-side commuter trains could pass through with feet to spare. He wastes no time defending his ideas. Asks for something more creative from me. Stares at me. In the dash’s dim light, his mouth is a hard, uncompromising line. Not that different from Michael’s daily expression.

  “Keep in mind leaving you in that house with him is a no-starter. You stay, I stay.”

  “He’ll never believe Jed Wilson made a pass at me. He’ll never believe I’ve been driving around because I’m afraid to go home. He definitely will never believe you’ve been lying all this time in your truck unconscious.”

  “You convince him of the first two lies, I’ll convince him of the last one.”

  “He’ll kill us both. Maybe not today, but soon.”

  “Exactly why you have to convince your cop-friend to question him about Andrew’s accident.”

  “You’re with the FBI. You can give Satish Patel more reasons than I can.”

  “Giving MR any hint I’m with the FBI guarantees he flies to Dubai ten minutes later. We’ll be dead before he disappears. Patel could never protect my identity.”

  We’ve gone over this so many times my head is spinning. Patrick’s smell of guilt leaves me more disoriented. What is he hiding? A zillion new thoughts whine in my brain, but they don’t shake the image of me and him as bloated corpses.

  God, what would happen, then, to Alexandra, Anastaysa, Magnus, and my dad?

  “You’re sure he has fake passports?”

  “Fake from Argentina, Japan, and Romania. Real from three countries besides the U.S. Dual citizenship in Dubai requires some ingenuity now. When he applied, no problems.” His tone remains patient, but I sense his growing edginess.

  “What if I say no?” My mouth goes dry, and my voice catches.

  “Then I will take you into protective custody.”

  “Without my kids?”

  “Without your kids.”

  At that moment, hatred pours into the crater under my ribcage. Before I can wail, Unfair, like a sullen teenager, my dedicated cell phone rings. My whole body goes cold—as if someone has dumped me in a bucket of ice water.

  “Michael,” I whisper, jerking open my purse. “This number . . . for his use only.”

  Patrick tugs at one corner of my purse. “You know what to say.”

  “No. No, I don’t.” I turn the phone so he can read the LED.

  “Who’s John Fuller?”

  The phone rings a third time, and I whisper, “How’d he get this number?”

  “Who is he?” Patrick reaches for the phone.

  I jerk it over my head and shove my hand in his face. “Do. Not. Touch. This. Phone.”

  Palms toward me, Patrick backs up. “You’re white as paper. Can you talk?”

  “Don’t make a sound. Don’t even breathe.” I move the phone to my ear and press ON.

  He pulls an invisible zipper across his mouth.

  “Hello, John. This AnnaSophia. How did you get this number?”

  “From your husband. I was about to give up, but he insisted I keep trying.”

  Insisted? A silent scream tears at my throat. I whisper, “Are you with Michael?”

  “He’s standing right next to me. He insisted I call you so you won’t be upset.”

  “Why would I be upset?” The words come out garbled through my stiff lips.

  “I ran a stop sign.”

  “On your bike?” He has told me he rarely drives if he can bike.

  “D-U-M,” he replies in an upbeat voice that jars me. “Your husband had the right-away. With the fog, he didn’t see me. He bumped me with his car. I took a tumble—”

  “Are you all right? Were you wearing your helmet? Where? In the Wells Fargo parking lot?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re going too fast for an old guy.” He laughs, freezing my blood. Michael has him charmed.

  “Sorry.” Listen. Listen. Shut up and listen. I swallow. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound pretty cheery for someone just run over on his bike.”

  “But that’s the point. I just took a tumble. I’m cheery because I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”

  Patrick taps my elbow. I shake him off. Too bad if he can’t pick up the gist of the conversation. He can wait.

  “Maybe you should go to the ER. Or Urgent Care. Make sure.” As soon as the suggestion falls out of my mouth, I want to scream, Do not get in a car with Michael.

  “Unnecessary. Your husband made the same suggestion. It’d end up a waste of everyone’s time. Your poor husband has apologized a dozen times. The accident was my fault. Mine. But you’d think your husband hit me deliberately.”

  Yes, I would. Tears sting my eyes. I close them, open them, lock gazes with Patrick. “If you’re sure you’re okay, I’d like to speak with Michael.”

  “Hold on. He’s standing here getting soaked. Promise me you won’t make him feel guilty.”

  “Promise.” As if I—or anyone on Planet Earth could make Michael Alexei Romanov feel guilty.

  “Great. Here’s your husband.”

  Without any of the usual white noise people make changing phones, Michael booms, “Hello, Darling. Big surprise, right, hearing from John?”

  Sickened by his pretense, I snap, “How soon will you be home?”

  “No matter what John says, I’m going to see that he gets home safely. I could come home after that. Is something wrong?”

  “Very wrong. I need to talk to you—preferably before Alexandra and Anastaysa get here.”

  “Ohhhh, that sounds interesting.”

  The slither in his voice snakes down my spine, and I’m sure I’m going to throw up.

  “The weather’s awful, but I can ask Elise to keep Magnus occupied.”

  “No.” I clear my throat,
willing my larynx to relax. “You and I can meet in the guesthouse. Can you be there in an hour?”

  “Of course. And thank you for understanding about John’s accident.”

  “I understand perfectly.” Hands shaking, I disconnect.

  “So we have a plan?” Patrick asks.

  A plan for disaster. I nod.

  “Wanna tell me what that phone call was all about?”

  “I’ll tell you, but let me sit here for a second. I need . . .”

  “We need to leave,” Patrick says. “We’re using my pickup, remember? By the time Bradley has it brought around, we’ll be cutting our time close. We don’t want MR to arrive ahead of us.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll wait for me till shovelers in hell ask for more coal.”

  *****

  We find Patrick’s red pickup on the garage’s roof level where he left it. The exchange of vehicles goes as smoothly as a James Bond heist. The fog reduces the lights to pinpricks, so I don’t see Liu in the shadows. By the time we leave the garage I am recounting John’s phone call. I begin by dredging up the day at Le Boulanger to explain how Michael knows about my friend. Patrick’s a good listener, asks no questions and makes no comments until I finish.

  “Him seeing your car and deducing you were at Starbucks is bull. He carries a pair of binoculars in his briefcase—along with his Magnum.” He stops and faces me as the light at Welch Road and Pasteur turns red.

  His bottom lip lifts in a sneer, then he laughs—a sound so full of derision and contempt I shiver.

  “I know about the gun—not about the binoculars.”

  “Heavy duty. Military grade. Thinks he’s a dude.”

  “How do you know what’s in his briefcase?”

  “He’s not the only one who knows how to track people. Or use infra-red devices. He takes his damn briefcase to the woods behind the house. Tracking puma. His story to Jed.”

  The light changes. He refocuses on the windshield. I study him from the corner of my eye. Heat arcs off him as he flexes his fingers on the steering wheel.