“It was a mess,” Jonas said, from behind her. His face was grave. “I’m glad you called me. Annabel shouldn’t be alone right now. This is getting out of hand.”
The men exchanged a look. Annabel sensed how uneasy they both were, which made her uneasy. If they were the ones who did this, wouldn’t they appear more confident? Menacing, even? Instead, Julian looked genuinely alarmed by the state of her apartment. Jonas, too, seemed shaken. If it was an act, it was a hell of a good one.
“What’s getting out of hand?” she asked.
“Annabel, let’s sit,” Jonas replied. “I think we need to talk.”
Wordlessly, they filed into the living room. Though they had tidied up much of the mess, evidence of the break-in was everywhere. Pictures on the floor. The gutted couches. Piles of paper stacked on the coffee table. The air was still cold. Annabel perched uncomfortably on the arm of a chair.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Julian looked to Jonas, who gave him a nod. Julian cleared his throat.
“Annabel, there’s something we’ve been keeping from you,” he said gently. “We haven’t—hmm—we haven’t wanted to trouble you, on top of everything that’s happened. But now, I think, is the time for honesty.”
Annabel stiffened. “Honesty,” she said, her voice curt. “Yes, I’d appreciate that.”
“We know you saw Zoe Durand right before you left for London. She came to your apartment, stayed for around an hour. Had you had any contact with her prior to that?”
“How did you know I saw Zoe?”
“We’ve been tailing her for some time,” Jonas said. “We believe she’s been stealing client information and selling it. We weren’t sure to who, so we had her followed. We wanted to see if we could catch her buyer. We suspect someone had an ax to grind with the Amir family. They have powerful enemies. Anyway, I believe whoever was buying the information from Zoe was responsible for Matthew’s death.”
Annabel inhaled sharply. “Why?”
“The client information we have is incredibly valuable,” Julian said. “Think of our client base. Who they are, who they do business with. People will pay enormous sums to have access to that kind of information. For that reason, we’re very selective about who we hire. Zoe was not a typical hire for us. Not well pedigreed. She’s from a very small town in the South of France. Very little money. She’s a smart girl and brilliant with languages. She speaks five, I think. And quite ambitious. But ultimately, I think the financial temptation proved to be too great for her.”
“What did you think of Zoe?” Julian asked Annabel. “Did you spend much time with her?”
“No. I didn’t know her, really. Just in passing.”
“Did Matthew speak about her at all?”
Annabel winced, thinking of the schoolboyish way Matthew would talk about Zoe. “Not really,” she said.
“Why did she come to see you? The night of Matthew’s funeral?”
Annabel looked up and met Jonas’s eye. “I don’t really know,” she said. She chose her words slowly and deliberately. “She brought me a box of Matthew’s things. Nothing of consequence. Just personal items that had ended up in her desk, that kind of thing. I think she felt guilty that we hadn’t really ever gotten to know each other.”
“Did you ever think they might be having an affair?”
Annabel turned and looked at Julian. “Yes,” she said, as calmly as possible. “The thought crossed my mind. But I dismissed it.”
“Why?”
“Because I trusted Matthew. I believed in what we had.”
“Zoe is a persuasive woman. We think she may have convinced Matthew to help her. We know he gave her access to client information that typically bankers do not grant to their assistants.”
“That doesn’t mean they were having an affair. Or that Matthew was doing anything improper.”
Julian took a deep breath. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I didn’t want to have to give this to you,” he said, as he handed it to Annabel.
Annabel stared at the envelope. Then she slid a finger inside the seal and pulled it open. Inside, there was a stack of photographs. The first was grainy and so dark she had to hold it up to make out its contents. She flipped quickly through them, stopping on the last one. The image was clear. Their faces were unmistakable. Matthew and Zoe, lying together in a bed Annabel didn’t recognize. Zoe’s eyes were closed. She wore only a bra, sheer enough that her nipples were visible through the fabric. Her hair splayed across the pillow. They weren’t kissing or making love. It was worse. Zoe’s head lay tenderly against Matthew’s shoulder, her hand resting on his naked torso.
“I’m sorry,” Julian said. “Really, I am.”
Annabel stuffed the photographs back into the envelope. “Why did you show me these?”
“Because we’re trying to make you understand how dangerous Zoe Durand can be.” Jonas reached across the table and put his hand on Annabel’s knee. “We think she came into Swiss United with the intention of stealing data. Seducing Matthew was part of her plan.”
“And you think he helped her.”
“We think he might have. But he came to his senses. He was going to turn her in. And it got him killed.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Help us find Zoe.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“She disappeared after she visited you. She didn’t tell you where she was going?”
Annabel sat back. She felt her bones settling into the chair, a deep liquid fatigue flooding her body. She closed her eyes. She welcomed the silence, the momentary darkness. Then the image of Zoe’s half-naked body next to her husband flickered on the backs of her eyelids, like a film projection her mind couldn’t shut off. Her eyes popped open.
“She told me to tell you she was going home. To take care of her sick mother.”
“She told you that? Or she told you to tell us that?”
“She told me to tell you that.”
Julian looked at Jonas.
“And did she mention a computer? Matthew’s laptop?”
“Zoe has it,” Annabel said. She looked Jonas in the eye. “If you find her, she’ll have it.”
Jonas nodded. “Thank you, Annabel. You’ve been very helpful.”
“It’s been a long day,” Annabel said. She stood. “Would you mind if I showered, cleaned myself up a bit?”
“Of course.” Jonas and Julian rose to their feet.
“Annabel, you can’t stay here tonight,” Julian said. His eyes shone with concern. “It isn’t safe.”
Jonas agreed. “You’ll stay with us. In Cologny.”
“Go with him, Annabel,” Julian said. “You’ll be safe there. We need to find Zoe. Once we do, we can figure out who her buyer was. Whoever they were, if they killed Matthew, they will come for you.” He gestured around the apartment. “They already have.”
“All right. Just give me time to shower and pack up a few things.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need. We can wait downstairs in the lobby.” Jonas nodded at Julian. The two men turned and let themselves out. As soon as Annabel knew they were gone, she covered her face with her hands and began to weep.
Marina
Marina’s apartment was dark when she entered. Her hands trembled as she unbuttoned her coat. She pulled off her heels. They were soaked through from the rain. She left them on the foyer floor and padded, barefoot, to the library bar.
She needed a drink. Not wine; something stronger. She pulled out a bottle of Macallan and poured herself an ounce. She swirled it, sniffed it, and then tossed it back. She closed her eyes, savoring the burn at the back of her throat.
“Celebrating something?”
Marina’s eyes opened. She turned; Grant leaned against the library door, hands in his poc
kets. Though he looked handsome in a button-down, blazer, jeans, and loafers, she could tell he was tired.
“Jesus.” Marina put down the glass. “You scared me. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“I just got home. Where were you?”
“Out.”
“I was waiting for you at Chat Noir.” Grant glanced at his watch. “For over an hour. When it started getting awkward, I left.”
“Oh my God, Grant. Why didn’t you text me?”
“I didn’t think you needed a reminder about our anniversary.”
Marina’s hand flew to her forehead. “I’m so sorry. It’s just been crazy at work.”
“I thought you wanted this to be a tradition.”
“I did. I do. I’m sorry, Grant. Can we sit and talk?”
“Of course.” Grant nodded toward the bar. “Have a drink with me, at least? It’s our anniversary, after all.”
She gave him a small smile. “Neat?”
“Always.”
Marina handed Grant a tumbler. They both took a seat on the couch. Side by side but not close enough to touch.
Marina took a small sip. “I was at your father’s.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to ask him about his offshore holdings.”
Grant frowned. He put his tumbler down on the coffee table. “His offshore holdings?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s a journalist I know. He’s writing about your father. His holdings at Swiss United Bank. His business ties to Assad. Don’t bother defending him, Grant. He admitted it was all true.”
Grant’s expression transformed from confusion to shock. “He what?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that.”
“He said you weren’t involved.”
“I’m not.”
“I know. I believe you.”
“How do you know about this story?”
“It was Duncan’s story. A friend picked it up after he died. I wanted your father to hear it from me, before it came out.”
“Duncan Sander?”
“Yes. Did you know that your father was having him followed?”
“I know he didn’t trust Duncan,” Grant said after a pause. “I didn’t, either, to be honest.”
“He asked me if I fucked you as a way to get the inside track on your family.”
Grant looked up. “Jesus Christ. I’m sorry. Dad can be crass when he’s upset. He doesn’t really think that about you. I hope you know that.”
“He didn’t trust me, though. Do you? Did you ever wonder about me?”
Grant slid closer to her. He cupped her cheek in his hand. Gently, he turned her face so that they were looking at each other, eye to eye. “Never,” he said firmly. “Not once.”
She nodded.
“Look, I know the rumors about Dad. About the offshore business. I don’t want to justify anything, but a lot of people do it. You know, for tax reasons. I’m not condoning it, but—”
“Do they do business with tyrannical terrorists, too?”
Grant took a deep breath before he answered. “No matter what Duncan or anyone else may have told you, my father wouldn’t do business with Assad.”
“He told me he did, Grant.”
He looked away. “That’s just not true.”
“That’s not the end of it, either. He had Duncan killed. To cover the story.”
Grant turned back to her, his eyes blazing. “No,” he said, his voice cold. “You’re wrong.” His jaw muscle flexed as he clenched his teeth. It struck Marina how much Grant looked like his father when he was angry.
He stood up and strode over to the window. “Why would you say that?”
“He basically admitted it, Grant.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Marina rose to her feet. They stood, staring at each other, from across the library. “Your father is not the man you think he is,” she said, crossing her arms.
“My father is the best man I’ve ever met. Whatever you think you know is wrong.”
“I understand how hard this is to hear,” Marina said. She reminded herself to stay calm. “Grant, you have to prepare yourself. He’s running for president. The truth will come out. It always does.”
Grant snorted. “Whatever my father has done pales in comparison to the behavior of many great men.”
“Maybe so.”
“He’ll be an excellent leader. Better than Hayden Murphy, for God’s sake. Dad’s brilliant. He’s unbiased. Whatever he’s done, he’s done for the greater good. You need to think about the big picture.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe that the ends always justify the means. Especially if the means involve murdering a friend of mine.”
“He didn’t kill Duncan, Marina!” Grant’s voice rose in frustration.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Grant took a deep breath. For a moment, they stared at each other, silent. Marina could hear the distant rumble of traffic on Park Avenue and the steady drumbeat of the rain on the windowpanes. Grant shifted, and the light caught his hair. For the first time, Marina noticed a hint of silver around his ears. These past few weeks had taken a toll on all of them. Grant appeared leaner, too. He hadn’t been sleeping well or going to the gym, and it showed. He looked, Marina thought, more like James than ever.
She felt a sharp pang of guilt. James was Grant’s father. What would she do if it was her father? Richard, of course, would never so much as jaywalk. But Marina was lucky in that way. She’d never given much consideration to the moral character of her parents, except, perhaps, to measure herself against it.
How could she judge Grant? He believed in family. He believed in loyalty. It was those values that would make him a good husband. But they could be his downfall, too. He would follow his father to the ends of the earth. It was up to her whether she would go with them.
“Do you want to go talk to Dad together?” Grant said, his voice softening. “We can clear this up. I know we can.”
“I’m sorry.” She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. He lowered his face, nuzzling the side of hers. He was crying, she realized. “I have to go.”
“Please don’t.”
“I have to. I won’t ever get past what I heard tonight.”
“Do you still love me, Marina?”
Marina pulled back so she could look at Grant. They held each other at arm’s length, their fingers clasped tightly together.
“Yes,” she whispered. Tears dripped from her cheeks, and his. “I do. I always will.”
“Then consider what you’re doing. Think about the life we could have together. None of this has anything to do with us.”
“I wish that were true.” She pulled his hands to her lips and kissed them. Then she turned, and before she lost her nerve, she fled from the apartment. She scooped up her shoes and coat from the foyer floor and let the front door shut behind her. If Grant came after her, she was afraid she might stay. She pressed the elevator button hard and fast and was surprised when it opened right away. She stepped inside, barefoot, holding her shoes to her chest.
Annabel
Annabel cried until her throat ached and her head throbbed. Eventually, when she’d cried herself out, she peeled herself off the floor and forced herself to shower. When she emerged, the bedroom was cold and Annabel’s wet shoulders shook as she stood in front of the bed. Had they slept together more than once? Had he brought her here, to their apartment? The thought made her sick.
Her eyes fell on the nail above the bed. On it used to hang the Marshall Cleve painting that Matthew had bought for her just before he died. Her breath caught in her throat. Where was the painting? Had they damaged it? Destroyed it? Taken it? The thought of that canvas torn, the thick silver frame cracked, b
roke her heart. As if it wasn’t broken already.
She looked to the left of the bed, then to the right. There it was, tilted against the wall on one side was the painting. Annabel dropped to her knees and grasped the frame in her hands. It appeared undamaged. She wondered why someone had bothered to move it. Perhaps they had been looking for a safe behind it, she thought. She shivered. If it wasn’t Jonas and Julian who had sent men to search her apartment, who was it? What had they hoped to find?
Annabel stared at the painting, her eyes misting over. Her fingers wrapped themselves around the frame.
You should own this, Matthew had said. I want to buy you art. Your own private gallery.
Had Zoe convinced him to sell client information to the highest bidder? Annabel couldn’t believe it; but then, she wouldn’t have believed that he had slept with Zoe, either, until she’d seen the pictures to prove it. And Matthew’s appetite for wealth had always troubled Annabel. Now her head swirled with possibilities, all of them awful. Either Zoe was telling the truth and the photos were a setup, orchestrated by Jonas to blackmail Matthew into doing his bidding. Or Jonas and Julian were telling the truth and Zoe had convinced Matthew to betray the bank by selling client information. Annabel had never trusted Zoe, and the pictures hadn’t helped. The question was: how much did she trust Matthew?
If ever anything happens to me, Matthew had said when he gave her the painting. Had he known that someone was trying to kill him? Annabel squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall the conversation. If ever anything happens to me . . . what had he said next?
Her eyes opened.
There’s value in the frame.
That’s what he had said.
There’s value in the frame. I want you to remember that.
At the time, it had struck her as an odd thing to say. But now . . .
Annabel popped to her feet. She let the towel slide off her body. She lay the painting on the bed and examined the frame. She let her fingers caress the edges of it, feeling for seams or small shifts in the wood.
Nothing.
It was a beautiful frame but not terribly distinct. Of all the things they owned, this frame was hardly the most valuable.
The Banker’s Wife Page 20
