She half scowls at me from her profile photo, wearing a white, beachy dress and holding a glass of champagne, blue pool water in the background. I try to click through for more photos. Only a few are public. I can’t see her occupation or relationship status. In another photo, she’s in front of the Space Needle in Seattle, giving a thumbs-up to the camera. Another woman has an arm around her and wears a fanny pack and visor. Nothing that gives me any information. I don’t really even know what I’m looking for. Then I see it. We have a friend in common. We both know Joe Brooks.
He’s been in the background of my Facebook friends for years. I’ve known him since we were kids, and he coaches Ben’s team, it’s to be expected that we would be tied somehow on social media, but I don’t log on often, and I’d completely forgotten about Joe being a so-called friend. I click on his profile, shakily.
I flip through all of his photos. Many are of him out on his boat with the guys and a few pretty women in bikinis. Lots of gym selfies, him flexing his muscles. A celebration photo captioned Detective Brooks. That must have been the night I met Lacy. She said he was celebrating his promotion and I can see the kitschy Budweiser signs and coin-operated pool tables behind him in the photo. There is no trace of Lacy anywhere. No photos, and they’re not friends.
His page seems to be all selfies and beer with the occasional shared images that are in poor taste, but not overtly offensive. A tray of buns from the oven that look like butts. Super classy. I can’t imagine what his page would look like if he didn’t have to hold back, his job being in the public eye. I scroll through his posts as the page loads and blooms a new crop of idiotic memes. I stop cold when I see his post from September 20. There’s a huge charity event in town every September. Formal dress, overpriced drinks, a silent auction, dancing, the whole nine yards. Collin and I have gone a few times, but we both balk at dressing in black-tie attire, so we haven’t bothered in a few years. I didn’t realize it had fallen on the twentieth.
I’m looking at a massive group photo, about thirty people scrunched in for the shot. Joe is in the back, in a tux. A few women duck down in the front row in their gowns, balancing as they crouch in heels. One gives another bunny ears. Some of the faces I know from town, a few I haven’t seen before. But there, in the second row of the photo, is Valerie Ellison and her rock-solid alibi. She’s posing for a group photo time-stamped at 9:23 p.m.
Except that she’s not posing, not exactly. It looks as though...she’s looking back slightly, not at the camera, but toward Joe Brooks. I throw my phone to the end of the bed, impulsively, when I hear Collin’s footfalls coming down the hall. Then, I scramble to pick it up and toss it in my nightstand drawer before he enters the room, and lie back on the bed. He chuckles when he sees me.
“They’re that exhausting, huh?”
“Yes.” I smile, playing into his assumption.
“Did you discuss a book this time?”
“Does a story in People magazine about whether or not Kate Middleton got a new nose count as a book?” I say, and Collin laughs. He sits next to me while he unbuttons his shirt and pushes each shoe off with the other heel. He kisses my check.
“You can just use them for research for your novel. Call it Suburban Wildlife.”
“I like it,” I say, and he picks up his shoes and goes into the en suite bathroom to shower. I go in behind him to brush my teeth. In the mirror, I can see his reflection inside the glass panels of the shower. The steam obstructs my view a little, but I feel a heat rising inside me, watching the soapy water slide down his skin and drop into foamy peaks on the shower floor.
Part of my sudden longing for him is remorse, but much of it is the same attraction and feeling of safety and desire we’ve always felt with one another. I undress and slide into the shower behind him, caressing my hands around his slippery chest. He’s surprised, but leans into me as I touch him. He turns and kisses me, passionately. It almost feels like new love, and I realize that I’ve been neglecting him. He seems almost grateful for my initiating.
When we finish, I lay awake thinking about how I will create a fake Facebook account to friend Valerie, so I can see who she really is and how present Luke is in her documented online history. She has two thousand plus friends, and now that I know we have a mutual friend in common, she probably wouldn’t think twice about accepting a request from me as long as I take on a male persona. I can piece one together from stock photos and take my chances.
I try hard to sleep, but I toss and turn. I wonder what it might mean that Joe and Valerie know one another. How? It seems a little too convenient that her alibi involves an event where Joe is also present. She thought she’d get money if Luke died. She didn’t know until he was already dead that he’d changed his will and made sure she didn’t. She must be pretty proud of herself for this photo, proving she wasn’t there. I could just about guarantee that the same photo is displayed, boastfully, on her page, just to make sure it’s loud and clear.
My first thought when I found out that they knew one another was that she’d offered to give him a cut of whatever she got if he helped her get rid of Luke. There’s no question that she would have needed someone on the inside to help—someone with the connections she’d need to cover something up. And it’s also clear that he has no problem abusing his badge to do whatever serves him in the moment. He gets away with it.
But I guess none of that can be true because they’re both in the photo on that night. The problem is, I don’t trust a coincidence this big.
24
ON MONDAY MORNING, with everyone away at work and school, I decide to run some errands downtown. Ralph tries to jump into the backseat when I open the car to put my bag down, so I grab his leash, deciding a walk will be good for me. After I finish the mundane task of dropping off dry cleaning and stopping at the post office, I take Ralph around the town center streets. He stops every few feet to sniff something unseen yet fascinating to him. I let him pull me along in fits and starts, not paying much attention.
We pass the little library, rows of small businesses that used to be houses now converted into Knotty Knitters sewing shop and Ye Olde Creamery ice cream parlor, and then a place I used to park to go and see Luke. I dismiss a stitch of guilt trying to rise up and keep walking.
We come up to the quaint police headquarters, which are housed in a small brick building, with eighteenth-century Spanish architecture and wrought iron balconies on the second floor. I always thought it was too pretty to be a police station. Ralph stops right in front to pee on a bed of pale pink snapdragons, and I gaze toward the parking lot on the side of the station. Luke’s truck is parked there. An electric surge of hot panic runs through me. Valerie is there. Why? Why would she tell them what she has on me if she knows she can still get money out of me? All the intangible scraps of thoughts that haunted my dreams as I fell into a hard, fitful sleep last night are coming back to me.
I don’t care if Joe Brooks is posed in a very public photo the night of the murder. Just because it was posted at 9:23 doesn’t mean it was taken then. I have no way to know when it was taken. Luke lives minutes from that downtown venue where the event is always held. Either of them could have left the party for a while and slipped back in. There would be way too many people for someone to really leave unnoticed. Especially—my knuckles go white as I think of it—especially if they were there together. They might be one another’s alibi. There would be nobody else, like a date or someone, to miss them if they left for a while.
She had everything to gain, and she’d need help. He has all the connections and clout to never be suspected, and he could protect her. If this overwhelming hunch is right, Joe isn’t just casually questioning me. He could be planning to pin this on me. I need to get them before they get me.
I imagine him meeting her at that putrid motel later that night, after I gave her the money, and they probably splurged my Birkin bag spoils on expensive booze and had l
ewd sex, celebrating what they’d gotten away with—and what they are about to get away with. I can’t let that happen.
I hadn’t thought of the library before. Probably because coming up with sneaky, devious plots to cover up the lies I’ve told has not come second nature to me until now. I hook Ralph’s leash to a sprinkler spout in a shady spot on the ground and run into the library. The computers are open to the public, so it’s better to do this here than use my own IP address.
It’s only $19.99 to buy a background check on someone, but when I pull up Valerie’s file, there isn’t much to see. It mostly just gives criminal background information. It’s not that I expected prior arrests for money laundering or fraud, but that would have been nice to see, of course—to have some leverage, something to keep in my back pocket. The only record she has is traffic related—a few petty moving violations, and one DWI. I click on it. It shows that she was arrested on that offense locally. It was only about six months ago. I wonder if Joe happened to be the arresting officer, if that’s how she came to know him. I can’t find that information out. I see her address is in New Orleans. I write it down with a tiny golf pencil sitting on the computer table and shove it in my coat pocket.
Then I open Facebook and create an account. I call myself Dylan Bisset for no real reason other than we used to have a guinea pig named Dylan and so it was the first thing to come to mind. I type a fake email address and it won’t let me continue until I confirm via email. Shit. Now I have to bring up Gmail and create a new account there first. Dylan_Bisset1978_ gets green-lighted after I try a few variations. I go back to Facebook, type in the new email, go back to the email, accept “terms and conditions” and confirm, and I’m in.
I can’t steal the photo of someone I actually know because it might be linked back, so I just type hot guys into Google Images, and thousands of options materialize. I cut and paste the photo of a guy who looks around my age, not too model-esque, but not a photo that will scream sleazebag either. I don’t know how to populate a history of posts to show that it’s not a fake account. All I can do is make an initial post:
Well, I said I’d never do it, but my friends finally got me to sign up for this. Prove me wrong, Facebook, Dylan says. A good reason for being a newbie.
I’m pleased with myself for making it sound like a legitimate first post. Then I shamelessly friend request as many people as I can before I have to go. It’s amazing how “people you may know” suggestions are abundant, even for a totally made-up person. Before I log off, seven people have accepted my request. Bingo. I add Valerie Ellison, and hope for the best, but I’ll need to come back to see if she’s accepted. I can’t do this from my own devices.
Outside, Ralph leaps to his feet and runs in circles as I approach him. I scratch his ears and walk him back to the car. Luke’s truck is gone. Yesterday, my first thought would be that she’s back from New Orleans because they wanted to question her further. Now I think she’s here for very different reasons.
25
“GILLIAN AND ROBERT ARE FIGHTING,” I say to Collin over dinner that night. I need a reason to get out of the house and investigate, and so I tell a half-truth because they were fighting. I don’t really know why I grasp for this when I am about to deceive him. Again. He stabs at a steaming baked potato with his fork.
“Aren’t they always fighting?” he asks, resuming the conversation.
“Who’s fighting?” Ben asks, wide-eyed. He mostly completely ignores adult conversation and stays lost in his art and coloring books, but he often surprises us and has been paying attention to a conversation we weren’t careful enough to have had out of earshot.
“Mom’s telling me about a book she’s reading, bud,” Collin covers. He lifts his eyebrows at me in a self-congratulatory way for thinking of it so quickly.
“What’s the story?” he asks matter-of-factly. Collin pauses, then...
“It’s called The Anesthesiologist and the Gold Digger.”
I choke on my sip of water at his coded description of Gillian and Robert.
“Is it about someone digging for gold?”
“Kind of. It’s about someone digging for Prada bags and diamond jewelry,” Collin says, trying to keep a straight face.
“Sounds dumb,” Ben says.
“It is dumb, bud.” He pats Ben on the back and smiles at me sideways.
“Meghan Markle has a Prada bag. It’s pink,” Ben says.
We both look at him as he picks up his pink crayon and continues his drawing.
“Anyway, you’re golfing tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, around ten.”
“So, would you mind if tonight I grabbed a drink with Gill? Rachel has a paper to write, and Claire is resting.”
“Go for it. The boys have plans anyway, right?” he says to Ben who excitedly explains.
“Pacquiao versus Thurman! And we got the good popcorn with the caramel.”
“Boxing?” I say, trying to keep the disapproval out of my voice and pick my battles. He gives an overdramatic shrug and goofy look.
“It was the kid’s pick this time. He chose Pacquiao and Thurman.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I kiss Ben’s head. “No homework?”
“It’s done,” Ben says, not looking up from his art.
“Okay then. I’m gonna go change I guess. Thanks for holding down the fort.”
Upstairs, I poke my head into Claire’s room. She’s asleep in her chair. I turn down a Seinfeld rerun so I can hear anyone coming up the stairs. I quickly go into her medicine cabinet and look for the bottle I need for my plan. As I stand, looking at the labels, I wish I had brought my readers. I squint at an opaque orange bottle when I hear the creak of a floorboard behind me and drop the pills into the sink.
“Mom?”
“Jesus.” I hold my hand to my heart, catching my breath. Rachel has just appeared without a sound. She holds a tampon box in one hand. In the other is my burner phone.
“What are you doing?” she asks. I stop cleaning up the pills and stare at her.
“Nothing. Just—getting Claire’s dinner pills ready before I go. Honey...” I don’t say anything, I just take the phone from her. “Why were you in our bathroom?”
“I needed...” She stops and looks at the tampon box with a flushed face. “Why do you have a creepy second phone hidden in here? What is this?”
“It’s...my phone.” I stumble over my words. I was not at all prepared to be on the spot like this.
“It’s a flip phone. It looks like 2005 called. That’s not yours.”
“Keep those,” I say, nodding to the box she holds loosely by her side to distract attention from it, “and get ready to go to Katie’s.”
“I’ve seen those cheap throwaway phones in movies. Sooo, you’re not gonna tell me why you have it?”
“Movies? Rachel. It’s just an old phone. I was probably cleaning and got distracted. I put my iPad in the fridge once by mistake. It’s nothing. I’ll recycle it. Go. You’re gonna keep her mom waiting.”
Rachel has her hand on one hip and looks at me sideways a few more minutes until she hears Ben yell that Katie’s mom pulled up, then she bolts out of the room, seemingly changing moods and forgetting all about it in seconds. I hide the phone in the back of Claire’s medicine cabinet for now, not daring to walk across the house with it in my hand. It will be safe until I get home and find a new hiding place when everyone’s asleep.
* * *
Candy’s Strip Club is outside of the county line on a remote road next to a truck stop. That’s probably why Joe Brooks goes to that one. Lord knows there are plenty to choose from, but Candy’s is full-nude and out of his police jurisdiction. I don’t imagine I will run into anyone I know, but if I do, I plan to say that I’m writing a story and this is research. I’ve never been in a strip club, so I need to see one to accurately write about it. The real reason
is that Lacy hasn’t returned my last few calls and I’m worried, but selfishly, I also need her help.
Inside, the club is electric with pulses of strobe light. Flashes of laughing faces appear as the spotlight sweeps around the crowd, the light telling a piecemeal story, like hearing snatches of conversation in a crowded restaurant. The light flashes a man tipping back a last swallow of beer, then a girl on a man’s lap, taking a cigarette from his lips, then a young man, drunk, with a paper crown, a bachelor party perhaps.
I’m nervous, and I am trying to resist the urge to turn around and leave, so I walk along the back wall, down a sticky hallway to find a restroom. I must be in the wrong corridor because I see the dancers’ dressing room. The door stands open, and I watch a moment. I can’t turn away from a room full of beautiful women dressing up in heels and gloss, not for a special date, but to walk out and be objectified by a roomful of men.
The bass from the stage speakers rattles glasses, pregnant with ice cubes and colorful cocktails, which rest all along the dressing tables or the floor or on stools. Black plastic ashtrays hold smoldering cigarettes that cloud the small, narrow room. Girls stretch bent legs on stools to fasten garter belts and stockings, covering nipples with tassels, and painting their eyes with beautiful sweeps of purple and glitter. It could almost be mistaken for backstage of a 1930s cabaret. If only they could stay behind that dressing room door and not meet the searing lights of the catwalk.
One of the women, wearing a strappy, glittery wisp of fabric that could fit in the palm of my hand, sees me. I take a step back and look left to right, trying to figure out my escape. She smiles and takes a pull of her cigarette.
Such a Good Wife Page 20
