Saving Mr. Perfect

by Tamara Morgan

  But the secrets of a happy marriage? Forgive me if I prefer my own approach, however unorthodox it may be.

  “I doubt Grant cares whether you’re in New York,” I say, continuing with my bland smile. “He tends to focus on important criminals, and you haven’t done much work lately, have you? I hope you’re not losing your touch.”

  Satisfaction swells inside me at putting Tara in her place, but of course, she can’t let me have that minor victory. She drops to the couch in a single elegant movement, crossing one leg over the other as she falls. It’s only then that I note a peep-toe heel dangling playfully from the tip of her toes. My heart beats in an odd lurch.

  Part of that lurch is jealousy—she looks fifty times better in these shoes than I do. Her toenails are painted to match the shiny red patent leather, and her calves are a sculpture worthy of museum space. But most of it is the realization that Tara’s touch might be working perfectly fine. Those shoes are a dead giveaway.

  “Are you kidding me?” I plop next to her, not caring when she sinks so close, our thighs touch. “It’s you, isn’t it? This whole time, it’s been you. I should have known. I should have guessed the second I heard about that size seven shoe.”

  “If you’re going to be vague, please do it on a different chair.”

  “Scoot over if you don’t like it. There’s room for both of us.” Scooting is beneath a woman of Tara’s poise, so she remains in place as I add, “You know Grant’s going to find you, right? Whether I tell him or someone else does, it’s only a matter of time before he realizes you’re in New York. And then?”

  I make a series of hand motions to simulate her arrest, incarceration, and what I hope indicates a long celibacy behind bars. I can’t say how much of that makes it through, but Tara’s bright. She’ll figure it out.

  “All that time I wasted thinking I was the main suspect…” I say. I’m not supposed to meet my friends for a postmortem until tomorrow, as there’s no take for us to divide up between us, but I’m dreading it already. How could I have not seen this coming?

  Tara shows me the neat line of her profile as she faces my dad. “Do you have any idea what she’s rambling about, Warren?”

  My dad takes the stance he always has when Tara and I start bickering, which is to say he pretends nothing is amiss.

  “I imagine it’s the Peep-Toe Prowler,” he says as he flips through a magazine. It looks to be about art museums, which means he’s either thinking about investing in a piece or stealing one. “For the record, I would like to voice my objection to that name. So pedantic.”

  “Isn’t it awful?” I agree. “If I take to a life of crime again, I’m going to make sure I leave a cool calling card, like titanium shavings or a bullet that’s been bitten in half. Let’s see what nickname I get for that one.”

  My dad looks at me over the top of his glasses. “If you start dropping clues at your crime scenes, I’m disowning you. Leaving anything behind is sloppy work, and calling cards smack of egoism.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say meekly, though I can’t help but grin at how stiff Tara grows next to me. She’s always been a big fan of calling cards—her usual signature is a lipstick imprint on the mirror—but that’s because she has the biggest ego known to mankind. She can’t help herself. “Does that mean you’re the one taking all those valuables?”

  “I refuse to dignify that question with a response,” my father says, still perusing his magazine. It’s as much of a denial as I’m going to get, but he wasn’t the most likely suspect in the room anyway.

  “Well, Tara?” I glance at her expectantly. “Care to make a formal confession?”

  “I don’t care to do anything formally unless it includes an open bar. And if you want my opinion, those shoes look ridiculous on you. Your gait is too wobbly.”

  There’s an element of truth to her insult, but one of my life goals has always been to ignore anything and everything my dear stepmother says, so I let it go.

  “Come on, Tara. There’s no way you just happen to be in New York while jewelry is going missing all across the Upper East Side. What do you know?”

  She shares a look with my dad. Despite the mere five-year age gap between me and Tara, it’s a parental look, and I don’t like it. It’s bad enough that she’s in my father’s hotel room in the middle of the day, acting like they’re some power couple that has never been on the outs. Worse is the idea that they might be communicating. That’s not the sort of family we are. We steal and lie and manipulate each other to achieve our own ends. We don’t sit at the dinner table and talk about our day.

  “I’m serious, you guys.” I try for stern but end up sounding like the fifteen-year-old they once left behind. “Until two hours ago, I was pretty sure Grant was going to arrest me. Now I find out that not only am I not a suspect, but he’s got a fancy new partner to help him solve the case—and he’s forbidden me from having anything to do with it.”

  Tara lifts a perfectly arched brow. “He can forbid you from doing things?”

  “Of course not,” I say irritably. “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Secrets.” I let the word sit for a moment, but they don’t seem to feel its weight the way I do. “He has secrets. You guys have secrets. I’m pretty sure his new partner has some, too. I know my being married to Grant puts everyone in an awkward position, but I’m not going to turn on you. I still want to be included.”

  I still want to matter.

  It’s almost desperate, that silent plea of mine, but I can’t hold it back. Of all the changes I’d anticipated in marrying an FBI agent, this one never occurred to me. Less money flowing into my pockets? Of course. Fewer personal freedoms? I get it. It’s not ideal, but being held accountable for your actions is part of any committed relationship.

  Unfortunately, no one mentioned how untenable it would be to get caught between these two worlds of mine. The place where the good and the bad sides of the track meet isn’t exactly a popular hangout spot.

  My dad clears his throat and looks away, leaving Tara to fill in the gaps. She does this with wide eyes and an innocent, “Grant has a new partner?”

  “Yeah, it’s some guy named Christopher Leon. He’s young. And cute. And loud. I think you’d like him, actually.”

  As I finish speaking, I’m struck by how true that is. Tara would like Christopher, even though he’s closer to my age than hers. He’s got the kind of outward appeal that would attract a woman of her…tastes.

  Just as I’m about to explain how I came to meet him, Tara gives a peal of laughter. “Oh, sweetie. Is that what he told you? Christopher isn’t Grant’s partner.”

  “What? Of course he is. Grant said so himself.” At least, I think he did. My memories of this afternoon are already growing hazy, misted over by relief at discovering my marriage isn’t about to crack into a thousand pieces.

  “Then your dear husband misled you, because he’s no such thing.”

  “How do you know?”

  My dad clears his throat again.

  “You told her but not me?” I ask my dad, confused—and, to be honest, a little hurt. The sting of being an outsider looking in, of no longer fitting inside my own life, is magnified twenty times now. I look back and forth between them. “But if Christopher’s not his partner, then who…”

  “He’s Grant’s boss.” Tara speaks with triumph, as if she’s personally responsible. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but your poor, dedicated husband is no longer a rising star. He broke too many rules to keep your pretty little behind from incarceration, so they hired new blood to keep him in check. How does it feel to single-handedly ruin your husband’s career?”

  My first feeling isn’t anger at Tara for being so snide, or even guilt for forcing Grant to break rules. Relief washes over me instead, and I take a moment to bask in it.

  “So that’s wh
y he’s been acting so strange lately.” My husband’s behavior suddenly makes sense. The long hours, the unwillingness to discuss his work except to warn me away, the curt way he refused to refer to Christopher by anything but his last name… “And why he almost tackled the poor guy. It’s not like him to be so aggressive.”

  Tara releases an incongruously elegant snort.

  “I mean it’s not like him to be so aggressive to regular people,” I amend. “Obviously, he treats criminals like you differently.”

  “And what about criminals like you?”

  “I don’t count. He loves me.”

  Tara doesn’t say anything, but her silence is voluble enough. Her silence is also kind of mean. Grant does love me. Even though I know it can’t be easy to be married to me, his love is the one thing I can count on.

  His love is enough. Our love is enough. I’m sure of it.

  Most of the time.

  “Well, there you have it, Penelope.” My dad sets his magazine aside, closing it with a sense of purpose that also signals the end of the conversation. “The secret is revealed.”

  “Hardly.” If anything, the vein of mystery has only proven deeper than I thought. Despite Tara’s rude insinuations, my husband is exceptionally good at his job. They wouldn’t have assigned someone to oversee him without a reason. “And you still haven’t told me anything about the Peep-Toe Prowler. Do you know who it is?”

  “If I knew who it was, I would have told Agent Sterling, per our arrangement,” my dad says mildly.

  “Don’t look at me,” Tara says. “I only got here a few days ago. But don’t you worry—with Chris on the case, things are bound to get interesting soon.”

  Chris? When did they reach the nickname stage? Tara has worked with my husband in the past, so it’s possible she’s aligned herself with the FBI, but I doubt Grant would have brought her on again without telling me.

  My eyes narrow in suspicion. “What do you know about him?”

  “More than you, but that’s not saying much.” Tara gets to her feet. Like my father, she appears to be done entertaining me for the day. “Thanks ever so much for stopping by, but your father and I have some things to do.”

  “Like move a bunch of recently stolen jewelry out of the country?” I ask.

  “Nice try. Things like a dinner reservation at Le Bernardin. Want to come?”

  I most definitely do not. Rolling along as a third wheel on a date with these two isn’t my idea of a good time.

  Tara laughs at my expression. “I didn’t think so. But if you’re free next week, you and I should have lunch.”

  I look to my dad in alarm at this unprecedented offer, but there’s an aura of contentment around him I don’t quite like. He’s watching the pair of us interact as if no time has passed since we all lived under the same roof. It’s not a memory I’m particularly fond of. No one else seems to recall the less-than-happy times we shared or how irrational being around Tara makes me. Peep-Toe Prowler, FBI informant, general pain in my ass—she casts herself in the various roles on purpose, I swear. Nothing delights her more than casting suspicion and watching as I struggle to pick up the pieces.

  “I’m going to figure out who the thief is,” I warn as I rise to leave.

  Tara sees me to the door, playing the gracious hostess to perfection. “You do that, sweetie.”

  “And I’m going to make them give all that stuff back.”

  “How noble. Your husband must be rubbing off on you.”

  She’s obviously determined to withstand provocation, so I smile back and attack with the only thing I have left. “And I may take you up on that lunch offer, so you better start thinking of places you won’t mind being seen in public with me.”

  It doesn’t work. “Perfect. Give my love to Chris next time you see him, will you?”

  My heart picks up as I try to read her, but Tara has me beat. The thick layers of makeup she wears make her appear effortlessly flawless as well as prevent actual human emotion from flickering on her face. It’s not a bad trick, and I’m tempted to ask for a few pointers.

  I don’t, though. The mother-daughter ship has long since sailed. And sunk. And killed all marine life within a ten-mile radius.

  “I was serious about us getting together, Pen,” she says as a final parting shot. “I hope you know that. You make a terrible stepdaughter, but I can’t help liking you anyway.”

  Her sudden lapse into kindness throws me off, and I can only reply with, “And you’re a terrible stepmom, Tara, but I’ve never found any fault with your taste.”

  * * *

  When I arrive at the home Grant and I share in the northern suburb of Rye a few hours later, the first thing I do is check my cell phone. I only take a burner when I’m on the job—old habits die hard—so the blinking light indicating I have messages comes as no surprise. Neither does the first message, since the house is dark save for the motion-sensor lights that switch on when I unlock the door.

  “I know the timing is bad, but I’m not going to make it home until late,” my husband’s voice says. “Don’t wait up for me, and please, please don’t assume this means I’m going to handcuff you in your sleep. I promise to always give you a five-minute head start before I arrest you—you have my word on that.”

  Maybe it’s the long day getting to me, but that strikes me as one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard.

  “And I’ll make all these long nights up to you, I swear. It’s just that—”

  His message is broken by a loud male voice in the background, which Grant soon overrides with a string of low, muttered curses I plan on memorizing for future use. Nobody swears like an FBI agent. I think it’s part of their training.

  “Love you, gotta go, bye.”

  And they say romance is dead.

  The second message is timestamped a few minutes later, and it’s from a number I don’t recognize. I’m about to pull cold Chinese food out of the fridge to enjoy a sad, lonely meal for one when a booming voice startles me into spilling chow mein all over the kitchen floor.

  “Penelope. Penelope Blue.”

  I don’t need to hear Christopher Leon identify himself to know who’s responsible for that effusive volubility.

  “I wanted to say again how nice it was to meet you today. I have nothing but respect for your husband and the work he does, and I’d love it if we could all get together sometime. Dinner, maybe?”

  I abandon the noodles and stare at my phone in confusion. First Tara and now Christopher? Two unprecedented offers for a friendly meal in one day? Either I’m starting to look malnourished, or something strange is going on.

  “Anyway, I promise to take good care of Grant out there. If you’re ever worried or have questions about the case or even want to talk, I’m always available. I’m also discreet. So. Um. I better get going. It’s going to be another long night. Sorry about that, by the way.”

  The call ends as abruptly as Grant’s did, and it leaves me equally unsatisfied. Never, in all the time Simon and Grant have worked together, has Simon reached out to me in a gesture of friendliness. He treats me like a leper with dysentery and pink eye and maybe a touch of syphilis on the side.

  Damn. I take a seat on the linoleum next to what was supposed to be my dinner, my head swirling with possibilities.

  Tara was right. Now that Christopher’s on the case, things are already getting interesting.

  6

  GRANT

  (Two Years Ago)

  As it turned out, Christopher Leon didn’t improve with time.

  “What do you mean, the DNA evidence got washed away?” asked the forensics tech working our case. “It hasn’t rained in two weeks.”

  The case in question was the burglary of a small but valuable collection of Picasso drawings from a college library. It wasn’t my usual fare, since I’d been spending most of m
y time in the jewel thief circuit lately, but I’d been called in to lend a hand to our hotshot newbie—now neither new nor hot.

  “I mean that one of our agents accidentally spilled his coffee outside the broken window where the thief cut himself,” I said with painstaking calm. “From the state of things, I’m guessing he must have been very thirsty.”

  The forensic tech groaned. “Oh, geez. You got partnered with Leon again, didn’t you?”

  A grim smile was my only response. A grim smile was generous, given the circumstances. Not only had I been pulled off my own case, which included a promising date with a certain strawberry blond, but I was being forced to clean up after a man who made Inspector Clouseau look like Sherlock Holmes. Some days, he seemed to be a perfectly capable investigator, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s with all the efficiency one would expect from a man in his position. Other days… Well. Let’s just say I wasn’t the only agent who’d noticed how often an easy case went awry when Christopher Leon was on the job.

  “Make do with what you have, but I doubt you’ll find anything,” I said. Just caffeine, milk, and the remnants of Christopher’s ineptitude. Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way that laying any of the blame on the man responsible would only result in a slap on my wrist and a threat to strip me of my badge. The man had friends in high places, as my wrist could attest. It still stung from the time I’d questioned his clearance to become a field agent. “And thanks.”

  The tech gave me a mock salute and went back to work.

  I should have gone directly back to the crime scene after that to salvage what I could, but my phone buzzed with an incoming text.

  I’m just sitting all alone at the café where you booked us a table, it read. Did you know you can see straight into Tiffany’s from here?

  I laughed out loud. Of course I knew the vantage point from our proposed date. I’d chosen it—and paid off the manager—for the exact purpose of trying to get a reaction out of my quarry. True to form, Penelope hadn’t shown any dismay at the last-minute cancellation, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear tomorrow that Tiffany’s had suffered an overnight break-in. A woman scorned was capable of anything. And that woman scorned…