He left his car at Palisades Park and walked to Anson’s house on foot so no one would see his car in Anson’s driveway. He knocked on the door and was discouraged that Anson didn’t answer. He started to walk away, but the thought of some asshole like Wayne Mercer swooping in to poach Tad as a client made him turn around. On a whim, he tried Anson’s door, and when it easily opened he took it as an invitation to enter Anson’s house and search for the tapes.
“Hello?” Justin yelled cheerily, just in case Anson was home and on the shitter or something.
“Anson baby?” Justin yelled again, now waltzing into the foyer. Suddenly he noticed Anson lying on the floor by the stairs. He rushed over to him.
“Anson?” he asked, pressing on Anson’s chest to see if his heart was beating. It was. He leaned over and peeled up one of Anson’s eyelids, which revealed a bloodshot eye. Then like a slap in the face he smelled the alcohol on Anson’s breath and recoiled in disgust.
“The old fag has passed out,” he said, laughing. Perfect.
He stood up and started to walk around the house. It was very froofy. Funny how Anson wanted to pretend he was straight and then had a pad like this, with fringes and chintz everywhere. He leaned in to examine a picture of a young Anson with some old relative, maybe a mother or something, and smiled. Anson was in his late teens but clad in a sailor suit. That mom sure did a number on him. No wonder he was a fruit.
Where could those tapes be? Justin thought to himself. Where do I hide my porn? He made his way to Anson’s closet and pushed through the racks of pastel pants and blazers. In the back he noticed a small safe, but he knew it was one of those dummy kinds that you could get at Target. A few yanks to the dial and it would open no matter what, which is exactly what it did. Score. He felt the same rush he got when he snorted a good line. There were packs of neatly labeled and organized tapes, which Justin grabbed. He saw an old L.L.Bean tote bag with Anson’s monogram and stuffed them all in there. If anyone ever asked, but he knew no one would, he’d say that they were a short Anson wanted him to look at.
Justin heard a dog barking downstairs and knew he had to get out. On his way down the stairs he stared at Anson splayed on the floor. He started to step over him, but suddenly Anson’s hand grabbed his foot. Startled, Justin screamed and lurched back, attempting to grasp the wall for support. Anson was moaning softly, and when Justin steadied himself on the sill of the window that looked over the yard, he noticed a small Chinese vase holding flowers. He looked down at Anson and back at the flowers and knew he had to get out now. So with his small white fingers he delicately flicked the vase, which smashed on Anson’s head. Justin wasn’t sure if he had wanted to kill him. If he really thought and did some soul searching, well, then yes, he’d probably decide that he had. But he could always rationalize that he had just wanted to knock him out again. And he didn’t know that the vase would land with such force on his head, breaking his skull. But such is life. “Accidents” happen. The bastard deserves it, he told himself. You get what comes to you.
He’d never tell Victoria, because first of all, she’d think he did it for her and then she would want him, and second, let her squirm. After all, she had cheated on him. Why the hell should he tell her that her secret was safe? So that was that. Anson died. Sorry, but no great loss. No one could say the world wasn’t a better place without Anson. He’d done everyone a favor.
•• 47 ••
There was a fifth person who went to Anson’s house that night, and he’d been the only one with the actual intent to kill him. It turned out to be the easiest job he’d ever had. The guy was dead when he got there. And it looked like an accident. He saw no use in reporting that to the man who’d hired him, though. It would just confuse things. Take the money and run.
He wasn’t sure who had hired him, but he’d been used by this middleman before and it was always some sort of political thing. The victim was usually more high profile, though, and the crime would end up in the papers. He had his suspicions of who was calling the shots, and they were all high-ranking government officials. A certain senator from Rhode Island seemed to benefit the most. But in his line of work it was better to know less than more. This was a funny one. A gossip columnist in California. Who knew that those people could still piss people off?
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Stacy Creamer, for all of her excellent guidance. Jennifer Joel and Amanda Urban for their agenting expertise. Special thanks also to Laura Swerdloff, Katie Sigelman, Josie Freedman, and the amazing Joanna Pinsker. Many thanks to Christina Mace Turner for being an early reader.
I am grateful to my aunt Maureen Egen for all of her notes, assistance with my panic, and overall enthusiasm.
I have been really fortunate to have a fantastic writing partner. Even though I wrote this book alone, it never could have been written without Jill Kargman (who makes going to work every day so much fun). Thanks for everything, especially coming up with such a great title!
And lastly to my family: Mom, Dick, the Careys, the Hammams, the Huitzes, and the boys at home: Vas, James, and Peter. Merci and Love.
Also by Carrie Karasyov
(with Jill Kargman)
The Right Address
Wolves in Chic Clothing
PUBLISHED BY BROADWAY BOOKS
Copyright © 2007 by Carrie Karasyov
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of The Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.broadwaybooks.com
BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Karasyov, Carrie, 1972–
The infidelity pact / Carrie Karasyov.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Housewives—Fiction. 2. Adultery—Fiction. 3. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.A7775I64 2007
813'.6—dc22
2006100683
eISBN: 978-0-7679-2777-2
v3.0
The Infidelity Pact Page 25
