by Simon Wood
“No reason. Her name cropped up. If I find out more, I’ll let you know.”
Had that been a gotcha question? It could have been one if she’d known Richard’s mistress’s name. If she was going to beat this, ignorance might very well be the thing that saved her. “Thank you.”
Finz held the car door open for her, and she got in. The temperature inside the car had rocketed. She stuck the key in the ignition and powered all the windows down. Finz remained, holding the door. She smiled at him.
“One last thing. I’d like you to come in for a polygraph.”
Olivia’s smile dropped. “A polygraph?”
“Yeah, it’s a formality. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s for your protection. When we apprehend a suspect, the defense will try to shift blame to those with something to gain from Richard’s death. That’s why we get a poly on record at the beginning. It tightens our case. I’ve taken one. All sworn officers do. It prevents anything from being used against us.”
Was this a line he was spinning her? Did he suspect her? The spouse was always the first suspect when no obvious assailant was on hand. She couldn’t be offended. She was involved.
She played back his questions. She felt an accusatory tone in his questioning. Maybe that was the paranoia talking. Roy had put her in this position, and the cops were zeroing in on her. It was only a matter of time before they worked it all out. And it would all come crashing down if she took that lie-detector test.
“Well, if you think it’s for the best, I don’t have any problems with it.”
“That’s great. I’ll give you a call to set up a time. And Mrs. Shaw, don’t worry. We’ll find out who’s responsible for your husband’s murder.”
Olivia was afraid of that.
CHAPTER TEN
It was evening before Olivia reached home. She was happy for any excuse to avoid dealing with the silence and emptiness of the place. After Finz left her, she’d visited a nondenominational church, which would conduct Richard’s service. He hadn’t been particularly religious, but she knew it was important to Richard’s mother that his funeral follow tradition. And despite her own religious apathy, she wanted a formal ceremony for Richard. It seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances. She arranged everything with them, except for the date. The coroner had yet to release the body to the funeral home.
In the kitchen, she stared at the refrigerator’s contents. She needed to eat, but none of it appealed. She had no hunger, so she took a leaf out of Clare’s book and grabbed a bottle of wine. She took a big-bowled wineglass intended for a burgundy and filled it all the way to the top with a chardonnay. Somewhere a sommelier was frowning in disgust at her poor wine etiquette, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t drinking to enjoy. She was drinking to get wrecked.
Carrying the glass and bottle into the living room, she dropped onto the sofa, managing to slop only a little of the booze. She hammered back half the glass’s contents before coming up for air.
She eyed her glass and raised it. “Here’s to you, Olivia Shaw.”
She had really screwed things up for herself. Her cheating husband was dead, and the cops were circling, all because she’d let her deadbeat sister talk her into hiring idiots to beat Richard up. So much for taking her hands off the wheel and letting fate do the driving. Fate had proved it couldn’t drive for shit. Christ, how had she been so stupid? It figured that the one time she took a risk, did one thing that strayed from the straight and narrow, her husband ended up dead and she’d likely be facing a murder charge, which was inevitable since she’d obviously fail the polygraph.
“Pity party for one,” she said, refilling her glass.
Yes, she was getting a little too self-indulgent for her liking. The problem was she just wanted someone to talk to, and the sad fact about it was there wasn’t anyone. For all Clare’s faults, she was Olivia’s go-to person, but not for this. Clare had contributed to this mess, but she had rabbit blood in her veins. At the first sign of trouble, she ran, literally and figuratively. And Clare was looking for any reason not to face up to the situation they were in. Her earlier remark, which suggested this wasn’t a shared problem but Olivia’s problem only, said everything Olivia needed to know about Clare’s state of mind.
Other friends really were few and far between. As she drained her wineglass, she picked through her mental Rolodex. Not a single name sprang to mind. Yes, she had friends, but surface-level ones only. It was stunning to her how many of them were friends through business, hobbies, or marriage. None of them were friends with deep and unshakable roots. She had stronger ties to people when she was a kid than she did now. Maybe that was the price of getting older. The more you spread yourself through the world, the more tenuous your personal connections became.
She dwelled on that thought through the remainder of the bottle and into the start of a pricey bottle of red Richard had been talked into buying at a Napa vineyard. To her it was just fuel for getting drunk.
Returning to the living room, she pulled out a couple of photo albums from the bookshelves and dropped to the floor with them. It had been ages since she’d looked at them. She flipped the pages, leafing through her life. She stopped at a photo of her, no more than four years old, sitting next to Clare with their mother behind them, her arms draped over their shoulders. There was no sign of her dad in the shot or in any of the images around that time. He’d yet to dump his family, but even when he was there, he wasn’t. She had no memory of the photo. It looked like the Martinez Waterfront Park in the background. Not that it mattered where the photo had been taken.
She ran a finger over her mom’s face. Her memory of her mom was that she was tired and older than her years, but she’d known her mom through the eyes of youth. Here in this picture, her mother looked young. And she was. In this shot, she was younger than Olivia was now. Despite having to raise Clare and her on minimum wage and being in a shitty marriage, she looked happy in this picture. Olivia smiled and turned the page.
Page after page, Olivia went from child to teen. Time was documented in school photos and snapshots of family occasions. While all the faces were familiar, names weren’t. Time had robbed them of their identities, if not their antics.
She stopped at one particular picture. It was a group shot, with Clare and Nick, Mark and Brianna, and Andrew and her all sitting on the hood of Mark’s Trans Am. She remembered it like it was yesterday. It was the summer straight after high school. She was eighteen, and anything was possible. They’d been a tight group, but time had pulled them apart. She’d lost touch with Bri within a year of this picture being taken, when Bri took off for college.
Time hadn’t pulled Andrew and her apart, circumstances had. They’d been together at the time of this photo. He was fun, cool, and exciting, and she’d thought marriage was a possibility for them. Then Andrew had gone and ruined it. She’d found out he was dealing weed. He was just cashing in on what a cousin of his was growing, but she’d had zero tolerance for drugs and anyone involved with them. Her father was a slave to his addiction. In his case, it was booze, but drugs were no different. She’d dumped Andrew on the spot. Mark had been her rebound, and she’d made the mistake of marrying him.
When she broke up with Andrew, he’d joined the army, and she hadn’t seen him again until a few years ago. She was the real estate agent representing the buyer for a house Andrew was selling. God, they’d been so close. Out of everybody in the world, she trusted Andrew the most. She still had his number somewhere.
She clambered to her feet and dug her phone out from her purse. She scrolled through her contacts, and there was Andrew’s info. She hit the icon next to his cell phone number.
He answered the call. The background noise said he was on the road. “Hello.”
“Andrew, it’s Olivia Shaw. Olivia Lyndon that was.”
“Hey, Olivia. It’s been a long time.”
It had. Too long. What had she been thinking?
“What can I do for you?” His to
ne was cordial, as if he were talking to a client and not a friend. She’d screwed up.
“Nothing. Sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
“Hey, it’s okay. What do you need?”
She liked that. That was what friends said. It was the first time she’d heard that said by someone who meant it. “My husband was killed.”
“I know. I saw the news. I’m sorry, Liv. How are you doing?”
It was a good question. She wasn’t grieving. Guilt and fear were getting in the way. “About as well as you’d expect.”
“You’ve got people around you, yes?”
Just the cops and Infidelity Limited, she thought. “Yes.” She failed to sound convincing, even to her own ear. “I’m just calling people to let them know and invite them to the service.”
“You okay, Liv? What’s wrong? Tell me.”
The simple answer was she didn’t trust anyone else. She had friends, good people whom she genuinely liked, but they weren’t the kind of people who helped find a killer. They enjoyed easy lives and had no comprehension of the trouble people could get themselves into. Andrew was different. They had grown up together and knew things about each other that they hadn’t shared with anyone else. She hadn’t known that kind of bond with anyone else. When it came to entrusting herself to someone with a lifeline, Andrew was the only person who made the list.
“I’d gotten a little maudlin, and I was thinking about the old days,” she replied. “I wanted to talk to an old friend. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not. Do you want me to come over? I’m happy to. Just give me your address.”
Part of her wanted to hang up, but a larger part of her wanted Andrew to come over. She needed to talk to someone she could trust who wasn’t involved in this mess.
“Yes, that would be great,” she said and gave him her details.
Andrew arrived half an hour later. She’d left the door ajar for him, and he let himself in.
“Liv?”
“In the living room.”
He stood in the doorway, dressed in work boots, jeans, and a short-sleeved shirt with “Macready Construction” embroidered on it. The years had been good to him. Very little gray marred his blond hair. He was still in shape, which she put down to the construction work. She thought he was better looking now in his forties, like her, than he had been back when they were kids. He’d burned away the puppy fat of youth she’d seen in that picture of them sitting on the Trans Am. His face had real definition now.
She got up from her chair and hugged him. The hug’s familiarity transported her back to her teens. “It’s great to see you. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long.”
He released her. The warmth in his smile lifted a weight from her shoulders. She felt safe in his presence.
“I came straight over. Sorry to still be in my work gear.”
“That’s okay. Sit. Can I get you something to drink—wine, beer?”
“I’m driving, so a soda would be good.”
She grabbed him a Diet Coke from the fridge. She handed him the can before sinking into the chair across from him. It was Richard’s chair. She thought she felt his contours from years of repeated use.
“I’m really sorry about Richard,” he said. “I really don’t know what to say.”
“You being here means a lot.”
“It was the least I could do, Liv.”
“I see you have your own company,” she said, pointing to the company name on his shirt.
“Eight years now. I went into construction after getting out of the army and went out on my own a few years later.”
“Married? Kids?”
“Was married. We broke up a few years ago. No kids.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. We just wanted different things. Enough about me. I’m here for you. Tell me what’s happening.”
She outlined the basic circumstances of Richard’s death. She left out Richard’s affair and Infidelity Limited.
“And you don’t know why he was there and who he was meeting?”
“No,” she lied.
“Do the cops have a suspect?”
“No. Possibly me.”
Andrew jerked back from her answer. “You?”
“If there aren’t any suspects, they look at the spouse. Isn’t that always the way?”
“Yeah, but are they serious? What makes you think they’re looking at you?”
“Is a polygraph serious enough? The detective in charge told me today he wanted me to take one.”
“Who’s the cop in charge?”
“Detective Mike Finz. Know him?”
He shook his head. “But I’ve done work for the Concord PD in the past. I can ask around and find out what kind of reputation he’s got.”
“No. Don’t. If he’s suspicious of me, I don’t want to give him any reason to suspect me more.”
“Did he say why he wanted you to take a polygraph?”
“For elimination purposes, essentially. He says it’s routine and it helps strengthen their case against the defense.”
“There you have it. I doubt he means anything by it. Even if he does, you’ll ace it and he’ll have to knuckle down and do his job.”
In an ideal world, Andrew would be totally correct, but this wasn’t an ideal world. She wouldn’t ace the polygraph. If she took that test, it’d be game over and everything would come tumbling down. Finz would charge her, and she’d have no defense against it. She could point the finger at Infidelity Limited, but as Roy had proudly proclaimed in his sales pitch to her, Infidelity Limited was a ghost. It didn’t exist beyond word of mouth, and no one talked. Even if she did talk, who would believe that something like Infidelity Limited could exist? There was no escape for her.
“I doubt the cops are going to railroad you, but you need to protect yourself. Do you have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let me make a few calls and see if I can get one.”
“I don’t know. Guilty people get lawyers.”
“No, smart people get lawyers. Look, your husband has been murdered. You need to mourn and make arrangements, so you should have someone who can act as an interface between you and the investigation.”
“Will a lawyer be able to get me out of taking the polygraph?”
“Possibly, but you may not have a choice. Look, you weren’t involved in Richard’s death, so there’s nothing to worry about. Even if this Finz likes you as the killer, a polygraph is going to punch a hole in his case.”
Olivia was torn. Why had she called Andrew if it wasn’t to have someone to confide in? She’d been a little drunk when she’d phoned him, but she’d sobered up in a hurry. She wasn’t sure she should confide in him. The second she told him her secret, there was no going back. Someone outside of the Infidelity Limited circle would know, and there’d be no way of controlling the situation. She had no idea how Andrew would react. She couldn’t prevent him from telling Finz what he knew. As much as she wanted to tell someone the truth, she had to treat Andrew the same as Finz and tell him nothing.
“I’m definitely going to check out this Finz character and see what his record looks like,” Andrew said, breaking her train of thought. “Don’t worry. He won’t know that I checked him out. Are you okay for money for the funeral service?”
“Yes. We have money, and Richard had life insurance.”
“Okay, but if you need some, I have it.”
“Thanks, Andrew. I mean it.”
“I’ve taken up too much of your time, so I’ll go. I’m going to look into Richard’s death. Anything I find out, I’ll bring it to you—and the police.” He smiled. “I won’t do anything stupid and take care of it myself.”
She didn’t tell him not to. At the moment, Roy was playing hard to get, and he held all the power. She didn’t know where to find him and had no way of stopping him from incriminating her. Worse still, she had nothing she could use against Roy and Infidelity Limite
d to protect herself. If Andrew turned something up that would lead her to them, it would even up the score.
Andrew checked his watch. “Call me anytime, Liv. I mean it. I’m here for you.”
She saw him to the door. “We haven’t seen each other in so long. Why are you doing all this?”
“Call it an apology. I let you down when we were together, and I never got to make it up to you. This is my chance. Us Martinez kids have to stick together. I’ve got your back, Liv.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Roy arrived home after three days on the road. He smiled as he blew through the private gates leading up to his Santa Barbara house, like he always did. He loved this house. It was the place he’d always dreamed of owning and never thought he would. But this was the house that Infidelity Limited had built. Twenty years of profiteering off people’s desperation and revenge had bought them the four-thousand-square-foot, two-story Spanish mission–style house sprawled over an acre of land. To the casual observer, the place might belong to a celebrity.
Roy parked in front of the house, and Luis emerged. Luis ran the house by himself, taking care of Beth and acting as Roy’s eyes and ears when he was working. When Luis started working for them ten years ago, he’d only been a kid and Roy hadn’t thought he’d last the week. He was just out of high school and fresh faced. The kid looked as if he didn’t know his ass from his elbow when it came to how the world worked, but he was unflappable. Beth could drive Roy to distraction, but not Luis. Whatever tantrum Beth threw, he simply dealt with it without ever letting it get to him. But his greatest asset was his discretion. He’d take their secrets to the grave.
Luis took Roy’s overnight bag. “Good trip?”
“Not bad. A few problems, but they’re under control. How’s Beth?”
Luis frowned.
“That good, huh? Where is she?”
“On the patio. I was just about to take her breakfast out to her.”
“I’ll do it.”
Roy found the breakfast Luis had prepared for Beth on a tray in the kitchen—a spinach, onion, and mushroom omelet with coffee, juice, and toast. She’d only eat a fraction of it. He wondered how she survived, eating so little.
