by AB Plum
Crazy thinking. I draw in a quiet breath to clear my head. My brain splinters into glass shards. God, I’d give anything for a glass of wine. Detective Patel sits unmoving.
Michael killed her. He’s using me as his alibi. He’ll get off. Then, he’ll kill me.
Afraid my face will betray me, I study my hands, clasped in front of my waist. Careful, careful. I have to be careful. Unfounded accusations make me appear crazy.
“I’m sorry I gave you such a shock,” the detective says in the voice that oils my nerve- endings and momentarily jerks me out of the nightmare. “Did you know her well?”
Shaking my head unleashes a jackhammer inside my skull, but I meet his eyes and speak in a dry-throat, mechanical voice. “I met her yesterday. She . . .”
“Where did you meet her?” Gently, as if speaking to a frightened child.
“At Le Boulanger. On Castro.”
He nods. “I know the place.”
“She offered to share her table. The sun was so hot. I felt dizzy. She . . .” I rub a finger along my thigh, trying to make order of the images zooming randomly in and out of my mind.
Her tongue flicking her top lip. Her mascaraed eyes gazing up at Michael like a stunned goose. Her ear embedded with all those earrings.
“Are you there with her now?” Detective Patel asks. “Tell me everything you see.”
At first, the words are halting. Disorganized. Distant. Then, I see her and Michael at the coffee bar. “She’s flirting—with my husband. She puts her hand on his shoulder. Stands on tiptoes. Whispers in his ear. Throws her head back and laughs. I have no idea what she says.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure there was lots of noise. Did she know your husband?”
The question carries the same inflection as the two statements, so I don’t really register the significance. “No. They’d never met. At least . . . he introduced himself . . . and me as if they’d never met.”
“Did she mention Andrew Miller?”
This question is just as quiet but rides an undercurrent of tension. “That name never came up. But . . . didn’t he work for Michael? A couple of years ago?”
“Your husband verified that.” Detective Patel reaches for his lemonade. “Why were you at Le Boulanger? Were you and your husband meeting for coffee?”
“I went for coffee after my yoga class. Michael had a business meeting at Wells Fargo. He saw my car . . .” I summarize it all too fast, but I’m rushing to avoid mentioning John. He never spoke to Michael or Tracy. He has nothing to do with her death.
Michael killed her. But why?
“Mrs. Romanov?” Detective Patel gazes at me as if he’d like to snap his fingers under my nose. “What else would you like to tell me?”
That my husband killed that girl. I rub the goosebumps playing tag on my arms. “I think that’s everything.”
“Did you and your husband leave Le Boulanger together?”
“No. I left first. I was feeling . . . dizzy. I wanted some air.”
“Did you come straight home or stop along the way?”
The question is so routine, but I feel as if he has stripped me naked. “I stopped.”
Where?
His question clangs in my ears as if spoken aloud. God, how much of what I tell him will he report to Michael?
“If you’re worried about your husband finding out . . .” As nice as he is, he sounds as if his imagination runs in the same sewer as Michael’s.
“Where I stopped isn’t illegal. Or illicit. Or immoral. I stopped on a personal errand. I’d rather my husband not find out.” Tears sting my eyelids, but I force myself to hold Detective Patel’s open, non-judgmental gaze. “There’s no need to tell him since . . . since I won’t be going there again.”
“Does that make you sad, Mrs. Romanov?”
It’s the first stoopid question he’s asked, and outrage roars up out of the pit of my stomach and catapults me to my feet. “No, Detective. I always cry when I’m happy.”
Chapter 33
HE
The video conference call with the Director of L’Institut des Biologics lasts half an hour longer than scheduled. Most of it is BS, but I paste on my best listening face. The prospect of becoming a billionaire in the next week pumps up my patience. Monsieur Moreau finally runs out of superlatives about the deal and rings off.
Off to pop a bottle or two of Dom Perignon, he says with a laugh. Which I return.
Finished with the call, I ask Regan into my office. It’s the first time I’ve had the opportunity to talk to her since I arrived this morning to speak with Patel. Of course we had no time to catch up since he’d led her to believe talking with me was a matter of life and death.
Which it was. I open my fridge and remove ice for a bloody Mary. Eleven-twenty is, perhaps, forty minutes early for a drink, but who’s going to stop me? Detective Patel?
Regan enters, iPad in her hand, glasses hanging on a ribbon around her neck. I lift my drink to her. “Can I lead you into temptation?”
She laughs. “Not if you want me to work this afternoon. But you can persuade me to have a ginger ale.”
While I fix her drink, she sits in the Barcelona lounger, laying her iPad on the edge of my desk. “I’m sorry I couldn’t redirect Detective Patel from his mission. He is most persistent.”
“Persistent and melodramatic.”
“There is that.” She takes her glass, sips it, and sighs. “I felt almost badgered.”
“Oh?” I pour another ounce of vodka into Bloody Mary mix, then return to my desk.
“He refused to accept I hardly spoke a dozen words to the Jones woman while she was waiting.” She gazes out the window, staring at Shoreline Amphitheatre as if seeing the soaring, modernistic canopies for the first time.
Patel, I realize, made no comment about the view or the Monet or my office.
“Did he give you any idea what happened to her?”
Regan shakes her head and returns her gaze to me. “The man could make a fortune playing poker. I don’t know if she had an accident. Was killed. Or killed herself.”
“He didn’t give me any idea, either.”
She purses her lips. “Would homicide take an interest if they didn’t suspect murder?”
“Obviously, you and I don’t watch enough TV.” I lift my Bloody Mary but set it down without drinking when Regan’s eyes swivel toward me. “Did he show you the rejection note I sent her last night?”
“Yes. He wanted to confirm I hadn’t written it. He asked if anyone else could have sent it under your name.” She smiles as if she has a secret. “I pointed out you use a special watermark, a unique font, and a distinctive signature for such correspondence. I gave my opinion the printout he showed me was legitimate.”
“He left here to see AnnaSophia. I think he plans to confirm my alibi.”
“Yes. He asked what time you left the office. I didn’t know about the security glitch.”
“It happened just as I was leaving. I was in a rush. My family has hardly seen me recently. I let security handle the problem. Let them earn their pay.”
“Since you pay me to work rather than take extended coffee breaks, shall I review your email?”
“Anything urgent?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. I’m thinking of sneaking off to see AnnaSophia. Coming back after lunch.”
Her eyebrows go up, but that’s the extent of her surprise.
“AnnaSophia’s a little depressed. Her birthday’s this weekend. The big four-nine. I’ve spent too much time on this damn acquisition. I need to make up for my neglect.”
“Mr. Romanov.” She shakes her head once, then blasts me with a motherly smile. “When it comes to your family, you treat them like royalty.”
“Thank you for the character reference, Regan.” I push my chair away from the desk. Halfway to standing, I snap my fingers. “Did Detective Patel ask you about Andrew Miller?”
Her eyes widen, and she sits down abruptly. Tears br
im. “No. Did he ask you?”
“Twice.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to convey my distress—fake, unbeknownst to Regan. “I told him Tracy Jones used Andrew as a character reference.”
“My, what a small world.” If patting my hand didn’t violate all professional boundaries, I’m certain Regan Donnelly would pat my hand and squeeze my fingers. “I know how painful remembering Andrew is.”
“Tracy Jones said she spoke with Andrew last . . . week.” My voice cracks—insurance against giving away my real feelings.
“What?” Regan literally wrings her hands.
“It was as if she slugged me in the solar plexus.” I clear my throat. “I was stunned.”
“Of course you were.” Regan switches to fisting her hands. “Why would she lie?”
“Lie’s the word I used with Patel. I told him that’s why I didn’t hire her—because she lied. I said I asked her in for an interview because I saw Andrew’s name among her work references. Said I figured she was up to something no good. Now, managing the acquisition, making sure I don’t miss AnnaSophia’s birthday, I’m not certain what I saw . . .”
“Let me check that out for you.” The eagerness in Regan’s tone is gratifying.
“What if she didn’t list Andrew—just waited to spring her trap during the interview?” The memory of AnnaSophia’s betrayals makes it easy to sound like a tired, confused little boy hoodwinked by an unscrupulous liar. “I’m not sure how much more I can take of Patel’s suspicions.”
“Let me check Miz Jones’s résumé. If she omitted Andrew’s name, I can easily insert it—if doing so will help you.”
The stunned little boy disappears. I smile at my fairy godmother. “Regan, you will never know how much.”
Chapter 34
SHE
My fingers, wrapped around Detective Patel’s business card, burn as if I’ve plunged them in fresh lava. He walks silently beside me into the foyer still aglow with morning light. The imprint of each letter in his name sears my skin. If I ever intend to beg for help, now’s the time.
Say something.
At the front door, he says, “I hope you’ll call me with anything you remember.”
Speak up. My throat closes.
“No matter how insignificant you think it is.”
What is it? The fact my husband is a monster? Would you believe me if I accused him of murdering Tracy Jones? Would you tell him I ratted him out? I open the door and stand to one side. Going outside poses a risk to my self-discipline I won’t take. I mash my lips in a line so thin not a sigh, not a scream, not a sound escapes.
On the far side of the circle drive, I glimpse Jed Wilson in his car, engine turned off. In my ears, the hollow clash of a cymbal bruises my tired brain. My jaw cracks.
Detective Patel stares across the expanse of roses filling the circle. “Is Mr. Wilson always so vigilant?”
“Always.” I extend my hand, shake his, then close the door.
Faraway, in a distant country, in the kitchen, my cell phone plays Pachelbel Canon.
Michael. No one else ever calls me. If one of the girls spikes a temp, the school calls one of Michael’s EAs. He then dispatches a driver for an unscheduled pick-up. The pre-school director calls Elise. Dad’s private nurses in Carmel contact Michael. He then calls me.
You’re a med-school dropout. With a history of post-partum blues. Our children—and your addle-brained father—deserve someone reliable in a minor crisis or a full-blown emergency. Should I be more specific?
The sickly bird called hope bangs against my ribs. Dragging my feet from the foyer to the kitchen slows my momentum. Threats of the specifics ensure I rarely rattle the bars on my golden cage.
Sun glints off the knife blade Jennifer uses to chop blood-red tomatoes. She glances up. “Are you all right, Mrs. Romanov?”
“A little tired. I’ll take this call in the family room.” Feeling awkward for explaining my behavior to a woman I don’t know, I pick up the phone. The bold, oversized letters of Michael’s name flash in the LED.
“I understand,” Michael booms with fake merriment, “you and Detective Patel are now pals.”
“Wilson lost no time gossiping.” Hands shaking, I pour a fresh glass of lemonade.
“I pay him to stay on his toes.” Fast-moving traffic muffles his words.
Oh, God. Please do not let him come home for lunch.
“You talk to him for hours, but you only speak half a dozen words to me.”
The first sip of lemonade goes down wrong, and I cough, irritating my throat. My eyes water. I cough repeatedly, finally stop and sniffle.
Michael claps. “I have never understood why you studied medicine instead of drama.”
His tone—sarcastic, biting, adversarial—hits a primitive instinct deep in my limbic system. Adrenaline guns into me. In a single, fluid, non-thinking moment, I jerk the phone away from my ear and slam it on the floor. My knees wobble, but I stomp my heel in the middle of the LED.
His disembodied voice sounds even stronger. I grind the phone into the carpet. His loud, snarky voice rolls over me.
The damn phone is indestructible.
My mouth opens, and my jaws move to release the scream of frustration and fury choking me. Not a squeak. Not a breath. Not a scream. He can’t see me, but hearing his voice reduces me to fighting for air. The sun beats down on my head—colder than any Minnesota ice storm I ever experienced.
The phone in the kitchen pierces the silence, and I jump.
Jennifer’s voice carries as if she’s speaking through a megaphone. “I believe she’s in the next room, Mr. Romanov. Shall I get her—”
Whatever else she says fades. I turn and race to the front door as if all the demons in hell are giving chase. I charge outside and down the stairs. The SUV remains where I parked it.
Without the keys.
In my head, the silver key ring flashes. I see it in my purse. In the foyer closet.
Doesn’t matter. I’m not fit to drive. Dammit, I’m not fit for anything. I sprint across the driveway—my lungs burning from lack of oxygen. I stop, bend over, suck in air and stare out over the steep expanse of lush grass. Below me, taillights glow red.
Detective Patel’s car, followed by Jed’s sedan, inches toward the gate.
“Detective Patel. Wait. Stop. Stop.” I wave my hands and start running. Ground cover edges the bricks. One misstep will send me sprawling.
The downhill plunge demands another adrenaline spike. My lungs expand. My vision narrows. The blue shock of sky swallows the sun. The manicured foliage and pristine driveway clear my mind. Far below, two black spots slow around the curves. Blood rushes into my ears. Images of skiing at Aspen and Bear Mountain fast-forward. Images of ice skating in Minnesota shimmer. Yoga training and muscle memory kick my calves and thighs into high gear.
Knees relaxed, eyes focused straight ahead, I fly.
No worries about gopher holes.
The groundskeeper wouldn’t tolerate such laxness.
Ditto for loose gravel. Or any kind of trash—paper, twigs, dead animals—anything that detracts from the Disneyland image.
Time stops. Endorphins slam through my brain. Logic disappears. Sweat soaks my back. Stings my eyes. I run and run and run and run. By the time I’m gasping for air, by the time my chest threatens to rip open, by the time the stitch in my side morphs into pain worse than labor, less than two hundred feet lie between me and the gate.
By that time, it’s too late.
Jed Wilson is riding the tail of Detective Patel’s car through the exit.
Exhaustion beats down attempts to raise my trembling hand or dried-out voice.
Chapter 35
HE
“You want me to follow you to the house for backup, Mr. Romanov? The cop’s carrying.”
“Open the gate, Jed. Close it after I get through. Stay where you are.” An hour after Patel left my office, I reach the turn-off into the driveway doing a hundred MPH. Three seconds from the g
ate, I pop the Veneno’s clutch, shift into sixth gear, and hit the gas.
Jed’s an idiot. Why would I want—or need—backup?
What I want is an explanation for Patel’s stupidity. Why the hell did he turn around and go back up the drive? Why did Jed let him in the damn gate? How much do I pay that man?
The gate opens a second before I roar through, burning up the first few feet of driveway at a hundred and fifty MPH. The steering wheel holds steady around the first hairpin curve and straightens out like a dream. People have no idea what a good car and good driver can do.
Maybe, when the acquisition is sealed and delivered, I will race in Abu Dhabi. Why not?
Going up and over the next rise leaves my head spinning. Adrenaline rushes into every cell. The engine’s power streams through my blood. I see every blade of grass fly by. The wind whips around me at the rate of a tornado. The leathery smell of the Veneno’s interior is intoxicating. I inhale and get ready to ease my foot off the accelerator—though flying past the house and down the side road to the infinity pool gives me another boost of my favorite hormone.
Unfortunately, AnnaSophia and Patel might perceive such a move as flight.
I laugh and lift my foot from the accelerator.
They, like Tracy, have lessons to learn about flight or fight.
God, what I’d give for a high-powered rifle. Or not. The holstered .357 has become such a natural appendage, I sometimes forget I’m wearing a firearm.
Hell, I don’t need a rifle. Or an Uzi. Or a shotgun. Thumbing back that hammer . . .
Self-defense, Chief. Came home. Found your guy with my wife. Ordered him to release her. He made a move. I was faster.
Ahead of me, going too slow, the BMR SUV Elise drives to pick up Magnus.
No way to pass. No way she can pull off on the narrow shoulder.
Sonuva—I tromp the brakes. To the floorboard.
The Veneneo fishtails. Whips around one-eighty at seventy-five MPH. The engine screams.
