The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  “How’d your dad get so smart?” I ask, my voice soft but belligerent.

  “Not from books. From hard work. From his parents. Steady, salt-of-the-earth folks. Sort of like Andrew Miller.” He leans toward the windshield, and his face moves into shadow.

  Or maybe I can’t see him because I’ve squeezed my eyes shut, dug my nails into my thighs, and tasted the hot, bitter puke scalding my throat.

  Chapter 51

  HE

  The three quick taps on my door alert me to Regan, ready to make my life easy. For half a second, I imagine opening the door and telling her to take the day off. The fantasy evaporates. I push away from my desk, open the door, and immediately take charge of the conversation.

  “You’re later than I expected.”

  “I apologize, Mr. Romanov.”

  “No reason? The fog? You overslept?”

  “Poor time management.” Her face goes as white as Monet’s snowfall.

  I laugh and step aside so she can enter my office. “Regan, Regan, Regan. I’m pulling your chain. You’re never late so I know there’s a good reason. One that doesn’t require an affidavit from Detective Patel.”

  She worries one of the buttons on her immaculate knit jacket. “I should have been here earlier—if for no reason than to thank you for last night.”

  “You painted the town red?” I wait until she sits, then go behind my desk.

  “And magenta. And pink. And every shade in-between.” She sits ram-rod straight on the edge of the chair. “Thank you so much for last night. David and I appreciate your generosity.”

  A little glow builds in my chest. Too bad Regan can’t teach AnnaSophia a scintilla of her natural courtesy. “You’re welcome. I appreciate your help with that résumé. Thanks to you, I think I’ve seen the last of Detective Patel.”

  “I should hope so. This morning’s news claimed the police suspect an overdose of drugs and alcohol caused or contributed to Miz Jones’s death.”

  “Acute mixed drug intoxication is my educated guess.” I shake my head and make a face I hope passes for sympathy.

  Regan, nice, good-hearted Regan, says, “Thank goodness your intuition told you she was all wrong for a job here,”

  “Reading people is second nature to me.” Too bad my nature was on the fritz when I met AnnaSophia. “I didn’t catch the news. Did the police state if they’ve ruled out foul play?”

  “The report I heard said they’re still waiting for the official autopsy.”

  “In the meantime,” I clap once and smile. “Time for us to hunker down. Lots going on, and I want to go home early tonight.”

  Finished with our review of my email and scheduled meetings for the day, I send her back to her office with one admonition: No interruptions. If I know Dimitri, he’ll be calling me from Copenhagen. No matter how the police rule on Tracy’s death, I don’t trust Patel.

  In fact, I’d say I distrust the snoopy detective even more than I distrust AnnaSophia.

  I glance out the window. Fog as far as I can see. My pulse revs up.

  Is it too much to hope AnnaSophia will disregard Patrick’s offer to drive her and end up dead? How serendipitous would that accident prove?

  Chapter 52

  SHE

  Silver mist fills the void beyond the open gate. Paralyzed by the mention of Andrew Miller, I imagine the flames of hell leaping across the emptiness and burning me to ashes.

  Patrick continues to rub a circle in the windshield. “You think salt-of-the-earth’s a good description of Andrew?”

  “I-I suppose so.” My voice wobbles. I wet my lips—a mistake because I’m sure he picks up the strain on my vocal cords.

  “He believed in keeping his mouth shut.” Patrick swipes the windshield one more time, then sits back and shifts so he faces me, his eyes narrowed, his mouth hard.

  “Michael expects discretion from everyone he hires.” In my ears, my words and tone sound stiff and scared when I want to sound strong and unafraid.

  His bottom lip curls, and he makes a noise I’m certain he’d never make to Michael’s face. “That’s not why Andrew was discreet.”

  “You sound as if you knew him very well.” I hate the thinness in my voice and despise my failure to ask him to step out of the car.

  “We were best friends. He helped me get this job.”

  Why? Blood rushes into my ears, and my knees wobble. “How did you meet?”

  “At San Jose State. In a computer class. We shared an apartment for a while. Then he graduated.”

  “But you stayed in contact.” How much longer can I avoid asking what I already know?

  “Right up until two years ago.”

  “When did you start working here?” I ask too quickly, feeling the space between us close.

  “Twenty-six months ago.” All the windows have fogged over, but he makes no move to wipe off any of the mist. He fixes me with a gaze. “Two months before you started screwing Andrew’s brains out.”

  Chapter 53

  HE

  Give me action. Waiting bores me silly.

  Seated at my desk, I swivel around in my chair. Fog hangs as heavily behind me as it does to my left—the corner of the building most buffeted by the Bay’s micro-climate. I pick up the new disposable phone. Logically, Dimitri has learned nothing yet. Just as logically, Patel has written me off his suspect list. Illogically, I expected a call from Patrick.

  Either he’s chauffeuring AnnaSophia to Carmel or he’s not.

  With what I pay him, is it too much to expect him to let me know?

  A slow burn begins at the base of my skull. Patrick doesn’t know it, but he’s walking on thin ice. He’s an excellent mechanic. I wouldn’t trust him to maintain the Veneno, but he definitely keeps the four other vehicles—excluding AnnaSophia’s SUV—in top condition.

  Thinking about AnnaSophia’s SUV triggers a thought. When was the last time I received a report from the GPS I had designed for tracking her daily mileage?

  Thirty-year-old computer nerd Bradley Chan picks up after the first ring. “Mr. Romanov. What can I do for you?”

  I imagine him at a bank of computers in the warehouse where he oversees seven other geek-software developers who make Einstein look like the class dummy. “I haven’t had a report from you for a while, Brad.”

  “Seriously?” He mutters something to himself I don’t catch, then speaks clearly. “According to my records, I’ve sent you the files weekly. Just like you requested. I’m checking the last two now. Nothing out of the ordinary, but I can shoot them off to you as we speak.”

  “Do that. And in the future, make sure you get my acknowledgment of receipt.”

  “No problemo, Mr. Romanov.” Something in his voice—a hesitation sends up a red flag. “Do you see it yet?”

  The yellow “File Sent” light flicks on and off on my computer. I mouse to the Download icon, press open and wait. And wait. And wait. Without warning, my monitor goes black.

  “Goddammit, Bradley, my computer crashed.”

  “Seriously?” He laughs, but his tone shifts from skepticism to suspicion in four syllables.

  “No, not seriously. I’m joking.”

  “I know you’re not joking.” His flat, border-line bored tone carries no hint of conciliation. “I doubt, though, that my file caused your crash.”

  “Seriously?” I lay on the sarcasm. “Your damn data must have a virus. That’s the only explanation.”

  “Not the only explanation, Mr. Romanov.” Cool, superior, high-priest programmer talking down to an idiot.

  “Maybe not the only explanation, but the most rational one. In case you’ve forgotten, Bradley, I started using computers before you were born.”

  There’s a momentary blip of silence—broken only by my breathing magnified through the phone. Finally, he says, “Let me check. I’ll get back to you with an explanation—”

  “Forget the goddamned explanation. Send me the fucking readable file and the fix for my computer in an hour, o
r I’ll find someone else who wants my business.”

  He’s sputtering as I hang up. Whether I’m tired from lack of sleep or too much adrenaline or simply fed up with everyone’s incompetence, the one place I still have control is over my loving, cheating wife.

  Chapter 54

  SHE

  In the car, Patrick and I stare at each other—neither backing down. Both knowing whoever blinks first loses. Both edgy. Still, despite his description of me and Andrew, I see nothing ugly in him.

  Denial?

  Logically, the light from the dash throws off too little illumination to see his true nature.

  “What do you want?” My voice rasps.

  “You to help me nail your fuckin’ husband for Andrew’s murder.”

  His locked jaw tells me he’s not joking, but my mind rears back from the bald statement. Patel never insinuated or implied Michael murdered Tracy, but I instantly leaped to that conclusion. Why do I need a minute to consider he also killed Andrew?

  “The coroner ruled Andrew’s death an accident,” I whisper.

  “The coroner’s full of shit.”

  “I thought the CHP concurred.”

  “Someone tampered with his brakes. Not your husband. Too professional. Someone he paid. He found out about you and Andrew.”

  Denial stomps on my lungs, cutting off breath. Fear ripples through the pit of my stomach and down the back of my legs. “How do you know that?”

  “Andrew told me your husband had stopped trusting him. Said he’d found something—an invoice or credit card receipt—he shouldn’t have seen. A GPS tracked wherever he went in his car. Apparently, he visited you at Hotel Serra several times a month.”

  No smirks. Or eye-rolls. Or smutty smiles. But his flat, don’t-try-to-deny-the-truth tone slices into my insides with calculated precision. My tongue flicks out to lick my cracked lips. I catch myself and gnaw on the inside of my mouth. Snapshots explode of me and Andrew in bed, on the floor, in the shower, against the wall.

  Unable to grab words to deny Patrick’s accusation, I go on the offensive. “I thought you said Andrew didn’t tell you about us.”

  “He didn’t. I’m a rube from the Delta, but I’m not a moron. Why would Boss Man track Andrew’s comings and goings?” He taps his temple with his index finger. “How many answers to that question?”

  When I don’t reply, he says, “The fact Andrew refused to tell me about ‘the woman he’d waited for his whole life’ told me plenty. The fact she was married, told me more. The fact her husband would never give her a divorce without taking their kids told me everything.”

  My jaw works. I try to speak. Words stick in my throat. Holes exist in his logic. Holes big enough to drive the SUV through. Holes that can swallow me and my whole pathetic life. I press my knees together and hold my head rigid, but I still feel as if I’ve already fallen into one of those bottomless holes.

  “Are you gonna help me or not?” Hope shimmers in his face.

  Chapter 55

  HE

  Where the hell is AnnaSophia? Dimitri calls as I’m debating whether she stood up dear ole dad and sneaked off with the friend. Tapping my desk, I say, “Tell me.”

  “Our Detective Patel is quite the Hercule Poirot.” Dimitri speaks in a strong, upbeat tone despite nearly twelve hours in the air. When did he ever hear of the little Belgian? “Having a former ambassador as a father opens many doors.”

  The certainty he’s stalling hits me in the throat like a fist. My lungs need more oxygen.

  “He uncovered why you left Krebs’ Skole.”

  “Who—” My voice is so thick with rage I can’t finish.

  “Eric Larsen. Remember, he was a student with us—a year ahead?”

  “Goddam—of course, I remember him. Top student. Hated me because I was smarter.”

  “He knew the girl’s family. Became head of the math department thirty-three years ago—the same year Satish Patel enrolled. Patel, I gather, was Larsen’s favorite student. They stay in communication. Now, Larsen’s headmaster.”

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.” I push away from the desk so forcefully my chair careens toward the glass wall opposite the Monet. I catapult to my feet, stumble, then grab one of the arms and hurl the chair into my desk. The children’s photo clatters face-down on the glass surface.

  “Mr. Romanov?” Regan, bug-eyed, freezes in the doorway.

  “No interruptions, dammit.”

  White-faced, blinking, she pulls the door shut. Maybe I’ll apologize later.

  Dimitri says, “What happ—”

  “What else?” I bend at the waist to catch my breath. “Where’s Anika now?’

  “Stockholm. Married an Electrolux executive ten years ago. Both parents live with her, her husband, and two kids. Detective Patel learned this info, but I think he has not called her.”

  “But he will. He will. The bastard.”

  “If he calls, I can make sure she doesn’t talk.” He speaks as if reading the phone book.

  “Let me think about it. Do you need more time in Copenhagen?”

  “No.” As if reading my mind, he adds, “A flight to Stockholm leaves in two hours. If I hur—”

  “Hurry. Call when you land.” The fog blankets everything outside my window and brings back memories of Copenhagen. Despite the cold and gloom, the Danes consider themselves the happiest people in the world. And God knows I was happy there for five years.

  Until my world suddenly cracked wide open.

  In no mood to remember those days, I get in the elevator. The lab is the one place where I can always forget. Where I can use my brain to solve problems that matter. Where I can leave behind the people who have betrayed me and my dreams.

  Chapter 56

  SHE

  The fog laps at the SUV’s windows, layering them in condensation. Despite the heater blasting, my whole body starts trembling. The trembling spirals up to quaking. The quaking escalates to shuddering. As hard as I clasp my hands, I can’t hide the panic.

  Help Patrick prove my husband’s a murderer? Is he crazy? Is he setting a trap? What if he’s wearing a wire? Recording every incriminating word that falls out of my mouth? Setting me up to have an accident like Andrew?

  “Mrs. Romanov.” The gentleness of his voice resonates through the fingers he lays on my elbow.

  I flinch as if he has punched me in the face. “Please. Don’t. Touch. Me.”

  His hand drops to the console. “You’re sort of creeping me out.”

  “We’re even. I’m thinking we should continue this conversation outside.”

  CLICK. He has locked all the doors. “Are you nuts?”

  “My husband would say certifiably nuts. Mad as a hatter. Crazy as a bedbug. Loony as a loon. Wacky as a weirdo. Neurotic. Cracked. Insane. Certifiable . . .” I finally run down, out of breath, fighting tears, chin up, hands fisted.

  “I don’t give a shit what your husband thinks.” Venom drips from each syllable. “He’s a murderer. One who will get by with killing my best friend. Unless you hel—”

  “Now who’s nuts? How can I help you when I can’t help myself? I can’t keep my kids safe. I can’t stop him from hurting my father. I—”

  “Sound like a victim. Like a poor, helpless, little woman terrified of her shadow.”

  The tingle in my fingertips fires. My hand shoots out toward his face.

  He ducks, but I punch his biceps with the heel of my hand. With all the fury churning my insides. With a sense of joy. Seeing not Patrick but Michael The Murderer. Punching again, feeling so damned good I don’t want to stop.

  “Enough.” Patrick grabs my wrist. “See, you’re not such a wimp. You’re not a vic—”

  “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. You don’t know anything.” The cliché rings like a gong in my head, intensifying the note of hysteria. I am so close to tears I see a blur for his face.

  “I know he killed Andrew. I know you’re terrified. I know you can help me.” His sing-song cadence soothes me enough I s
top blinking. He releases my wrist.

  “You don’t know what he’s capable of,” I whisper.

  “Wrong. I know he’s capable of murder. What else is there to know?”

  The adrenaline is starting to eke out of me, leaving me exhausted. “You don’t know how much I despise giving in to fear every waking and sleeping moment. Once, a long time ago, I like to believe, I was stronger.”

  “Okay, but don’t you get that he wins if you give up? Every time you surrender control to him, he wins. He gets off on making you dance. Making you jump. Making you lie awake night after night while he sleeps like an innocent man. Hell, I bet he was born a damn monster.”

  “Psychopath—not to put too fine a point on it. He’s a psychopath.” I stare beyond Patrick at the moisture sliding down the driver’s window. God, I wish I could sit here all day. “He’s also smart, FYI. If he’s ever felt fear, I’ve never seen it. If he knew we were talking—”

  “How’s he gonna know?” Left unsaid, You gonna ’fess up? Am I gonna tattle?

  How’s he gonna know? How’s he . . . gonna . . . know? How’s he gonna know? Drops of light rain tapping the SUV’s roof give the unspoken question a subtle rhythm, drumming each word into my mind.

  Eyes are everywhere, Darling.

  Aware of the trembling uncoiling in the pit of my stomach, I snap back to the here and now. “We can’t sit here any longer. There are eyes everywhere.”

  “Then they must see in the damn dark.”

  “They see best in the dark.” I turn and swipe a hole in my window. “Jed or one of his goons is probably watching us right now. He’ll report how long we sat here. He—”

  “Well, then, let’s cut him off at the knees. You want to call your husband? Or you want me to call? Tell him I’m driving you to Carmel?”

  A giant wave of terror swells inside me. Hands shaking, I pull my phone out of my purse and hold it in my palm for a nanosecond.