The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  “Erik Larsen never liked me. Twenty years later, he hacks and chops my reputation. I should sue him for defamation of character. I would win.”

  “Would you?” Patel is close enough I can see his mouth twist in a moue of disgust.

  “First,” I get right in his face. “The sex was consensual. Check into Anika Pedersen’s background. You’ll find I was not the first male to get in her pants. She set me up. My father was rich. She thought she’d soak him for millions of kroner.”

  “Maybe you weren’t the first. But weren’t you the first to take pictures? Weren’t you the first to hand them around to boys at school? Who needed the Internet?” He pauses, but not long enough for me to nail him with a comeback. “Those pictures ruined her reputation.”

  “If you don’t want your reputation ruined, you should behave above approach.”

  He shakes his head and snorts. “A reference to Caesar’s wife?”

  “A statement of the hard truth. Where do you think I’d be if I didn’t protect my image?”

  He refuses to take the bait, so I drive home my point. “Silicon Valley executives and founders get booted all the time because their bad judgment smears their company’s reputation. You know one side of the Anika Pedersen story. If a whisper of that version appears on Twitter or Facebook or in the media anywhere on the globe, I will ensure you feel the full consequences of the law.”

  “Is that how you and your father silenced Anika? With threats?”

  I slam my fist on top of the Benz and enjoy the sudden throb in my palm. “Listen, you low-level bureaucrat, I don’t have to resort to threats. And I sure as hell don’t succumb to blackmail—by anyone.”

  “Blackmail?” Asked with a distinct quaver. “Have I asked or demanded anything from you, Mr. Romanov?”

  “Not yet. So save yourself some time and grief. Forget going that direction unless you want me to chat with Chief Tobin.”

  “I encourage you to chat with the chief at your earliest convenience. In the meantime, if I learn anything about your wife, how should I contact you?”

  “Forget my wife. I have other more reliable sources.” I jerk open the car door and drop into the seat.

  The .357 presses my ribs with the weight of a hundred-pound barbell. Christ, what I’d give to reach into my pocket and get the drop on this bastard. BAM! Shut his fuckin’ mouth permanently. Too bad Tanya is counting off the seconds till his return.

  I lunge for the door he holds open. He cocks his head and nails me with a long, steady gaze. “The fog has everyone on edge. Drive carefully.”

  He closes the door but stays put while I back out, blinded by the fog swallowing the parking lot. Certain he’s watching—even though he can’t see any more than I can—I keep a light foot on the accelerator. God, I’d love to peal onto Villa. But the damn fog diminishes the fun of seeing his jaw drop. My head’s ready to explode, but damned if I do something stupid.

  The bastard’s aching for any reason to detain me.

  And should he invent a reason to hold me, he’ll have to relieve me of the Magnum first.

  For whatever reason—my brain sees patterns no one else fathoms—thinking of my gun dredges up the memory of wanting to shoot that cur Bruno. One more missed pleasure.

  That thought catapults me to the biggest disappointment of the week—AnnaSophia’s friend at Le Boulanger. Someday, I’ll have the pleasure of telling her how Bruno kept me from shooting her friend in the Wells Fargo parking lot.

  Except for that damn dog, I could’ve taught my cheating wife a lesson she’d never forget.

  She still needs to learn that lesson.

  Once I find her, I’ll make sure she never again exposes me to humiliation.

  Chapter 74

  SHE

  Girl Friday Liu zips into the Cantor garage and stops at the space where I left the SUV.

  “Where’s my car?” A shiny, silver Lexus SUV sits in its spot.

  “Hold that question.” Patrick nods at Liu.

  The locks click, and he opens his door, leaning back inside to help me slide across the seat. As soon as my feet drop on the cement, he slams the door. Liu takes off. Patrick dangles a set of keys in front of my nose.

  “I’ll drive to where I parked the pickup. Another car’s waiting.”

  “Another car?” I bite my tongue. “Scratch that question. I sound like a ditz.”

  He helps me into the passenger seat and pulls out the seatbelt. “You’re not a ditz. You’re smart. Creative. Fearless.”

  “Fearless?” I smack the dash. “Dammit. There I go again, imitating a parrot.”

  “You don’t think it takes courage to live with a psychopath?”

  “Cour—” I catch myself and slam the seatbelt buckle into the lock. “Having three kids and a sick father feeds the instinct for survival.”

  “I’m counting on your survival instinct to bring down Michael Romanov.” He pushes the door toward me. “Chew on that thought a minute.”

  He walks behind the Lexus. Tremors worm down my vertebra. Bring down Michael Romanov? My head swims, and I feel as if I’m free-falling through space. I press my trembling arms against my ribs. The truth shakes me. I don’t want to bring him down. I want to escape. Go someplace he can’t find me and the kids and my father. Hide out. Forever.

  Patrick climbs in, slides the key into the ignition, starts the engine. “Spooked you, huh?”

  “Try terrified.” My numb lips barely move.

  Patrick lays an arm across my seat, checks both directions, backs out and turns toward the exit in one smooth, expert move. “He’s not a god. He’s not invincible. He’s unraveling.”

  “How do you know that? Because you think he murdered Andrew?”

  “Because I know he murdered Andrew. Because I’ve been watching him make one stupid mistake after the other for the past year. His business is going down the tubes. He has the police breathing down his neck. He hired an undercover FBI agent to work for him and still doesn’t suspect I’m anyone but a pretty good mechanic.”

  Too stunned to speak, I stare at him.

  He laughs. “Admittedly, I’ve kept a pretty low profile.”

  My brain feels as fogged in as the buildings around us.

  “Was Andrew—” The question banging my skull is ugly, but I have to know the truth. “Was Andrew screwing me to feed information to the FBI?”

  “Nope.” Patrick’s flat, low-key intonation flips on all my suspicions.

  “Why not?” I demand, hard and fast. “Did you two exchange notes on everything?”

  He snorts. “Andrew wasn’t a kiss ’n tell guy. We rarely exchanged notes on anything. He had no idea I work for the FBI. I lied to him same as I lied to your husband.”

  I jut my chin at him. “So you’re a good liar?”

  “Damned good.” He turns into a space on Palm Drive. Next to us sits another silver Lexus, displaying a required “A” permit. From inside his jacket, Patrick produces an identical permit and hooks it around the rearview mirror.

  “Are those permits legal? Fog or no fog, the campus police will tow these cars. In case you don’t know, parking at Stanford is rarer than faithful husbands.” The words fall out of my mouth at the speed of sound. Why am I’m jabbering about parking permits and faithful husbands? “Am I having a mental breakdown?”

  “You’re stressed. Not even teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown.” He kills the engine and drops the key in his front pocket. “The permits are legal so check one worry off your list, okay?”

  His gaze flickers across my face, then rests on my eyes. The warmth in his scrutiny is so different from the cold, impersonal stare Michael turns on me that I nod. The warmth deepens. My stomach unclenches. Blood flows back into my fingertips. Something deep inside me fires to life.

  His smile is slow, careful—like a stranger coaxing a toddler to totter toward an outstretched, unknown hand.

  Inwardly, I see myself reach for that hand. At the last second, I jerk back. Patrick,
less than a minute ago, bragged about being a good liar.

  What if I’m imagining the concern in his eyes? What if he’s using me to get to Michael? What if— The hairs on my nape stand up. What if he figures out I’m not innocent?

  What if he discovers I have my own plan? One that doesn’t include working with the FBI?

  Chapter 75

  HE

  Considering the possibility AnnaSophia might try to grab the children and run to a women’s shelter, I call their school and demand to speak with no one but the headmistress. The flunky hems and haws. I remind her I pay $75K annually for my daughters’ tuition, books, meals, and miscellaneous fees. Uniforms and field trips add to the cost. Last year, I point out, I contributed an additional $100K to the endowment fund.

  In other words, if I want to speak with the headmistress, don’t give me pushback.

  Seconds later, the snotty British accent of Susan Henderson, fat, fake, and fifty greets me.

  “I want to make sure all staff members understand my daughters leave school with no one but my designated drivers.” Neither AnnaSophia nor Patrick Reid is so designated.

  “Before we speak further, how can I be sure I’m speaking with Michael Romanov?”

  Ahhhh, a teachable woman. Her lack of judgment taught her a hard lesson three years ago when Andrew Miller—not on the list—picked up the girls. The pickup was a test of the school’s security. The teachers and Susan Henderson failed. I could easily have demanded her resignation. Every parent at Pemberton Academy obsesses about abductions.

  “You and I have a mutual acquaintance, Leander Hoover, a long-time resident of Oxford.”

  Her sigh amuses me. She’d rather sit down to tea with an alligator than talk to me. “I am quite certain all faculty members are familiar with your desires, Mr. Romanov.”

  “Here’s everyone’s reminder. Under no circumstances may Alexandra and Anastaysa leave school with their mother.”

  “I will remind faculty and staff.” There’s a repressed sigh in her tone, but she asks brightly, “How else may I help you, Mr. Romanov?”

  Listen, you bitch, and pay attention.

  “If I sound paranoid, Miz Henderson, I have reason.” I soften my tone, intending to impress her with the heavy load I carry. “My wife’s emotional state is quite fragile.”

  She clicks her tongue against her horsey teeth. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  An undercurrent of eagerness betrays her desire for gossip. I feed her desire.

  “Her father’s dementia has worsened. He’s gone missing from his care facility several times recently.”

  “Oh, dear.” Faux sympathy oozes.

  “Naturally, my wife fears for his safety, but the strain . . . She’s not sleeping well. She doesn’t eat. She refuses to take a mood stabilizer.”

  “I am so sorry. My own dear mother experienced some of the same kind of difficulties before her end.”

  Never underestimate manipulation. I smile. A background of Susan Henderson turned up this factoid about her mother. All I needed to do was push the trigger. She exudes sympathy.

  “Then you understand why I am so resolute. My wife really should not drive—herself or anyone—right now.”

  “Please rest assured we consider Alexandra and Anastaysa part of the Pemberton Family. It is our privilege to have them here. They are such delightful gulls.”

  Gulls makes me want to puke, but I clamp down on the reaction.

  “You obviously provide a stable home environment despite your father-in-law’s illness.”

  Despite my wife’s dereliction of duty, you mean.

  “Thank you for your understanding. Please accept my apol—”

  “No, no, no, Mr. Romanov. No apology necessary. I hope you will let me know if I or anyone on the faculty may be of assistance in the coming days.”

  In the coming days? Jesus, where did this woman learn her lines? It takes all my willpower to listen to her ramble, but I want her to break off the conversation.

  In the coming days, I may well need the headmistress’s testimony about my own vigorous mental health.

  *****

  A quick cruise through the Wells Fargo parking lot pays off. Coincidence or serendipity?

  Parked in the same place as two days ago, sits the friend’s bike. My scalp burns.

  Where friend is, can AnnaSophia be far behind? She left home five hours ago, went back thirty minutes later, left again. As much as I’d love to believe she’s one of the Monterey accident victims, I still scoff at serendipity.

  A scan of the socked-in lot reveals that none of the ten cars belongs to me.

  Where the hell are you, bitch? Have you and Patrick suddenly morphed into the dynamic duo? The CHP Commander’s phone drones on and on with the busy signal.

  Why the hell did Tobin take off for Marin to help another town in another county? Dammit, I flip the wipers on high, then low, then high without getting any release from my frustration.

  Wouldn’t this be a perfect day for murder—with all the cops elsewhere?

  Chapter 76

  SHE

  Some people carry on their bodies the smell of guilt.

  I’ve never done more than graze John’s hand, but I come home after every coffee with him and take a long, hot shower hoping to erase his essence of maleness and my stench of guilt.

  Anastaysa always throws off a sweet, yeasty smell that gives her away every time she lies or commits a peccadillo. The sweetness may come from feelings of regret. She instantly laments verbal assaults against Alexandra, Magnus and me. With real tears or contrite tone or head hung low, she quickly begs our forgiveness. How can she have a blood tie to Michael?

  Alexandra and Magnus rarely offer apologies—except to their father. Their bodies carry the scent of Pears soap and fresh laundry detergent and clean clothes. Unlike their father, I suspect they do feel guilty from time to time, but the stigma of guilt does not cling to them.

  Michael feels no guilt. Or shame. Or regret.

  He smells of power. Of cruelty. Of fury ready to erupt.

  He has expressed remorse for his behavior toward me three times, but in each instance the words rang hollow and his eyes went flat and his body stiffened.

  Semen and sweat comprise the basics of my stink after trysts with Bradley Chan. The stench of sex oozes from every pore—despite scalding showers and marinating in Chanel N°5.

  The adolescent fatalism I felt with Andrew came closest to shame. I longed to be with him every second of every day. I longed to sleep with him and wake up in the circle of his arms. I longed to believe we’d build a life together and never once regretted our lovemaking. I never once considered my children’s prospects or my father’s future if Michael learned of the affair. I never—ever—imagined Michael would murder my lover.

  Now, sitting next to Patrick on the Stanford Oval, I reek of guilt. So does he. I can smell his self-reproach like something tangible. Facing what I must do is inescapable.

  “What did Bradley Chan tell you?” I settle back, pressing the door sharply into my back.

  “Did you know your husband owns an apartment in Abu Dhabi?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. Why do I care?”

  “It’s an easy place to do business with foreigners who can’t enter the U.S.”

  “Why do I care?”

  “They can’t enter the U.S. because they traffic in the sex trade.”

  The skin on my arms tries to crawl off. “Personally?”

  “For profit. Mister Romanov brokers buying and selling women and children—girls and boys. He’s used his company as a cover to travel the world.”

  “For . . . how . . . long?” I press a thumb against my lips, forcing back the loathing, and stare beyond him into the dark wetness.

  “The past five years—maybe as long as ten.”

  “Why didn’t I suspect? I—I know he’s a . . .” Psychopath sticks in my throat, burning my tongue, pounding my eardrums.

  “A wife and thre
e kids provide a cover of respect. Almost no one suspected.”

  “Andrew?” Had I worried so much about my own little world that I forgot Michael considered the universe his domain?

  A headshake. “Andrew suspected about your abuse. Bradley Chan caught on first. Disposable phones gave him a hint. Your husband wanted a—”

  “Don’t call him that.” I jerk away from the door and shake my finger in his face like a stereotypical shrew. “We have a wedding license, but I’m not married to that monster.”

  “Got it.” He waits until I ease back against the door. “MR wanted a source for disposable cell phones by the case. His source in Thailand went out of business.”

  “Bradley Chan—ever the entrepreneur.”

  “The connection is Andrew. Andrew went to Bradley for GPS units for all fifteen cars. Told him about working for a rich dude, told MR about his old friend, the computer whiz and disposable cell-phone distributor.

  “Not long after Andrew’s accident, MR consulted Bradley about tapping your phone as well as the ones in the house. When the great man left, he dropped a disposable phone Bradley found later. He listened . . . and the rest as they say is history.”

  “I find it hard to believe the guy who’s as venal as Michael came to the FBI voluntarily.”

  “Good instincts.” Patrick faces me and the guilt pours off him smelling like old gym socks. “I dug around in Bradley’s closet, discovered his relationship to Andrew, went to him and shared my suspicions about Andrew’s death. He signed up right away to cooperate. He also broke a lot of boundaries, but mostly his cowboy antics paid off.”

  “What is his relationship to Andrew?”

  “Andrew and Bradley’s sister were engaged. Four months before the wedding, she was diagnosed with glioblastoma. That’s—“

  “The deadliest brain tumor out there and a death sentence.” God Andrew. “How long did she live?”

  “Three months. Refused treatment. Refused to marry Andrew. He refused to take a hike. Stayed with her to the end. Married her, according to Bradley, two hours before she died.”