The Dispensable Wife

by AB Plum

  “Most people, in dark like this, would think they’d heard an animal in the bushes. What made you think you heard a person?” Ward stands on the lighted porch between me and Patrick while Luci goes inside to investigate the scene.

  Patrick shrugs. “Grew up in the Delta. I’ve heard every kind of critter in existence. They don’t like us any more than we like them. When we’re around, they stay undercover.”

  In my opinion, he sounds as if he’s covering his ass. The deduction sings in my ears, but I say nothing. As an accomplished liar, I recognize another liar when I see and hear one. Ward, too busy asking insipid questions, notices zip. Does it enter the cop’s pea-brain to remotely suspect my mud-covered mechanic of murder?

  “How far did you search for this phantom?” Ward’s drawl slows on phantom.

  “A couple of hundred yards. You can see I slipped and took a nosedive.” Patrick makes a show of holding out his muddy hands, then wiping them down his filthy jeans.

  “I noticed. I hope to hell you haven’t destroyed our crime scene,” Ward grumbles.

  Patrick’s face—as blank as water—reminds me of my own ability to hide what I’m thinking. At that moment, I’m thinking Ward is an idiot.

  Which may turn out to my advantage.

  His mundane questioning distracts him from asking about my briefcase. Until I can remove the .357, I prefer he not ask why Patrick thought he should return it.

  My questions for Patrick? Why did he return to the guesthouse? Was waiting to see AnnaSophia tomorrow too long a wait? Why didn’t he catch up with me before I reached Jed’s cottage? How long did I stop to talk to Regan?

  Lost in my own agenda, I focus on Ward’s mouth as if he holds my total attention. I am actually studying Patrick. Picking up the scent of danger. Danger I missed completely during the guesthouse charade.

  He looks beyond Ward and locks eyes with me. It’s like staring into my own eyes in a mirror. Cold. Hard. Superior. The bastard’s lip curls in the kind of smirk I often flash to my enemies.

  Luci’s return to the porch breaks our stare-off, but not the anticipation of doing battle. Luci is the smart twin and the bad cop despite her fox-shaped face and soft, gray eyes. She gives nothing away about the crime scene inside but begins immediately to interrogate me.

  “What was the purpose of your visit to Mr. Wilson?”

  “I intended to give him notice of his dismissal.” Knowledgeable of liars’ behavior, I return her gaze without blinking.

  “Why?”

  “He made my wife . . . nervous. She’s already highly strung—”

  Patrick shifts his feet with as much grace as a teen-age boy learning the Viennese Waltz. He smiles, but it carries no apology. It’s a smile directed at me. It’s a smile filled with menace.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom, Mr. Reid?” Luci’s voice lacks any note of concern.

  “A shower would be good.”

  “Hold that thought. I have a few more questions for Mr. Romanov, then I’ll get to you. Then, maybe you’ll get to hop in the shower.” She moves closer to the porch light as if to see both of us more easily. “Your wife is highly strung, Mr. Romanov?”

  “Her father’s Alzheimer’s raises her stress. Other than her weekly visit to him, she only leaves the estate for a couple of hours each day. She spends most of her time here with our five-year-old son. She’s expressed unease about Jed for a while.”

  “And why did you ignore her unease until today?” Throwing unease back at me doesn’t match her neutrally passive facial expression.

  “I didn’t ignore her unease.” No defensiveness. No snarkiness. No impatience. More unbroken eye contact. “Let me clarify my slow response. I run a business that, for the last six months, has undertaken a time-consuming venture. I hate to admit that during this period my family life has suffered from my lack of attention.”

  Luci purses her mouth, glances at me, then swivels her gaze into the fog. When she speaks, she keeps her eyes on the gloom. “How did she get your attention today?”

  Another smirk flickers across Patrick’s mug, but I will my jaw and hands to relax. “Today, she received some troubling news about her father. Because of the fog, she couldn’t get to Carmel to visit him. As I understand, and as Patrick can confirm, she and Jed had an encounter.”

  “What kind of encounter? Physical? Emotional? Psychological?”

  “All three,” Patrick interjects, his voice smooth and compassionate, his body relaxed, but alert. “He leaned through her car window to grab her keys. He missed, tried again, and she opened her door and knocked him backward.”

  “Were you in her car, Mr. Reid?”

  “No, I was right behind her. The whole scene was over in ten, fifteen seconds. We left and went to her yoga class in Mountain View.”

  “Did Mr. Wilson follow you?”

  “I never saw his headlights, but someone messed with her car in the parking lot. I suspect it was Jed. Whoever it was hit me on the head and dragged me back to my pickup. He didn’t hang around.”

  Luci’s stone face reveals nothing of her reaction to this stupid lie, but she does ask, “So if Mr. Wilson conked you, you might be a little sore—pardon the pun—at him.”

  “He wasn’t my favorite person on earth.”

  The light on the porch reflects off droplets of water glistening like stars in Luci’s ebony hair, softening her hard-cop veneer. She makes no comment to Patrick’s comeback and redirects her attention to me.

  “When did you find out about today’s encounter, Mr. Romanov?”

  “About an hour ago. Before four o’clock because my daughters hadn’t come home from school. AnnaSophia called me and implored me to meet with her.”

  Implored generates arched brows from Patrick. When Luci swivels her head to focus on him, he rocks back on his heels, hands tucked casually in his pockets. For whatever reason, Luci appears to swallow his innocent act. She faces me again.

  “Where did your wife call from, Mr. Romanov?”

  Goddammit. God . . . Canary feather are raining out of Patrick’s mouth. I slap the heel of my hand against my forehead.

  “Excuse me, Detective Camacho. I’ve confused the facts.” Always a useful tactic to admit confusion—especially when accompanied by a shit-eating grin. “I called AnnaSophia. She did not call me, but she said she needed to speak with me immediately. Her distress was so apparent, I came home as fast I could safely drive in the fog.”

  The urge to laugh at my own backslapping threatens to erupt. I cough to cover the desire.

  While I cough and Luci waits patiently for me to recover without checking to see if I’m in the middle of a coronary, Twin Ward steps outside. The green tinge around his lips testifies to his squeamish level. He motions Luci to join him at the other end of the porch. They put their heads together and speak in faint, indistinct tones. Both watch me and Patrick as if we’re about to break and run.

  Although I am an excellent lip-reader, I will myself to act as if their conversation holds no interest. I am, in fact, more interested in my briefcase. Where is it? Does it still contain the Magnum? If it turns up here at the crime scene, how do I convince Luci and Desi that Patrick stole it and shot Jed?

  Chapter 86

  SHE

  Detective Patel spends five minutes trying to convince me why I should bring rape charges against Michael. The more he talks in his gentle, sweet accent, the more the shivering becomes uncontrollable. I shift from one foot to the other, but my whole body has gone numb.

  When he finally realizes he has lost my attention, he exhales, and I say I’d like to make a private phone call. He opens the passenger door, closes it, then walks toward the forensics team, huddled together like sheep against the chill.

  They fold him into their circle, and I punch in Bradley Chan’s number.

  “Identify yourself.” His basso profundo sounds electronically generated.

  This game has always struck me as an adolescent boy’s ridiculous fantasy of taking contr
ol. I spit out the magic passwords and start speaking before he gives me the okay signal.

  “Were you bragging when you said you can disable all the bugs in this house remotely?”

  “I never brag.”

  Rivulets of moisture slide down my cracked window, and I lean toward the air like a dying fish. “Good. Then you will have no problem disabling the bugs in the den.”

  “Is this at Patrick’s request?”

  “It’s at my request. You won’t be sorry.” Not that I ever intend to go to bed with him again, but why not plant the idea in his oversexed brain?

  “When do you want it done? Yesterday?” he asks as if he originated the cliché.

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “You’d better hope your husband doesn’t find out . . .”

  “Let me worry about my husband. But if you mess up, and he hears me talking to the police, whatever happens to me falls on your head.”

  “Jesus, the cops? Why the hell are you talking to the cops?”

  “You know what they say about curiosity. I think the same holds true for voyeurs. Listen in—I’m sure you need some excitement in your life.”

  “For someone asking a favor, you have a strange way of—”

  “Ho-hum, ho-hum. In five minutes I enter that den with a Mountain View homicide detective.” Hands shaking, I disconnect and get out of the car on legs surprisingly steady.

  Detective Patel’s back is to me, but he melts away from the group as soon as I close the car door. He covers the distance between us in a couple of long strides—a dark savior cutting through the gloom as if walking in full daylight.

  “You’re smiling.” His brows furrow.

  “Muscle memory.” I take a deep breath, then exhale. “May I bend your ear some more?”

  “Of course.” He follows me up the veranda steps without small talk or questions.

  The buttery smell of roasting chicken—so normal and mundane—drifts from the back of the house. What would I do to ensure Michael never eats another meal with us?

  Lie? Tell the whole truth? Lie and tell some of the truth?

  Undecided, I turn the doorknob to the den, wait till Detective Patel returns to the armchair where he sat earlier, then close the door. The temperature in the room instantly jumps to tropical. Sweat beads my forehead. The carefully rehearsed story I’d decided on quickly falls apart. The sharp edges of my fear slice the soft tissues in my throat. Abused burns the roof of my mouth. I cannot say the word out loud. Thoughts and emotions collide.

  Detective Patel, like my wonderful friend Ari, sits very straight. He lacks the benefit of a beard to hide his facial expression, yet he gives nothing away with either the blink of an eye or a clenched jaw or a tapping foot. Though not a brilliant neurobiologist like Ari, Detective Patel possesses stellar listening skills. He does not interrupt. He does not move. His gaze invites me to believe in safety.

  The safety I crave at that moment is an interruption that saves me from spilling out the rest of my miserable tale. A whiff of baking bread seeps into the room. My heartbeat slows. I speak in sync with its steady rhythm. “When Michael found out I’d been taking the pill without telling him—”

  Without warning, I see Michael’s face black with fury, eyes bulging, spittle in the corners of his mouth, whole body quaking.

  “That was the second time he called me a whore,” I whisper. “Then he raped me again.”

  “Jesus.” Detective Patel speaks for the first time. “Jesus. Christ. AnnaSophia.”

  “Don’t you want to know why I didn’t leave then?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t want to tell anyone.” My nails bite into my palms.

  He offers no clichés. No advice. No declarations of understanding.

  “I don’t want to remember that week. Locked in a bathroom, chained to the water pipes under the lavatory, peeing and messing myself, wanting water more than anything—”

  Satish Patel jumps out of his chair, charges toward the door, whirls around, and squats next to my chair. “I could forget I’m a policeman and kill that bastard.”

  “Get in line.”

  His rage pricks an emotion that eludes me. Maybe it’s the pity and horror his soft, cobalt eyes can’t hide that threatens a retreat from my story. Maybe he understands my recoil. Because he says nothing else. Just remains squatted by my chair while I wait to float out of my body. He shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. They must feel embedded with a million hot needles, but he waits. Get beyond the drama.

  I make a fist, enclose it with my free hand, and stare beyond him, intent on protecting myself. “He had me involuntarily committed after my thirty-six hours in bathroom solitary. A very posh place in Napa. Swore he came home from a trip and found me moaning in my own feces, handcuffed to the sink, making no sense at all. He suspected I was pregnant. Ergo, the hormonal changes he’d noticed for at least a week.

  “Turns out he was right. I miscarried the first week at Unlimited Horizons. An experience that disappeared down a black hole in my memory.

  “A few days later, after I’d undergone some heavy duty head-shrinking, he informed me my mother had been diagnosed with Stage 4 throat cancer. Not to worry, though, he’d make sure she got the best care. I needed to rest, recuperate, return home. We’d try for another baby as soon as the doctor gave his okay.”

  Confession, the sages say, is good for the soul.

  I beg to differ. Especially since I’d said nothing yet about my own complicity.

  “The day I came home from the happy farm, Momi was at our house. For a woman dying, she appeared in great health. She sang Michael’s praises like the lead soprano in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Her medical care at Mayo and Stanford cost a fortune, and Michael guaranteed—swore—she’d live to see her first grandchild.

  “In private he told me she’d die within six months if I didn’t get pregnant.”

  “But you’d studied medicine,” Detective Patel protests.

  “I believed him.”

  “When you married him, you’d almost completed your residency,” Detective Patel tries to revert to logic once more. “You had to know he couldn’t predict her longevity.”

  “After my interlude in the bathroom and my vacation at the happy farm, I had very little faith in logic and reason.”

  He nods as if he understands. He understands so much— about deviants, about killers, about the criminal mind. He does not, though, understand anything about Michael’s psychopathic mind.

  “I’ll call Social Services. Get the name of a safe house. Take you and your kids.”

  God, I thought he’d never offer. I break eye contact and focus again on my hands so he won’t see me cry.

  “Yes. I want to go there now. Before you arrest him for Tracy Jones’s murder.”

  Chapter 87

  HE

  During the thirty minutes of constant badgering by the Arnez Twins, an eager CSI tech finds a Magnum in the bushes near Jed’s front porch. I admit immediately that it’s my weapon—registered and kept in my briefcase. Still, the homicide cops, Patrick, and I traipse back to the guesthouse like four of the seven dwarfs. No one is whistling.

  My closed briefcase sits inside the front door where I left it. Goddammit, how did I go off and forget it? I stare at Patrick. Mud coats his shoes, pants, shirt, and hands.

  How convenient, I telegraph him. If he’d used a cannon, they’d find no detectable GSR.

  The bastard gives me arched eyebrows, rubs the back of his filthy hand across his mouth, then lobs what I’m sure is a smirk. Wanting to punch him out, I step toward the briefcase.

  How’d he open it without the code?

  “Mr. Romanov.” Luci thrusts her hand in front of me. She speaks so softly I hear my neck hairs bristle. I know what’s coming, and I know my response will win me no friends.

  “I’ll save you some time, Detective Camacho. I won’t submit to a GSR test.”

  Her eyes wid
en, and she shakes her head. “Are you sure you don’t watch a lot of TV?”

  A rubber band snaps in my skull, igniting my impatience. My saliva burns like lava. “I don’t have to watch TV to know GSR samples get contaminated every day.”

  “Our department has an excellent record—”

  “The FBI lab discontinued offering GSR testing in 2006. Why? Contamination in police departments.” I will myself not to roll my eyes. “Two thousand six—more than a decade ago.”

  “Our procedures—”

  “I saw a coyote prowling around my home office last night. I fired my Magnum—a .357. I took a shower, but I wore the same suit today. No GSR without my lawyer’s input.”

  Luci’s eyes narrow, but that’s her only indication of impatience. “Any reputable lawyer will advise you to cooperate—”

  “Perhaps you’ll give me a break on cooperating if I voluntarily give you the code to open my briefcase?”

  She opens her palms, then nods. “I’d consider that a sign of cooperation.”

  I live to please you. I roll off the complicated code in a voice so neutral I could serve at the UN. But my cooperation proves unnecessary. Luci opens the unlocked case.

  Surprise, surprise. The custom-made holster is empty.

  “Oops,” Patrick mumbles, then slaps his hand over his smart-aleck mouth.

  “Did you try to open the case before you went to search for Mr. Romanov?” Luci asks as her partner uses his pen to lift the front pages on three of my six passports.

  “Nope.” Patrick shakes his head like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Mr. Romanov takes his briefcase everywhere. That’s why I went after him. Thought it might have his checkbook. Which he’d need to write Jed a settlement check.”

  Bullshit. I open my mouth, then close it. The table lamp is reflecting off a gleam that freezes my blood. Goddammit—