by AB Plum
Michael shakes his head. Message? Another loonytunes.
His arrogance smacks me between the eyes. I fire the gun—without aiming it, but he recoils, staring at me with open mouth and bulging eyes.
“Don’t you hate it when the mouse roars?” Patrick asks.
Michael snaps up straight and laughs. “AnnaSophia’s not a mouse. She’s too dumb. She’s a worm. Dumber than a worm. You put her up to this charade.”
“Actually . . .” I let the phrase he hates hang for a second, “actually, he didn’t.”
My next shot burrows into mud six or seven inches from his left foot. This time, he jumps, stumbles, then pinwheels his arms and regains his balance. “Okay, that’s enough fun for tonight. I said yes to the divorce. I said I didn’t hurt your father—”
Another bullet hits near the second one.
Michael falls to his hands and knees and looks up at me like a dog wanting a pat.
“Who’d you pay to let Daddy out of Serenity?”
“No—”
I raise the gun. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m getting better. No more lies.”
“All right.” He rises to his knees and holds up both hands. “Marcy Smith. The bitch was supposed to go with him. Make sure he didn’t get hurt. It was an accident. She won’t get a dime—”
The next bullet zings over his head.
“Oops,” Patrick drawls. “Now that, I’m sure, was an accident.”
“AnnaSophia. For Chrissakes.” He holds out his hands to me, but I suspect the tremble in his voice and legs is a sham. “I’m the father of your children.”
“As if I can forget.” I lay the gun at my feet and speak to Patrick. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“You’re not leaving me with this psycho—”
I whirl around, lightheaded, fighting a rage that clangs in my head. Taking a deep breath, I exhale, then say, “You claim Andrew’s death was an accident. You swear my father’s death was an accident. If you break your word about the divorce, what I do to you will not be an accident.”
Chapter 93
SHE
Back in the car, I roll down the window, hoping to catch sounds of Michael begging.
Silence. Goodness, because I would hear gunshots. Only silence. I pinch the inside of my elbow, but the truth taunts me.
He’s alive, but I’ve sunken lower than the bully I outbullied. Humiliated. Tortured.
Two sets of headlights suddenly appear in the rearview mirror. They flick off, then on, off. Blinking repeatedly, I drop down on the floorboard. Where’s Patrick? Instinct yells, Run.
The car squishes through the mud and stops. Terror paralyzes every muscle. I can’t raise my head. Can’t think except in fragments and incoherent flashes. Detective Patel arriving to arrest Michael.
Me, as well. Michael will swear I kidnapped him. Terrorized him. Used him for target practice . . .
Each vignette pops in my chest, squeezing my lungs.
The idling of the car’s engine is deafening. The longing to squeeze my eyes shut like a frightened little girl comes and goes. I stare at the Audi’s accelerator and moderate my breath.
No more closing my eyes. Be honest. Face what I’ve done—with malice aforethought.
“What’re you doing down there?” Patrick pulls open my car door as if we’re alone.
I jerk upright and stare over the backseat. “Who’s in those cars?”
“Friends.” He offers his hand.
My legs wobble as I step into the mud. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Nope, he’s still alive, the miserable bastard.” He steadies me with a hand in the middle of my back. “In case you want to know how scared he is? He shit his pants.”
“Only because he’s my children’s father am I not laughing.”
We walk to the car immediately behind us. It sits with the headlights off.
Disoriented, I blink. The first car is gone. “Is this my car?”
“We’re dumping the Audi. Gotta leave something for hubby to drive.”
“Why the Audi?”
“So Patel won’t notice the chain marks and ask you about them.”
“Who drove my car here?”
“You want names? Drivers’ licenses?”
I don’t. I don’t even want to know more about Michael. Patrick has been far more forgiving than I’d expected.
“Don’t worry.” Patrick interrupts fantasies of Michael rooting in mud. “I’ll stick around till the mister comes home. Make sure he’s learned his lesson. Then, I’ll let Patel do his job.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Glad to be of service. To you and to Andrew.”
The vibration on pleasure stirs up new questions, but I slam that door shut into my brain. Michael’s still alive. In all honesty, disappointment reflects my feelings better than relief.
Returning home, Patrick lays out my script for the police. Maintain I took the Mercedes to meet Michael. Swear he never showed. Plead ignorance to the Audi’s disappearance.
We go over the story again and again and again until Detective Patel calls at seven A.M. from the main gate. Despite memorizing Patrick’s script, adrenaline rockets into me, bringing me fully alert. Now it begins.
Will he smell the ammonia oozing from my pores?
Nerves jittering, I jog to the breakfast room, pat my damp forehead with a napkin, and tell the children I won’t be able to drive them to school but guarantee I’ll pick them up. Surprisingly, they take this promise as if it’s one I make every day.
No one asks about Michael. Are they as aware as I that he never came home this morning?
When I open the door, Detective Patel is getting out of his car. The veranda lights penetrate the fog and illuminate the brick walkway. An image flashes of me, Patrick, and Michael slogging through mud. Detective Patel bounds up the steps, nimble as a large goat. He’s probably had less sleep than I, but I’m sure his brain is working at top speed.
Without preamble, he announces, “I’ve come for your husband.”
My throat constricts, thickening my first words—as if I’m recovering from a bad cold. “He—he’s not here.”
Detective Patel stills. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Not a lie, but I feel heat scald my face. “I went to pick him up in Palo Alto this morning a few minutes past four, but he didn’t show up. I called his cell phone. He didn’t answer. I hung around, called back about half an hour later. He still didn’t answer so I came home.”
Aware I am speaking too fast and giving too many details—common mistakes by young residents delivering straight-faced lies to patients. I force myself to close my mouth and wait.
“He still hasn’t called?”
“No.” I shake my head, hoping he sees the gesture as a sign I’m telling the truth.
His sad eyes nail me with a flash of anger. “Did you tell him I was getting a warrant for his arrest?”
“No. God, no. Why would I?” My lungs sound ready to collapse. “I hate—you know my feelings.”
“Why did you agree to pick him up?”
A question Patrick and I have rehearsed. I swallow then speak with the bald confidence Patrick has infused me. “Habit. I never should have agreed. Refusing, I thought, would raise his suspicions about your arresting him.”
“Possibly. I wish you’d called me when you went to pick him up.”
“I never thought—I know that sounds stupid, but . . .” I raise my head without resorting to tears. Or cheers. He hasn’t brought up Patrick.
“I need to alert people to be on the lookout, but you and I aren’t finished.”
A grim undercurrent leaves no doubt he remains unconvinced of my innocence. After three hours of constant questioning that probably borders on harassment, he stops, his face flat with exhaustion and disappointment. I, on the other hand, feel rejuvenated.
Careful, careful, careful. Don’t get cocky.
He covers a yawn and stands. “Do you thi
nk Patrick Reid kidnapped your husband?”
Fear snaps a rubber band in my brain. “How would Patrick know where to find him?”
“You told him.”
“No.” I say it with quiet firmness since I’m telling the truth.
“Did you know Andrew Miller was Patrick Reid’s best friend?”
“He told me. Andrew recommended him to Michael.”
“Were—are—you and he lovers?”
“We were not, we are not.” I press my lips together. Saying more will sound defensive.
He studies me for a long time—a couple of decades—and I gaze back at him without anger or fear. He’s doing his job. When he says he needs to talk to Patrick, I volunteer to take him to the garage. When we arrive, the three other mechanics report they haven’t seen him all morning. One takes Detective Patel to the bunkhouse.
When he returns, his face is a blank slate. “Not there, either.”
*****
The next time I see Detective Patel two days later, he stands at my front door behind Detectives Luci Camacho and her partner. She asks to come in. Numb, but repressing my excitement, I lead them inside. No one sits.
“We’re here to inform you of your husband’s death.” Luci Camacho catches me as I pitch forward. “We have reason to believe he was murdered.”
Chapter 94
SHE
Four days after Michael’s death, the fog lifts. Summer-like sunshine explodes outside the open door of my yoga class and skips across the Wells Fargo parking lot.
Where Detective Patel unexpectedly waits.
Unexpectedly isn’t quite accurate. He showed up with the PAPD only hours after the pre-dawn jogger discovered Michael’s body. He did not accompany Detectives Camacho and Ward when they returned later in the day with gruesome details.
Shot in both hands, one foot and the abdomen, Michael managed to crawl a few feet in the mud before dying. The coroner ruled out suicide. Not surprising in light of his wounds. No gun or silencer has been found, so I’ve been anticipating another visit from Detective Patel. I imagined he’d come to Belle Haven though the sleazeratti may have scared him off.
Malicious as jackals at a kill, they surrounded the main gate 24/7 the first two days of the headline news. They fell on every Palo Alto police car en route to the house. They howled for corroboration of one of three changing theories. Was Michael the target of the Russian Mafia? Did he belong to a secret sex ring? Had he run Unleashed into bankruptcy and consequently died penniless?
The media—versus mourning the death of the father of three children—provided a perfect excuse to keep Alexandra, Anastaysa, and Magnus out of school and me out of yoga.
Today is our first foray into our normal routine. I’m hoping adolescent girls have bigger interests than the murdered father of one of their classmates. As for Magnus, his school chums are only five. And since John is the only one in yoga who can connect me with Michael Romanov, “assassinated Silicon Valley icon,” I don’t worry about questions from the morbidly curious.
John steps a little in front of me. “Do you know this man coming toward us?”
“Yes. It’s all right. He’s a homicide detective and a nice man.”
“Shall I stay with you?”
“I’ll be fine. He really is a nice man.”
“Okay.” He stops, turns his back to Detective Patel, and shields me from his view. “If you finish early, I’ll be hanging out at Le Boulanger—unless you’re worried about the news vultures tracking you there.”
I laugh lightly. “Heavily tinted car windows do have a use. None of the vultures even know I’ve left the house.”
“Hope no one was smart enough to check your license plate.”
“Good thought.” I tap my temple. “I must learn to think more deviously. When I go home, I may ask Detective Patel to run interference.”
“Do that.” John lifts his hand as if to take my hand. I wince involuntarily. He waves and lopes across the parking lot.
Straightening my shoulders, I greet Detective Patel with a small smile. “Do you practice yoga?”
“No, but I should. I know all about yoga’s stress-releasing benefits. You, I’d guess, had a good session.”
“After missing three days, I really needed the workout.” The sun seeps through my hair—loose and freshly shampooed. I toss my head and see Tracy Jones. Michael must be rolling over in hell. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I hope you can clear up a few questions.” His face is so grave my whole body goes icy.
“Related to Michael’s case?” I squint into the sun then put on my sunglasses.
“Indirectly.” His sunglasses are visible behind the snowy white, elaborately monogrammed handkerchief in his lapel pocket.
“Where would you like to talk? Here? At Belle Haven? Or—” I tap my bottom lip. “At the police station?”
Instead of the flicker-smile I expect, gravity pulls his mouth downward. “Too many distractions at the station house. How about walking through the park?”
“Let me stow my yoga matt.”
He nods and follows me in silence that feels stiff and awkward under the acrylic blue sky. Unwilling to fall back on discussing the weather, I say nothing, beep the trunk of the Lexus and narrowly miss the corner rising and smacking my chin.
Blood rushes up my throat. I jump backward. “I’m not used to driving this car. I took it this morning as part of my undercover persona.”
“And what is that persona?” No levity in his tone, but a somberness that clangs in my ears.
“Not the grieving widow,” I say, as if he has accused me of some indelicacy. Not the hypocrite. I toss my matt into the trunk and bang it shut rather than lower it with the remote.
“Why are you upset?” He leads us toward the entrance to the park.
“I’m not upset.” Why should I be? I didn’t kill Michael.
“Good. Because I have several questions that may prove troubling.”
I kick a piece of gravel, sending it into an arc before it hits the sidewalk again. “So why ask them?”
“Because I am a detective, Mrs. Romanov. I try to notice and make sense of what goes on around me. Murder, I have found, is usually quite logical in the end. In the case of your husband’s death, I find myself confused.”
“Interesting, but I thought the Palo Alto police had jurisdiction.”
“Over your husband’s case and Jed Wilson’s death. Mountain View has responsibility for Tracy Jones.”
“I thought her case was closed. The lobster-stuffed shrimp in her stomach? The drug stash you found in his office. The forgery on her résumé. Her earring in his briefcase. What more do you need? A signed confession?”
“Signed confessions often complicate matters. I rarely ask for—or trust— them.”
My impulse is to laugh as I step off the sidewalk. A tiny, white-haired woman between sixty and ninety totters toward us, dragged by a huge German Shepherd.
The dog veers around us and heads for a point near the Chamber of Commerce building. He sniffs a spot on the ground and squats on muscular back legs. The stench of his smelly droppings assaults my nose and resurrects a memory.
I flash on Michael’s pants covered in dog shit, see the yellow car the police tell me costs more than four million dollars, and connect the dots. He stood very close to here. Waiting for me and John. For John—because I’d already left. He must’ve slipped . . .
The old woman takes out her plastic bag and gathers up Fido’s stuff, smiles at us, and drops the bag in the nearest trash receptacle.
“What an easy way to get rid of a messy problem.” Not unlike Patrick’s disposal of our clothes and shoes on the night Michael died.
A precaution against your husband’s probable accusations of assault.
“Some people have a natural bent toward civility,” Detective Patel says.
“Michael Andrei Romanov was not one of those people. He was a psychopath. He deserved to die an uncivilized death.�
� I lock my jaw against my rationalization veering dangerously close to self-incrimination.
“How long ago did he have you committed to Unlimited Horizons?”
“Why does it matter? You must know the facility burned to the ground ten or eleven years ago.”
“Destroying all the patients’ records. Yes, I know. Quite a coincidence. Did he really handcuff you to the bathroom lavatory?”
“What do you think?”
“I think he was uncivilized enough, but did he then commit you involuntarily? Or did you make up that story? For me? For Patrick Reid?”
“What do you think, Detective Patel?”
“I think there is some veracity, but it has been so stretched and twisted I doubt you even know the full truth.”
“You disappoint me.” I stroll across low grassy hill shaded by three hundred-year-old Live Oak trees.
The old woman and her dog follow the sidewalk at a snail’s pace. She lets her canine companion sniff to his heart’s content. Tomorrow after class, I’m going to find her for a chat.
Had Michael never sent me his pants encrusted with dog shit, I’d never have decided to grow a backbone. To guarantee my kids stood a chance of growing up normal.
I chose between the better of two evils—a psychopathic father and an imperfect mother.
Hyper-aware of Detective Patel next to me, I inhale deeply and stare up through the gnarled branches. “I have three children to protect. They have enough to cope with right now without dealing with a mother who killed their father.”
“We have no argument on that point.” He goes quiet for a moment then asks, “Would you throw Patrick Reid to the wolves to protect your children?”
“Not a choice I’ll ever have to make.”
“Will we ever find his body?”
“How should I know? Patrick Reid is a maverick—a kissing cousin to a psychopath. But he was capable of great loyalty—for which I am grateful.”
“Was?”
I shrug. “Don’t read too much into the tense of a verb.”
“You’re an interesting woman.” He extends his hand and takes my proffered fingers. Sadness dims his smile. “Good luck. I hope our paths never cross again.”
