The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (16 page)

William swallowed the rest of his spiel. He opened another folder and withdrew a smaller stack of documents. He flipped through and pointed to a chart in the center of a page, outlined in blue. “Here is a premium schedule for your age group. This should give you an idea of the payments required to secure coverage.”

Five-million-dollar policies weren’t in the chart. However, the document did list the cost of a million-dollar policy: $41.80 per month for the average thirty-five-year-old nonsmoker with no known health problems. Tom fit that bill. I rounded my thirty-one years down to the thirty-year-old age bracket: $37 a month.

Five million, multiply by five. About $210 per month for Tom. Another $185 monthly for me. Nearly $400 a month. It would take the last of our savings and ignoring the credit cards and collection notices, but we could swing that for a few months. I had my last check coming from work, and unemployment would kick in—as soon as I got the courage to call human resources and request the paperwork.

The cost would be easier to cover if we didn’t need to also pay my policy. But Tom thought buying insurance for only one of us looked too suspicious. After he faked his death, people would ask questions. We needed to make it seem as though we’d both simply done the responsible thing and taken out protection.

Tom glanced at the payment schedule with the same lack of scrutiny that he’d once used for restaurant bills. No need to quibble over a few dollars when you had an endless amount of them. “We really think five is the appropriate number. If anything happened to me, I’d hate for my wife to lose the house or have to live in a radically different style.”

“Of course.” William pulled out more documents and a pen from his bag. He set them on the coffee table.

“And we would need to have the same policy on my wife. If anything happened to her, there are childcare costs to consider.” A wistful smile peeled back his cheeks. “Plus, I don’t know what kind of state her death would leave me in. I’d need time to grieve. I doubt I’d be able to return to work, at least not for a while.”

William’s head bobbed along to Tom’s explanation. He waited a beat before gesturing to the documents on the coffee table and beginning his line-by-line breakdown. I tried not to look nervous as we filled out the forms, signing where William said to and answering his questions.
Yes, both my parents are alive. No, I’ve never had any health problems. No, I’m not on any medications
. I’d stopped birth control several months earlier. Not much point paying twenty-five dollars a month for antipregnancy meds when you practiced forced abstinence. We had unintentionally rolled the dice last night.

As I spoke, I probed the plan that Tom had outlined the night before. He intended to fake a car robbery gone wrong. He would drive through a rough area in Jersey City, after “getting lost” on his way back from a meeting with his recruiter in Manhattan. He’d leave the Maserati, unlocked, beside the Hudson River beneath an underpass, near a particularly notorious housing project. He’d wipe blood on the seat from a superficial, self-inflicted wound and “butt-dial” my voicemail, screaming,
“You can have the car! Just get that gun out of my face.” Then he’d disappear, presumably shot and pitched into the river by his assailants.

In reality, he’d buy a bus ticket, cash, to Florida. He’d lay low for a few months in a roadside motel somewhere. After the policy paid off, Sophia and I would fly down to Miami to pick him up and then charter a sailboat to Brazil. Tom was sure that five million dollars would give us access to all kinds of travel perks, including a no-document-required entry at a South American port and fake passports. It couldn’t be that hard to sneak into Brazil, he’d said. After all, rafts of undocumented immigrants washed up on Miami’s shores all the time. My parents had sneaked into the United States three times and stayed for more than twelve years. Surely getting into Brazil would prove easier.

His scheme was far from foolproof, but it was something. There were details to work out, but first, we needed to secure the insurance policy.

“And what’s the contestability period?” The question in Tom’s voice broke my train of thought. My husband had a concern about something. I leaned over his shoulder and scanned the text for whatever had grabbed his attention.

“Oh, that’s standard,” William said. “If something happens within the first two years, the insurance company will investigate the claim. If it finds any misrepresentations, the company can refuse to pay.”

“What would constitute a misrepresentation?”

William’s eyebrows raised. “Well, if, for example, you had a medical condition that you didn’t disclose or a family history of some problem. But since neither of you are even on medication, I’m sure—”

Tom cleared his throat. “Manic depression.”

“I’m sorry?” For the first time since entering our home, William looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, trying to lean forward on our sinkhole of an easy chair.

“My father was diagnosed with the condition.” Tom scratched his head. A tight smile formed on his face, a fence barring his
emotions. “He was kind of an emotional guy. Not sad so much as angry.”

I’d never heard my husband describe his father in anything less than favorable terms, though he didn’t talk about his parents often. Tom said that life before his folks’ accident had become fuzzy. He remembered his mom as doting and involved with his school. His father had always worked and, occasionally, threw the football around. He had a standout memory of a visit to the zoo. And, like me, he remembered every detail of the day things fell apart: the policemen, the accident report, the crushing absence.

William’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Usually, family mental health history won’t result in a denial unless there’s a history of suicide. The company will likely require an additional health evaluation.”

Tom leaned back into the chair. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

I relaxed along with my husband’s body language. If Tom didn’t see any more reason for concern, then no need to worry.

“I assume you want each other as the policy beneficiaries?”

“No. Sophia will be the beneficiary of both policies.” Tom’s voice took on a cement quality.

“I have to caution you that things can get more difficult when a child is a beneficiary,” William said. “The money would then need to go to a policy custodian until she comes of age, and sometimes other family members contest the custodian. It’s easier to just pick an adult you trust to spend the policy on your daughter’s behalf.”

Tom cleared his throat. “No. I want it clear that the policy goes to Sophia. My wife and I should each be the custodian in the event of the other’s passing. But Sophia will be the beneficiary.”

William looked down at his paperwork like a chastised child. We’d gone against his advice, but I knew why. We had debt, more than a million on the house alone, and tens of thousands on the credit cards. If the policy went to me, I might have to use it to pay off mutual creditors. If the money belonged to Sophia, I could declare bankruptcy and retain the entire policy, defrauding my
creditors as well as the insurance company. I swallowed my guilt. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Okay.” William scrawled some notes on the document pad in his lap. “Who would you like to be the custodian in the event an accident claims both your lives?”

Confusion spread across Tom’s face. I jumped in with the answer. “My parents. They’re in Brazil, but they would make sure Sophia is loved.” Unlike when my husband spoke, William didn’t write anything down. He looked to the man in the relationship.

Tom frowned. “Do we have to have a secondary?”

“Otherwise the court could appoint someone.”

My husband didn’t say anything. I was surprised that this was even a debate. Sure, Tom had never been comfortable with my parents’ dependence on us. But they were good people and they loved their granddaughter, even if they only saw her during weekly Skype calls.

“Tom, there’s no one else.”

“They’re not U.S. citizens,” he said.

William came to my rescue. “That should be fine. Because Sophia is the beneficiary, there shouldn’t be any issues with international tax laws.”

My husband’s eyes rolled. “Fine. Beatriz and Luis Santos.”

William finally wrote something down. He scanned the document for blank fields. “And who is your secondary beneficiary?”

“We only have one child,” I said.

William cleared his throat. “Obviously, the chances are exceedingly low, but, in the rare event that Sophia could not accept the funds because, say, she perished with one of you in a plane crash or car accident, who would you like to receive the benefit?”

“I guess that I should be the secondary on Ana’s and she can be the secondary on mine,” Tom answered.

William started to write. I didn’t care about being Tom’s secondary. If my daughter and husband were dead, how would I go on living? But Tom would go on. He’d survived the death of his parents. He would remarry, cutting ties to my “difficult” family.
Without support, they’d end up dead in Brazil while Tom’s new wife spent my death benefit.

“Excuse me, William,” I said. “I would like my parents listed as secondary beneficiaries on my policy and, come to think of it, I’d like them to also get a bit of my policy. Not much. Maybe a hundred thousand?”

Tom shot me a look out of the corner of his eye. He grumbled my name.

“If I died, you wouldn’t even talk to my folks. I’d want them taken care of.”

Tom sighed. “Even in death, they’d be on the payroll, huh?”

“My death, my payroll,” I quipped.

“Fine.” His eyes rolled, again. “Put it down.”

“Mommy?” Sophia yelled from downstairs. She needed something.

“I’ll just check—”

Tom patted my back. “I think we’re all done with your part. I’ll take it from here.”

19

November 27

R
yan watched Vivienne Wu eat, trying to remain focused on the task at hand. His former partner could have been a perfume model. She had flawless skin and features that drew a man in like an intoxicating scent. She also had a badass brain that could write algorithms capable of identifying irregularities in financial transactions and, unfortunately for him, a handsome husband poised to sell his second tech start-up.

She sat across from him at an indoor picnic table, mouth wrapped around a barbeque chicken sandwich, chin bobbing at the appropriate points as he brought her up to speed on Ana’s case and why they were in a barbeque restaurant crawling with men in suits protected by paper bibs.

“Wait, so who’s Jake?” she asked, swallowing a bite.

Ryan set down his iced tea. He wanted a beer. It was past noon, but he couldn’t have his next conversation with alcohol on his breath. “Jake is the bartender from the restaurant.”

“All right. I’m with you again.”

“So this Jake guy tells me that Ana’s boss assaulted her in the private bar and there’s a tape, but the restaurant won’t give it to me without a warrant.”

“Fuck that. Just let me have a talk with the manager, rattle off a bunch of possible charges for not cooperating, mention all our friends at the IRS. Most eateries pay half the kitchen under the table.”

Vivienne took another bite of her sandwich. Her elbows rested on the table. The restaurant made up for the locale with the best barbeque in the city, and it encouraged customers to shun standard manners. Ryan loved the way his partner thumbed her nose at conventions. Beautiful and smart, still swore like a sailor. It made her real.

“Anyway, your girl threatens to tell on Michael, that’s motive,” Vivienne said.

Ryan blinked as though his former partner had slapped him. Michael. Of course! The man had multiple reasons to want Ana dead. Hedge funds relied on the reputation of their chief investment officer. If it had gotten out that Michael had attacked an employee, Derivative Capital could have lost clients and many millions. Plus, Michael had to have feared his wife’s reaction and the loss of his personal wealth in a divorce. Not to mention, the guy was an egotistical prick used to paying women to do what he wanted and his secretary had rejected him. Such things sent sociopaths over the edge.

“A hell of a motive.” He slurped his drink, washing down the pulled pork he’d inhaled moments before. After swallowing, he cursed himself under his breath. Why hadn’t he demanded Michael’s alibi during the first interview? He’d been chasing the suicide theory because it was the one that benefitted his company most, and it had blinded him to the suspect right in front of his face.

“A hell of a motive,” he repeated.

“Especially if Ana tried to blackmail him,” Vivienne added.

“Given the Bacons’ apparent financial difficulties, it wouldn’t be out of the question. She needed money. He’d mentioned giving her severance.”

“I can try to get permission to check his accounts. See if he was withdrawing regular sums to pay her off or if he took out the two-hundred K for the deposit on a hit.”

Ryan looked down. He’d missed the murder connection, and now he couldn’t even follow up properly thanks to his PI status. “I’d appreciate it, since I no longer have the access.”

She chewed. “You miss it?”

Ryan took a long sip of tea and tried to shake his guilt. “I don’t miss meth-heads damn near shooting my balls off.”

A pained look pinched his partner’s face. She set down the sandwich. “I should have gone with you. I’m sorry.”

“It was the post office.”

“Yeah. I’m quicker on the trigger than you, though.”

Ryan rubbed his thigh. The talk of that day intensified the constant throb in the muscle.

“You need to factor crazy into your statistical models,” she smiled to soften the criticism. “You think people are rational. We’re all just balls of emotion, justifying rash decisions.”

He kneaded the muscle through his pants. “Not me.”

“I know.” Vivienne’s face grew suddenly serious. “You know, one thing bothers me. If Michael has so much money, why not just give Ana a lump sum big enough to guarantee her silence for a while? Has to be easier than hiring someone.”