The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (28 page)

“I got Todd here too, on speaker. We were vacationing together. He’s the other witness.”

“Not together together,” Todd clarified, with a bit of a surfer dude accent. “Bros weekend. Looking for a college-girls-gone-wild type of thing.”

“Got it.” Ryan had his pen ready now. “So you told authorities that you saw Tom Bacon on the pool deck around seven thirty
PM
when his wife fell overboard?”

“Yeah. We saw him. Light-brown hair, sunglasses. Medium build. Tight douchebag shorts.”

“Old. Probably forty.”

Forty? Tom was thirty-four, but he didn’t look older than thirty. Did he seem ancient to these guys because they were barely out of college?

“Wouldn’t have necessarily noticed him, but he was talking to this fine redhead.”

“Fa-oin. Huge rack.”

One of them started laughing. “Dude, you know when they say someone has sweet melons? Well, she had cantaloupes.”

The other chuckled, a wheezing chortle that belonged on a cartoon character. “Only cantaloupe should start with a
D
. Because she definitely had double
D
s.”

“Dude.”

Ryan heard hands slap. He cleared his throat, interrupting the useless banter. “You said the guy she was talking to was wearing sunglasses?”

“Yeah. The Bahamas are super sunny.”

They didn’t get where he was going with his line of questioning. The two probably couldn’t intuit much of anything at the moment. If he wasn’t mistaken, they’d called him while baked. The accent he’d heard wasn’t surfer dude. It was stoner. “But you were still able to recognize the guy as Tom, even though he wore sunglasses. How?”

“Well, it wasn’t that hard. I mean, the redhead said she was talking to him and she was staring at his face the whole time.”

“And we definitely saw her talking to some guy, for a really long time.”

“Girl liked old douches, I guess.”

Ryan cursed in his head. Witnesses like these were what was wrong with the criminal justice system. “When you two saw the girl and this guy in the sunglasses, were you sober?”

“What?”

Ryan pulled the phone away from his mouth and dropped an f-bomb in the wind. Harold and Kumar couldn’t have made a reliable identification. He took a breath and returned the speaker to his lips. “Had you been drinking?”

“Not much.”

“We had better stuff.”

“Yeah, boy.”

Ryan raised his voice. “Level with me. Would it be a stretch to say that your identification of Tom was mostly based on a hazy image of a beautiful woman speaking to a thirty- to fortysomething Caucasian man who may or may not have been Tom, and this woman’s insistence that it was that guy?”

“Well, yeah, but why would she lie?”

Ryan told them the police would need to formally interview them and hung up. He stared out at the river rushing past the
walkway. The fast-moving current hid the garbage beneath, but it was there. Tires. Plastic bags. Maybe bodies. All lies waiting to surface.

Ryan didn’t know why the redhead would fabricate an alibi for Tom. But he was going to find out.

34

August 29

I
sat on the beach, pretending to admire the endless jewel-toned sea as I waited for my boat to reopen its door. Milky sand, warm as a baby’s bottle and soft as talcum powder, snuggled between my bare thighs and slipped into the crotch of my swimsuit. Warm wind tickled my neck. This was paradise.

I’d never felt so trapped. I’d gone to bed with the devil. Several devils: the captain, the New Jersey smugglers, Michael. And I’d done so because I was no angel. There had to be a way to secure my parents’ safety, my husband’s sanity, and Sophia’s future without sacrificing my life as I knew it. I hadn’t looked hard enough. In the wake of losing my job, I’d clung to Tom’s promise to make everything return to the way it was when we’d been rich.

Tom’s idea of us on easy street in some Brazilian beach house was an illusion. Once I went through with this, nothing would be simple again. I’d be an identity-less, fraud-perpetrating drug smuggler for the rest of my days. Wealth couldn’t really be worth life as an underground criminal.

There were alternatives. We could file for bankruptcy and start over on a smaller scale. Tom could switch careers. I could get a job as a business administrator for another firm, one located in a cheaper state, far from the reach of the Newark smugglers. My parents could sell their apartment back to the condo company and use that money to move away to someplace rural where
they could live out their retirement on whatever they got for the place, plus whatever little I could afford to send back.

I returned to the boat at five thirty, resolved to call everything off. As dangerous as the captain had seemed with a knife to my throat, he couldn’t really hurt me on the ship, not as long as Tom was around as a witness, or as my muscular, six-foot-two bodyguard. And the cruise terminal was crawling with cops. Once I got back home, I’d be protected—at least for a little while. The smugglers didn’t even have my real name.

As I shuffled up the gangplank, pain pulsed in my lower abdomen, a wrenching menstrual ache, followed by wetness in my bikini bottom. My period had arrived. Its presence confirmed what I’d already decided; I couldn’t go overboard. Jumping into shark-infested waters while smelling of blood would be more insane than any of the crazy things I’d done up to this point.

My cover-up was white. I imagined a red stain swelling on the back of the dress as I watched the ship crew run a stick through my backpack. The man checked each pocket, perhaps not believing that all I’d packed was a towel, Ziploc with a couple hundred cash, and my documents. I hadn’t even bothered with sunscreen.

When he finished, I dangled the pack behind me and hurried to the nearest public bathroom, hoping to wipe out any splotch before walking through the whole ship to reach my cabin. I closed the stall door and pulled down my bikini bottom, prepared for a mess. The absence of any red mark surprised me. Aunt Flo was still MIA.

Maybe you are pregnant
. The thought nagged at me as I walked to the elevators. I’d had unprotected sex and I
had
been sick in the mornings. It was possible. But now? Didn’t the body become less fertile under stress?

I listened to the sloshing of liquid in my stomach, the low grumble of my intestines, trying to sense whether I “felt” pregnant. The elevator ding pulled me back to reality. A woman beside the keypad moved aside to allow me access to the buttons. My finger hesitated above the number four and then struck the nine. I couldn’t tell if I was pregnant, but the commissary had
plenty of tests. It would be better to know. Tom wouldn’t want me jumping overboard, carrying our child. The prospect of a second kid might even snap him out of his depressed state, make him accept responsibility as he had when I’d discovered I was carrying Sophia.

The ship’s store was adjacent to the elevator. I removed a precious twenty from the plastic bag and went straight for the shelf of feminine products. Moments later, the cashier handed me four dollars change and a plastic bag with one bottle of water and a cardboard box containing two pee-sticks.

I didn’t want Tom hovering over me in our stateroom, dread forming on his face as we awaited the results. Better for me to know first. I locked myself in a tight restroom stall, ripped open one of the packages, and did my business. Afterward, I sat atop the closed toilet seat, watching the test’s oval window. A line appeared, indicating that the test was working. After another moment, a faint line showed up next to it. Over the next few minutes, the second line darkened to a baby pink.

I stared at the positive result, breathing in the flowery scent of the air-fresheners that barely masked the underlying smells of bleach and beach. Was this good news or bad news? Was it even accurate?

I drank the water and took the second test. The door outside the bathroom opened and closed several times as I continued to occupy the stall. Faucets ran. Neighboring toilets flushed. I heard it all on some level, a distant soundtrack beneath the speeches I created in my mind and Tom’s imagined reactions to them.

Within two minutes of taking the second test, both lines turned a deep magenta. A strange relief washed over me. Tom would have to understand now.

I mouthed the words I would soon repeat to him. “Tom, I can’t go through with this. I’m pregnant.”

35

December 2

R
yan positioned the cursor on the red dot at the bottom of the video and dragged it along the line to the beginning of the clip. Still shots of the reporter, Tom, and the redhead scrolled past. He hit play for the second time. The video stuttered and then served up a banner ad for cruise travel. The Miami station wasn’t hosting a year’s worth of old stories for free.

He lay back in his desk chair, waiting for the advertisement to finish. Forty seconds later, the young reporter began laying out details of Ana’s accident. She cut to a lengthy quote from Tom explaining his motion sickness theory while looking forlorn. He said “Oh God” every few seconds.

Ryan pulled his cursor past Tom’s speech until he saw the alibi witness. Her name was Lena Mclean. She was a willowy woman with fair skin and copper hair that brought out the green in her hazel eyes. Attractive in an almost stereotypical Scottish way. And, he had to admit, the stoners had been right; she did have a substantial chest.

What Lena didn’t have was a working telephone number or address. Though he’d left one message for her a few days ago, his subsequent calls had gone to a disconnect recording. The Brooklyn apartment listed as her billing address when she’d bought her cruise tickets was also a dead end. She’d moved a month ago. The landlord didn’t know where to.

The doorbell rang. Ryan glanced at the time on his computer screen. Noon exactly. Time to hit the liquor store.

*

Vivienne got the storeowner’s attention as soon as she walked through the door. The man handed them cards and asked how he could help in an overly earnest way, making it clear that he understood two cops would want more than Cabernet recommendations.

“We’re looking for a woman who works here,” Vivienne said.

“Red hair,” Ryan added. He pulled out his phone and flashed the screen at the man. Dina’s picture didn’t show much of the woman’s face, only her copper hair and long legs.

Vincent scrutinized the photo. “She’s one of our sales reps. What do you want to talk to her about?” His face jumped into a variety of microexpressions: fear, anger, disgust. Cops put this guy on edge.

“We’d rather discuss that with her,” Vivienne said. “She in today?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Let me get her.”

Vincent disappeared down an aisle of wooden shelves filled with bottles. Ryan took in the décor. The place was well appointed with pricey vintages, and it had a warm, wooden smell that recalled nights around a fire. Ryan guessed it would be the kind of place that would be packed on a Friday night or Saturday afternoon, though thankfully it was free of patrons on this Wednesday.

A woman hurried down an aisle as though there was a fire. Copper hair bounced by her jaw line. Her long legs led to a fitted black dress that contrasted with her fair skin. Vincent hurried behind, dwarfed by his tall companion and outpaced by her stride.

“May I help you?” Her smile showed her top teeth from incisor to incisor, a strained imitation of welcome. Her hazel eyes darted around. Ryan couldn’t help but notice her breasts in her tight sweater.

It was the woman from the ship. “Lena Mclean?”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Her voice sounded shaky.

Ryan elbowed Vivienne and gave her a hard stare, telling her without words that this woman was no longer just someone Ana’s husband may have been screwing. His old partner widened her stance and stepped her right foot back, ready to pull the gun holstered above her waist.

“You were on a cruise ship where a woman, Ana Bacon, went overboard. You told police that you were talking to her husband, Tom Bacon, when she fell.”

“Yes. I did.” She glanced at Vincent. Her nervous smile turned sheepish. “I ran into him. Crazy coincidence.”

“You didn’t tell the Bahamian authorities that you knew him,” Ryan said.

“Well, I don’t know him well. He just bought bottles here.”

Vincent glanced at her sideways. Either he knew there was more to her and Tom’s relationship or, like Dina, he’d guessed as much. “I have to check on inventory,” he said. “Help them with whatever they need, Lena.” He strode back down the aisle and entered what appeared to be a back office.

Ryan showed Dina’s photo. “Seems like you knew Tom Bacon a bit better than that.”

She grabbed at the phone. Ryan pulled back his hand. “A neighbor saw you two together.”

She chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes seemed to measure the distance to the exit. “That photo doesn’t show anything. It’s a French good-bye.” She shook her head and giggled. “It’s how I say ciao to good customers. I must have been dropping off bottles in his car.” She spoke with her hands out, palms open as if to show that she had nothing to hide. “We ran into each other on the cruise, completely by accident, and I talked to him for a bit. I didn’t know until later that his wife had that accident.”

Vivienne’s hands sat on her hips. She had gotten up to speed. A small motion and she’d be brandishing her piece, preventing Lena from bolting.

“That’s quite a coincidence.” Vivienne exhaled as she spoke. Her tone wasn’t exactly sarcastic. Ryan guessed she played good cop.

“Yeah.” Lena laughed again, a forced, metallic sound.

“It’s an unbelievable coincidence,” Ryan said. “Your cruise ship had somewhere between two and three thousand passengers, and it took people from the entire Eastern seaboard.”

“Small world.” Again, Lena’s eyes darted to the doorway.

“Not as small as all that,” Ryan said. He considered her slowly, giving her time to realize that she’d been caught in a lie. “What makes logical sense is that you and Tom were more than friends and he decided to bring you on the cruise.”