The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (6 page)

“You’re right,” he said. “Send it back. All right. That sounds good. I have to . . .”

He motioned for me to sit. I placed his drink and schedule on the desk and then sat on the fabric chair positioned to face him, my legs crossed. Michael’s eye flitted to my exposed knee and the flash of thigh peeking from my navy pencil skirt. I dropped my leg and pressed my feet together, the more ladylike position.

“I know. Send it back then. I have to go. You, too. I have to go. Okay. Bye.”

The receiver hit the cradle a little too forcefully. Michael flashed bright, bleached teeth. “Coffee stains don’t close deals,” he’d said once, “but I can’t give up my addictions.”

I returned this smile. As bosses went, Michael rated highly. He’d always been pleasant, never shouting for his dry cleaning or lunch, never treating me more like a talking golden retriever than an assistant. Sure, he wanted me at his beck and call for ten hours and available by phone 24-7. But that was the job.

He claimed his coffee. “One day you’ll tell me your trick for skipping the line.”

“If I revealed all the trade secrets, you might not need an admin.”

“You kidding me? I don’t know how I ever got on without you.” Michael walked around his desk and sat on the edge of it, across from my seat. Navy oxfords landed on either side of my crossed ankles.

“So what do we have today?” He held the schedule but didn’t look at it. Michael never took his eyes off me during our meetings. Maintaining eye contact during conversation must have been one of those business school rules.

“Dubai is the main event,” I said. “That’s at noon.”

“What do I need to know?”

I mentally reviewed my brief call with the United Arab Emirates Business Council. “Greet the oldest person in the party first, not the most senior executive. It’s considered a sign of respect in Muslim countries. Also, people address each other by their first name with a title. You’ll be Mr. Michael. The men you are
meeting with will be Mr. Asadel and Mr. Fawwaz. There may be others. I understand that it is not uncommon for unexpected guests to join in. Rick said six people showed up at the last marketing meeting.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Shake with the right hand, but I’m sure you knew that one. And let them withdraw their hand first. Oh, and don’t ask about the female members of the family.”

Michael chuckled. His high cheekbones became more prominent when he laughed. “Don’t inquire about the ball and chain. Got it.”

“If you want to get personal, ask about their health or their family generally. You can inquire about children and what they’re studying. Rick said Mr. Fawwaz has a son attending college at your alma mater.”

“Ah, Big Green. I can talk about that.”

“Gifts are a common way to break the ice. I know you liked
Blue Ocean Strategy
. I bought a few copies and wrapped them. You can use it to discuss investing in companies with strategic monopolies. That should provide a nice segue into the fund’s performance.”

Michael’s eyebrows arched and he nodded slowly. I’d impressed him. My husband could dismiss administrative assistants as a dime a dozen, but the job couldn’t be done right by just anyone capable of picking up a phone and using an online calendar. It required planning, foresight, an ability to anticipate problems before they arose, and plenty of research. I excelled at it. When in work mode, I made sure to be prepared with whatever information my executive might need to complete a task and a plan B, should the task prove insurmountable. I only failed to plan for worst-case scenarios in my personal life.

Michael tapped the schedule in his hand against the side of the desk. “You know, you should come to some of these meetings. Not the Dubai folks, of course. They prefer dealing with men. How about one of the pension funds?”

I struggled to contain my grin. Five months in and I could move up from getting coffee to helping sell the business? What did Tom know? Maybe I could climb the ladder from administrative assistant to marketing or operations. I had a college degree in business management. It could happen.

“That sounds great,” I said.

“What’s on the docket this week?”

“This week is all sovereign wealth funds. Next Tuesday, you have the Illinois police and fire retirement system.”

“What time?”

“Lunch.”

“Move it to dinner. We’ll take them out and really sell them on our returns.” Michael twisted the schedule between his hands until it resembled a rolled up newspaper. He rapped my knee with it as he rose from the desk. “Great work. Let’s make it happen.”

*

Michael was out of the office for most of the day. I spent the morning moving around the pension fund meeting and preparing background folders on potential clients. He returned just after four o’clock, a satisfied smile spread across his face. Either he’d secured investors or he’d had one too many during his extended lunch.

He swaggered into the office. My cell rang as his hand hit his door. I reached for my phone.

“Ana.” Michael waved me inside.

I hit the ignore button without seeing the number and followed him to his desk. “How did it go?”

“A gentleman never tells.”

Coy would be the last word anyone would use to describe Michael Smith. It was obvious that he wanted me to beg him a bit. I feigned disappointment. “Come on. Just a few off-the-record details?”

He grinned like he’d caged a canary behind his teeth. “Mr. Fawwaz and I became great friends. He loved the book that—”

My cell’s sharp ring cut him off. I glanced through the glass walls. Whoever called really wanted to reach me. I thought of Tom and his drinking. What if something bad had happened? He would never pick Sophia up drunk, would he?

“I’m sorry, may I just see who that is?”

Michael frowned. “Of course.”

I hurried to my desk. If the number belonged to my parents, I’d shut off the cell and remind them later not to call during business hours. If I didn’t recognize it . . .

A New Jersey area code flashed on the screen. I answered.

“Mrs. Bacon.” Donna’s nasal voice fizzed through the receiver. “Is your husband picking up Sophia?”

I glanced at the time on my computer. 4:20. He was twenty minutes late. “Yes, he should be. I’m sure he’s just running a bit behind.”

“We tried calling the number listed for him and your home number. He’s not answering either.”

Damn Tom. He probably knew that he was running late and didn’t want to hear the daycare staff complain. “Okay. I’ll call him.”

“We have to charge you this time. It’s thirty per hour when you don’t pay for the extended day beforehand.”

The fee was more than double the usual hourly rate. “That much?”

“Well, we have to get one of the aides to stay late because we can’t have more than seven kids per adult and it’s not part of her usual schedule. So you’re paying for someone to stay, just for you. Plus there’s a penalty attached, since she has to rearrange her day.”

A few hours of extra care would undo my entire workday. I cursed Tom. “I’m sorry. Just let me call my husband.”

“We already have to bill this hour, even if he shows.”

“I understand. I’ll call you right back.”

I dialed Tom’s cell, hoping to hear the barreling wind that always made conversation unintelligible in the convertible. The
call went straight to voicemail. He’d either shut off his phone or let the battery die.

“Everything all right?” Michael shouted from his office. He sat on his desk, waiting for me. I offered an apologetic smile and put up a finger. I dialed home.

The line rang until the voicemail answered. I dialed two more times, praying that Tom had just fallen asleep and would hear the ringer. He’d overslept before, but I’d been able to wake him each time by the second call. If he went straight to the car, he could pick up Sophia before the daycare billed another hour.

After the fourth voicemail answer, I gave up and returned to Michael’s office. Tom had probably headed to Sophia’s school without his cell, but I couldn’t risk another few hours of late charges. We needed my entire check just to keep up with the groceries and minimum credit card payments.

“Michael.” I took a deep breath to keep my frustration with my husband from bubbling over into my voice. “I am very sorry to do this, but may I take off early? My husband hasn’t picked up our daughter from daycare, and I’m concerned that something may have happened.”

He grimaced. “An accident?”

More like a liquor-induced coma. “I hope not. Unfortunately, the daycare can’t keep her much later.”

Michael inhaled through clenched teeth. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Thanks so much. I rescheduled that meeting with the fireman and police pension fund. Research packets are ready to be printed for the rest of the week’s meetings. I really appreciate it. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Michael waved me off. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll talk tomorrow. I just hope everyone’s okay.”

I grabbed my purse from my desk and sprinted out the door. I could call Donna on the way. Maybe, with some pleading, she wouldn’t dock me for the hour it took to cross the bridge.

7

November 20

R
yan had wasted a whole business day working the phones with little to show for it but a stiff thigh, aggravated from spending so long stuck to a desk chair. The contact number listed on Ana’s policy for her parents was out of service. Cold-calling half a dozen New Jersey childcare facilities with “Apple” in the title had yet to locate the right daycare. Tom was not responding to messages. And Robomaids still wouldn’t return his calls.

The lack of momentum made him antsy. He bounced his good knee, trying to satisfy his urge to move. Before, he would have run at times like this. Not anymore.

Watching his phone not ring was pointless. He abandoned the device on his desk and slid onto the neighboring bed, stretching his injured leg atop the fluffy comforter. Unicorns were pictured in the center. Angie loved
My Little Pony
. He’d bought the cover thinking it would help her feel at home in his new place, but she hadn’t flown out to see him since the move—though he’d visited twice.

He ran his hand across the fabric, petting the blue-winged horse with the rainbow mane. The character was Angie’s favorite—or, more likely, her former favorite. She would be on to something new by now.

His thigh pulsed with his heartbeat, despite the full extension. Ryan pulled the bad limb to his chest and pushed up his
baggy sweatpants until he could inspect the damage. A dark circle, like a cigar burn only blacker, marked an area just above his knee. A long surgery scar trailed beside it, carving a white line down his tibia to another quarter-sized wound where the bullet had exited.

He massaged the raised skin where the doctors had cut and sewn, feeling lonely and more than a bit sorry for himself. He hadn’t been the kind of cop that got shot. Most of the time, his work with the financial crimes unit had involved sitting behind a computer, hunting down identity thieves and money launderers by picking out irregularities in real estate records and tax filings. Half the time, he hadn’t even worn his gun.

He should have worn it that day. Checking on a PO box that had been receiving a large number of credit cards just hadn’t seemed like a risky decision. Sure, the post office had been in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, but shootings in do-or-die Bed-Stuy were down 66 percent from the drug-fueled heyday that rappers flaunted on the radio. Gentrified Brooklyn didn’t do drive-bys.

His partner, Vivienne, had wanted to come with him, but he’d had his fill of the women in his life by that point in the day. He and Leslie had argued the night before over some ridiculousness, and when he’d mentioned the fight to Vivienne, she’d said something cryptic about some wives pushing their husbands because they wanted a shove out the door. He’d told Vivienne that he didn’t need a partner to hold his hand while he opened a mailbox.

The statistics hadn’t saved him that day. He’d been shot in the most unlikely manner possible: by a woman in broad daylight. Only 13 percent of women even had a firearm. But this twenty-eight-year-old girl with angry-looking acne had aimed a 9 mm Beretta at his torso and blown a hole in his leg. In her hyped up state, she’d mistaken him for a boyfriend that knew about her credit card scheme and wanted to steal her money.

He kneaded the scar tissue, trying to soften its hard, ugly presence. He’d been unlucky, but there was no use sulking. He liked that his new job allowed him to set his own hours. And
investigating insurance claims was certainly safer than pissing off organized criminals. Most cases involved checking family health records and calling it a day. The Bacon case was different, though, more like his old life—the one with Leslie and Angie.

Ryan glanced at his desktop computer. He should video call his daughter. At seven, Angie still wasn’t great at interacting over the phone for longer than a few minutes. But she’d be better if she could see him. He’d be better if he could see her.

He returned to the desk and opened the Skype application on his computer. A short list of contacts appeared below a search window. Leslie’s picture smiled next to her name. Angie didn’t have her own account. The sight of his ex-wife kept him from clicking. He hadn’t forgiven her for ditching him when he needed her most. Maybe he never would.

He let the cursor rest on the search box and typed a name. Luis Santos, Ana’s father. Dozens of people returned. Ryan scanned the listed hometowns for anyone in Brazil. There were plenty, though most of the photos belonged to men far too young to have fathered a thirty-one-year-old woman.

He tried the search again with Ana’s mother’s name, Beatriz. The list was far shorter. Three names were registered to people living in Brazil. Only one photo showed a woman older than thirty. Ryan double-clicked on the face and sent a message explaining that he was investigating Ana Bacon’s case. He sweetened the request for a reply by reminding them that they were also policy beneficiaries and Sophia’s secondary guardians.