Dead Lies (13 page)

Kreeger laughed. “I know the type.”

“After about four years of restaurant work I began taking on jobs as a private chef and caterer, working mostly for rich society women on the Upper East Side,” she continued. “The hours were better, and so was the pay, but some of those ladies—and I hesitate to call them that—were vicious. They were more demanding than the top chefs I’d worked with. After a couple of years of that, I called it quits and enrolled in the Academy.”

He took his last bite, almost losing himself in the combination of peppery beef and sweet onion flavors that burst on his tongue. “Do you miss cooking for a living?”

She shook her head. “I’m happy just doing it for my friends and family now.”

He sat back in his chair and raised his fork in a mock salute. “Well, your friends and family appreciate it.” Then he felt stupid because he’d just characterized himself as a friend when all they were at this point was colleagues. But she hadn’t seemed to notice.

She was eyeing his empty plate. “Can I fix you another helping?” She’d barely made a dent in her own meal while he’d been wolfing his down. It was just so damn good.

“Thank you, yes.”

When her back was turned, he found the courage to ask her what he’d been wondering. “So, are you divorced?”

Her back stiffened and he realized he’d put his foot in his mouth again. As a cop, he was used to asking intrusive questions and not caring how they were received. “Sorry, sometimes I forget I’m not on the job,” he said.

She gave him a polite smile. “No, that’s okay.” She carried his plate back to the table. She didn’t seem angry…just guarded. “Yes, I’m divorced. For a little over a year now. My ex-husband still lives in Brooklyn.”

There was obviously a story there, and he couldn’t help himself from fishing. “Does he see Max?”

Anna’s voice was as tight as a drum. “Yes, although I have full custody. What about you, Jerry? Are you married?”

Hm. Change of subject. He must have really hit a sore spot.

“Divorced, going on three years now. My ex-wife lives in Miami. Met a guy on the Internet.” He didn’t add that she’d met him while she was still married to
him
. “They’re getting hitched this weekend, and believe it or not, I’m going to the wedding.”

Anna was looking at him thoughtfully. After a moment she said, “Last night you mentioned you had a daughter. Does she live with you?”

“I have
two
daughters,” he said, pleased that she’d remembered. Then he felt his heart melt as it always did when he thought of his girls. “Becky is twenty-one, a junior at Rutgers. She’s studying Philosophy. Wants to get her Ph.D. and become a professor. My other daughter Julia—Becky’s older sister—just graduated from Rutgers. She’s 23 and in her first year of medical school. Harvard,” he added, pride welling up in him at the lofty sound of that word. One of his daughters was in Harvard. Harvard! He smiled. He was so proud of both his girls. They’d inherited their grandparents’ smarts.

“You must be proud.” Anna was smiling at him.

“Very,” he said, taking a large bite to mask the fact that he’d begun to choke up.

“And why did you become a cop, Jerry?”

“You mean aside from wanting to protect and serve and all that?”

She smiled. “Yeah.”

“I was big into cops and robbers as a kid. I couldn’t imagine anything more exciting than a job where I could carry handcuffs and a gun. My parents figured I’d grow out of it, but I never did.”

Anna laughed.

The conversation flowed naturally, and an hour later, they’d finished the bottle of wine. Kreeger had polished off his third helping of stew. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a more pleasant evening. Anna had grown less guarded as the evening wore on; in fact, she was lively and open. With a couple of glasses of wine in her she’d even admitted she’d gotten a tattoo the day she signed her divorce papers. Something to mark her liberation, she’d told him.

“Of what?” he’d ventured to ask.

“A dragonfly. They’re considered magical symbols in some cultures, and I needed a little magic in my life.”

He’d asked her where the tattoo was, and she’d blushed. She’d told him only that it was on a part of her body that didn’t see much daylight.

What he would have done to know.

Now she was in the living room checking on Max again. Anna’s position at the table had given her a direct visual line into the living room, and she’d glanced over at her son often, but she’d also gotten up every fifteen minutes or so to look in on him. She hadn’t really needed to, however. The boy had been chattering to himself most of the time.

“Want some dessert?” Anna asked when she came back into the kitchen again. “I’ve got coffee ice cream in the freezer.”

Realizing there were a few unfilled crevices left in his belly and that it’d probably be a while before he ate this well again, Kreeger answered, “Hm, what kind?”

“Haagen Dazs. Is there any other?”

“Nope.” There was nothing like Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream, unless your name was Jerry Kreeger and your favorite flavor was strawberry. But his stomach was starting to hurt at the thought of more food, so he said, “I think I’m going to pass.”

He expected her to say, “You sure?” but she didn’t. She actually looked relieved he’d declined.

He guessed it was time for him to go, and he hoped he hadn’t worn out his welcome. He looked at his watch. It was after 10:00 and certainly well-past Max’s bedtime.

“Thank you for dinner,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it.”

“You don’t have to. I already know,” she teased him.

He smiled at her sheepishly.

“There’s no greater compliment to a chef than an empty plate, or, in your case,
three
empty plates.”

“Hey, if I’d had some bread to soak up the remaining sauce, you wouldn’t even have to wash it.”

“Next time,” she laughed, and he bloomed with pleasure. He carried their dishes to the sink.

“Just leave them on the counter, Jerry. I’ll take care of them later.”

“No, I insist,” he said, turning on the water and squirting some fruity-smelling dishwashing liquid onto the sponge. He didn’t want to leave without doing something for her. He began to wash the plates and silverware, while she wiped down the counters and put the food on the stove into plastic containers. They worked in companionable silence, the sound of clinking pots and pans like music they made together.

Feeling the whisper of air as Anna moved around him, Kreeger’s heart ached at these simple acts of domesticity, the
normalness
of washing up together after the evening meal. He missed it. He worked slowly and steadily, moving onto the pans after he’d finished the plates and utensils, and occasionally glancing out the window above the sink. With the light of the kitchen behind him, he could just make out the craggy outline of a large oak tree to his left and the shape of a swing set in the neighboring yard. Suddenly a back light went on next door, flooding both lawns in a pale fluorescent light, and a dog howled somewhere in the distance, his plaintive wails reaching the lonely places of Kreeger’s heart.

When the sink was empty, Kreeger turned the water off and dried his hands. “Thanks again, Anna, really.”

“You’re welcome, Jerry.”

She walked him into the living room, where he saw that Max had created a series of roads with his blocks and was pushing a plastic Matchbox car through them.

“Goodbye, Max,” he said in his best adult-to-kid-with-no-baby-talk-voice. “It was nice to meet you.”

The child didn’t respond. He’d stopped playing and was staring at Kreeger with a look that said,
Help, Mommy, I’m about to get eaten!

Kreeger didn’t want to scare the kid any more than he apparently already had, so he decided it was best to simply leave. But as he turned to go, he almost barreled into Anna, who’d come around to his other side on her way to the door. He took a step back, and, in the process, knocked over Max’s blocks. He heard at least one Matchbox car go crunch beneath his foot.

That’s when the child started to freak out, uttering the guttural sounds of distress a mortally wounded animal might make. Their intensity chilled him.

Anna dove into action. She got down on the floor and took Max in her arms. “I’m here, baby. Everything’s okay. Daddy’s at home, and he’s okay too.” She held him to her body and stroked and kissed his head, cooing to him softly. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Daddy’s at home, and he’s okay too?
Odd thing to say, Kreeger thought, given he’d only stepped on the child’s toy.

He looked at Anna awkwardly, unsure what was going on and what he should do. Should he join them on the ground? “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

“No, he’ll be fine,” she answered flatly. “He’s just tired. Just give us a few minutes.”

He considered slipping quietly out in order to give her some privacy but realized she might think he was embarrassed for her about the way Max was acting. Nothing could be farther from the truth. He liked watching her with her son, meltdown or not. She was loving and gentle and patient.

A few minutes later, Max finally stopped wailing. Anna set him back down on the floor and pulled another car out of the plastic toy bucket next to her. “That’s right, Max,” said Anna, giving it to him. “See? Here’s another car. Tomorrow we’ll take the broken one into the shop.” She collected the shattered pieces and put them on a side table.

Whimpering quietly now, the child looked at his mother and took the car. She smiled at him in encouragement. “Go ahead. Set all the blocks up again. I’ll show Jerry out and then come back and help you.”

Max looked up at Kreeger, then back at his mother. Finally he turned back to his toys.

Anna rose from the floor and, without looking at him, led Kreeger to the door. “I’m sorry, Jerry,” she said, holding the door open. Her voice was quiet, and she still wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“No,
I’m
the one who’s sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jerry. It’s not your fault. It’s just that he’s been through a lot.” She was only a few inches shorter than he, but she seemed to have shrunken into herself. “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Kreeger stepped outside, wondering what the right thing to say to her was. He wanted to tell her not to be sorry, that in fact, he was the one who should apologize for just showing up and disturbing her peaceful evening. He wanted to tell her how beautiful her little boy was and how he would protect them both from whatever was frightening Max
.
But when he finally found his voice and opened his mouth to speak, she’d already shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER 14

T
HE INTERCOM BUZZED.

“Mr. McGrower…?” said Melinda. One of his secretaries was on vacation and the other had left at 5:00, so he’d asked Melinda to wait outside and buzz Ivan in.

“…Ivan is…”

He cut her off. “Let him in.” McGrower had paid two million dollars for his sixty-camera security system so that he could watch the movements of his employees at any time, anywhere in the building. He could see both of them clearly on the black-and-white monitor in front of him.

“Yes, sir.”

He watched Ivan step into the ante-chamber that separated his private office from the rest of the world and then buzzed the Russian through the final door himself. No one—not even his head of security—had unfettered access to his sanctuary.

The door opened, and Ivan stepped inside. As far as security staff went, Ivan was a small guy. Five-seven at the most, maybe 160 with his boots on. But his arms were the size of ham hocks, his stubby hands as powerful as a lion’s paws. Even with his squat, bowed legs, McGrower had seen him move with lightning speed and take out a man twice his size with a single chop to the neck.

McGrower stood and walked over to the window, barely noticing the dazzling view of Manhattan and New Jersey beyond it. Most days, his forty-fourth-floor corner office made him feel like the most powerful man in New York. But tonight he found it difficult to think about anything but this Vance woman business. He turned to the other man, who’d joined him at his side wearing the usual sneer on his face.

“You saw the papers?” McGrower said tightly.

“Yah, boss,” answered Ivan in his heavily-accented English. “Vat you vant me to do?”

“Go to her house. Tonight. Look for anything that might tie me to her.” McGrower knew the cops would have done a thorough search of the premises and removed anything they thought was significant, but they didn’t know what they were looking for.

“Like vat?” The Russian asked this casually, the way his secretary might as she was taking notes, not like a thuggish ex-con who was about to break into someone’s house.

McGrower ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t really know the answer, which was uncharacteristic, but he hadn’t thought this situation through as thoroughly as he should have.

“Maybe she compiled a file?” His hand moved down his face and he stroked his chin roughly, letting his imagination run with the implications. No, this was not good. This was not good at all.

Ivan must have noticed his distress, because he said, “I know vat to do. Don’t vorry. I take care of it.”

McGrower sighed. Ivan had never let him down in the past. He was very good at what he did, and McGrower trusted him to watch out for his interests the way he did his own. He had every reason to. He paid the man enough.

“Watch your step,” McGrower warned. “The cops are probably watching the house.”

Ivan waved away his concern. He’d dealt with such things before.

“Call me and let me know if you find anything.”

Ivan grunted. “Mebbe late.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said McGrower. He didn’t think he’d be getting much sleep tonight anyway.

When Ivan was gone, McGrower went to his wall safe and punched an eight-digit code, recalling how he’d done the same thing a few days after Serena Vance’s visit—when he thought he’d resolved the problem for good. He pulled out a stack of twenty-dollar bills the size of a brick, which totaled five thousand dollars. Then he pulled out three more. Even after he’d removed four of them, there were at least twenty more such bricks in the velvet-lined safe. He liked to have plenty of cash on hand for situations like this.

He walked back to his desk and checked the security monitors. Melinda was still sitting at the reception desk. Good.

He slipped each of the money bricks into large white envelopes, and when he was done he looked at his watch. It was only 7:00 p.m., and his limo was waiting for him downstairs. He guessed he’d still be able to spend some time with his little daughter before she went to sleep. He could give her the diamond teddy bear pendant he’d purchased in Atlantic City this morning. Christmas was yesterday, but he couldn’t resist giving her one more present. He’d give his little girl the moon if he could.

His heart softened the way it did whenever he thought of her. Until she’d come along six years ago, he’d been content living his life solely in the pursuit of money. He’d grown up in Upton Park, the poorest town in wealthy Bergen County, with an alcoholic father who couldn’t hold down a minimum-wage job for more than a few months. His mother sat around all day in a dirty house dress smoking cigarettes and watching soap operas, taking beatings from her husband like it was her lot in life. McGrower hated his pathetic mother almost as much as he despised his sadistic old man.

Still, he was grateful to his parents for teaching him an important lesson: If you were poor you were nothing. You were invisible to the people who mattered in the world, the power players who made multi-million-dollar business deals, fucked models, and bought monstrous pieces of glass called art for more money than his dad had ever made in a year. The message was reinforced on a daily basis throughout his childhood by the grocery store clerks who wouldn’t look his mother in the eye or the rich kids in neighboring towns who eyed his thrift-store clothes with contempt.

If you were poor, you were a zero. That was the lesson he’d learned the hard way.

Twenty-four years later, all the early slights still smarted. But Gordon McGrower was no longer one of the poor kids from the shabby side of Bergen County. Now he was powerful and important.

Exiting his office, he placed one of the white envelopes in front of Melinda as he passed her desk. He’d left the other three in his office and tomorrow would give them to the other women in the front office.

“Here’s your Christmas bonus,” he said, catching the surprised look on Melinda’s face. They both knew that McGrower never gave his low-level employees bonuses, but no doubt she and the other chatty Cathys were smart enough to figure out why they were getting them this year.

Satisfied he’d done everything he could for the moment to resolve the troublesome Serena Vance situation, Gordon McGrower rode his private elevator down to the lobby and stepped into the cold December night.