The Black Widow (14 page)

No, of course not. Ivy felt terrible for him. She wrote back again, asking if there was anything she could do. She worded the message carefully, straddling the fine line between colleague and friend.

His reply was a terse,
No, but thanks.

That was it.

But it was enough to arouse her suspicions.

She’s since written back—twice, in fact—to inquire about his mother’s condition. Both queries were met with silence. Maybe he assumed she was nudging him because she wanted to know when he plans on returning to work.

But it isn’t that at all. She’s just worried. As a boss, and a friend, and . . .

All right, as a woman who’s been secretly infatuated with Carlos from the moment he set foot in her office a few years ago. He was married then, and so her feelings were utterly inappropriate . . .

Of course they still are, even now that he’s divorced. A boss should not have romantic thoughts about an employee. Or at least, if one can’t control one’s romantic thoughts, one shouldn’t act on them.

Ivy hasn’t. That’s why she’s spent the last two weeks trying to distance herself, emotionally, from Carlos’s personal tragedy. But it’s taken every bit of restraint, as this second week wore on, not to pick up the phone and try to contact him directly in Costa Rica.

Eventually the restraint wore thin.

Yesterday morning she arrived at work before anyone else and slipped through the dark, deserted halls into his cubicle to check his computer files. Yes, she knew it was wrong—but her intentions were noble. This time, anyway.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting to find—perhaps evidence that he’d been planning a secret vacation with the woman he’d dated that last weekend—but the files yielded nothing out of the ordinary.

Nothing, that is, other than the fact that his social networking accounts appeared to have been canceled. But that’s probably not unusual, given the circumstance. In the aftermath of a family calamity, Facebook and InTune undoubtedly feel frivolous at best—and are a blatant invasion of privacy at worst.

Finally, back in her own office with the door closed, Ivy broke down and called Carlos.

She dialed both his apartment and his cell phone, leaving messages on both voice mails. Then, feeling like a seventh grade girl with a crush, she closed her office door and did some lunch hour sleuthing on the Internet, looking for more information about his parents’ accident.

She learned that fatal car accidents are by no means a rarity in Costa Rica, which apparently has one of the highest traffic death rates in the world. There had been many over the past few weeks. But none that she could find seemed to fit the circumstances of Carlos’s parents’ tragedy.

That probably means nothing—but it could mean something.

That Carlos lied? Why would he lie about something so horrible?

Common sense tells her that he wouldn’t. That would be a sick thing to do, and Carlos isn’t like that. He can’t possibly be that twisted.

Yet there’s some part of her—some irrational, immature part—that can’t stop wondering. Maybe she doesn’t know him as well as she’d like to think she does.

What if he’s really just off on vacation someplace, with some woman?

For all she knows, he’s skipped town and has no intention of ever coming back.

Sheer speculation, of course.

Still, the more she’s thought about it over the last twenty-four hours, the more her genuine concern has given way to anger and resentment.

Finally, last night, she decided it would be perfectly appropriate to take matters even another step further. Working late on a balmy Friday night, when it seemed most Manhattanites had escaped their concrete cages well before rush hour and fled the city for woodsy or beachy weekend retreats, she once again found herself virtually alone on her floor, other than the cleaning staff.

It wasn’t hard to convince one of the janitors, who spoke very little English, to unlock the door to the human resources office. When at last he complied, she quickly got her hands on Carlos’s file, including his emergency contact page, and made a photocopy.

She tucked it into her briefcase, carried it home, and tried to make herself forget about it.

Now, in the bright light of the next day, sitting in the small studio apartment she shares with her cats, she realizes that her colleagues probably wouldn’t have batted an eye if she’d gone into human resources at any point this week to request the information. She could have—
should
have—voiced her concerns through the proper channels. No one would have suspected that her feelings for Carlos run deeper than professional concern.

“Too late for that now, though,” she tells her fat orange cat, whose name, of course, is Garfield.

Once, when she posted pictures of Garfield on Facebook, one of her friends—who, she has since decided, is not a true friend—made a comment:
Garfield—what an unusual name for a fat orange cat!

Ivy responded that he’d been named after the cartoon cat.

For some reason, the friend—whom she has also since defriended—thought that was amusing.

Later, Ivy’s younger brother Seth had pointed out that the comment was meant to be ironic.

“You know—like a cliché,” he said. “Like—what else would you name a fat orange cat? It’s irony, Ivy.”

Irony. Okay. She got it.

She thought long and hard before she named her next cat “Snoopy.” He was all white—but he’s a cat, not a dog. Irony.

Her Facebook friends appreciated that, judging by the number of people who clicked the Like button when she posted Snoopy’s picture and name. Ivy was pleased.

Now, her mind on Carlos, she tells Garfield, “I don’t think I should wait until Monday morning to do something about this.”

The cat purrs agreeably, rubbing his arched back against Ivy’s leg as she sits down at the computer with the photocopied file information.

Carlos had listed someone named Roxanna Diaz as his emergency contact, providing both a home number and a cell phone.

Is she his sister? His ex-wife?

Only one way to find out.

Well, two ways—but Ivy would rather do some snooping around online before boldly dialing one of those numbers.

A Google search turns up far more women named Roxanna Diaz than she expected. Even when she narrows it to New York, there are many. It would take her a long time
to even rule out all the ones who likely have no connection to Carlos.

Instead, she Googles the name along with first one phone number, then the other. But again, she comes up with nothing relevant.

Even more frustrating: each phone number, checked separately on a reverse lookup site, comes up with:
Not in our data base.

Meaning . . . what? That they’re unlisted? Or that Carlos made them up? Did he make up Roxanna Diaz, too?

“You know what?” Ivy says to Garfield. “I’m just going to call. I mean, why shouldn’t I? Anyone would call, right?”

Garfield, snoozing at her feet now, doesn’t even stir as she half stands and leans to reach for the phone on the nearby counter.

That’s the nice thing about living in a tiny apartment—pretty much everything is in arm’s reach.

It’s the
only
nice thing—well that, and the fact that she’s located in the heart of midtown, in a safe doorman building. That’s much better than having a lot more space in a sketchy neighborhood out in the boroughs, like Carlos.

When Ivy bought this place ten years ago, in her late twenties, it was more than she could comfortably afford. But rent was a waste of money, and she figured she’d be making a lot more within a year or two. Anyway, sooner or later—most likely sooner, she thought—she’d meet Mr. Right, marry him, and move to the suburbs. When that happened, she could either sell the studio, keep it and rent it out, or she and her husband could use it as a pied-à-terre . . .

But here she is, pushing forty, perpetually broke and in debt, making less, not more, than she was back then. Not only that, but she’s still single, and when she finally met Mr. Right, he was off-limits because he worked for her. To top things off, he’s now fallen off the face of the earth.

Irony. Again.

You have to do something. You have to figure out what’s going on.

She starts to dial the first phone number on his emergency contact list, listed as the home phone.

If someone answers, you can always just hang up
.

Right. Exactly like a seventh grade girl with a crush.

What is wrong with you?

Ivy pauses, closing her eyes, hating herself. Hating that this is her life. She should be out there in the world, doing something interesting, instead of dwelling on Carlos, letting her imagination run away with her . . .

Except what if something is really wrong?

She finishes dialing. If someone answers, she’ll explain that she’s trying to track down her employee and this is the number she was given.

The call is answered on the first ring.

Her breath catches in her throat—until she hears a high-pitched tone and a recording: “The number you have reached is not in service at this time . . .”

Okay.

That’s fine. No big deal.

She dials the second number, the cell phone.

Once again it’s answered on the first ring.

But this time there’s no recording.

“Hello?” a female voice says.

“Uh—huh—hello?” Ivy stammers.

“Hello?” the voice repeats. “
You
called
me
.”

“I know. Sorry, I—”

“Who is this?”

“I’m looking for Carlos Diaz,” she blurts.

Silence.

Then, “Why?”

“Because he works for me, and I’m concerned about him.”

“Why?”

“Because—are you Roxanna?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Ivy Sacks. I’m his supervisor at—”

“Oh, Ivy. I’ve heard about you.”

That gives her pause. Carlos mentioned her? Wondering what he said about her, she asks, “And you’re Roxanna?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re his . . .”

The woman doesn’t make it easy by filling in the blank. She just waits for Ivy to complete the sentence.

She tries, “ . . . sister?”

“No. No, I’m not his sister.” The woman lets out a prickly laugh. “How did you get this number?”

“Carlos listed you as his emergency contact.”

“Wow, did he? I guess that was back when we were still married.”

So she’s his ex-wife. Got it.

“What’s going on with him?” Roxanna asks. “Why are you concerned?”

“Because he’s had a family crisis. His father was killed in a car accident last week and his mother was badly injured, and he had to fly—”

“Wait a minute—
what
?”

“There was a car accident,” she explains, nudging Garfield away so she can stand and pace. “His father was killed and his mother was hurt—”

“That’s impossible,” Roxanna cuts in—though not in incredulous disbelief, the way someone might respond to an unexpected tragedy; rather, the words are spoken flatly, as if stating a simple fact.

“Why is it impossible?”

“Because Carlos’s father died when he was six. He was a cab driver, and he was killed in a robbery. It happened on Christmas Day. His mother lives with her boyfriend in Costa Rica.”

“Oh, well—I mean, he
said
it was his father. I guess he was talking about his mother’s—”

“Never in a million years. Carlos was named after his father and he worshipped him. He’d never refer to Pasqual as his father. Trust me.”

Trust me?
Consumed by intense dislike for Roxanna—and not sure whether it’s because of her combative, cavalier attitude or because she was married to Carlos—Ivy doesn’t want to trust her. And yet—why would she lie?

But why would Carlos lie? Especially about something so terrible?

“He . . . he never mentioned that his father died years ago,” Ivy tells Roxanna, unable to keep herself from feeling—and probably sounding—defensive.

“Yeah, well, he never liked to talk about that. When he and I first started dating and I asked him about his family, he just said his parents were retired and living down South. It was easier for him than having to explain about his father to someone he didn’t know very well.”

Miffed by the implication that he must not know
her
very well, Ivy clears her throat. “Okay, well . . .
someone
was killed in a car accident in Costa Rica, and his mother was injured. What are their names? Do you know?”

“Of course I know their names. I was married to the man for years.”

Hating her, Ivy grabs a piece of paper and a pen. “And do you know where in Costa Rica they live? Do you have their contact information?”

“Of course,” Roxanna says again, “unless they’ve moved. Hang on, I’m looking for the address. I know it’s here someplace . . .”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But . . .”

“But what?”

“I hate to say it—I mean, I have nothing against Carlos anymore, but—it sounds like he lied to you.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Who knows? I mean, especially about an accident, and his mother—Carlos loves his mother. Respects her.”

“I know.”

Ivy doesn’t know, really. But she assumes he loves and respects his mother, and she doesn’t want his ex-wife to assume she has the upper hand on all this . . .
knowing
.

“Did he sound upset when you talked to him?” Roxanna asks.

“I didn’t talk to him. He sent an e-mail. It happened after hours.”

“Oh. Okay, well . . . Hang on, I’m still looking . . .”

Ivy hears a man’s voice rumbling in the background. Roxanna’s replies are muffled, as if she’s covering the receiver, but most of what she says is audible: “I don’t know . . . Something about my ex . . . No, from his job . . . How should I know? I haven’t talked to him in months.”