She could not risk being a poor single mother, selling this beautiful home they’d built together. So each time she caught him, she accepted his tearful apology, his guilty gifts, his few days of doing more around the house and being more attentive. She got herself a massage, took a few days off from cooking, planned a fancy vacation he’d never have said yes to otherwise. And called it enough. For now. And when the other women told her how lucky she was to be taking fancy vacations and getting massages and having a husband who would watch the kids, she would just smile and agree with them. Then she would keep on doing what she’d always done. Not because it was right, but because it was simpler.
She’d admired Norah’s resilience, her bravery, her ability to make single parenting look easy. “I don’t have whatever it is you have,” she’d said to her more than once.
“You do. You just don’t know it,” Norah would say. “But I hope I’m there when you figure it out,” she’d always add, then wink. But Norah wasn’t there anymore, and Bess hadn’t figured it out. Not yet. Finished with the dishes, she dried her hands on a towel and stared at her garden shed a moment longer before going to see if the girls needed anything, to tell them she was there if they did.
Nico
September 30
The man placed the coffee in front of him, his face open, friendly, as he did so. That would change soon. Nico looked down at the mug that said “World’s Greatest Husband” and tried not to feel exposed. He might’ve been just a dumb jock who had barely gotten through high school English, but his adult self knew what irony was. He had to refrain from sliding the mug back in the man’s direction, telling him there must be some mistake. Instead he took a sip.
The man sat down across from him and pushed the sugar bowl toward Nico, his eyebrows raised in question. Nico shook his head. He took it black; he’d had to learn to. There were too many times on a case when you just needed caffeine, no time to fool with adding things to it. You learned to accept whatever was in the Styrofoam cups they passed out.
The man across from him, though, had not learned this. Nico watched as he liberally spooned sugar into his mug, then doused it with cream, too. Nico had come to think of this as effeminate, even though it wasn’t, of course. But it said things about a man, about his choices.
“So, Mr. Jones,” he said, addressing the man. Nico looked around the house they sat in, just a few streets away from where Norah Ramsey lived. It was a lovely home, decorated in grays and neutrals, the furniture new and tasteful, with clean lines and minimal frills. The overall effect was one of a very high-end doctor’s waiting room. You felt comfortable here, but not comfortable enough that you’d want to stay. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the arrest of your neighbor Norah Ramsey,” he continued.
The man set down his coffee and grimaced. “I don’t have anything to do with prostitutes,” he said. “I’m a family man. You can ask anyone.”
You might have more to do with prostitutes than you think. Nico kept his expression neutral. “I appreciate that, Mr. Jones. But I’m not here to ask about you.”
Mr. Jones, whose first name was Dave, laughed nervously. “OK, good.” Nico waited a moment, not wanting to say what came next. Before he could speak, Mr. Jones spoke up. “Is this about my boss?”
“Your boss?” Dave Jones’s boss wasn’t why he was here, but if someone had suspicions or information, he’d entertain it. You never knew where a lead could come from.
“Yeah, Richard Mann. He’s my boss. I’m a VP, but he owns the company. He’s . . . well, I just thought maybe some of the stuff he’s into . . . maybe he was one of the men you’re looking for.”
“We don’t know who we’re looking for,” Nico said, feeling the sting of failure all over again as he said it. He couldn’t figure this case out without knowing who Norah’s clients were. The truth was, it wasn’t the prostitution he really cared about. If some poor Joe wanted to pay for it, let him. But if that same poor Joe had links to the men his brother had been talking about on the day he disappeared, then, yeah, Nico wanted to know who he was. Because that person—that one magical lead—could help him find Matteo. He wrote down the name Richard Mann and thanked Mr. Jones for the tip.
Dave Jones’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell him I said it.”
Nico suppressed a smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Dave Jones scrunched up his face, his eyes becoming slits as he did. “So if you’re not here about me, or about Rich, then why are you here?”
Nico took a sip of coffee as he collected himself. He heard his wife’s voice in his head urging him to be gentle. To be kind. This man was about to have the rug pulled out from under him; no sense making it harder with his gruffness, his tendency to be a little too “to the point.”
“Does your wife have any . . . hobbies . . . that take her out of the house a lot?”
Mr. Jones didn’t catch on. “Hobbies? Like golf?”
“Well, sure. Like golf.”
Dave Jones scrunched up his face again as he thought this over. “She takes this self-defense class once a week with some of the other ladies from the neighborhood. They all started taking it after that woman was attacked in that home invasion.” His eyes widened. “Hey—did you investigate that one? Heard she got beat up pretty bad.” His expression softened into concern. “I told Laura. I said, if anyone comes into this house, I want you to run, not try to fight ’em. You’d be better off going to a shooting range than a self-defense class. But you know women. They get a bee in their bonnet and there’s no talking ’em out of it.”
Nico agreed, smiled, waited a moment. “Does Laura do any other sort of group activities?”
Dave Jones smacked his hand down on the kitchen table. Nico half expected him to holler Eureka! “I forgot. You said group activities, and it jogged my memory. Laura goes to these parties a lot. Sells kitchen gadgets and whatnots.” He gestured behind them, in the direction of the kitchen cabinets. “She’s got a shit ton of that crap from selling it.”
“So, she’s . . . successful at her business?”
Dave nodded. “I mean, I guess. I don’t really know, to be honest. It’s her mad money, she says. She needed a fund for the spa. Likes to get massages and facials and crap. I don’t know.”
“And does she have a favorite spa she goes to?” Nico asked, working hard to sound nonchalant, knowing what came next.
“Yeah. She pretty much goes to the same one all the time. Over on Crossroads Boulevard?”
Nico nodded encouragingly. Keep talking, he thought.
“She says you wouldn’t believe how often you have to go to keep it all up.” Dave Jones shook his head. “You couldn’t pay me to be a woman.”
“Me either,” Nico said. He did not say, In your wife’s case, it actually pays to be a woman. He cleared his throat, the universal signal that the conversation was about to change direction. “Actually, Mr. Jones, the spa your wife frequents has been linked to Norah Ramsey’s, um, business.” He sat, quiet for a moment, and watched Dave Jones’s face as he worked to remain impassive even as his eyes revealed the wheels turning inside his head.