When she’d finished, she put her hands on her hips and sighed. She’d succeeded only in messing up the closet. One by one she picked up the slacks and hung them. She fixed the jackets on their hangers just so, with a half-inch between them.
“Nothing good comes easy.”
The admiral was having a last laugh.
A pile of dirty laundry lay in the corner. She scooped up the clothing, carried it to her bed, and dumped it there in a heap. Three shirts and a rumpled olive suit. She checked the pants first. A Kleenex. Two pennies. And a napkin from American Airlines with a tomato juice stain, which meant it came from a morning flight.
Memories of Joe flooded her mind.
He was seated next to her on a flight-she didn’t know where from or where to. It was early in the morning and he’d just ordered a tomato juice from the attendant. She looked on as he emptied the can into the plastic cup, then raised his gaze to hers and stared into her eyes, saying nothing, saying everything, saying I love you.
Mary saw herself from a distance, shaking her head, smiling warily, thinking to herself, Don’t spill that on your white shirt.
“Me?” said Joe. “Never.”
Mary bolted at the sound of his voice. “Joe,” she said aloud. “Are you here?”
He was there. He was with her in the bedroom.
The echo of her own words brought her back. The voice was in her head. Joe wasn’t there. He’d never be there again.
Keep moving, she ordered herself. You haven’t finished yet.
Mary ran a hand over the olive jacket. Her fingers delved into the pockets. She took hold of a piece of paper. She pulled and it snagged. She pulled again and came away with a boarding pass stub.
American Airlines. Grant, Mr. J. Flight 83. AUS-SJC. Seat 13D. Date: 6/1
On June 1, Mr. J. Grant had flown on American Airlines Flight 83 from Austin to San Jose.
Alarm bells sounded.
She checked the stub again. Yes…San Jose.
Mary ran downstairs to the kitchen and sat at the phone alcove. She opened the family agenda and flipped backward through the pages until she reached June 1.
“JG-San Antonio” read the entry in Joe’s block-letter writing.
Mary looked at the boarding pass. Not San Antonio. San Jose. A difference of sixteen hundred miles.
They had a rule. No matter how sensitive the case, Joe must inform her when he was traveling long distance. In return, she promised never to ask why or what it was about. The rule was inviolate.
Honesty was their bond.
Mary closed the agenda as if slamming a door. She wiped at the tears running down her cheeks. Joe had lied.
No, she argued. Not Joe. It was the Bureau. They had forced him to lie.
But she couldn’t accept that either. No one forced Joe to do anything. If he’d lied to her, it was his choice.
Mary slipped the boarding pass into her pocket.
Why, Joe? she demanded, some part of her still wondering if he just might be listening. What case could be so important as to warrant putting your wife’s trust, your marriage, and even your family in jeopardy?
23
“Don’t do it.”
From her window, Jessie looked on as Grace jumped higher and higher on the Kramers’ trampoline next door. On the fourth bounce she threw a front flip. Her feet landed well, but her forward momentum propelled her into the mesh siding. She appeared to strike the iron support bar and toppled to her side.
“Ouch,” said Jessie. “Get up.”
Her eye went to the Kramers’ kitchen. Of course Mom was keeping an eye on Gracie, too. The sliding door rocketed open and her mom dashed to the trampoline. In their house it was all Grace, all the time.
Jessie pulled her e-cigarette from her pocket and sparked a hit. She wasn’t jealous of the attention Grace got. It wasn’t that. It was just annoying how everyone expected her always to be all right on her own. “Jess has her computers.” Or “Jess doesn’t like to be bothered.” Or “She’s happier by herself.”
Yeah, right.
It didn’t matter anyway.
In fact she was proud of her sister. All that time in the hospital. All the terrible stuff they did to her, the puking, losing her hair. And now she acted as if it had never happened. Saint Grace.
Jess looked on as her sister got to her feet, giggling, and her mom went back inside, white as a sheet.
“Again,” Grace shouted, and started bouncing once more on the trampoline.
Jess shook her head. Her sister was pretty tough. She’d give her that.
She vaped again, then slipped her e-cig into her pocket and lay down on her bed with her laptop. Her wallpaper showed a picture of Def Leppard with all her favorite apps and icons of lots of her (supposed) favorite websites. She hit an encrypt key. Def Leppard disappeared and the Jolly Roger appeared, dotted from corner to corner with icons of her real favorite sites.
Jess double-clicked on an icon showing a large S. The Sugardaddies.com home page appeared and she felt the delicious tingle of excitement. It was her naughty feeling. She typed in her name, Lolita2000, and her password. Her profile page appeared. There was a picture of a tall, slim brunette in a bikini who was definitely not Jessie. Below it ran her description: “Good Girl Gone Bad. Naughty, but Oh So Nice.” There followed a short tease. “Only the most discriminating gentlemen wanted. I’m a smart, young, motivated woman interested in being mentored by a successful gentleman. Located in northern California but willing to travel and dying to see the world. I love great cuisine, stimulating conversation, and long, deep kisses that make me feel like a woman.”
She wasn’t sure about that last part, but lots of other girls on the site said similar things.
Her mailbox showed that she’d received sixty-seven messages in the past two days. A sample of the headers included “Hey Classy Lady,” from Nantucket Sailor; “Just How Naughty?” from Rich in NYC; and “You Are Smokin’ Hot!” from Julio J. Studley. Jessie was pretty sure that wasn’t his real name.
Halfway down the list she spotted a familiar handle: 40, Rich, and Bored.
Her heart quickened and she opened the message.
“Hi Lexie.” Lexie was her Net name. “Still waiting on that special pic you promised to send. I sent you mine. Did you dig it? Hope you put the five hundred bucks to good use. Consider it a down payment on a good time when we hook up. Did I mention I just picked up a new Benz S Class? Be a good girl-or a bad one!!-and I’ll buy you one, too. Gotta run. Send me that pic, pretty lady!”
She clicked on his handle, and several pictures of an okay-looking guy with dark hair and a tan standing next to a BMW came up. Forty was old, but not that old. Fifty was old. Forty was almost old, and this guy looked like he was younger. He even had a six-pack.
She opened another tab and typed in her bank’s address, then logged in to her account. The balance stood at $3,575. 40, Rich, and Bored’s payment of $500 had arrived the day before. At least she knew he wasn’t lying about the rich part. He’d already sent $1,000 the month before. The thought made Jessie nervous and ashamed. She knew it wasn’t right to steal money, but this wasn’t exactly stealing. She asked for it and men sent it. Of course, she promised to send pictures of herself and also to do stuff to them when they met. Even so, they knew that they were taking a chance. They probably rubbed themselves off in the shower thinking about her. Pervs. If they were stupid enough to send money to any girl who asked, they deserved to lose it.