Promise You Won't Tell? (2 page)

“The panties.”

“So you’re serious?”

“About the panties? Yes, absolutely. Let me know when you’ve bagged them.”

“Can I ask what you intend to do with them?”

“I’m going to test them in my lab.”

“Test them for what?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

He pauses. “Semen?”

“Ugh. Yes.”

“But...” he seems exasperated. “You’ll only be proving
I
slept with my wife.”

“That’s correct.”

“This conversation makes no sense!”

“See? That’s why I hate taking cases over the phone.”

“This conversation would be less confusing in person?”

“Just get the panties. Then call for an appointment. Trust me, I’ll find your wife’s lover.”

We hang up. Before I have a chance to deal with Jana, I get another text from Fanny.

I’ve never been this sick in my whole life. It’s possible I’m dying.

I text back,
Prove it. In person.

Fanny texts,
I’m serious. These might be
my last words.

I text back,
Your last words to me will be “You can’t fire me.” But I will.

Jana pushes the completed form across my desk. I give it a quick review.

“Did you bring your checkbook?” I ask.

She sighs, writes the check, pushes it across the desk. I pick it up, make sure it’s properly dated and signed, and place it in the slot on the wall behind my chair.

Then I open the folder, show her the evidence.

“The first page shows your husband’s driving history. The two entries that count are highlighted in yellow. This one’s the Colony Motel, on Brookwood. Ever been there?”

She shakes her head no.

“Tuesday at noon your husband entered the motel lobby, took the elevator to the third floor, knocked on the door of room three-fifteen. The door opened, he entered. Fifty-one minutes later, he exited the room. Thirty minutes after that, a woman exited the room, took the elevator down to the lobby, and checked out.”

“Was it Darcie Darden?”

I show her a photo.

Her face turns crimson, then bursts into flames. Well, not literally, but trust me when I tell you she’s pissed.

Cover-your-ears pissed.

“Home-wrecking
cocksucker
!”

I pause to make sure she’s referring to Ms. Darden, and not me. Then say, “Our operative followed Ms. Darden to fourteen twenty-six Riverside, which happens to be the second highlighted trip your husband made.”

“When?”

“Eight o’clock this morning.”

She looks at her watch. “You mean he’s there right now?”

“Possibly.”

I show her a photo of the house and ask, “Recognize it?”

“No. But that can’t be Darcie’s house.”

“Why not?”

“Look at it.”

I do, but I don’t understand.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.

“She’s my husband’s secretary.”

“So?”

“This house is nicer than
mine
!”

“I agree it’s nicer. But why can’t it be hers?”

“Is it?”

“No.”

She smiles as if she’s won a victory, but a hollow one. Like a tennis player who wins a match when her opponent double-faults the final serve. But the idea she’s smiling after hearing the house isn’t Darcie’s, confuses me greatly. Maybe it’s because I don’t play tennis.

She interrupts my thoughts by asking, “Whose house is it?”

I sigh. “This is what I hate about my job.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The house belongs to your husband.”

“
What
?
”

I nod.

“Max has another house?”

“Yes. And this is it.”

“He’s
renting
it?”

“No.”

“He—you can’t mean he
owns
it?”

“Yes.”

She stares at the photo.

It really
is
a nice house.

She says, “My husband, Max Bagger, owns this house.”

“That’s correct.”

“And Darcie Darden lives there?”

“She appears to.”

Jana starts crying again. I put my hand on hers. She recoils in horror. “Are you
hitting
on me?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a simple question,” she says, regaining her composure. “I asked if you were hitting on me.”

“No, of
course
not!” I say, defensively. Then ask, “Why would you think that?”

Why indeed? She’s not even Max’s first choice.

She says, “It’s a well-known fact you’re a lesbian.”

“It’s a…
what
?”

I sigh.

Do I really need to explain my sexual orientation to Jana Bagger?

And if so, what would I say? Would I tell her I kissed a girl? And liked it?

I
could
say that, because I
did
kiss a girl.

My best friend, Sophie Alexander. In a limousine last month.

And I
did
like it.

To be completely truthful, I kissed her a lot.

Yup, pressed the button on the arm rest and waited till the privacy panel was completely up. Then Sofe and I fooled around on the back seat for more than an hour.

What do I mean by “fooled around?”

We…you know.
Did
a few things.

To each other.

You know, with clothes on.

And without.

It was all very experimental.

I mean, I knew what I’d
find
under Sophie’s clothes, it’s just that I wasn’t sure what I’d
do
when I found it.

When I found
them
, I mean. You know…the different things I uncovered.

Under her clothes.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to do, so I took a cue from Sophie, who seemed to know
exactly
what to do with what she found under
my
clothes.

And then I sort of—you know—did the same things to her.

Which was pretty much…everything.

As far as I know.

…And I liked it.

But…we haven’t done those things since, even though we live together.

Nor have we talked about it.

Maybe it’s a limo thing.

Maybe it’s something else.

In other words, I’m still confused.

It’s…

It’s a long story. Even Jana doesn’t want to hear it. If she did, she wouldn’t be changing the subject.

She says, “My husband Max owns another house?”

“Yes. A very nice one.”

“For how long?”

“According to the deed, three-and-a-half years.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Darcie’s only worked for him a few months.”

“Four months next week,” I say.

“Do you have proof he fucked her on Tuesday?”

“No.”

“Maybe he had another reason to meet her at the Colony Motel.”

“Maybe they were planning a surprise party for you!”

She scowls. “Don’t be flippant. Although a surprise party makes more sense than your claim they were fucking in a motel room.”

“How so?” I ask, noting the frequency with which she drops the “F” bomb.

“If he’s putting her up in a house, why not fuck her there?”

“Probably because of her mother.”

“What about her mother?”

“She lives there.”

“Darcie’s mother lives in Max’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Max won’t even let my mother
visit
us!”

“I think she lives there because of the child.”

“
What
child?”

I sigh. “I should probably find another way to earn a living.”

“
What
child?” she repeats.

“William Darden. Willie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Darcie’s son. The one she had with Max.”

“
What
? Oh my
God
!” she yells.

She stares straight ahead, processing the information. I take the opportunity to remove the video disk from her file and cue it on my laptop. I press play, and angle the screen so she can see the video of Max knocking on the motel room door, and entering, then leaving, then getting on the elevator. Then Darcie leaving the room, returning the key to the front desk, getting into her car, and driving to Max’s other house.

Jana’s crying.

“Things will be okay,” I say.

“How can you possibly say that?” she snaps.

“I can’t. I was deliberately trying to comfort you.”

My cell phone vibrates with Fanny’s latest message.

Can’t…breathe. Coughing up blood. Oh, God!

I text back,
You’re not fooling anyone. Get your ass to work or I’ll fire you!

Jana says, “I can’t end our marriage without positive proof.”

“I have copies of the deed and birth certificate.”

“Positive proof they’re fucking.”

I pause a moment, then ask, “Are you aware how often you use the “F” word?”

“For five hundred a day I’ll say
fuck
as often as I please!”

I make a note to put a no-cursing clause in my next contract. I mean, I like fucking as much as the next girl, but I don’t feel the need to
say
the word. Not constantly, anyway. And I certainly wouldn’t feel the need to say it just because I paid a fee for an unrelated service. I can’t imagine visiting my banker and saying
fuck
all the time just because I’m making mortgage payments.

Having said that, now that I think about how much interest I paid last year compared to principal, I
do
feel fucked.

Two years ago—before he died—my husband Ben talked me into watching a porn flick. Within five minutes a couple was doing it, and she kept yelling, “Fuck me!
Fuck
me! Oh, my
God
, FUCK me!”

I pressed the pause button and Ben groaned, “You’re already disgusted?”

“Confused,” I said.

“About what?”

“She keeps telling him to fuck her.”

“So?”

“What does she think he’s
doing
, if not fucking her? I mean, what did she think he’d say,
No, I’m just going to keep doing this for a while, and maybe I’ll fuck you later?”

Ben said, “Jeez, Dani, it’s porn, not Fellini.”

“What’s Fellini?” I said.

Poor Ben. I never really loved him, but we made a pretty good life together. Until I was accused of murdering him. As it turned out, someone else murdered him. But that didn’t have a positive impact on our relationship, either.

“What if I get you a video of them having intercourse?” I ask Jana.

“How would you do that?”

“I have people.”

“Your partners?”

“Highly skilled, highly trained, highly connected.”

“How long will that take?”

“We’ll have to wait for the next motel visit. Are you prepared to pay our daily fee till that happens?”

“Can I get some sort of discount?”

“No. But after the fourth week—”

“It’s free?”

“Exactly.”

“Did you get her check cashed?”

“Yes,” Dillon says, and hands me a stack of fifties. I peel five from the pile and put them in his sticky hand.

“You’ve got to stop eating those Sugar Smacks. They make your hands sticky.”

“That’s not from the Sugar Smacks.”

“
Omigod
!” I say, jumping back, staring at his hands as if they held live snakes.

“What’s wrong?” he says. A devilish look crosses his face, and he suddenly becomes the boy you always tried to avoid on the playground at recess. He makes his hands into claws, holds them up, and comes at me.

I back up. “
Omigod
! Don’t
even
!”

He stops, confused.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard!” I say.

“What’re you
talking
about?” he says, staring at his sticky hands. Then his face turns red. “Oh, shit. You don’t actually think—”

I shake my head. “Let’s drop it. I don’t want to know.”

“I can explain.”

“Trust me. I don’t want to hear!”

“It’s paste.”

“I don’t care what you call it. You can’t just go around
doing
that!”

“Jesus, Dani. Seriously, it’s paste. We use it to seal the envelopes, remember?”

“Not really.”

“Remember last month when we ordered ten thousand envelopes in bulk and they showed up with no glue on the flaps?”

“Vaguely.”

“I called the company to complain and they said glue costs extra, and requires an extra step during the ordering process?”