Sweet Little Lies (12 page)

She went into the Barnes & Noble on State and walked by a
Sun-Times
stack with her picture splashed across the front page. Maybe she was below the fold in the Trib. She casually walked out the door and continued to mosey down State Street, careful to keep her eyes averted, her arms velcroed across her chest. Kelly passed by Sears and looked down at her outfit. A sweater. Not to mention there was a description of what she was wearing on the radio this morning. Kill two birds with one stone. Kelly winced at this thought. She shouldn’t be thinking about killing.

She pulled the door open and was immediately enveloped by the early morning quiet of the store. She kept her eyes glued to the shiny tile floor, so she wouldn’t have to look at any of the workers. Kelly poked around the women’s department, looking at various pants and tops. Within a half hour, she’d managed to find a black sweater set and a pair of jeans that fit pretty well. She also picked up a pack of cotton underwear. She probably wouldn’t even get to wear them, seeing as how she’d most likely be in jail tonight, but she felt better having them.

She felt her bladder press against her, so she scurried around the store in search of the bathroom, finding it near the electronics section on the basement level. She wasn’t really paying attention to what was playing on the huge bank of TVs when she came out of the restroom until she heard Mark’s name. Her head flew up, and there was a picture of him on TV. She glanced over both shoulders to see if anyone was paying attention before turning back to look at the monitors.

“A bombshell in the murder of prominent Chicago attorney, Mark Monroe. Earlier today, a woman by the name of Geneva Monroe held a press conference at her attorney’s office to announce she was Mark Monroe’s wife of ten years. Channel Seven reporter, Mel Hayes is live from the Loop with the latest. Mel?”

“Sydney, in an unbelievable twist in this case, Geneva Monroe, a thirty-seven-year-old resident of Olympia Fields, announced she had been married to Mark Monroe for the past ten years and that they shared a son, Mark Monroe, Jr. Geneva Monroe also revealed she intends to file a multimillion dollar lawsuit against Mark Monroe’s
other
wife, Kelly Ross, for the wrongful death of Mark Monroe.”

Kelly dropped the clothes she was holding, her heart exploding.

Geneva Monroe’s attorney, Harvey Jackson, appeared on the screen.

“Geneva Monroe just wants what is due to her and her son. We all know Kelly Ross killed Mark Monroe, further denying Geneva and her son the right to a husband and father. Once Kelly Ross is convicted of this crime—and we know she will be—we intend to pursue, to the full extent of the law, restitution for the transgression against Geneva Monroe and her son.”

Geneva stood next to Harvey, trying her best to look forlorn, this morning’s garish ensemble tossed in favor of a conservative dark suit. As pitiful as she tried to make herself look, Kelly thought she detected the slightest hint of a smirk on her full, rubbery lips.

She turned and ran out the store. She wanted to faint. Better yet, she wanted to die. She didn’t stop running until she reached the safety of her car. She slid down in the front seat, hyperventilating.

This bitch was suing her? She’d gone on TV and told the world about her and Mark and now was
suing
her? Kelly wasn’t sure how long she stayed in the car. She was too shaky to drive, too afraid to go out into the streets. She was quite literally paralyzed by fear.

Finally, she sat up and composed herself, a plan beginning to settle in her mind. She went to her trunk and pulled out all the documents she’d taken from Mark’s office yesterday. They had their joint accounts; she had separate investments from her modeling days. Runway, of course. They had joint investments, life insurance. Jesus. Could this woman take everything she had? Wasn’t Mark enough? Wasn’t being betrayed by Mark all this time punishment enough? Kelly pursed her lips, a determined look on her face. She would be damned if she would put up with this. Not from some skanky ‘hood rat.

K
elly took a few deep breaths, going over all the steps she needed to take. She grabbed her purse and all the files and headed down the street to the Chicago Public Library. She hunted for a secluded spot, finally finding one on the fifth floor away from the flurry of the rest of the library. Kelly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the library. She was so busy, she’d never remember to turn the books in on time. She usually went to the bookstore instead, and then the books would sit around her house in piles because she didn’t have time to read those either.

The library was rather busy for a Monday morning. At least, she guessed it was busy. Didn’t people work? Maybe they were students? There were a couple of colleges nearby. As she walked around though, she realized it was also home away from no home for the city’s homeless population.

She dropped her purse down on the floor next to her and pulled out the folder of papers she’d gotten from Mark’s office. She’d been one of those ten thousand dollar a day models, although she hadn’t bragged about it like some. Smart investments coupled with lucrative spokesmodel contracts had ensured Kelly never had to work again. From her modeling income alone, her net worth was over ninety million dollars. That didn’t include revenue from Runway and the various investments she and Mark had jointly, which put her in the multimillionaire league many times over. Mark probably had a couple of million just in salary, and that didn’t include all the pies he had his hands in from cuts he took for setting up client deals.

Kelly sorted the statements from her accounts and the accounts she and Mark had together into two separate piles. She looked over the trust papers for Mark Monroe, Jr.’s college fund. She examined the credit card statements for Geneva. Geneva was obviously a big spender. Major shopping trips almost every day, extravagant lunches at expensive restaurants, manicures and pedicures every week. Nothing, it seemed, was too good for Geneva Monroe.

“Well, if someone else is footing the bill,” Kelly mumbled to herself, shaking her head at the excess this woman indulged in. There was one Visa gold card with a hundred thousand dollar limit and a gold American Express. Some assorted department store cards. The checking and savings accounts combined totaled on average about two hundred thousand each month. As Kelly shuffled through the papers, she got angrier and angrier.

“Alright, Geneva. You wanna play? Let’s go,” Kelly mumbled to herself as she pulled out Mark’s phone and dialed the eight hundred-number on the Visa statement. She punched up the account code. When it asked for the social security number, Kelly guessed it was Mark’s.

There was a balance of seven thousand, with a minimum payment due next month. She asked it to repeat the most recent charges and wrote them down. Kelly pressed zero for the operator. She waited a few moments before the line connected.

“Thank you for calling Visa today, how may I help you?”

Kelly cleared her throat, cupping her hand over her mouth to keep her voice from echoing across the library. “Hi, this is Mrs. Monroe, and I would like to report my card stolen.”

“Ok, ma’am. When was the card stolen?”

“Well, it was a few days ago. You see, I’ve been having some problems with identity theft.”

Kelly heard the woman on the other end tapping on her keyboard. “Ma’am, can you tell me the last four charges you made on the account?”

Kelly looked down at the statement. She counted up four spots from the bottom and began to read. “Well, I had lunch at Outback on the tenth for $57.30, then I got my nails and hair done at Mario Tricocci that same day for $240. On the ninth, I made a purchase at Macy’s for $350. And on the eighth, I made a purchase in the amount of $675 at Carson Pirie Scott.”

Kelly held her breath and heard more tapping.

“Okay, Mrs. Monroe. We have cancelled the card and will send you a new card shortly, if you will just confirm your address.”

“Well, I’d like to hold off on getting another card until I can get to the bottom of all of this. I am concerned you may get a call from the woman who I believe has stolen my identity trying to reinstate charge privileges. How can I keep her from doing that?”

“Well, ma’am, if she tries to use the card, the merchant will be instructed to confiscate the card and call the police. Additionally, we can password protect the account with a series of questions only you would know the answers to.”

“Perfect. How many questions, and what are they?”

“Four. Mother’s maiden name?”

“Spencer.”

“Mother’s birthplace?”

“Atlanta, Georgia.”

“Okay. Almost done. Your date of birth?”

Kelly thought fast. Her birthday would be easy enough to find out. She’d make one up, just like the rest of this so-called identifying information.

“December fifth.”

“And lastly, your birthplace?”

“New York City.”

Kelly heard a few more taps.

“Alright, Mrs. Monroe, you are all set. When you are ready for us to send you another card, please call and let us know. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

Kelly smiled. “Oh, no. You’ve been wonderful. Again, thank you very much.”

She called American Express and did the same thing, as well as all the department store cards.

She started punching up her various checking and savings accounts to look at the amounts. She then did the same for Mark’s checking and savings accounts as well as their joint account. She kept pulling up accounts and writing down amounts.

When she was done, she put her hand over her eyes. Something had been bothering her since yesterday. She picked up her pen and stared at the inside flap of the file folder holding all her documents. She wrote “Mark” at the top. She wrote “Geneva” next to it, and underneath she wrote “Mark, Jr.” She let out a clipped sigh, doodling as she did.

Where in the world could Mark have possibly have met this woman?

He’d moved to Chicago about ten years ago from New Orleans; they’d met about four years ago and had been married for a little over three. She looked down at where she had written “Mark, Jr.,” and circled it. She had figured he was about nine or ten. She wrote “age nine or ten” down and circled it. Mark had gone to law school at Tulane, so that must have been where it started. Had they gone to school together? No, no, it was pretty obvious Geneva was allergic to work, so she wouldn’t be doing anything as difficult as law school.

Kelly thumped her fist against her temple, trying to knock memories from the recesses of her mind. She remembered him saying Tulane was tough, a competitive environment. He said he liked New Orleans okay but had no desire ever to go back. He talked about his courses, some friends…girls he dated…one girl in particular…was
her
name Geneva? Kelly shook her head. No, no it was something else. Sabrina or Selena, something like that. There was something else though…what?

Suddenly, she remembered in startling detail what had been nagging at her. And she remembered why she was so bothered, had
been
bothered, and it became so clear to her what she had to do. She made one slow, scrawling, final notation in the folder. This would require more than a phone call.

First things first.

S
he looked around to make sure she was still alone before she picked up the phone, dialed the number from memory, and waited.

“Just hang on for Mama a little bit longer, baby,” she whispered as the cell phone

beeped in her ear, indicating the battery was dying. She’d charge it when she got back to the car.

“Bonjour?”

“Bonjour, yourself, Monsieur.”

She heard a pause on the other end.

“Cherie? Cherie, is that you?” The French accent began to rise a few octaves. “What the hell is going on? It is all over the papers, ‘former supermodel kills husband.’ I’ve had reporters from all over the world calling me, all goddamned day and night. This is bullshit, yes?”

Kelly sighed. “‘Fraid not,” she said quietly.

“Well, what the hell happened?”

She leaned over and cupped her hand over her mouth and the phone. “Well, let’s see. About thirty-six hours ago, I found out Mark was cheating. A little over twenty-four hours ago, I found out he was married to her—with a son. And now, she’s planning to sue me for everything I’ve got. How’s that?”

Patric Pierre let out a low whistle. “Oh, cherie. I am so sorry. What can I do?”

“I’m so glad you asked. I need to move my money so she can’t get to it. I mean…it wasn’t enough she was married to my husband;, she now wants to ruin me financially. Help me.”

“You call my banker. He will handle everything with the utmost confidentiality. He’s Swiss, of course.”

Kelly smiled. “That’s what I was counting on. Could I call him now? I mean, I know it’s ten there.”

“No worries, cherie, no worries! You tell him I sent you, he’ll get off his ass real quick. What else?”

“Can you wire me some money? I’m pretty sure Western Union lets you do that online. I’m afraid to go to the ATM. They may be watching my cards. About three thousand, American?”

“Done. Ah, cherie. I’m so sorry. I…well, I thought he was a good guy. I cannot believe any man would…do that to you. To anyone, but especially not you.”

“Oh, Patric.” She stopped. Though Mark was the love of her life, Patric would always have a special place in her heart. He was silent from Paris.

“If I hadn’t been so stupid, you’d be here with me now instead of the shit you’re in. Well, what is the expression, ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’” He was quiet for a moment before she heard him take a deep sigh. “Where do you want me to wire the money again? Are you sure you don’t need more?”

“No, three should be enough. Just…text me at this number with all the info, and I’ll go pick it up later today.” She paused. “Patric?”

“Oui?”

“Merci. Forever and always, merci.”

“Of course, cherie, of course. Call Hans. Hang on, let me get the number.”

Kelly scribbled down the number on the inside flap of the file folder.