The House Guest, page 15
He took it, examined the coffee. “Thanks.”
“Is it okay?” Alyssa, surprised by his tone, reached out to take it back.
“It’s great. I’m just thinking. The FBI? Here?”
“Yeah.” Bree nodded.
“While we were here. Tuesday. The woman who came into the kitchen.”
“Yeah.”
The room fell almost silent for a beat, the coffee machine cycling on with a steamy sigh, Bree’s spoon stirring, the refrigerator humming again. The picture from the television fluttered distractingly, and Alyssa clicked it off. There could be no good news, nothing that she wanted to hear.
“She was looking for evidence,” Bree went on. “Alyssa says.”
Dez waved her words away. “Well, none of our business, right? Unless Alyssa wants it to be?”
“Thanks, Dez.” Alyssa was grateful for that, at least. Though last night she’d told them more than she should, there were still some lines she hadn’t crossed.
Dez blew across the top of his coffee, then set the mug on the napkin. “Speaking of which. Did Bree tell you what we decided last night?”
Alyssa opened her mouth to ask—Decided?—then closed it. Looked between the two, perplexed. They didn’t have the aura of people who’d slept together, whatever that was, and Alyssa believed she’d be able to tell. These two were behaving like acquaintances, not people with a romantic secret.
“What?” she asked out loud, then paused, surprised at her own demanding tone. “I mean, decided what?”
“Like I was saying a minute ago,” Bree said. “How we can help you.”
Alyssa felt her chin come up, wary. “Aww. But no. Thank you. I don’t need any help.”
“Of course you do,” Bree said. “And it wasn’t my idea, but—”
“Dez,” Alyssa interrupted. “I’m serious. No.”
“It wasn’t my idea, either.” Dez tried his coffee, toasted his approval. “It was the FBI’s idea. And Bree and I, and you, we can make it work. Bree and I will go to Bill. Wired. The whole deal. Like that agent wanted. See what Bill does.”
“No.”
“Then you’ll be totally off the hook, Alyssa.”
“No,” Alyssa said. Was she even on the hook? What hook? “First of all, it’s ludicrous. A terrible plan. Bill would never buy it. He’s too smart. Too savvy.”
“He left you to take the fall, didn’t he?” Dez asked.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no fall to take. And it feels completely wicked, luring my husband—”
“Ex-husband.” Bree jabbed a finger at her.
“Into a trap.”
Bree pursed her lips, nodded. “So you’ll be nice to him. Thoughtful. Caring and supporting. Like he’s being to you? Gotten any postcards recently? I told Dez what you said about those creepy things, Lyss.”
“That might be over the top, Bree.” Dez put up a palm.
In the silence, Alyssa saw Dez sneak Bree a look. But Alyssa’s woman-scorned vibe had to be obvious. Adultery, betrayal, affairs. Because in a divorce that appeared so one-sided, what other explanation would there be?
“Can I ask you, though?” Dez shifted position on his wicker stool. “Why doesn’t the FBI use its own people to test your husband? Seriously. It seems preposterous for them to recruit civilians. Risky. Even illegal.”
“I wondered about that, too.” Alyssa did not want to have this conversation, but these two were not letting it go. “Apparently, this is standard operating procedure. But I suppose there are rules and rules,” she finally said. “If you’re the federal government.”
“And kinda makes sense,” Bree said, “in the deeply cynical and arm-twisting way that only the feds can devise. Right, Dez? They want you, Lyss, because you’re part of that world, to find someone to pretend they want Bill to handle charitable donations for them. And trap him.”
“Yes, but—”
“Can you imagine that conversation?” Bree cleared her throat dramatically. “Hey, Cordelia and Abigail,” she said in an affected voice, “guess what about Bill?”
“Exactly,” Alyssa said. “And we’re done with this topic. No more Bill, no more FBI, no more poor Alyssa. Who wants muffins? Eggs? Bacon? Can’t turn down bacon, right?” She paused, wondering why bacon made her sad. Then remembered. “What’re your plans for the day?”
“No,” Bree interrupted. “Not quite done. Here’s the point. I do have an inheritance coming. I do want to donate some to charity. Right, Dez?”
He nodded. “And I would be there to confirm it. If they wanted to call Roshandra, she would confirm it, too. Bill would believe we were authentic. Because we are.”
“That’s what we figured out last night, Lyss. It’s not a risk, because my inheritance is not real money yet. I don’t even have it yet. And if I did, the FBI would protect it. It’d be kinda easy. We use the truth to tell lies.”
Alyssa jiggled one foot, watching the toe of her black flat swish back and forth across her polished floor. She felt surrounded by betrayal. Bill’s, of her. Now the FBI wanted her to betray him. Was that justice? Equilibrium? Should she sacrifice her husband to save herself? He’d already sacrificed her, so he deserved it. But it would ruin both of their lives. Though hers felt already ruined.
Bree leaned toward her, moving her coffee out of the way. “We’re serious, Alyssa. You’ve done so much for me. Now it’s my turn. Our turn. To help you. To change your life. You do not deserve to be left alone, and friendless, and—” She hesitated. “Penniless. And it’s not a risk.”
“It is to Bill,” Alyssa said.
“But isn’t that the point?” Dez stood, and Alyssa watched him, a silhouette, the sunshine making him a dark outline surrounded by the rain-glistened backyard grass.
“If your husband did something wrong,” he said, “do you want to cover it up? If you don’t help—” He faced her. “Look. We get intense financial training and legal prep at One Beacon. I understand this world. The transactions. If you don’t help, and they get a conviction, that’ll look bad for you.”
“And what might happen to you then?” Bree asked. “Bill knew, when he did this, that you’d become a target.”
“He did not do anything.”
“That you know of,” Bree said. “Or realize you know.”
“Exactly,” Dez agreed.
“Why do you care about me so much?” Alyssa had to ask.
“Why did you care about me so much?” Bree retorted. “I was a stranger in a bar, for god’s sake, you could have ignored me. But look. Now I’m sitting with you in your kitchen. And because of you, I’m getting an inheritance. Doesn’t it make sense that I’d want to pay you back?”
Dez pulled a stool up next to her. “Look, Alyssa.” He moved closer, sitting almost denim knee to denim knee. “Just say no. That you don’t want us to do this.”
“No.”
“But if you say no,” he went on, “that doesn’t mean the FBI will stop. It means they’ll get someone else to—”
“Trap him.” Alyssa finished his sentence.
Dez shrugged. “Yup. And if the scheme works, so be it. His bed, he lies in it.” He scratched the side of his neck as if trying to organize his thoughts. “But if he doesn’t fall into the trap, he’s free. And you’ll be free. And you said they just needed a couple of hours’ notice to put it all into action. Right? We can do it quickly. I have to say, saying yes is your only option.”
“If Bill is a…” Alyssa couldn’t get the word criminal to come out. “If he took people’s money under false pretenses, or pretended to donate it to charity, that’s … terrible. But I cannot be the one to put him in prison. No matter how much I loathe him.”
“Even with how much he hurt you?” Bree whispered. “What about all the families whose finances he might have devastated? People whose lives he might have ruined?”
“But,” Dez went on, “if he’s not a criminal, this whole thing is over.”
“I could tell him,” Alyssa said. “Warn him. One phone call.”
“Absolutely. Bree and I talked about that last night, too. But once you tell him, boom. You’re complicit. You’re a conspirator. You’re a criminal. There’s no coming back.”
TWENTY-SIX
“That’s quite a story, Alyssa.” Mickey sat, leaning back, bracing her arms against her pale wooden desk. A line of frayed yellow leather law books, each title in a red stripe peeling from use, lined the wall-to-wall bookshelf behind her. A chaos of green plants topped a plastic shelf under her window, and the sun glinted on the golden dome of the Massachusetts State House and on the pigeons strutting along the ledge outside the Boston office of the Fahey Law Firm.
“And remind me to be wary of asking you what’s new, sister,” Mickey went on. “We’ve had our moments, but I have to say this is—unexpected. Though I’m happy to see you. It’s been a while.”
“My fault, I know,” Alyssa said. It had taken all her courage to call Mikaela Fahey. Eight years ago, they’d been together every day. Mickey and Al, first-year law students. Their whole lives ahead of them.
“It was. But I understand.” Mickey shrugged, an indication of affectionate acceptance Alyssa remembered from the old days. “Things change. People’s lives grow apart, even if they don’t mean them to, especially when their focus changes. We went our separate ways. But again. First. That stinks about Bill. Are you okay, Al? I mean—Alyssa? Hard to get used to that.”
Alyssa had confessed everything. Almost everything. Her baffling but imminent divorce. The postcards. The knife on the kitchen floor, and the disarranged clothing in her closet. Her meeting with Bree in Vermilion, her stray kitten offer of the guest house, the discovery of the ancestry test, Collin Whishaw, and finally, Dez Russo. And then, the FBI. And their request for the trap.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She rattled the ice in her glass of sparkling water, then stabbed the lime wedge with a straw. The Fahey Law Firm was where she’d interned, her one summer in law school, thanks to Mikaela, the newest in the Fahey legal dynasty to become a lawyer. The logo on the firm’s website said Since 1776. Not true, but no one ever challenged it.
Mickey had been her law school classmate, and while Alyssa dropped out for Bill, Mickey forged ahead to become the successful professional Alyssa once aspired to be. Alyssa had found the latest when she checked Mickey’s Facebook page: Lawyer-husband, stepmother to one little girl, puppy, South End town house. Now, seeing her again, Alyssa realized Mickey might be the only friend she had. Not counting Bree and Dez.
Pearls, black suit, manicure, brunette bun. Mickey was hardly the wild-haired karaoke-singing pal she’d hung out with years ago. Alyssa’d changed, too, she had to admit. She’d temp-jobbed through that one law school year, and like other classmates, had been terrified by her soon-to-be crushing student loan debt. But Bill had taken care of that. Was it worth it? She’d asked herself a billion times. Money changes everything—but not necessarily the way one predicts. Was losing it worse than never having it? She was about to find out.
“Maybe I’m not totally okay,” she amended her earlier response. “Maybe better to say, ‘As well as can be expected.’ Which sucks. So I have Burke Slattery, you know him? Slattery and Singh? For the divorce. He’s smart, and on my side, and he hates Bill, too. But this insane FBI wrinkle seems like a conflict, and I think I need another lawyer. And I need a friend. I appreciate you fitting me in.”
She surveyed the room, the stacks of files teetering on one corner of Mickey’s desk, the wheeled leather trial briefcase on the floor. Laptop charging on a side table. “You must be crazy-busy.”
“Al, are you kidding me? It’s you. If we can share first-year law, we can share anything. So, I hear you about Burke. And the potential conflict. And the FBI wants you to get someone to entrap him?”
“Yup.” She outlined the fool-Bill offer Bree and Dez had made. How she’d refused.
“Interesting,” Mickey said. “Let’s think a minute.”
She clicked a silver ballpoint pen open, and closed, and open. Just the sound of that—how many nights had Alyssa heard that, studying together in the law library?—made Alyssa feel safer.
A knock on the doorjamb startled them both.
“Mickey?” A young woman, wearing tight braids, a black cardigan buttoned up the back, and a long pleated skirt leaned halfway into the room. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Hey, Odette. You’re frowning. Everything okay? This is my intern,” she told Alyssa. “Odette.”
“The preschool called. Romy tripped on some blocks, and cut her—”
“What?” Mickey stood, her chair rolling backward and hitting the bookshelves behind her.
“Is she okay?” Alyssa said at the same time. Romy must be the daughter. Odette had an accent, Alyssa couldn’t place it.
“She’s fine,” Odette reassured them. “Not truly hurt, but crying. Even after her ballerina Band-Aid, Wusa says. I know you are with a client,” she acknowledged Alyssa, “but Romy—”
“Come with me, Al?” Mickey had tucked her pen behind one ear, grabbed her phone and the laptop, and was almost out of the room, gesturing Alyssa to follow. “Or you can wait, maybe ten minutes? It’s in this building, top floor. The penthouse preschool. Convenient, at least.” And then to Odette, “Tell Wusa two seconds.”
Mickey used a key card on the elevator, talking to Alyssa as they waited. “Romy’s an awesome kid, she’s four, and I know she should learn to regain her own equilibrium, but I can’t resist.”
The elevator door opened onto a wide, sunlit room, with views across the rooftops of Boston and out to the Charles River. A pod of children stacked blocks in the center, and a scatter of others sprawled on yoga mats with puzzles and books.
“Hold this, okay?” Mickey gave Alyssa her laptop, and stashed her phone in her jacket pocket.
A wiry little girl wearing a pink tutu and one pink ballet slipper raced across the room, and threw her arms around Mickey, burying her face in Mickey’s slim skirt. A young woman in jeans and a sleek dark ponytail followed close behind. Mickey stooped to face her daughter.
“How you doing, Romeroo?”
“I fell.” The little girl pointed to her knee. “Didn’t I, Wusa? See my ballerina Band-Aid? It’s a hurt under there.”
“Romy was surprised, I think, when she tripped,” Wusa said. “She got a little rug burn.”
“Hmmm. You still breathing?” Mickey narrowed her eyes, moved closer. “Let me listen to your heart.”
“You’re silly! You know I am, MeeKee!” Romy clamped her fists onto her tiny waist. “Of course I’m breathing or I couldn’t talk!”
“Okay, then, I pronounce you fully recovered, darling one.” Mickey tapped her on the nose with one finger, then touched the Band-Aid. “All ballerina better. I came up so you could meet my friend Al—Alyssa. Alyssa, this is Romy Obeng.”
Alyssa held out her hand, and the little girl shook it, her face turning serious. “You’re pretty. I’m four.”
“Thank you,” Alyssa said, and felt tears come to her eyes. “Four is a very nice age. Are you a dancer?”
“Yes!”
“And you’re missing a shoe, Romeroo.” Mickey pointed to her feet. “Better go find it. And your dad and I will come get you at Romy-time.”
“Goodbye!” Romy bounded away on tiptoe, her tutu flouncing.
“That was easy,” Alyssa said.
“I hated to bother you, Mickey.” Wusa’s ponytail swung as she apologized. “She’s fine, but—”
“All good. No bother. Life is complicated when you’re four. We’ll see you later, Wu.” Mickey lifted a palm in farewell, then pointed toward the wall of sliding glass doors. “Wait. Okay if we sit on the roof deck? Yes? Okay with you, Al? It’s gorgeous out, and the view is amazing.”
In a few motions, Mickey had opened her laptop and placed it on top of a latticed wrought iron table, and they sat side by side in the sunshine, looking out over the roofs of the urban aerial landscape; a multicolored patchwork of flat gray asphalt and bulky heat vents, dotted with an occasional sparkle of a sun-kissed skylight or a secret garden with spiky evergreens and manicured shrubs, forbidden barbecue grills in front of voluptuous all-weather couches and rattan chairs.
“Amazing,” Alyssa said. She used one hand to shade her eyes, and surveyed from the Charles River to Boston Harbor. She felt small up here, experiencing the world from a different perspective. Maybe her problems were small, too, even solvable. “So peaceful. You should move your office out here.”
“Oh, right. In Boston? Even now, the clouds are moving in. But listen, thanks for the Romy detour,” Mickey said, tapping at her laptop. She paused. “You and Bill ever think of—?”
“Let’s not talk about that, okay?” Seeing Romy, her tear-streaked face and the one ballet slipper, made her aware of another subtraction. Bill had said no to children, and now she was paying for that, and it was all Bill’s fault. “Bill is a creature of infinite and toxic destruction. I sometimes wish the FBI would nail him.”
“Nope. You don’t. Okay. Between you and me. Parker? Hattie Parker?” She spelled it. “Is that right?” Mickey tapped on the keyboard after Alyssa nodded. “Told you not to tell Bill.”
Alyssa nodded again.
“But you’re not saying she told you not to get a lawyer. That’d be—” She shook her head. “Unacceptable.”
“She didn’t mention lawyers. Just Bill. Listen, can they ask me to do this? I’ve never felt this trapped—home alone after Bill, moping around half the time and the other half homicidal; and right when I was getting ready to enter the world again, I pick the one bar where I not only get a martini, I get complications. Lucky for me, you decided to be a defense attorney.”
“Huh. That was never in question. Not with my father.” The lawyer shifted in her metal chair. “Give me a moment.” Alyssa saw the light from the screen illuminate Mickey’s face.
She’d hated those freckles in law school, Alyssa remembered, and complained no one would ever take her seriously. Thank the lord for my dad, she’d said one night, nursing beers at The Local. No one would dare mess with me.
