CLARE DUNE FROZE. SHE THOUGHT she’d heard something, or someone, though no one else was supposed to be home. She stood for a moment outside her husband’s library, her heart pounding, her hands sweaty, and listened.
There were no more sounds and she decided that she was being paranoid. Wellington was at Camp David with the president on a “boys only” holiday. She’d just checked on Tommy, who was asleep upstairs, the servants had all gone home, and she hadn’t seen the brutish Shaun Fitzsimmons for days.
Clare thought about Richie Bryers and wished he was spending the night in the guesthouse. She didn’t want to return to the bedroom she shared with Wellington. She wanted to lie in his arms all night. But it simply wasn’t safe. What if the maid or Fitzsimmons showed up in the morning? But recently, he’d been convinced that Constantine was spying on them. “Or maybe you’ve got me paranoid,” Richie had teased her the last time they got together as he kissed her goodbye. “Let’s just take a break and stay separated for a little while.”
“You’re not getting tired of me, are you?” she’d pouted.
“I’ll never be tired of you,” he’d replied. “I want to spend forever with you. Divorce him and marry me now. We’ll never have to spend another night apart.”
However, Clare repeated that it was better to wait for Constantine to make the decision. “It won’t be long. He doesn’t even try to have sex with me anymore,” she said. “He’s probably already got someone on the side. Good for him, hope she talks him into it soon.”
Still, his absence was making her rethink her position on asking for a divorce. That and Richie was convinced her husband was somehow tied up in the shooting of that colonel in Central Park after he read the newspaper articles. “Remember what I read in his journal about some colonel and a ‘Russian bitch’ being in the way,” he’d reminded her. “Then I heard him talking about a guy named Mueller—and that’s the name of the guy who shot that colonel in Central Park that same day. That doesn’t add up to a coincidence. And what about ‘MIRAGE’? It’s in his journal and he brought it up, and Iraq, too, with whoever he was talking to at the White House.”
At first Clare had refused to buy into it. “I think you’re jumping to conclusions,” she’d said. “I know he’s unscrupulous and not at all the man he presents to the public. But murder and espionage? He’s always fighting with someone over his business deals, and I think his oil company has refineries in Iraq. Who knows what he meant by a colonel and a Russian being in the way? They could be competitors.”
But Bryers had reminded her that she was the one who thought he might have had something to do with the congressional candidate who fell from his apartment building. “And you’re worried he might do something to me if he finds out about us,” he’d pointed out. “What’s so far-fetched about this?”
Gradually, Clare had come around. “Maybe you should talk to your friend, that district attorney in New York,” she suggested.
“Butch? Yeah, I’ve thought about it,” Richie said. “But I don’t have any proof. Who’s going to believe a public school basketball coach over a well-loved philanthropic billionaire who gives millions of dollars to charities and golfs with the president? I need proof.” He’d thought about it for a minute. “I wish I could get another look at his journal.”
Clare had suggested that she could try to look at it. “I’ll take photographs of the pages on my phone and send them to you,” she said.
Richie, however, forbade her. “If this is real, it’s not a game,” he said. “It’s not worth you putting your life in danger.”
So they’d avoided the topic for a couple of days, and then she’d had another idea. “Imagine if he was convicted of murder,” she said. “We’d be rich, but more important, think of all the good things we could do with the money. We could still live a good life and make a real difference in the world.”
Richie still didn’t like the idea, but tonight, after a couple of glasses of wine, she decided to act. She reached on top of the doorjamb where she’d once seen him hide the key to the library, unlocked the door, and went in. Even though she and Tommy were the only ones home, she didn’t turn on the lights and instead used the small flashlight she’d brought with her.
Clare walked quickly over to the part of the massive bookshelf where Wellington had carefully lined up his journals in chronological order. Those on the far end she knew were fifty-year-old composition notebooks containing the memories of a child. She moved to the end where the latest journals were stacked and pulled the last from the shelf. Taking out her cell phone and pressing the button to open the camera app, she opened the journal and began to scan until she saw a page with MIRAGE printed in big bold letters. She took a photograph and sent it to Richie.
Almost immediately he texted back. “What are you doing? Get out of there!”
She was about to turn to another page when she heard a noise again. Her heart jumped into her throat. “Someone’s here,” she texted. She hurriedly replaced the journal and left the library, locking the door and putting the key back.
Pausing, she listened but couldn’t hear any other sounds. She decided she was paranoid, but she wanted another glass of wine before she continued, so she walked to the kitchen.
Suddenly, the lights went on and she nearly dropped her glass. She whirled around to see who had flicked the switch. “Shaun,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Fitzsimmons, who was standing on the other side of the kitchen island, smirked. “Thought I might catch you and your boyfriend,” he said.
Clare laughed nervously. “You know Wellington’s at Camp David.”
The brute began to move around the island, but she moved, too, to keep it between them. “Quit playing stupid, you fucking whore,” he said. “I’m talking about your boyfriend, Bryers.”
Clare’s eyes widened. “You can’t talk to me like that. Get out or I’ll call Wellington.” She glanced at her cell phone. A text message popped up from Richie. “Are you okay?”
Fitzsimmons laughed. An unpleasant sound. “Messages to your fuck buddy? Doesn’t matter, the boss knows all about you two. I even showed him photographs of you locking lips outside of Bryers’s apartment. You weren’t very careful.”
Clare decided to play tough. “Well, I’m glad it’s out,” she said. “I want a divorce.”
The big man sneered. “Think a guy like Wellington Constantine is going to let his whore wife fuck around on him and then get a big settlement?”
“I don’t want anything from him,” Clare said. “I just want out.”
“Oh, you’re going out, all right. Boss gave me the go-ahead.” Fitzsimmons took a pill bottle out of his pocket and slid it across the island toward her. “Start swallowing.”
Clare stared down at the bottle in disbelief. “You’re crazy. I won’t do it!”
Fitzsimmons took a cell phone out of his pocket. “You know FaceTime?” he asked. “Of course you do; how stupid of me. You and your little boy toy were probably doing the nasty in front of each other when you couldn’t get together.” He tapped on the screen and spoke to someone who answered. “You there? Good. Point your phone toward the building.”
Sliding his phone across the island to Clare, he said, “A friend of mine is on the other end of this call. You recognize where he’s at?”
Clare looked down and her hand went to her mouth. “It’s Richie’s apartment building,” she gasped.
“Yeah, a nice little love nest while it lasted,” he said. “Too bad that when little Richie goes on his nightly jog, he’s going to be involved in an armed robbery. Only this one’s going to go south, and Richie’s going to get shot.”
Tears welled in Clare’s eyes. “You’re a monster.”
Fitzsimmons shrugged. “Yeah, probably. But I’m also pissed off. I lost a good man the other night and almost got shot in the process. So don’t mess with me. If you want to save your boyfriend’s life, you’ll start swallowing pills.”
Dazed, Clare reached for the pill bottle. “What are they?”
“OxyContin. Wash them down with your wine and you won’t feel a thing,” Fitzsimmons said. “No pain. No muss. No fuss. You’ll just float off to sleep and never wake up.”
Clare started to cry. “Please, I just want a divorce. Call Wellington. Tell him I’ll sign anything he wants. He can have his money. I don’t want anything.”
“You’re missing the point,” Fitzsimmons said, impatient now. “You’ve been giving away something the boss owns. He can’t just let that go. Besides, he’s having dinner with the president about now and won’t want to be disturbed.” He looked at his watch. “I believe we’re about five minutes from Richie’s run. So what’s it going to be?”
Clare nodded and wiped at her tears. “Okay.”
“Now, that’s true love,” Fitzsimmons said. “Let’s go out by the pool and have a nice relaxing moment on the chaise lounges.”
Clare did as she was told. Sitting down, she took the cap off the bottle, and after a moment’s hesitation, she tipped its contents back into her mouth. She picked up the glass of wine and downed it.
“That’s a good girl,” Fitzsimmons encouraged her. “It will be over soon.”
Within minutes, Clare began to feel the effects and collapsed back against the lounge. Five more minutes passed and she was vaguely aware that Fitzsimmons was undressing her.
“My, my,” she heard him say. “A shame to waste such a good piece of ass. But I suppose it wouldn’t be a good idea for my DNA to be found in you. The medical examiner has been paid off to determine it was a suicide, but he might say something to the boss, and I’d be next.”
“Richie be okay?” she mumbled.
“Probably. For now,” Fitzsimmons said. “It would be suspicious if you both died. He may have told one of his buddies about you. But who knows, the boss has a long memory. Maybe in a couple of years, Richie will have an accident, or maybe that robbery will go down like I said. But for now, he’s okay.”
Clare felt Fitzsimmons pick her up and was hazily aware when he walked her down the steps into the shallow end of the pool. She was on her back, looking up at the stars and thinking how beautiful they looked until the grinning face of her murderer got in the way. She felt him press down on her chest and the water close over her face.
Water filled her nostrils and throat and, when she tried to breathe, her lungs. Then her body convulsed and the world began to fade. I love you, Richie, she thought. Goodbye.