The Quickie - James Patterson [74]
I just needed to core out the very last remnants of my heart.
“Yes?” said the woman who opened the door.
She was blonde, all right, but not preppy. And not little. At least not her chest. I guessed she was about my age, which, honestly, didn’t help one bit. I scrutinized her heavy-handed makeup, the way her tight black skirt cut into her tummy. She looked like she’d recently put on weight.
An attractive woman desperately battling the onslaught of her late thirties. Welcome to the club.
I stared into her dark brown eyes under the razor streaks of blonde, an off-putting clash of light and dark. When I smelled her perfume, something cold drew across my stomach. Like a razor.
“Veronica?” I finally spoke.
“Yes,” she said again. I noticed she had an accent, Texan maybe, definitely southern.
I took out my badge.
“I’m Detective Stillwell,” I said. “May I please have a word with you?”
“What’s this about?” she said tensely, not budging from the doorway. I couldn’t tell if she knew me or just didn’t like badges.
I took out the DMV printout I’d gotten from Zampella.
“Do you have a 2007 black Range Rover?” I asked the blonde woman. Paul’s other wife?
“Yes,” she said. “What about it?”
“I’m investigating a hit-and-run accident. May I come in? It will only take a moment.”
“Why does a New York City detective want to investigate a hit-and-run accident in Washington, DC?” she asked, keeping herself wedged in the doorway.
I already had an answer for that. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. My mother came down three days ago with her church group. She was the victim. If there’s some sort of problem, I could always just go ahead and have your vehicle impounded.”
“Come in,” she said, stepping to the side. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”
There was an off-white pub mirror and a cute espresso-stained mail desk in the front foyer. The design was contemporary, moderately tasteful. The rooms were sunny and cozy.
She led me into the kitchen, where she’d opted for retro appliances. A pink mixer sat on the butcher-block island next to a bag of flour. She was cooking dinner for Paul? Sweet girl.
“My daughter Caroline’s fourth birthday is today, and I have to make a Dora the Explorer cake or the world will end,” Veronica said, staring into my eyes.
The world has ended, I felt like saying as I looked away.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“That would be fine,” I said. “Thank you.”
She opened and closed a cupboard over the sink. I stood there light-headed, fighting to stay on my feet. What the heck was I doing here? What was I trying to get out of this?
Down the hallway, I spotted a vanity wall, photographs on floating shelves.
“May I use your bathroom?” I asked.
“Down the hall to your right.”
The walls of the hall seemed to collapse in on me as I saw Paul in one of the photos. He was on a sunny beach with Veronica and the baby, who was maybe one at the time. Surf spraying, the sand like powdered sugar. The next shot — to my heart — was of the two of them, Mommy and Daddy, their cheeks together in midlaugh, red-eyed with city lights twinkling behind them.
The third photograph hit me like a serrated blade between my eyes. A half-naked Veronica in an open nightgown, Paul resting his chin on her shoulder as he cupped her ripe, pregnant belly in his hands.
By the time I got to the fourth, and final, photo, a thousand-megaton blast in my skull had mushroomed. Paul, you bastard.
Veronica’s breath was suddenly at my back.
“You’re not here to ask about some car accident,” she announced.
I stared at their wedding photo for another moment, dry-eyed. It had been taken on the same beach as the first photograph. A minister was there. White flowers in Veronica’s blonde hair. Paul in an open-throated, white silk shirt. Smiling. Beaming, actually.
She wisely jumped out of my way as I stumbled toward the front door.
Chapter 105
IT HAD ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING! Not just everything that