“Okay, okay.”
She touches my arm. “Believe me, if I could pull that off—But it’s not feasible.”
“Well. Then maybe, Vicky Lanier, maybe it’s time you started being really, really nice to your husband?”
She takes a moment to catch my meaning, then rolls her eyes. “That won’t work.”
“You can be charming.”
“Not that charming. Not with Simon.”
“No? Says in those pages that he loves you, but you don’t love him back. Maybe you show him you do?”
She thinks about it but shakes her head. “It’s too late. If I’d had any idea this was happening, that’s exactly what I would’ve done.” She thumps her forehead with the butt of her hand. “How did I miss this?”
You missed it, Vicky, because you were counting dollar signs in your head, and you were falling for me.
We go silent, thinking. Dead air filled with desperation, bordering on outright panic. I’m watching everything I’ve worked for circle down the drain.
“What if I confront him?” she says. “Be direct? I could beg him. I’d do that. I’d beg. For ten million dollars, I’d beg.”
Yeah, but that’s only half. You want it all, Vicky. So do I.
Anyway, I’ve already considered her idea and rejected it in my own mind. “The one thing you have going for you,” I say, “is that he’s dreading the thought of doing this to you. That tension, that pressure, works for us. If you tell him you know, then the ice is broken, the tension is broken. He might as well just file for divorce at that point.”
“But you read what that bitch said to him. File first, tell me later.”
“I know, I know—but you’ll make it worse if you confront him. It’ll open the floodgates. He can’t know that you know.”
She grips her hair, letting out a low moan.
“I have to go,” she says. “If he comes home, and the laptop and notebook are missing, he’ll know I’ve seen it.”
“When does he come home?”
“Probably not until later.”
“Probably? ‘Probably’ isn’t much to bank on.”
She agrees, nods her head. “He has a lot of flexibility with his job. He had a class this morning, early. Nothing in the afternoon. He usually works into the late evening, writing his law review articles and blog posts. But yeah, he could come home in the afternoon if he wanted.”
“Especially if he realizes he left his laptop and diary at home.”
“Shit.” She touches her forehead. “You’re right. I’m gonna go. I can come back around six.
I follow her down the stairs and let her out through the garage.
“Hey, Vicky,” I say, as the door grinds open, Vicky with one foot in the alley. She raises her eyebrows at me.
“They’re using burner phones, the diary said?” I say. “His is green—”
“Hers is pink, yeah. Ain’t it cute.”
“See if you can get a look at his phone. It’s probably hidden somewhere.”
Vicky thinks about that. Slowly nods. “His phone,” she says. “That’s a good idea.”
“And remember, above all,” I say. “He can’t know that you know.”
? ? ?
Vicky will be back in about five hours. I need to figure out a plan between now and then.
I dial my phone. Gavin answers on the second ring.
“I’m coming to you,” I say. “I need your brain.”
56
Christian
Gavin is quiet, eyes closed, sitting on the bench in Wrightwood Park, his hands together as if in prayer.
We’ve gone over this for the last three hours, starting with lunch, then beers, now walking around the park near his condo in Lincoln Park. I had to violate our vow not to share names, that wall we put up to keep our scams from each other. He’s only known Vicky as “Number 7” and Simon as “Number 7’s husband,” but running through all my options now with this new development, it was just too hard to keep using titles, especially with a third person—“Number 7’s husband’s mistress”—entering the equation.
So now Gavin knows the names Vicky Lanier, Simon Dobias, and Lauren Betancourt.
Finally, Gavin opens his eyes, spreads his hands, and says, “I can’t think of another option.”
“Jesus, really?” But I can’t think of another one, either.
“You tell me, Nick,” says Gavin. “You’re the one in the middle of it. I hardly know a thing about any of these people.”