The Trophy Wife (26 page)

“Especially with a detective following you,” Amanda chimed in.

Walter looked at her and saw anger blazing in her eyes. When he glanced back at Alex he found less than the young man's usual admiration. “Oh, for Christ's sake. What the hell has she been telling you?” he asked in Alex's direction.

“Just the truth,” Amanda said from her position on the sofa. “And I think it's time that we had a lot more of the truth. Like how long have you been cheating on Mother?”

“Amanda,” Alex said, reprimanding his younger sister. “Take it easy.” But when he looked at his father it was obvious that he was expecting an answer.

“I haven't been … cheating,” Walter answered hesitantly. He was quibbling about her choice of words rather than the fact. “Your mother and I … have our differences …”

“Stop the bullshit!” Amanda shouted, jumping to her feet.
She brandished a stack of papers that she had been holding behind her back. “She hired a detective. She knew all about you. You and your …” Amanda consulted the pages for the name that she made sound loathsome “… your Miss Angela Hilliard.”

He wanted to throttle her. How dare she accuse her father! How dare she make Angela sound like some common streetwalker! He didn't owe her any explanations, her and that doped-up drifter she was living with. Who did she think she was, spouting moral indignation? But Alex seemed wounded. Amanda's accusations, which he had undoubtedly heard earlier, had taken on new impact in the presence of his father. He slumped into a soft chair as if he had been punched in the stomach. His hand was covering his eyes.

“Alex, I'm sorry she had you fly all the way across the country just to listen to this,” Walter said.

Alex's eyes appeared above his hand. “Is it true?”

“No, no, it's not the way it sounds.” He stepped around the coffee table and put his hand on his son's shoulder. “You have to understand. As you get older, your interests … change, mature. Mother and I were finding … other interests.”

“You hypocrite!” Amanda snapped. “You called me a slut because I was living with Wayne. And then you're bedding down some bimbo!”

The veins in his temple began to pound. How could she equate her humping with that second-rate photographer to his relationship with Angela? But he didn't really care about her opinion. They had agreed years before not to like each other. It was Alex's admiration that he couldn't bear to lose. He dropped down to one knee so that he would be face-to-face with his son, who was still slumped in the chair.

“You have to understand. Things change. Your mother and I have been moving in different directions. I didn't have time to be involved in her sports … her activities. And she really has no interest in mine. You know how she hated it whenever I talked about the bank. And how she wouldn't even buy a new dress for a business affair.”

“She loves her home … her family,” Alex interrupted.

“That's not enough!” Walter's voice turned up in volume. “My responsibilities go far beyond my home and family. Your mother doesn't want any part of those responsibilities.”

“So you need someone to polish your global image,” Amanda said sarcastically.

“No,” he answered to Alex. “This isn't about vanity. This is about partnership. I need someone who can share my interests … stand beside me in my new ventures. I'm not some clerk who comes home, demands his supper, and then squats in front of a television. I manage critical, global affairs. Your mother doesn't care about them.”

“But to cheat on her …” Alex whispered in despair.

“That's not true. I simply met someone who was moving in my direction. Someone who could keep pace with me …”

“Someone younger?” Amanda asked.

“Yes, younger,” he admitted, finally sparing his daughter a glance.

“Closer to my age than to yours?”

“Oh, I don't know. I suppose so.”

“Attractive?”

His anger was beginning to boil again. “Yes, very attractive.”

“Perfect?” Amanda persisted. “Flawless skin? A model's figure?”

“I said she's very attractive. But that's not important. What's important is our shared interests … her grasp of my problems … her ease and comfort with the important people I have to mingle with.”

“Oh,” Amanda said, pretending to understand. “So if she weighed three hundred pounds and had to shave her upper lip, you'd still be tossing Mom over for her.”

His jaw locked in rage. Through clenched teeth he bit off every word of his response. “I … am risking … everything … even my life … to get your mother … back.”

“Why? So you can walk out on her?” Amanda demanded. “So that her ghost won't be hovering over you while you and your little bimbo share … interests?”

He jumped to his feet. “I don't have to listen to this,” he
shouted. He started toward his daughter, both fists clenched in fury. It was only Alex's moving in between them that prevented physical violence. “Don't, Dad!” And then turning quickly to his sister, “That's enough, Amanda.”

Walter backed away and Amanda settled back onto the sofa. Alex looked cautiously at both of them. “None of this is going to help Mother. Right now, she needs us all.”

Walter gained control of himself. “I'm going to get her back,” he promised them both.

A
NDREW
H
OGAN WOKE UP
with a start at the sound of his telephone. He looked around, trying to orient himself, and realized that he was at home, in his den, still wearing his shirt and tie. He had dozed off in his recliner chair while staring at some witless late-night movie.

Andrew hadn't intended to sleep. The Emily Childs kidnapping was coming to a crisis. It was time for that final call offering one last chance to pay a ransom. Nobody walks away from $100 million just because the ransom payment was originally botched, he had assured Walter Childs. And the thug who had been dealing with Walter probably thought his $50,000 was nearly as much as $100 million. He would be even more apt to offer Walter “one more chance” to save his wife. Something should be happening and happening soon.

He keyed the remote to shut off the television and pushed himself out of the chair in the direction of the den telephone. He wasn't at all surprised when he heard Helen Restivo's voice. “It's me! I didn't wake you, did I?”

“Do you care if you woke me?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then you probably have something important to tell me.” Andrew carried the cordless phone with him into the kitchen. He could smell the fresh-brewed coffee that had been turned on by the timer. He thought he might implode if he didn't get to it quickly.

“Nothing much, except that we may have found our motive,” Helen teased.

“Was I right? Emily knew she was about to get dumped?”

“As much as it pains me to say it, yes, you were right.”

Andrew chuckled. “And she hired herself a lawyer?”

“Not that I can tell. But she did hire herself a detective. And he delivered a large number of telephotos.”

“No shit?” Hogan couldn't hide his interest. “The usual of the sinful couple acting out the illustrations in a sex manual.”

“Nothing that titillating. I guess Walter and Angela are too discreet to be seen together near the bedroom. But the private investigator did get establishing photos of Walter going in and out of Angela's building and then shots of Angela arriving and departing. There's a strong suggestion that Walter was paying frequent visits to his young protégée.”

Andrew nearly scalded himself gulping down a mouthful of jet black Colombian. “Proves nothing. They might have been consulting on interest rates.”

“The PI also showed Mrs. Childs close-ups of Angela on the street, jogging along the FDR, and a few shot through the window of her health club. Believe me, they aren't discussing interest rates. One look at Miss Hilliard was all the proof that Mrs. Childs needed.”

Andrew sipped thoughtfully. “You saw the photos? The guy made extra sets?”

“Yes, I saw the photos. The one in the health club makes her look very healthy. But no, it wasn't an extra set. These were the original prints that he showed to Emily Childs.”

“And she didn't take them home with her?”

“Curious, isn't it?” Helen responded, answering a question with a question. “The guy said she just set them back down on his desk, took out her checkbook, and paid in full.”

“She didn't say anything. She didn't mention a lawyer?”

“What she said, and this is a direct quote from the investigator who claims to be quoting Mrs. Childs, was, ‘That prick! He'll pay for this.' According to our man, she didn't get mad, but she sure looked like she was planning to get even.”

“Nothing more?” Andrew asked.

“Just that the check cleared.”

“Okay,” Hogan concluded. “We have a motive. Emily wasn't going to go away quietly. Which meant that a settlement was going to cost Walter plenty and the nasty publicity was probably going to keep him out of the bank's biggest private office. So, he does what … ?” Hogan knew the answer
but he wanted to hear it independently from her.

“So, he figures out how to get rid of her. He pays a few thugs to kidnap her and a few other losers to hold her. He runs this charade, winning himself all sorts of sympathy, not to mention the brownie points he's going to score with the directors. In the end, he calls the people keeping her, tells them the deal has collapsed, and orders them to kill her.” The line went silent as Restivo waited for Hogan's critique.

“Sounds reasonable,” Andrew finally allowed. “Now here's one for you. Emily leaves the private investigator's office, goes straight home, and waits for Walter. She confronts him the minute he walks in the door and Walter reacts the way any red-blooded American husband would act.”

“He kills her,” Helen suggested.

“No, of course not. He drops down to his knees and he grovels. He begs her forgiveness and then he goes back to Miss Hilliard and tells her that they can't see each other anymore. Isn't that the way it usually plays out with a mistress?”

“I wouldn't know,” Helen teased.

“Only this isn't just your ordinary mistress. Miss Hilliard sees a fortune slipping through her fingers. Even worse, she knows there won't be much of a future for her at the bank once Mrs. Childs becomes Mrs. Chairman of the Board. So she arranges the kidnapping. And she wins either way. If Walter pays the ransom, she loses a husband but gains more money than the husband has. And if Walter doesn't pay the ransom, then Emily is killed, Walter becomes a bank hero and is immediately elected president, and they live happily ever after.” He paused to let Helen think it over. “So how does it play?”

“I like it,” she responded. “But I'll give you another one that is really off the wall. Suppose Mrs. Childs has herself kidnapped.”

Hogan interrupted. “You're getting desperate, Officer Restivo.”

“Look. The kidnappers dropped her off in a van where someone else was supposed to pick her up and stash her until the ransom is paid. But maybe there was no one else. Mrs.
Childs unties herself, starts the van, and drives away. The ransom note is delivered and Walter hesitates. But there are more calls—from Mrs. Childs—threatening terrible things unless Walter pays. He may be willing to leave the woman, but he doesn't want her gang-raped and then cut to pieces. So he forwards the ransom. His career is ruined and she walks away with a hundred million dollars. Isn't that the kind of ending she might have had in mind when she said ‘the prick is going to pay for this'?”

“That certainly is a unique interpretation,” Andrew Hogan allowed. “Except for one fatal flaw.”

“Which is?”

“Why in hell would Walter pay the ransom? He's trying to shed a wife at a cost of maybe ten million dollars in property settlements and alimony. And, quite unexpectedly, someone does him the favor of kidnapping her and threatening to kill her if a hundred million dollars in ransom isn't paid promptly. If I were Walter Childs, it would seem that the ransom note must have come from Santa Claus. She's gone; there is no property settlement or alimony. In fact, there may even be an insurance bonus. And his refusal to compromise the bank's interests, even for the life of his beloved wife, would just about assure him of the presidency. It's all too good to be true. The very last thing he would do would be to pay, which would leave the lady with absolutely nothing.”

“Still,” Helen argued, “she might know that he would never let her die. At least in the terrible way that's been threatened, probably by her.”

Andrew thought. “I suppose, if she were absolutely certain …”

Restivo took the comment as Hogan's agreement. “Look, if it's true, then Mrs. Childs is the one who was waiting at the airport. She's sitting on the beach in Grand Cayman right now, composing a ransom note that gives Walter one more chance.”

“You've been smoking the drapes,” Andrew said.

“Authorize a few more dollars so that I can hire some
people to look around in Grand Cayman. She won't be hard to find.”

Andrew laughed. “Helen, your fee is already higher than the ransom would have been.”

“Okay, okay, I'll handle this out of my own pocket. But if I find her down there, you pick up the expenses. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Only don't spend too much of your money. I'll bet anything that Mrs. Childs is nowhere near the Cayman Islands.”

Emily listened to the footsteps over her head. Her keepers were up early, moving quickly with an obvious sense of purpose. Something was happening that was changing their routine.

The man had gone out the front door several times, each of his departures immediately followed by the sound of an overhead garage door rumbling open and minutes later, slamming shut. He seemed to be preparing the car for a trip.