No One Will Miss Her(43)
It was the voice of her inner survivor that answered back: Yes, you can. You can, because you have to. You’ll lie until you believe it yourself, if you have to, because you made this choice. Now you’ll live with it.
And there was no time to argue, either. She would need to work quickly, and not only that: there was still the other matter, the thing she’d been meaning to do, and who knew when she’d have another chance like this, without having to worry about her husband walking in. She wanted to be alone when she discovered what was inside Ethan’s safe, the one built into the wall behind the desk in his home office. The combination was their wedding date, of course. So they’d both remember, even though Adrienne wasn’t supposed to open it unless Ethan was around. But after everything else, snooping was the least of her sins. She’d earned the right to look, hadn’t she? To know everything? God, what she’d done to earn it.
There had been so much blood.
Her bare feet thumped lightly against the polished floor as she stood and left the room, setting her wineglass on the counter beside the bottle as she passed, tucking her phone into her pocket. There were no windows in Ethan’s office; to someone watching from outside, the woman in the window would have simply disappeared, leaving the lights on in an empty kitchen, clearly alone in an empty house.
In fact, the police officer in the cruiser was watching, but only barely. He flicked his eyes briefly toward the window, then returned his attention to the radio. It was game four of the ALDS, Sox already up two games to one on the Yankees, and Bucky Dent was about to throw out the ceremonial first pitch. The crowd in New York roared; the cop in Boston glanced at the clock. If the boys clinched tonight, the city would go apeshit, and he would probably end up standing out in the cold until three o’clock in the morning writing citations for disorderly conduct—but that would at least be less boring than sitting here on the swankiest street in the city, watching nothing happen, doing a courtesy stakeout for some out-of-state cop.
Inside the house, Adrienne’s phone buzzed: the restaurant was busy and needed more time, but would deliver her order within forty minutes. On any other night, Adrienne would have pitched a fit about the wait, but this one felt like a sign from the universe, a gentle reminder that she shouldn’t dally. She took a deep breath. It would be fine, she thought. She knew, better now than ever before, that a determined woman could get an awful lot done in forty minutes. She traversed the house with silent steps, a dark doorway opening up ahead of her. She crossed into the room, flicked the light, and knelt down in front of the safe. The keypad glowed green, inviting the code to unlock it. She didn’t hesitate.
The door swung open, and her eyebrows arched skyward. So did the corners of her mouth.
“Well,” she said quietly, allowing the debutante’s drawl to creep into her voice. “I do declare.”
Chapter 17
The City
10:30 p.m.
Bird marked his southbound progress by the Red Sox radio broadcast, the roar of the crowd at Yankee Stadium fading into static as he passed between counties, then states. Even if the GPS hadn’t told him he was getting close, he would have known from the sound of Joe Castiglione’s voice, coming through strong on WEEI out of Boston as he neared the city limits. It was the top of the seventh, the Red Sox holding on to a three-run lead, when he pulled onto the quiet street in Beacon Hill where Ethan and Adrienne Richards lived. A Boston police cruiser was parked underneath a tree on the even-numbered side, and Bird muttered an oath under his breath; if the Richardses were at home and even a little bit observant, they would have noticed they were being watched. He pulled his own cruiser in several spaces ahead of the blue-and-white, exited, and walked back with badge in hand to tap the city cop’s passenger-side window. It came down just in time for him to hear the crack of a bat: two hundred miles away, Xander Bogaerts grounded out to short, stranding the runner who could’ve opened up Boston’s lead to a comfortable four runs.
“Evening, Officer,” Bird said.
The man in the car extended his right hand. “Murray.”
“Ian Bird. Thanks for holding it down.”
Murray glanced at his watch. “Sure thing. You made good time.”
“Anything happening in there?” Bird said.
“All quiet. Lady’s still awake, I’ve seen her back and forth by the window a few times.”
“Anyone else?”
“Like a six-foot bearded Mainer with a shotgun and a limp?” Murray said, cracking a smile. “Nope, no sign of your suspect. A couple folks walked by with dogs. The lady in seventeen had one visitor, food delivery guy. That was a couple hours back. Japanese, looked like.”
“The guy or the food?” Bird asked, and Murray grinned again.
“Both. Dinner for one, going by the size of the bag. These rich chicks eat like fucking birds,” he said, his accent coloring the words. Fackin’ bihds. Bird stifled a laugh.
“Got it, thanks. Anything else?”
“I drove around the block when I got here, checked out the rear of the house. Everything looks normal. You know how these neighborhoods work? There’s an alley behind the row here with back access. Seventeen has a little patio behind that they’re using to park their cars. I heard you were looking for a Mercedes?”
Bird nodded. “GLE.”