The Wife Who Knew Too Much(64)
“Hah, I wish. For drugs. He got swept up in some sting operation, accused of trading opioid prescriptions for sex and cash. And to quote Kovacs, he’s singing for his supper.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“Without him, there’s no basis for saying it was suicide. The whole inquest was built around his testimony. He said he diagnosed her with terminal cancer a week before she died, that she was despondent. That he gave her a prescription for painkillers. That’s how they explained the drugs they found in her system.”
The silence stretched out as we looked at each other.
“But that wasn’t true?” I said finally.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I told you, I wasn’t involved with Nina’s death. I don’t know whether he was telling the truth or not.”
“You weren’t involved. Was someone else?”
He looked away. “How would I know what anybody else did? She had a lot of enemies.”
“Why won’t you look me in the eye?”
He met my gaze.
“Because the fish are distracting,” he said, and signaled for the check.
* * *
The Levitt Global team had been invited to go on a yacht belonging to the chief executive of their Saudi counterpart. It seemed to me to be an awkward moment to party on a boat with Connor’s business associates. But he couldn’t say no without giving offense, and he refused to leave me behind at the hotel.
“Besides,” Connor said, “it’s not the worst thing if we’re out of reach in the middle of the ocean for a few days.”
That afternoon, we boarded a helicopter, flying for an hour high above sparkling waters before touching down on the deck of an enormous yacht. Connor gave me a peck on the cheek and went off to find the conference room where they’d be meeting to finalize the agreement. Juliet and I were escorted to a lounge to wait for our rooms to be ready.
The lounge was decorated in pristine white, its walls made entirely of glass, retracted and open to the air. Music played softly and a delicious breeze blew in from the deck. A uniformed steward brought us figs, watermelon juice, and a tray of cold towels. I buried my face in the ice-cold towel, drinking in its lemony scent and sighing with pleasure.
“I guess I knew people lived like this. But to see it for real. Just, wow,” I said.
Juliet had gotten up. She was standing at the open wall, staring out at the deck with a hard expression.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Lauren Berman is here. I see her by the pool.”
“Oh.” I paused. “I knew she was on this trip. She’s part of the deal team.”
Juliet looked at me like I was crazy. “And you’re okay with that?”
I swallowed hard. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Lauren’s a snake. Don’t ever turn your back on her.”
I was surprised by the venom in Juliet’s voice.
I put it down to, they must have a history.
The steward came back and escorted us to our cabins. My room had picture windows, its own balcony, an en suite bath, and décor straight out of a magazine. It also had twenty-four-hour room service and spa treatments on call. I booked a massage and facial, and ten minutes later a matronly woman who spoke heavily accented English showed up with a massage table. For the next two hours, she rubbed my back and legs with essential oils and applied various potions to my face. At the end of the treatments, I was refreshed and glowing, smelling of lavender. I asked her for the bill.
“No bill. Compliments of host.”
I realized I had no idea who the host was.
“Please thank him for me. And this is for you.”
I handed her a hundred bucks from my handbag. She looked shocked, but the waitress in me always tipped, whether it was expected or not, and the amount I tipped had gone up commensurate with my newfound wealth. It just seemed like I had so much, it would be wrong not to share.
Hungry now, I got dressed and made my way to the lounge, hoping to find Connor so we could eat dinner together. I paused on the deck to admire the setting sun, its blazing circle just touching the water, spreading vivid pinks and oranges in all directions. In my old life, at this hour, I’d’ve been in the middle of dinner service at the Grill, sweating, carrying heavy trays, my clothes reeking of that night’s special. Instead, I was on a fabulous yacht in the middle of the ocean. But was it worth the pit of dread in my stomach, the certainty that everything was about to come crashing down?
In the lounge, there were no men in sight, only a gaggle of tall, gorgeous young women in tiny bikinis, speaking a language I didn’t recognize. They lounged at the bar, giggling, and shot me hostile looks when I came in. The proportions of their bodies were so extreme that they looked more like gazelles than humans. I felt like I’d landed on a distant planet.
“Russians,” a voice behind me said.
I turned to find Lauren Berman, dressed for dinner in flowy white pants and a beaded halter top, a martini glass in her hand. I realized that I looked wrong, wearing the black dress I’d bought for that other dinner, which was too hot for this climate.
“They’re Russian? I figured they were the Saudi wives, talking Arabic.”
“God, you really are from the farm. They’re prostitutes.”