The Wife Who Knew Too Much(76)

“Kovacs might’ve warned anyone inside that we’re coming, so just in case, don’t ring. Use your key. Let’s enter quietly and see what we see.”

I let us in. The cavernous foyer was silent and dark. I didn’t know where the light switch was. I had to hunt for it along the walls before I managed to turn on the lights.

“Can you call the staff? I’d like to know who’s home before I set up the monitoring system. I don’t need an audience.”

“Hello? Hello? It’s Tabitha. Anyone home?”

My words echoed off the walls. I turned to Hagerty and shrugged.

“Who would normally be here?” he asked.

“Gloria and Juliet at least. Maybe Connor.”

“Where would they be?”

“The housekeeper is probably in the kitchen, which is that way.” I gestured. “When they’re done working for the night, Gloria and Juliet have rooms on the third floor. Connor could be upstairs in our bedroom, or in the library, that way, in the opposite wing from the kitchen.”

“Wait here,” Hagerty said, then lowered his voice. “I don’t want you encountering anyone until the monitor is activated and you’re wired. That first conversation could be critical.”

He walked off toward the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hall.

My clothes were wet from the rain and stale from two days of travel. Rather than sit in the beautifully upholstered chairs that flanked the grand fireplace, I stood there, huddled into myself, rubbing my arms for warmth. The bleakness of this place descended on me. I’d never felt at home here. I’d always been an outsider—alone, afraid. Now I was actually a spy, returned to trick the occupants into confessing their crimes. The occupants. My husband and his accomplices. I told myself that he deserved it. That he’d murdered his first wife for the money and was now framing me for that crime. Me, his wife, the mother of his child. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. I was in denial. I’d loved him. I still did. To think he could do such a thing—it tore me apart.

Hagerty strode back into the hall.

“I found the housekeeper,” he said. “She claims to be alone in the house. Your husband and the assistant are both out. I told her to stay in the kitchen until further notice. That gives us the opportunity to install the system without prying eyes. Let’s get a move on, before anyone else shows up and starts asking questions.”

For the next hour, I followed Hagerty around Windswept as he set up the monitoring system that he’d brought with him in his briefcase. He fitted me with a padded monitor that clamped around my ankle and tightened with screws. It was an unwieldy black plastic thing that looked sort of like a giant Apple watch. No matter how he adjusted it, it wouldn’t get comfortable. Finally, he gave up and told me I needed to live with it.

“It’s not a bedroom slipper,” he said.

Once activated, the ankle bracelet would send a continuous signal to a receiver installed in Windswept’s landline telephone system. He installed receivers on several phones throughout the house, to ensure that I would always be in range.

“Never used one of these in a place this size. Hope it works,” he said.

The receivers would give the police department a twenty-four-seven readout of my location. If I left the premises, they’d know. If I cut the bracelet off, they’d know. And unlike your average ankle bracelet, mine had a bonus feature—a recording device. The bracelet was bugged. It would record anything said within range of it.

“Record,” Hagerty said. “Not transmit. We don’t have a van stationed outside listening to every word you say as you say it. That’s FBI stuff. We don’t have the resources. Anytime, day or night, you can get a confession out of your husband or anybody else who might be in on the crime, as long as they’re speaking within range of the device, it will be captured and stored. In forty-eight hours, you’ll go to your attorney’s office, and I’ll meet you there to retrieve and download whatever you got.”

Hagerty claimed the bug was hidden in the ankle monitor for my protection. A wire worn taped to the body was easily discoverable, he said, and could result in me being outed, retaliated against, even killed. The ankle monitor was a condition of my bail, ordered by the judge. Everyone expected me to be wearing it. Nobody would bat an eye. They’d never suspect. But, unlike a wire, the ankle bracelet and its recording device couldn’t be turned off by me. The DA and the cops would hear everything I said for the next forty-eight hours, and there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop them.

Before he left, he showed me that one of the screws on the bracelet was actually a panic button. The screw was flush with the plastic of the device in order to avoid triggering it unintentionally. But if you pressed it hard with something pointy, it would send an emergency signal to the police.

“Only use it if you really need to. If we get that signal, we rush over here and break the door down. At that point, your cover’s blown, and your cooperation is done. You won’t be any good to us, which means you won’t be any help to yourself. Got it?”

“I understand.”

“Your monitor is live now. You’re alone in the house at present except for the housekeeper. That gives you a window of opportunity. Use it. Poke around, see if you can find evidence to help the DA’s case. Get your husband talking, or anyone else who might know something. You need to produce if you expect to gain.”