The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8) Read online

They both heard a basketball bouncing against marble tile. They both scowled.

  ‘Where’s Laslo?’ Kip asked.

  ‘Here.’ Laslo was right behind him. He had a sour look on his face. Angie had tapped a favor for a peek at the guy’s sheet. Laslo Zivcovik was small, compact, but he was good with a knife and he had no hesitations about using it. He’d done a stint in jail for slicing up a girl’s face, but the heavy time had come from a knife fight outside a bar. Somebody had ended up at the hospital. Somebody had ended up at the morgue.

  And now Laslo was in Atlanta with his knife.

  ‘All right, gentlemen.’ Kip held the basketball under his arm. He retrieved a black folder from his desk. ‘We’ve got a problem.’

  Dale leaned over and helped himself to the bowl of peanuts. ‘Rippy rape another squealer?’

  Kip looked irritated, but he didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I don’t know if y’all noticed tonight, but LaDonna was more pissed off than usual.’

  Laslo groaned. He sat down in the chair opposite Angie. ‘What’s wound her up this time?’

  Angie guessed, ‘Her husband cheating on her?’

  Harding said, ‘You get the bank, you take the spank.’

  Everyone but Angie laughed. They never got it, these guys. They thought that the wives only wanted money.

  She asked Harding, ‘Would you fuck Marcus Rippy for LaDonna’s checkbook?’

  ‘Ain’t that Kip’s job?’

  ‘Shut up, asshole.’ Kip was so far in the closet he practically lived in Narnia. ‘Remember where we are.’

  Harding nodded. ‘All right. I get it.’

  They all got it. 110’s athletes were jet-setting multi-millionaires, but they were also small-town boys whose mamas had dragged them to church every Sunday. Their religion skipped over serial adultery and smoking weed and stopped dead at two guys doing each other.

  Laslo said, ‘What’s she up to?’ He meant LaDonna. He was trying to steer things back on track. ‘She find out about the girl?’

  ‘What girl?’ Harding was paying attention now.

  ‘Marcus has a little play in Vegas. That’s not it.’ Kip tossed the black file folder onto the couch beside Angie.

  She didn’t pick it up.

  Kip said, ‘It’s Jo Figaroa.’

  Angie’s heart did a weird shake. She had never heard anyone say Jo’s name aloud before. It had a kind of music to it.

  Kip said, ‘Polaski?’

  She worked to keep her expression neutral as she picked up the folder. The first page had a photograph of Jo. Her hair was shorter. She was holding a small boy in her arms. She was smiling. Angie had never seen her daughter smile before.

  Harding brushed peanut dust off his tie. ‘She popping pills again?’

  ‘She’s an addict?’ Angie felt a razor blade pump through her heart. ‘How long?’

  ‘Got pulled over in high school for a DWI. They found a stack of scripts in her glove compartment. Valium, Percocet, codeine.’

  Angie thumbed through Jo’s background check. She found a juvenile arrest record. There was no mention of illegal prescriptions.

  Harding explained, ‘Her dad had some rhythm with the local force. He got it bumped. She did some community service. Everybody got paid.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Talked to the AO.’

  The arresting officer. Angie checked the address on the report. Thomaston. A small-town cop would be able to hide evidence, but it would take more than one payout.

  ‘Whatever. Drugs aren’t her problem.’ Kip had traded his basketball for a BankShot. He twisted off the cap and tossed it into the trashcan. ‘It’s Marcus.’

  ‘Marcus?’ Angie looked up from the file. She tried to keep her tone conversational, but the thought of Marcus Rippy sniffing around her daughter made her want to rip his face off. ‘What’s he got to do with her?’

  ‘They grew up together. He’s the reason she met her husband.’ Kip said this as if everyone already knew. ‘Christ, Polaski, don’t you ever read anything?’

  ‘Not if it has to do with sports.’

  Harding explained, ‘Rippy grew up in Griffin. He and Jo had some kind of summer-lovin’ bullshit at junior Bible camp. Fast-forward to his senior year. He was being heavily scouted. Some teams sent players down to woo him. Informal stuff, nothing that wouldn’t pass inspection. That’s when Jo got her head turned.’

  Angie said, ‘Reuben Figaroa was one of the players who was sent to woo Marcus.’ She had always wondered how Jo had met her future husband. Now she understood. And she also understood that Harding knew a hell of a lot more about her daughter than she did. It made sense. Kip would’ve wanted Jo seriously vetted before he took on Reuben Figaroa as a client. Wives and girlfriends were always the weakest points.

  She asked, ‘Have you asked Marcus if anything is going on between him and Jo?’

  There was collective guffawing. No one questioned Marcus Rippy. 110 took a paternal relationship with all of their athletes, with the understanding that at any time, their bratty kids could take their toys and leave.

  Angie said, ‘Let me wrap my head around this. Junior high, Marcus and Jo are sweet on each other. Summer’s over. They break up. A few years later, LaDonna hooks up with Marcus. She would’ve known about his previous girlfriends. I don’t see her not getting a full history, even as a teenager.’ She asked, ‘Why is it a problem now?’

  ‘Because Jo is here, right under her nose,’ Laslo answered. ‘La D seemed okay with it at first. Brought Jo into the group. Threw a party for her. Took her to lunch. But lately she’s been giving Jo the hairy eyeball.’

  Angie knew that this would not turn out well for Jo. LaDonna was stone-cold crazy when it came to her husband. Office lore had it that she had taken a shot at a cheerleader who had gotten too close to Marcus at a party. ‘What about Reuben? Is he suspicious?’

  ‘Who the hell knows? The guy is a sphinx. He’s probably said ten words to me the whole time I’ve known him. None of them “good job” or “thank you”, by the way.’ Kip chugged the rest of his energy drink. His throat worked like a goose being fattened up for pâté. Angie didn’t know which was worse, watching him play with his ball or listening to him gurgle cherry lime BankShot. Ninety percent of his day was spent doing one or the other. By quitting time, his upper lip was like the red on a beach ball.

  ‘Hey.’ Harding tapped Angie’s shoulder. ‘Nobody calls him Reuben. It’s Fig. Didn’t you read his bio?’

  ‘Why would I read his bio?’

  Kip belched. ‘Because he’s Marcus’s go-to guy. Because he brings in millions of dollars to the firm. Because once his knee gets straightened out, he has the potential to bring in even more.’

  Harding asked, ‘What’s wrong with his knee?’

  Kip side-eyed Laslo. ‘Nothing’s wrong with his knee.’

  Angie closed the file. ‘Okay, what’s the problem we’re all here to solve?’

  ‘The problem is that Marcus is getting close to Jo again, and LaDonna doesn’t like it, and when LaDonna isn’t happy, ain’t none of us happy.’

  Angie couldn’t see it. Reuben struck her as possessive, and Jo seemed to like that just fine. ‘What makes you think they’re getting close?’

  ‘Because I’ve got eyes in my head.’ Kip opened another BankShot. The bright red liquid spilled onto the floor. ‘You can feel it when they’re together. Where were you tonight?’

  ‘Not trying to feel things between two adult people.’

  ‘I saw it too.’ Laslo started pacing. He was taking this seriously. ‘Marcus touched her elbow when he gave her a drink. Intimate-like.’

  Harding asked, ‘We looking at a Tiger Woods situation?’

  Angie asked, ‘What does that mean?’

  Kip said, ‘Tell me you know Tiger Woods is a golfer.’

  ‘Yes, I know who he is,’ Angie said, though she had no idea how.

  Laslo explained, ‘Tiger was at the top of his game, then his family life fell ap
art, and now he’s hit rock bottom. Can’t even swing a club anymore.’

  ‘Why did his family life fall apart?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Kip said. ‘What matters is that Marcus is the same way. If things are bad at home, they’re bad on the court. His game is tied to LaDonna.’

  Angie still couldn’t see it. LaDonna was as erratic as a Ping-Pong ball, but Marcus was having his best season yet. ‘How so?’

  Kip said, ‘Anytime she mentions divorce, you can count on at least five points being shaved from the board. More if she calls a lawyer.’

  Angie wanted to laugh, but they were obviously dead serious.

  ‘Five points.’ Harding was nodding his head, probably planning how he was going to exploit this information with his bookie. ‘Marcus can’t play without her.’

  Angie asked, ‘Does LaDonna know she’s got this power?’

  ‘What the hell do you think?’ Kip flashed Laslo an incredulous look. ‘Does LaDonna know?’ He grabbed the basketball. ‘She uses it like a God damm guillotine over our heads.’

  Harding put down the empty peanut bowl. He clapped his hands clean. ‘You want us to plant some Oxy on Fig’s wife, call the cops, stick her in the pokey for the night?’

  Angie’s heart banged into her throat. ‘That sounds extreme.’

  Harding didn’t seem to think so. ‘Why use a hammer when you can use an ax?’

  She struggled to come up with reasons not to. ‘Because Reuben—Fig—is married to this woman. Because she’s got a kid—his kid. Because she might not be screwing Marcus.’

  ‘Everybody’s screwing Marcus.’ Kip said this like it was gospel.

  ‘Look.’ Angie leaned up on the couch. She talked to Kip, because this was his decision. ‘You told me to handle LaDonna, but handling LaDonna means handling all the wives.’ She opened the folder as if she needed to remind herself of something, but the truth was, she was grasping at straws. ‘The way you keep the wives happy is you don’t cause waves. Sending . . .’ she pretended to look for the girl’s name, ‘Josephine to rehab is a big wave. It’s a media thing. It’ll get her a lot of attention. There will be interviews and paparazzi. You know what happens when cameras are around. The wives go nuts trying to put themselves in the picture. And then there’s the question of whether or not Jo is even using drugs.’ She looked at Harding for the answer. He shrugged. She said, ‘Walk it out. You plant the drugs, you call the cops, she gets in front of a judge, who puts her in rehab. What happens when they figure out she’s not using? Blood tests will show she’s clean. She won’t go through withdrawal. What if that’s the story she tells—that she was framed?’

  ‘Is there a race angle?’ Laslo asked. ‘I can’t tell what she is. Black? White? Latina?’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Kip said. ‘That’s all that matters. Nobody gives a shit when an ugly bitch complains.’

  Harding suggested, ‘Jo’s mother.’

  Kip asked, ‘What about her?’

  ‘She was moved up here after the father died. Got some kind of heart condition, so they wanted her to be near a good hospital. The mother’s on Fig’s dime.’

  ‘Easy,’ Laslo said. ‘We threaten Jo with the mother. Tell her Mommy is going to end up eating cat food if she doesn’t cut it out with Marcus.’

  Angie spitballed, ‘If Jo’s got a line on Marcus, the mother could be looking at an even bigger jackpot. He’s got a hell of a lot more money than Reuben does. He could put the mother up in a penthouse on top of the Ritz. Buy her a new heart. Whatever she wants.’

  Harding said, ‘She’s not wrong.’

  Angie shot him a look. He hadn’t said she was right, either.

  Kip said, ‘Okay. What’s the solution, assholes?’

  Angie rushed to answer before anybody else could. ‘I’ll shadow Jo and see what comes up.’ She thought about something else. ‘If she’s not screwing Marcus, then what’s going on between the two of them?’

  Kip bounced the ball. ‘What else could she want from him if she’s not looking to move up the food chain?’

  ‘Could be she’s slipping him pills. Could be she’s blackmailing him about something from his past. Could be a lot of things.’ Angie had to stop to swallow. She couldn’t let this get away from her. ‘We can’t find a solution without knowing what the problem really is.’

  Harding said, ‘I’m leaning back toward my idea. Jo’s the problem. Jo goes away, the problem goes away.’

  Angie tried, ‘What if Jo isn’t the only one who’s the problem? What if she’s talking to somebody? What if she’s working with somebody?’

  Harding shrugged, but she could see his mind was swinging back around.

  ‘Don’t be stupid about this.’ Angie stood up. She knew that Kip responded best to aggression. ‘I’ll find out what’s going on. All I need is time.’

  ‘Time is exactly what we don’t have,’ Kip countered. ‘Training is ramping up. We’ve got the All-Star ground-breaking in two weeks. I had to cut off my own right nut and hand it to Ditmar to keep Marcus in. This has to be taken care of fast.’

  They all went silent again.

  Angie stacked the pages in the folder. She had to get out of here before Harding swung back the other way. ‘Let me dig a little deeper before we bring down the ax.’

  Kip said, ‘You’ve got two days.’

  ‘It’ll take that long just to catch myself up to speed.’ Angie listed the things she had already done. ‘I’ll need to follow her around, check her digital footprint, scope out where she spends her time.’

  ‘Clone her phone, read her texts, pull the emails off her computer.’ Harding winked at Angie. He was finally on board. ‘She’s right, Kip. I can get my electronics guy on this pronto, but to drill down what’s the what will take at least two weeks.’

  ‘We don’t have that kind of time.’ Kip tossed the ball in the air. ‘You’ve got one week, Polaski. You know how this works. Either the problem goes away or the wife does.’

  WEDNESDAY, 7:35 AM

  ‘You’ll have to move along,’ an insistent woman in Lululemon warned Angie. She had a fluorescent baton in one hand and a plastic cup of green slush in the other. ‘This is the drop-off lane.’

  Angie looked up at the elementary school. She had parked at the curb. There was no sign indicating that this was the drop-off lane.

  The woman repeated, ‘Move along, please.’

  A car horn beeped behind Angie. She checked the mirror. Black Mercedes SUV, the boxy, six-bills kind. Just the thing every mother needed to take her kid to school.

  ‘¿Habla Inglés?’

  Angie swallowed the knives that wanted to shoot from her mouth. Just because she was in a shitty car with a leaking transmission didn’t mean she was the fucking maid.

  ‘Habla fuck off,’ she muttered, jerking the car away from the curb. The coffee cup between her legs sloshed onto her jeans. ‘Dammit.’ Angie jerked the wheel again, turning out of the school parking lot. She took an illegal left. More car horns blared. She was doing a fantastic job staying undercover.

  Peachtree Battle Avenue split in two, a grassy divide separating the north and south lanes. Angie couldn’t figure out how to turn back around. She drove over the grass, then parked in the wide mouth of a brick-paved driveway that led to a mansion. Not exactly the best place to hide in plain sight, but better than her vantage point yesterday, which put her too far down from the school to watch Jo drop off her kid.

  Kip was getting impatient. Two nights ago he had given Angie a week to figure out what Jo was up to. After a full day of surveillance with no revelations, he was making noises about Dale taking over.

  There was no way in hell that Angie would let Dale take over.

  She studied the line of traffic on the other side of the street. More black SUVs, some BMWs and the occasional Lexus. E. Rivers Elementary was the Taj Mahal compared to the public school shitholes Angie had attended. The kids were so shiny white that they practically glowed.

  Angie had been t
o the school many times before, but never this early. Usually she parked in the strip mall across the main road and stood on the sidewalk watching the kids on the fenced-in playground. She had wanted to check out Jo’s kid. She knew who to look for because there were tons of photos on Reuben Figaroa’s Facebook page. Jo wasn’t in any of them, but that wasn’t why Angie was unhappy about the pictures. No matter how studiously Reuben avoided fame, he was still a public figure. He shouldn’t be showing everybody his kid’s face. There were nuts out there. Any one of them could figure out where the boy went to school, what time he would be on the playground, just like Angie had.

  This was her grandkid, she guessed. Technically, not for real. Angie sure as hell wasn’t old enough to be a grandmother. Especially to a kid like Anthony Figaroa.

  The name was cumbersome for a six-year-old, but it seemed to fit. Anthony was like a little adult. His brow was permanently furrowed, shoulders rounded, head down as if he wanted to fold into himself. Instead of playing with the other kids at recess, he sat with his back to the wall of the school and stared mournfully out at the playground. He reminded Angie of Will. The lonely aura, the longing mixed with the thing that always held him back.

  Will was great at sports, but there was no parent to drive him to games or pay for his equipment. There was also the matter of the roadmap of scars on his body. If Will changed out in the locker room, someone would notice the obvious signs of abuse, and then a teacher would become involved, and the principal and social workers, and suddenly he would be put under a magnifying glass, which was the thing Will hated the most.

  Anthony Figaroa clearly shared this same aversion to attention. Then again, so did his mother. Angie saw Jo’s charcoal-gray Range Rover inch along the drop-off lane. The same scene played out that Angie had witnessed the day before. Jo didn’t wave to the other mothers in the car pool. She didn’t speak to the Nazi with the sign who’d shooed Angie away. She made like Anthony. She kept her head down. She stayed in her lane. She dropped off her kid. She drove away. Going by yesterday, or any other day that Angie had watched her daughter, Jo would go home, and she wouldn’t go back out again until it was time to pick up Anthony.