Sweet Little Lies (8 page)

She looked at her watch. Sam Gordon. Well, she’d already missed that meeting, and she would have to reschedule it for later, because she had to make a trip to Olympia Fields.

She hastily rearranged the couch pillows and straightened up everything else on Mark’s desk, not wanting anyone to know she’d been there. Satisfied, she walked over to the door and, before she stepped out, looked out to make sure it was empty. She pulled the door shut behind her and began to walk back towards the elevators when the nausea hit. She dropped her purse and all the folders as she sprinted down the hall to the bathroom. She barely made it to one of the gleaming white toilets before she threw up in it. She stood over it, dry heaving. When she was sure she was done, she flushed, ran some cold water over her face, rinsed out her mouth, and took a mint out of the silver bowl on the counter.

Kelly tottered out of the bathroom and collected her things before she began once again to make her way to the elevators. Her throat was raw, like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. She passed Portia’s desk and then walked backwards a bit before she turned around and stood over it. She grabbed a few Kleenex and then went out to the elevator. Once again, she didn’t have to wait for a car, and she was back into the garage within moments. Shaking, she threw the files from the second safe into her trunk and hopped into her car for the trip out to Olympia Fields.

S
helia Stevens got the knock on the door she’d been dreading all morning. She was standing in her kitchen pouring coffee when it happened. She and her husband, Gary, gave each other an uneasy look before he went to open the door.

A handsome, young-looking guy with spiky, dirty blond hair was standing outside accompanied by a slightly older, somewhat chunky, auburn-haired woman.

“Detective Hanson, Chicago PD, this is my partner, Detective Martin. We’d like to speak with Shelia Stevens. Is she home?”

Gary eyed them suspiciously. “You got some ID?” he asked.

The pair whipped out badges and flashed them at Gary.

“Is Mrs. Stevens home?” Hanson repeated as he placed his badge in his jacket pocket.

“What is this all about?”

“We’d like to discuss that with Mrs. Stevens,” Didi said.

By this point, Shelia, who had been standing just behind Gary, rolled her eyes and decided to get this over with. She poked her head over Gary’s shoulder.

“I’m Mrs. Stevens. Can I help you?”

“May we come in? Still a little chilly out here, even if it is May,” Hanson said, trying to make a joke.

He must be good cop,
Shelia thought to herself as she took in the stern, somewhat dowdy appearance of his partner. She’d written numerous best-selling suspense novels and had seen enough cops in action to pick up what he was trying to put down.

Without a word, Shelia waved her arm indicating they should come in. As they made their way into the Stevens’ living room, Gary stared them down before leaning against a living room wall to keep watch over the proceedings.

Shelia lowered her size two, 5’4” frame down onto the living room couch and slid one hand through her long, silky black hair. She picked a fuzz ball from her grey sweatpants as she crossed one leg over the other and jiggled her foot, the early morning sun catching the silvery pink nail polish on her fingers. Hanson pursed his lips as he prepared to question her.

“Shelia Stevens. My wife is a big fan of your work.”

“Great,” Shelia said, not sure what kind of response he was trying to evoke from her, so she just stared at him. He cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Stevens, this won’t take long. We just have a few questions for you about Kelly Ross. I understand you two are good friends?”

“We’re best friends,” Shelia answered slowly.

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“We met for lunch around eleven-thirty yesterday then did a little shopping.”

Hanson nodded to himself. “What time did you two leave each other?”

“Probably around three.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“Since high school.”

“Talk all the time?”

“Isn’t that what best friends do?” Shelia responded.

“Oh, then you’ve talked to her by now.”

Shelia hesitated. “Yes,” she responded, drawing the word out a bit.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me where she is?” Hanson grinned.

“I don’t know where she is. She wouldn’t tell me.”

“When was that? That you talked to her I mean.”

Shelia shrugged. “Early this morning.”

“Well, if she didn’t say where she was, did she say where she was going?”

Shelia narrowed her eyes at Hanson. “Even if she did, I don’t think I’d tell you, do you?”

Hanson chuckled. “Well, Mrs. Stevens, I don’t think I have to tell
you
—given your line of work—that it’s a felony to aid and abet a wanted criminal, so my guess is you would tell me so you could keep your own freedom.”

Shelia gave Hanson a steely stare for a few seconds before she answered. “No. She didn’t tell me where she was going.”

“Tell me—how would you describe the Monroe marriage?”

Shelia inhaled. “It was very happy. Very loving. They were very much in love.”

“Was Mark Monroe having an affair?”

Shelia pursed her lips. “Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“Kelly told me.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Did she tell you for how long?”

“I don’t think she knew how long.”

“Do you think it’s possible Mrs. Monroe found out about this affair and killed him in a fit of rage?”

Shelia almost laughed. Now he
was
trying to provoke her. “I suppose anyone would feel that way if they found out their spouse was messing around. I don’t think that makes Kelly any different from anyone.” She cocked her head to the side. “Are we through here? My coffee’s getting cold.”

Hanson gave Shelia a wry smile. “Just about. What was Mark Monroe like?”

Shelia let out a deep sigh. “Outgoing. Fun. Charming. Whip-smart. Would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him too…even if it cost three hundred dollars.”

“What about Mrs. Monroe?” Didi Martin asked.

Shelia smiled and leaned closer to the detectives. “Fluent in four languages. Sophisticated. Brilliant. She’s been at the top of every game she’s ever played. Don’t think because she’s a ‘supermodel’ that she’s stupid. She’s razor-sharp.” Shelia leaned back. “
Now
are we through here?”

Didi cleared her throat. “For now.”

Hanson reached into the inside pocket of his blazer. “Here’s my card. Call me if you hear from Mrs. Monroe.”

Shelia took the card, and Gary escorted them out. He walked back into the living room, and he and Shelia hugged each other.

“You know you have to call them, right? I mean if she calls you back?” Gary said.

“Then I won’t answer the phone.”

“Uh-huh. Good luck with that.”

Shelia leaned against her husband’s sturdy frame and sighed. “I just hope Kelly called Sam, because she is in deep shit.”

I
t was early, and if he hadn’t gotten up to use the bathroom, he doubted if he would have even heard his cell phone ring. Groaning, he pulled it out of the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging over the back of a chair. It was his wife.

“Hey, baby,” he answered. “Why you calling me so early? Something wrong?”

His wife was crying. “Mark. It’s Mark. He’s dead,” she sobbed, her voice breaking.

He felt like a balloon someone had popped with a pin as he tried to understand the words he’d just heard.

“What do you mean ‘dead?’ Was he in an accident, what?” He heard his voice become a reedy whistle at that last word.

“Something about his wife. She’s wanted for questioning. They think it was her.”

He sat down on the bed and held his head in his hand. “Damn!” he yelled out. “Damn!” He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “I’m stuck here for the next couple of days. I can’t do anything until I get back.”

“Just be careful. Please. Who knows what might happen.”

He sighed, knowing his wife was right. “Yeah…yeah, I know. Alright. Just keep me posted if you hear anything else.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. I’ll talk to you soon.”

He turned his phone off, feeling sick to his stomach. He doubled over, clutching his mid-section.

Goddamn.

R
oy Monroe was enjoying a quiet cup of coffee along with his Sunday paper when he saw it. He set the steaming mug down so suddenly, some of the liquid spilled over the sides, stinging his fingers. He held a paper towel around them as he leaned closer to look at the story on the third page of the
Indianapolis Star
.

PROMINENT CHICAGO ATTORNEY MURDERED

Wife sought for questioning

CHICAGO—Attorney Mark Monroe,
33
, was found dead in his Gold Coast condominium Saturday night of an apparent stab wound. Police are looking for Monroe’s wife, former supermodel, Kelly Ross, who was last seen leaving their home Saturday morning. Police have not given a possible motive for the killing.

Roy skimmed the rest of the article. It went over Mark’s background, his career, and a little about Kelly. Roy leaned back, stunned. His brother. Dead. Why hadn’t he gotten a phone call?

Granted, he and Mark hadn’t been close for several years, but that was still his brother. He’d never even met his wife, although Roy remembered seeing her on TV and in magazines from when she was a model. Mark had been home one summer from college, and he and Roy had been at Mr. Jackson’s little corner store one day, goofing around. There was a picture of Kelly on the cover of some magazine, and Mark had let out a low whistle and picked it up, mesmerized. He said he’d like to get with her one day. Roy had laughed and said she didn’t want his scrawny ass. Mark had just smiled and said she hadn’t met him yet. Of course Mark always got what he wanted, so Roy was only a little surprised when, years later, his brother had told him his prophecy had come true.

Roy’s phone rang. He pushed back from the table and went to answer it. “Hello?”

“Yes, is this Roy Monroe?”

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Monroe, this is Detective Didi Martin, Chicago PD. I am calling to—”

Roy cut her off. “You’re about a day late and a dollar short. I already saw in the paper that my brother is dead.”

Didi paused before she continued. “I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe. Given your brother’s high-profile status, it was hard to keep it out of the press before we could notify you.”

Roy sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off. It’s just that you don’t expect to read in the newspaper about your brother being killed.”

“I understand, Mr. Monroe. I hate to ask you this, but as the next of kin, we need you to come down to Chicago to do a positive ID for our records and make arrangements for the body. We also need to ask you some questions.”

Roy let out a heavy sigh. “Guess if his wife killed him, you can’t ask her to do it.”

Didi was silent for a moment. “How soon can you come, Mr. Monroe?”

Roy sighed again. “I’ll be there this afternoon.”

He hung up the phone, sat down at the kitchen table, and cried.

S
am Gordon was furiously tapping his Mont Blanc pen against his mahogany desk. Kelly Ross was standing him up. Mark Monroe’s death had led every newscast this morning and was splashed all over both of the city’s daily papers. Sam looked at his watch again. She was supposed to have been here an hour ago. Fuck her. He stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and turned out the lights.

Let her drown.

•

Kelly hated these far-out suburbs.

Everything looked the same, and there were no discernible landmarks, meaning you wound up going in circles. It was like being out in the country. Her GPS was broken, and as much as she hated to, she had to pull over at a gas station to ask for directions. Finally, she located the house and made the block once before she parked a few houses away and turned off the car.

Like all the homes in Olympia Fields, the house was beautiful. It was two stories, with a carefully manicured lawn and a gold Lexus parked out front. She was still in shock. How could Mark have gotten away with all this without her noticing any of it? Was he just that good at covering his tracks?

Or was she just that stupid?

She was debating. Should she knock on the door and confront Geneva Monroe, or should she just wait? Wait for what? She wasn’t sure.

She sighed, tired and realized she was hungry for the first time since this nightmare began. On the way back to the city, she’d stop somewhere. She thought about Sam Gordon waiting in his office to talk to her. Well…he’d just have to wait a little bit longer. She sighed again and looked back in the direction of the house. Just then, the door opened, and a young boy came out, followed by a woman.

It was them.

Mark’s family.

Even from a distance, Kelly could tell the little boy was Mark’s son. He had his sloping nose and high cheekbones and even walked like Mark. Kelly felt her heart ram against her chest. She was captivated by him; he was simply precious. Any resentment she might have felt toward him melted in that instant. She pegged him to be about nine or ten. His Bulls cap was turned backwards, and he wore baggy jeans, a Bulls jersey, and a pair of black Nike’s.

Could have been any ordinary kid.

Except he was Mark’s kid.

The woman who had followed him outside was yelling at him about something. Kelly turned her attention to the woman.

“Oh, hell no,” Kelly groaned to herself as she drank in the appearance of Geneva Monroe and realized everything she’d suspected about her was true and then some.

For starters, she must have weighed close to three hundred pounds and had attitude written all over her. She had one hand on her hip, and the other was waving around her head like she was skywriting. She pointed one long purple acrylic claw in the direction of her son, who was pulling a garden hose from around the side of the house. Her complexion the color of a dull penny, Geneva wore a short black skirt that hugged her tree trunk legs and a snug red tank top that strained against her numerous rolls of fat. Even from the distance, Kelly could see her nails had all kinds of designs airbrushed on them. She wore a crimped hairpiece that was some kind of yellow color Kelly guessed was supposed to match the brittle and brassy golden color of her real hair.