“They could very well have been,” I say, trying to keep her on track. “Was he travelling with anyone?”
She nods. “He had two assistants. Jay and Chrisjean. One or the other usually went with him.”
“Did either of them go on this trip with him?”
“Both, actually. He was annoyed about it. Chris was supposed to be accompanying him because she had the contacts with the Mexican telecom companies, but she had some family thing come up, so she had to fly back early. Jay went out for the last few days of the trip. I know he was there because I spoke to Bill every day at noon. A ‘nooner,’ he used to call it.” Her smile is so sad, the ache in my gut redoubles. “No matter where he was in the world, he’d call me every day at noon. He put Jay on to say ‘hello’ during the call from Puerto Vallarta.”
I make a note. “Could you give me Jay’s full name?”
She does and I write it out.
“And Chrisjean?”
She gives me that, too.
“Could you tell me about Jay and Chrisjean? What kind of relationships did they have with your husband?”
“Sexual relationships, you mean?” she asks, arching that dark brow at me again.
I rub my fingertips against my palms to quell their twitching. A hard spanking would give her the emotional catharsis she needs, help her start processing her grief so she’s not striking out at strangers every five minutes. And I’d feel so much better after delivering a spanking. Her pain’s twisting me in fucking knots.
“No, I don’t mean sexual relationships, unless you knew your husband was having sexual relations with his assistants,” I say evenly, although it’s an effort.
She has the grace to blush. “No, he didn’t. Or I don’t think he did. I don’t know anymore. He had a previous assistant, Rosario. He was involved with her before we were married. But he let her go and hired Jay when our relationship got serious. Jay was his protégé. They were very close. Bill was grooming Jay to take over. He used to say, ‘five more years and I’m out; Jay will be ready.’ Of course, he’s been saying that for seven years, but that’s Bill. He never could let go of his work. Chrisjean’s a recent hire. Maybe a year, eighteen months, something like that. Bill wasn’t sure whether she was going to work out. He said she was unreliable. He was angry about it, actually, during the trip. He mentioned it several times during our nooners and again when he got back.”
“Did he mention what the family problem was that made her leave the trip early?” I ask, bending over my notepad and scribbling.
“No. Bill was good like that. He understood that people had lives outside of work. He didn’t pry into other people’s problems.”
“Mm-hmm.” Or he valued his privacy, given what he was doing with it, and didn’t want to give anyone an excuse to pry. I ask her a few more questions designed to relax her. Details of her husband’s company, his working hours, their trips together. Then I get to the questions I know will upset her most. “Did your husband ever take drugs?”
“What do you mean?”
“Recreationally.”
She shrugs. “Doesn’t everyone?”
I don’t. I don’t tolerate it in my bottoms, either, and have broken it off with two of them because they wanted to continue stuffing junk up their noses. I should be all the high my bottoms need. “What did he take?”
“Ecstasy at parties. Viagra, sometimes. Oxy when he overdid it on the golf course. Pot to relax, things like that.”
That’s a lot, at least in my book. No wonder her lawyer advised her against this interview. I’m not a lawyer, but I’m pretty sure she just scuttled her whole case against the cruise line by admitting her husband used drugs.
“How often?” I ask with a shrug, keeping it light and casual.
“Not often. He didn’t have a problem or anything.”
Not sure I agree. “So, once a week? Once a month?”
“A couple of times a month maybe. Weed more often if he was having a tough week.”
I nod as though what she’s said is inconsequential. “Did he ever have an adverse reaction to anything?”
“No. He got the munchies from weed. Peanut butter was his thing.” She smiles sadly. “He’d go through a whole jar of peanut butter after a joint.”
Taking advantage of this woman’s grief twists the knots in my guts tighter; I give her a minute before I ask, “Did he have someone he bought from regularly?”
“A dealer?” She glares at me. “No, of course not. He got the prescriptions from his doctor. Everything else was casual.”
Which tells me Mr. Black was not adverse to buying illegal drugs from a stranger. Something I’m very sure Mrs. Black’s lawyers would not want her telling me. Something she wouldn’t tell me if she was thinking instead of mourning. Enough. I’ve gotten what I need.
“Mrs. Black, this has been very helpful. Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.”
She sits back and works her mouth for a moment, as though she’s just realized the things coming out of it were not what she intended to say. Her eyes harden and I have to ball my hands into fists to keep from grabbing her and putting her over my knee.
This is the moment, the moment of wounded defiance, the moment right before tears, that brings all my instincts rushing to the fore. Now, right now, is when she needs discipline the most. Just like my little sister, with her crazed headlong rush into adulthood. I wanted to grab her, pin her down, and spank
