knew they were going to have to be very careful while moving her.
Molly slowly nodded. “I don’t want to tell Ramsey about this. There’s nothing he can do. I can’t stand worrying him more when he’s helpless. It would destroy him to know he can’t protect us. All right, I’ll get Emma out of school now.”
Milo Siles mashed the elevator button once more, then another couple of times for good measure. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped in. Eight other people surrounded him, most taller than he, and he felt the familiar punch of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes and thought about the .38 he’d left in his glove compartment. He’d managed to wheedle a permit for it, not an easy task in San Francisco. It was a good thing he’d left it there or he might have shot the selfish cow and her greedy moron of a lawyer. How demeaning it was to be forced by a lamebrained judge to meet with a lamebrained mediator on the twelfth floor of the Crandall Building, in
Milo was so angry at his soon-to-be ex-wife’s outrageous demand, he’d nearly out-shouted his own divorce lawyer. And that officious cow of a mediator had counseled that they all take a deep breath and sit back and close their eyes for a moment. And then what? Sing “Kumbaya”? He wouldn’t be surprised, not in San Francisco.
He’d taken that deep breath and closed his eyes anyway, and that did help him relax, because what he saw was a huge number of zeroes flashing in front of his eyes—the ten million dollars or so he had stashed in his holding company in the Grand Cayman Islands. No way Marjorie or her lawyer would find out about that. He’d been very careful through the years that it couldn’t be traced to him, not by anyone.
He grinned to himself. You never knew, when you went the extra mile to make some real money in this business, if you might have to make a quick exit. This trial with the Cahills was a disaster, but at least it had pushed his nest egg up to that nice round number, more like the nest omelet he’d always wanted. He should never have taken the risk of defending the Cahills’ worthless butts after they screwed up and got themselves indicted for murder. The case was hopeless from the start. He should have known that for all that money there would be risks far beyond keeping the Cahills quiet and cooperative, making his motions, and sitting back to wait. Well, he’d done everything as agreed, and he deserved that money. It was Marjorie’s overspending that had pushed him into it, wasn’t it?
He pictured his wife staring at him across the table, her eyes narrowed beneath her dark brows, which always needed plucking. It made bile rise in his throat. He’d supported her lazy butt for seventeen years, and what had she done to earn it? Be a housewife? As in be the loving wife who tended the house, took care of the children, maybe cooked the occasional dinner? That was a joke. Marjorie had a maid, a cook, and a gardener—and a nanny when the boys were younger. She did nothing at all useful, spent her hours on herself and on her idea of playing, whatever that happened to be. She’d probably had a half-dozen lovers, all of them buff and twenty years younger than she was, he knew it to his gut, and it was
He’d turned on her, his mouth working with no coherent words at first. “I let you do what you want, what’s in this for you?”
She laughed. “Let me paraphrase Nicole Kidman when they asked her how she felt about splitting up with Tom Cruise—I don’t have to wear flats any longer.”
He’d nearly decked her.
Tom Cruise wasn’t that short, and neither was he.
Milo would have smashed his fists against the elevator doors, but he couldn’t lose it since there were too many people looming over him in the elevator. Marjorie was divorcing him because he wasn’t tall enough for her?
He had to get hold of himself. She’d overheard a conversation with Clive? He couldn’t remember any such conversation, but obviously he hadn’t been careful enough. Well, she’d keep her mouth shut. If she spilled to the cops, then the Feds would seize all his assets under the RICO Act and she wouldn’t see a bloody dime. Maybe sharing a cell with Clive would be worth it, knowing she’d have to get a job, maybe selling bagels in one of those outdoor kiosks at her favorite mall.
Milo walked a block over to the Mason Building, which housed his law firm, and directly into the underground garage to his new Beamer parked next to the express elevator. He admired its sleek lines for a second, still got a kick out of how the door opened for him with his key fob still in his pocket. As he squeezed in, he saw Marjorie’s smiling face again, her smile so big she showed the gold tooth in the back of her mouth she’d never bothered to change out. He smacked his fist on the dashboard. This wasn’t his fault; none of this was his fault. He was a good provider. And he would still send his boys to Princeton, his alma mater.
He buckled his seat belt and settled smoothly onto the sinful dark gray leather seat and pressed the magic button—that’s what his youngest son called the ignition. No, he wouldn’t worry about his sons. They’d get over this. They were old enough to understand. He would make them understand.
His baby roared to life.
He backed out of the garage and eased into traffic. He crossed the Golden Gate twelve minutes later, and headed north toward Bel Marin Keys, to the beautiful little clapboard house he owned, with its own private boat dock and its one inhabitant, Pixie. She would make him feel better. She listened to him, really listened, and she knew he was suffering today. She cared about his feelings and what his wife was doing to him.
It wasn’t raining, but it was cold and overcast, and promised rain. He was glad he’d gotten the coupe and not the convertible now that it was getting toward winter. This was San Francisco, after all.
If Bill Hammond at the CIA was to be believed, the CIA hadn’t made the connection that Sue could be a Chinese name spelled Xu, hadn’t even known for sure that a foreign government was behind the attempted theft of
