Deb ran her hands through her hair, briefly massaged the back of her neck. And heard the distant sound of her doorbell.
Deb left the garden, walked through the house, assuming it was a delivery man with another gift from sympathizing friends or family.
Grant’s family, anyway. Her mother had passed away years ago.
A man stood on her porch. He wore a dark suit, the jacket unbuttoned, a thin black tie.
“Mrs. Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Levi Price.” He pronounced Levi the opposite of the jeans: “leh-vee.” “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And I need to talk to you.”
He handed her an ID.
“Why?” Deb looked down at the badge in her hand. Stared into the stern photo, gold shield, embossed lettering. She couldn’t help but be suspicious. Nicole had warned her about people who took advantage of widowers, cons who sought victims at their most troubled. Damaged people who formed some sort of attachment to a news story, like strangers calling the police to confess to a crime they hadn’t committed.
“It’s about your husband,” Levi said after she gave the billfold back. “But we really shouldn’t talk here. May I come inside?”
Deb ignored his request. “What about my husband?”
Still the present tense of the phrase—my husband. Like Deb was still connected to Grant, to a body, not just a soul.
Deb wondered if that would ever change.
She wondered if she would let it.
“He wasn’t killed in a robbery.”
Something in Deb stiffened.
“What do you mean?”
Her own voice sounded unfamiliar to her. Rough.
“Your husband was under investigation by the FBI,” Levi said patiently, his blue eyes soft. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. The investigation didn’t extend to his family.”
“Why?”
That small word was a big question, could refer to hundreds of different questions Deb had asked herself over the past weeks.
Levi glanced around again. “I really think we should talk someplace more private.”
She didn’t offer him a drink when they sat down at her kitchen table, in the window nook overlooking her backyard.
Levi leaned forward in his chair, one elbow on the table.
Deb sat across from him.
“There have been a number of recent deaths in the area,” he began. “All men, all shot in the same way as your husband.”
“I know, I keep seeing it on the news.” Deb’s voice was scraping, coarsening sadness. “The police told me that too. But they said they don’t know who’s doing it.”
Levi was cautious when he spoke again.
“Did your husband ever mention a woman named Maria Vasquez?”
Deb shook her head. “Who is she?”
“Maria was a prostitute. Grant was one of her clients.”
Deb stood, walked over to the sink, leaned over it.
She didn’t feel the metal under her hands, couldn’t even see straight. Her legs felt like they were threatening to float away.
When had she started crying?
“We don’t believe Vasquez killed him,” Levi went on, his voice patient and persistent. “But we have reason to believe these murders are being committed by a different prostitute. That this is some sort of revenge against clients.”
Clients.
Deb’s hands tightened over the edge of the sink.
“Grant was a client?”
“I’m sorry,” Levi said.
Deb searched her memories. She tried to remember the late nights Grant worked, the trips he’d taken, any guilt or distraction. There were some oddities—days or weeks when he was distant to her—but Deb had always ascribed those times to the normalcies of any marriage. The rough spots, raising Kim when her relationship with Grant was strained. The small arguments she and Grant had—about money, about the house—that spiraled into heated fights.
But nothing to warrant this.
Nothing to deserve this.
“Were there other women your husband mentioned in a way that seemed unusual?” Levi was asking.
“What?”
“Did your husband ever mention other women in a way that seemed unusual?”
“I don’t know.”
Deb’s own voice was faint to her ears.
Grant had always had female friends, a fact that bothered Deb early in their relationship. It was never something she got used to or fully accepted, and although she trusted him, she rarely trusted any of the women he knew. Not completely. He was a natural flirt but claimed to be a harmless one and, to be fair, Deb never had reason to doubt him. Even in tough times during their marriage, Grant had never strayed.
At least, not that she had known.
Deb had always felt like she’d be the one to wander. She’d experienced passing or lingering attractions to other men, coworkers, a neighbor or two, once a friend’s husband. But none of those had moved beyond a playful flirtation, at least on her part. Occasionally the men seemed to want more, and then she’d guiltily retreat, ashamed, worried she’d led them on.
But Deb had pondered her resilience, wondered what would happen if the perfect opportunity presented itself. It wasn’t hard for her to imagine having an affair.
Even if it was more a case of teasing herself.
“I didn’t think he’d been with anyone else,” she said. “Ever.”
Levi watched her.
Except for this prostitute he’d paid.
All this time she’d doubted Grant had the willingness to cheat on her, that he’d never take any of those relationships beyond a friendship.
A prostitute.
The idea of Grant having sex with a woman on the streets, the money and the disease, felt like it would sicken her.
“Did Grant ever mention men’s names you didn’t recognize?”
“Men?”
“It’s possible they could be other clients or pimps. We need to find them. Before she does.” Levi rubbed the back of his neck. “The other similarity these victims shared is the amount of money they spent. It was beyond the normal cost of solicitation. Enough to warrant our involvement. In some cases, these men embezzled from their companies.”
Another knife in Deb.
“How much did Grant give her?”
A pause.
“Tens of thousands.”
The world kept falling away from Deb. She turned from the sink and faced Levi.
“That much?”
He nodded. “It’s not uncommon for men to form an attachment, to give money for groceries, rent, clothes, bills. Especially if the professional relationship lasts and becomes personal.” Levi paused again, seemed to weigh his words. “But I can keep you informed of anything I find, once we have information privy to share.”
“I don’t want to know … I don’t want to know any of this.”
Levi pulled a card and pen out of his pocket, turned it over, scribbled on the back. “This is my cell phone. You can contact me whenever you’d like. I’ll be in touch, but know that these investigations can take a while.”
“Is there danger?”
“Sorry?”
“Is there any danger? From the woman killing these men?”
“We don’t believe so. But keep an eye out for anything unusual.”