James Patterson - The Quickie

I just needed to core out the very last remnants of my heart.

"Yes?" said the woman who opened the door.

She was blonde, all right, but not preppy. And not little. At least not her chest. I guessed she was about my age, which, honestly, didn't help one bit. I scrutinized her heavy-handed makeup, the way her tight black skirt cut into her tummy. She looked like she'd recently put on weight.

An attractive woman desperately battling the onslaught of her late thirties. Welcome to the club.

I stared into her dark brown eyes under the razor streaks of blonde, an off-putting clash of light and dark. When I smelled her perfume, something cold drew across my stomach. Like a razor.

"Veronica?" I finally spoke.

"Yes," she said again. I noticed she had an accent, Texan maybe, definitely southern.

I took out my badge.

"I'm Detective Stillwell," I said. "May I please have a word with you?"

"What's this about?" she said tensely, not budging from the doorway. I couldn't tell if she knew me or just didn't like badges.

I took out the DMV printout I'd gotten from Zampella.

"Do you have a 2007 black Range Rover?" I asked the blonde woman. Paul's other wife?

"Yes," she said. "What about it?"

"I'm investigating a hit-and-run accident. May I come in? It will only take a moment."

"Why does a New York City detective want to investigate a hit-and-run accident in Washington, DC?" she asked, keeping herself wedged in the doorway.

I already had an answer for that. "I'm sorry. I should have explained. My mother came down three days ago with her church group. She was the victim. If there's some sort of problem, I could always just go ahead and have your vehicle impounded."

"Come in," she said, stepping to the side. "This has to be some kind of mistake."

There was an off-white pub mirror and a cute espresso-stained mail desk in the front foyer. The design was contemporary, moderately tasteful. The rooms were sunny and cozy.

She led me into the kitchen, where she'd opted for retro appliances. A pink mixer sat on the butcher-block island next to a bag of flour. She was cooking dinner for Paul? Sweet girl.

"My daughter Caroline's fourth birthday is today, and I have to make a Dora the Explorer cake or the world will end," Veronica said, staring into my eyes.

The world has ended, I felt like saying as I looked away.

"Coffee?" she asked.

"That would be fine," I said. "Thank you."

She opened and closed a cupboard over the sink. I stood there light-headed, fighting to stay on my feet. What the heck was I doing here? What was I trying to get out of this?

Down the hallway, I spotted a vanity wall, photographs on floating shelves.

"May I use your bathroom?" I asked.

"Down the hall to your right."

The walls of the hall seemed to collapse in on me as I saw Paul in one of the photos. He was on a sunny beach with Veronica and the baby, who was maybe one at the time. Surf spraying, the sand like powdered sugar. The next shot – to my heart – was of the two of them, Mommy and Daddy, their cheeks together in midlaugh, red-eyed with city lights twinkling behind them.

The third photograph hit me like a serrated blade between my eyes. A half-naked Veronica in an open nightgown, Paul resting his chin on her shoulder as he cupped her ripe, pregnant belly in his hands.

By the time I got to the fourth, and final, photo, a thousand-megaton blast in my skull had mushroomed. Paul, you bastard .

Veronica's breath was suddenly at my back.

"You're not here to ask about some car accident," she announced.

I stared at their wedding photo for another moment, dry-eyed. It had been taken on the same beach as the first photograph. A minister was there. White flowers in Veronica's blonde hair. Paul in an open-throated, white silk shirt. Smiling. Beaming, actually.

She wisely jumped out of my way as I stumbled toward the front door.

IT HAD ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING! Not just everything that had happened in the past month – my entire marriage.

That thought hummed like high-voltage electricity through my head as I drifted in the direction Paul had gone with the little girl, Caroline.

All my covering up. Gutting my friendships. Blowing my police career to smithereens. I had actually blackmailed the district attorney, hadn't I?

I covered my mouth with my hands.

I had nothing left, did I?

I made the corner. Across the busy street was some kind of park.

I looked out at a trio of street musicians and a group of old men playing chess under the trees. Other people were strolling along the path or lounging around a big white fountain. Everything was dappled with sunlight, like in that famous Renoir in all the art books.

As I came past the fountain, I spotted Paul pushing his daughter on a swing. He helped Caroline down and guided her to the sandbox as I arrived at the chain-link fence. The two of them seemed to love each other very much.

I walked around to the other end of the playground and was a few feet behind the bench Paul was sitting on when the four-year-old came running over to him.

"Daddy, Daddy!" she said.

"Yes, love?" Paul said.

"Can I have a drink?"

Paul reached into the basket of the bicycle and fished out a juice pack. I felt it in my stomach when he poked the straw through the foil. Then he knelt down and gave her another hug.

Even from behind, I could sense the joy radiating off Paul as he walked his little girl back to the swings.

"Is this seat taken?" I said as he came back to his bench.

AT FIRST PAUL FROZE.

Then spasms of shock, fear, concern, and sorrow crossed his face. For a second, I thought he was going to bolt and start booking for the park exit.

Instead, he suddenly sagged down on the bench and put his head between his knees.

"Where do you want me to start?" he finally said quietly as he rubbed his temples.

"Let's see," I said, tapping my finger against my lower lip. "There are so many choices. How about the first time you cheated on me? Maybe the time you robbed a ticket broker at the Sheraton? Or no, no, no. The day you secretly got married. Wait, I've got it. My favorite. Tell me about the time you had a baby without me!"

Scalding tears ran down the sides of my face.

"I was barren and you needed to have a kid? Was that it? 'Sorry, Lauren, you sterile waste of life. I need to be fruitful and multiply with some other woman behind your back'?"

"That wasn't it," Paul said, looking at me, then out at his daughter. "She was an accident."

"You think that matters in the slightest?" I said, my face raw with anger.

Paul wiped at his eyes and looked at me.

"Just give me a second," he said, standing. "Then I'll tell you. I want to tell you everything."

"How considerate," I said.

Paul rolled the bike over to where the nannies were gathered. He spoke to one of them and then returned without the bike.

"Imelda works for the people next door. She'll take Caroline back. Why don't we walk and talk. I knew this had to happen someday."

I shook my head. "I didn't."

"IT WAS ALMOST FIVE YEARS AGO," Paul said as we took the strolling path at the park's perimeter.

"I picked the short straw on that bullshit analyst's-convention thing in DC, remember? I was pissed off. Things weren't going real well between me and you and… Anyway, I was in the lounge at the Sheraton, nice room, piano bar, trying to drink away the memory of yet another ludicrous meeting, when this loud, drunken moron storms in and demands that the Patriots game be put on."

"I want to hear about your secret family, Paul. Not some stupid hotel bar story," I spat.