who’s never heard of any Nelson Chapman. Neighbors there, even longtime neighbors, have never heard of him. You don’t believe me, call if you want.”
“Are you saying Tom arranged for someone to play the role of his father?”
“That’s what it looks like. It’s real compartmented, this operation.” He steered with one index finger. “Real tough to get anything. My contacts don’t know shit, and those that know anything are shut up tight. But this much I learned: they’re saying Tom used to be a covert operative for the Pentagon.”
“Oh, come on !” she scoffed.
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“He’s a money guy.”
“Now. But I’m told that he was in the military and disappeared, went AWOL, like more than a decade ago, that he’s escaping something really nasty, real serious. Some bad kind of shit.”
“What are you telling me?”
“They’re saying he’s wanted for murder.”
“So they tell me.”
“That he was some kind of clandestine operative for the U.S. government who committed some horrible crime and then went on the lam.”
She shook her head, chewed on a fingernail. An old law-school habit she thought she’d stopped. “That’s not possible.”
“You’re married to him,” Devereaux said equably. “You’d know.” He turned to look at her, then turned back to the road.
Claire smiled, a strange, bitter smile. “How well do you ever know the person you married?”
“Hey, don’t ask me. I didn’t know when I married Margaret that she was a bitch, but that’s what she turned out to be. Is it possible that Tom could have worked for the government, for some clandestine branch of the military? Sure. Fact is, he made up a history, a biography. The college thing was just the tip of the iceberg. He’s covering something up, escaping something . That much I’d say for sure.”
“But couldn’t there be a—benign explanation?”
“Like he ran up a lot of parking tickets in Dubuque? Doubtful.”
Claire did not smile.
“But I’ll tell you the truth,” Devereaux said somberly. “I always thought Tom was a little too smooth for his own good, but he’s your husband, so I gotta side with him. When the government starts gathering its forces to go after one guy, you gotta believe they’re trying to hide something, too.”
* * *
That evening, as she was trying to convince Annie that it was bedtime, the phone rang.
She recognized the voice right away: Julia Margolis, the wife of her closest friend on the Harvard faculty, Abe Margolis, who taught constitutional law. “Claire?” she said in her big contralto. “Where are you? You’re an hour and a half late—is everything all right?”
“An hour—oh my God. You invited us for dinner tonight. Oh, shit, Julia. I’m so sorry, I totally forgot about it.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? That’s not like you at all.” Julia Margolis was a large and still very beautiful brunette in her late fifties, a great cook and an even greater hostess.
“I’ve been insanely busy,” Claire said, then revised that: “Tom had to go out of town on business suddenly, and I feel like everything’s falling down around me.”
“Well, I’ve had the swordfish marinating for something like two days, and I really hate to waste it. Why don’t you come over now?”
“I’m sorry, Julia. I really am. Rosa’s gone home, and I don’t have a sitter, and I’m just frantic. Please forgive me.”
“Of course, dear. But when things settle down, will you call me? We’d love to see you two.”
CHAPTER TEN
Later that evening Claire and Jackie sat in the downstairs study, in paired, slightly weathered French leather club chairs. Tom had spent two months searching for the perfect chairs for Claire’s office, because she’d once admired them in a Ralph Lauren ad. Finally he’d located a dealer in New York who imported them from the Paris flea market. They’d gone from a Paris nightclub in the twenties to
“Are you saying Tom arranged for someone to play the role of his father?”
“That’s what it looks like. It’s real compartmented, this operation.” He steered with one index finger. “Real tough to get anything. My contacts don’t know shit, and those that know anything are shut up tight. But this much I learned: they’re saying Tom used to be a covert operative for the Pentagon.”
“Oh, come on !” she scoffed.
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“He’s a money guy.”
“Now. But I’m told that he was in the military and disappeared, went AWOL, like more than a decade ago, that he’s escaping something really nasty, real serious. Some bad kind of shit.”
“What are you telling me?”
“They’re saying he’s wanted for murder.”
“So they tell me.”
“That he was some kind of clandestine operative for the U.S. government who committed some horrible crime and then went on the lam.”
She shook her head, chewed on a fingernail. An old law-school habit she thought she’d stopped. “That’s not possible.”
“You’re married to him,” Devereaux said equably. “You’d know.” He turned to look at her, then turned back to the road.
Claire smiled, a strange, bitter smile. “How well do you ever know the person you married?”
“Hey, don’t ask me. I didn’t know when I married Margaret that she was a bitch, but that’s what she turned out to be. Is it possible that Tom could have worked for the government, for some clandestine branch of the military? Sure. Fact is, he made up a history, a biography. The college thing was just the tip of the iceberg. He’s covering something up, escaping something . That much I’d say for sure.”
“But couldn’t there be a—benign explanation?”
“Like he ran up a lot of parking tickets in Dubuque? Doubtful.”
Claire did not smile.
“But I’ll tell you the truth,” Devereaux said somberly. “I always thought Tom was a little too smooth for his own good, but he’s your husband, so I gotta side with him. When the government starts gathering its forces to go after one guy, you gotta believe they’re trying to hide something, too.”
* * *
That evening, as she was trying to convince Annie that it was bedtime, the phone rang.
She recognized the voice right away: Julia Margolis, the wife of her closest friend on the Harvard faculty, Abe Margolis, who taught constitutional law. “Claire?” she said in her big contralto. “Where are you? You’re an hour and a half late—is everything all right?”
“An hour—oh my God. You invited us for dinner tonight. Oh, shit, Julia. I’m so sorry, I totally forgot about it.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? That’s not like you at all.” Julia Margolis was a large and still very beautiful brunette in her late fifties, a great cook and an even greater hostess.
“I’ve been insanely busy,” Claire said, then revised that: “Tom had to go out of town on business suddenly, and I feel like everything’s falling down around me.”
“Well, I’ve had the swordfish marinating for something like two days, and I really hate to waste it. Why don’t you come over now?”
“I’m sorry, Julia. I really am. Rosa’s gone home, and I don’t have a sitter, and I’m just frantic. Please forgive me.”
“Of course, dear. But when things settle down, will you call me? We’d love to see you two.”
CHAPTER TEN
Later that evening Claire and Jackie sat in the downstairs study, in paired, slightly weathered French leather club chairs. Tom had spent two months searching for the perfect chairs for Claire’s office, because she’d once admired them in a Ralph Lauren ad. Finally he’d located a dealer in New York who imported them from the Paris flea market. They’d gone from a Paris nightclub in the twenties to
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