Beyond Suspicion

Jack and Theo exchanged glances, and she suddenly seemed to realize that perhaps she was giving two perfect strangers too much of what they wanted to hear.

“I think it’s time I referred you gentlemen to my lawyer,” she said.

“Just a few more questions.”

“No, I’m not comfortable with this. I’ll tell her to expect your call. She’s in the book. Phoebe Martin.”

Jack started to say something, but she extended her hand, ending it. Jack shook her hand, and Theo gave her a mock salute.

“Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome.”

She reclined into her chaise lounge, retreating into silence. Jack and Theo turned and walked across the pool deck toward the valet stand. As soon as they were out of Mrs. Marsh’s earshot Jack asked, “What do you think?”

“Hell with tending bar, I’m opening a tattoo parlor,” he said as he gathered one more eyeful of the woman with the pink rose on her ta

“Be serious,” said Jack.

They stopped at the valet stand. Jack handed over his claim ticket, and the kid with the pressed white uniform and monster thighs took off ru

Theo lit a cigarette. “I think you got a middle-aged doctor, a hot new girlfriend with her hand on his balls, and a pissed off wife with two hands on his wallet.”

“She’s definitely not going to go easy on him.”

“The ex gets at least half of everything he has. Probably more.”

“Much more,” said Jack. “If her lawyer is Phoebe Martin, our doctor friend really might be broke. I’ll bet she gets eighty percent of every dime.”

“You mean every dime she can find.”

“Nothing like a million and a half bucks to keep a new girlfriend happy. Especially when the Wicked Witch of the West doesn’t even know about it.”

“True, true,” said Theo. “Scam those investors and send that money right off to a Swedish bank account.”

“You mean Swiss bank account.”

“That’s what I said. Swiss.”

“No, you said Swedish.”

“You think I don’t know the difference between a bank and a fucking meatball?”

“Okay, forget it. You said Swiss.”

Theo let out a cloud of smoke. “Hate them fucking Swiss anyway.”

“What’s to hate about the Swiss?”

“Cheese with holes in it. What’s with that shit, anyway? Stinking thieves selling us all a bunch of fucking air.”

“God, you really do hate everyone.”

“Except you, Jack, baby.” He gri

Jack rubbed the welt on his face and retreated to the passenger side, smiling as he shook his head. “God help me.”

8

•

It was their second-favorite indoor activity. Jack was a horrendous cook, but his wife was phenomenal, and as with all their favorite things, he fancied himself a pretty swift and eager learner. Tonight, he was taking total responsibility for dessert.

“What the heck are you making over there?” Cindy asked as she glanced across the kitchen counter. Jack was surrounded by a clutter of mixing bowls, milk cartons, and opened bags of flour and sugar.

“Tres leches,” he said.

“You can’t make tres leches.”

“Watch me.”

It had been an awful week, and goofing off with his wife in the kitchen was a good way to give his brain a rest. They hadn’t spoken about Jessie since the verdict-that was his decision, not hers. In fact, six months earlier, Cindy had seen Jessie as a victim and even encouraged Jack to take her case. That was pretty big of her, given the history between him and Jessie. Maybe she didn’t want to be the one to keep Jack from helping an old friend. Or perhaps she’d simply wanted Jack to realize for himself that representing Jessie wasn’t exactly the thing to do with their own marriage on shaky ground.

“Is it a good recipe?” she asked.

“The best.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“From the woman who invented it.”

“Seriously?”

He smiled, thinking of Abuela. “Maybe.”

Cindy wiped her hands clean and crossed the room to adjust the stereo. Maybe it was the Jessie experience lingering in his mind, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Cindy.

Playing by the rules. Was that what their marriage was about? Lord knows they’d tried to make things work. A string of marriage counselors and more sessions than Jack could count. In the end it came down to how hard they were willing to work at the relationship. When it came to work, Jack was a regular beast of burden.

Cindy was no slacker, either. Even since their last counselor had basically given up on them, Cindy had made it her mission to keep their relationship fresh. It seemed she was always changing something about herself, and Jack couldn’t help but wonder what all the changes were about. Was she really just trying to keep married life interesting, or was she still fighting off demons and struggling to find happiness? Tonight she had her blond hair pulled straight back with a wide headband, her Valley of the Dolls look, as she called it. Even music was an adventure with Cindy. Her tastes were eclectic and ever-evolving, and lately she’d been exposing him to the likes of Peggy Lee and Perry Como. Without a doubt, some of the most romantic tunes ever had come straight out of the 1940s, but the lyrics to this particular song she’d chosen were pretty aggravating. Even if your heart was “filled with pain,” to Jack’s ear it still didn’t rhyme with “again.”

“Jack, what are you doing?”

He glanced into the bowl. His hands were buried in a thick, sweet mixture of flour, sugar, and condensed milk. “Shoot, I forgot the eggs.”

“You forgot your brain. You’ve got tres leches up to your elbows.”

“I’m just following the recipe. It says beat fifty strokes by hand.”

“As opposed to using an electric mixer, Einstein.”

He flashed an impish grin. “Oh.”

She handed him a wooden spoon and rolled her eyes. “Lawyers. You’re so literal.”

“Yeah,” he said, thinking once more of Jessie’s parting words. “Always playing by the rules.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

“I was just kidding around.”

“But you weren’t smiling. You meant something by that.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She looked away, shook her head subtly and said quietly, “You think I don’t know you?”

“Cindy, let it go, okay? We were having fun here.”

She returned to her end of the kitchen counter. Jack could see the regret in her eyes, the way they’d slipped into their usual pattern. Without thinking, he ran a messy hand through his hair, giving himself an earful of sweet goo. Cindy snickered to herself. He chuckled, too, and sharing the moment helped to shake off some of the unwanted tension. As he snagged a paper towel to wipe it off, she came to him, grabbed his tres lechescoated forearm, and said, “Don’t.”

“What?”

“I think I’m ovulating.”

“Huh?”

She arched an eyebrow, pointing with her eyes toward the bedroom.

He smiled and said, “Now that’s the kind of non sequitur I can live with.”

He started to wipe his face clean. “Don’t,” she said. She gently kissed a gob of the sweet mixture off the corner of his mouth, and the tip of her tongue was suddenly exploring his earful of tres leches.

It tickled, and he recoiled-but only slightly. There’d been times when it seemed their marriage was hanging by a thread. But every now and then, out came the old Cindy and, oh, what a thread. “My, you’re a veritable box of surprises tonight.”

“And you are one lucky boy,” she whispered.

He smiled and touched her face. “Don’t I know it.”

Jack watched her as she slept, soothed by the rhythm of her gentle breathing. Even after a hot shower, the faint smell of tres leches lingered in the bedroom. Nothing like skipping di