The Widower's Wife

  The Widower’s Wife

  Also by Cate Holahan:

  Dark Turns

  The Widower’s Wife

  A Thriller

  Cate Holahan

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Cate Holahan

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-62953-765-8

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-62953-778-8

  ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-62953-779-5

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-62953-780-1

  Cover design by Jennifer Canzone

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: August 2016

  For Poppy

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part II

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part III

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgments

  Part I

  Term life

  An insurance policy that provides protection for a limited period of time.

  1

  November 16

  Ryan Monahan liked liars. Not the three-times-a-conversation fibbers, who prettied up the truth to appear less pedestrian at parties and would swear to God they’d had just one, Officer. Those average assholes weren’t even trying. No, Ryan liked the real deal, the kind of folks who weaved falsehoods into the very fabric of their lives until they wore their fictions like fine-knit sweaters, feeling safe and warm, wrapped in their bullshit. They were the challenge.

  He didn’t yet know if Tom Bacon was his kind of liar. But the man was definitely hiding something.

  Tom hadn’t invited him inside his French-styled starter castle, despite the unseasonably cold weather. Instead, the guy had greeted him on the driveway apron wearing a ski jacket. He’d carried a shovel in one gloved hand, a bucket of salt in the other, neither of which he’d set down for a handshake. Ryan had lingered at the curb after introductions, watching Tom spread ice melt over slush, waiting for a welcome indoors while Mother Nature’s slick hand probed beneath the back vent in his pea coat.

  Tom had asked about the death benefit as though it were a fait accompli, as though Ryan might have popped by to deliver a jackpot-sized certified check. No need for a discussion. Certainly no reason for Mr. Bacon to explain how his healthy, thirty-one-year-old wife had suffered a fatal accident on a cruise. Ryan had suggested that they’d both be more comfortable inside.

  He stood in Tom’s kitchen, socked feet on the hardwood floor, looking for a suitable spot for an interrogation. A pair of extra-large packing boxes sat stacked atop a pedestal table, the side flaps of the top crate sticking straight up so that they touched the chandelier above. Printouts littered a massive marble island. Ryan recognized the Insurance Strategy and Investment policy among the documents, broken into sections with multicolored sticky notes. Someone was doing his homework.

  Tom pulled a chrome barstool from beneath the island. He half-leaned onto the metal seat. The stance was faux relaxed, a staged paparazzo snapshot awaiting a caption.

  Ryan walked toward the chairs, his gate slow and stiff. He hated his inability to move from point A to B without broadcasting his injury like a fouled basketball player. People didn’t limp without good reason, and at thirty-nine, he was too young for arthritis.

  He placed a hand on the curved back of a stool and shifted his weight to his good leg. Bending the knee intensified the pain. Better to stand for this conversation anyway.

  “Moving?”

  “What?”

  Ryan pointed to the kitchen table. “The boxes.”

  “Oh. Maybe.”

  Ryan couldn’t tell whether Tom was curt or distracted. People suffering the loss of an immediate family member sometimes lacked focus, as though their loved one’s death trapped them between this life and the next, unable to be present in either. But Tom didn’t seem grief-stricken. He’d even shaved. And in Ryan’s experience, a few months in, most guys resembled reality-show survivalists.

  People handle grief in awkward ways. Ryan reminded himself of this as he continued to assess Tom’s attitude. There’d been that lady last year who had giggled while bawling over her dead husband, as though she’d grasped some divine punch line in her spouse’s fatal car accident but still knew that the joke was on her.

  “Where are you thinking of going?”

  “Not sure. I’m more cleaning up.” Tom shrugged. “There are things I don’t need anymore.”

  Ana’s things? The ghost of Mrs. Bacon called out from decorating details: dried lavender on the windowsill, a wall calendar with notes in a woman’s tight cursive, a kitchen towel draped over a faucet to display the phrase “Home is where Mom cleans.”

  On television, Tom had promised to “never give up hope” that his wife was alive. Eighty days later and he was shipping his beloved’s belongings to long-term storage. Time didn’t take long to murder belief in miracles.

  There was little chance of finding Ana Bacon alive. She’d disappeared in the open ocean—at night, no less. Odds of surviving a fall off a cruise ship stood at 21 percent. Those chances dropped to near zero if a rescue didn’t occur within twelve hours. There’d been one case of a guy surviving seventeen hours in the Gulf of Mexico after tumbling overboard, blackout drunk, but he’d been a young, ex-army paratrooper. And if Ana had washed ashore in the Bahamas after a day in the water, somebody would have reported her appearance. Her picture was all over the news.

  Ryan cleared his throat. “Sorry about what happened.” He offered the platitude with legal precision. No mention of death or loss. Any confirmation on his part that a policyholder was deceased could be considered evidence that the company should start processing a claim.

  “Thanks.” Tom’s tone was flat. He folded his arms across his chest. “So what’s the status of the benefit?”

  “That’s what I’m here to discuss.”

  He’d come specifically not to pay the benefit. Insurance Strategy and Investment hadn’t stayed in business for five generations by doling out multimill
ion-dollar settlements. The bosses wanted a ruthless investigation. Ana’s policy contained a so-called double indemnity clause, meaning it paid double if she perished from a sudden mishap—ten million, to be exact. And the policy was still in the two-year contestability period, so suicide was not covered.

  Ryan’s statistics-laden subconscious told him that Ana’s death was no accident. His intuition might also have fingered “the husband.” When a woman died violently, her intimate partner was the cause more than a third of the time. But Tom had a solid alibi. He’d been at the pool when his wife had gone overboard, and he’d been seen by a couple vacationers and a striking redhead. The woman had wallpapered the news with her guilty admission that she’d been chatting up a married man at the exact time that the guy’s wife had fallen overboard. Bad girl.

  With Tom out of contention, the most probable culprit was Ana herself. But Ryan would need to prove it.

  “As you can imagine, ISI has a certain due diligence process in cases without—”

  “Daddy?”

  Ryan turned to see a young girl enter the kitchen, a pretty kid with eyes befitting an anime character. He recalled the photos of Mrs. Bacon. The child took after her mother.

  “Not now, Sophia.” Tom’s mouth pulled into a tight smile. “Daddy is talking.”

  The child tilted her head like a confused puppy and considered Ryan. He gave a little wave. She stepped back into the adjoining room before returning her attention to her father. Ryan had never been good with kids.

  “I want a snack,” she said.

  “After I finish.”

  The skin beneath the child’s eyes pinked to the color of a pinched cheek. Her bottom lip crumpled. “Where’s Mommy?”

  Hadn’t Tom told her? Maybe she was too young to grasp the finality of death.

  Tom rubbed his fingers into his forehead. He shot his kid an exasperated look before heading to an open door beside the stove and dipping inside. Items rustled. He reemerged with a package of peanut butter crackers and offered her the plastic pouch like a tissue.

  Little hands curled into fists. “It’s not—”

  “Sophia. Just take it. Daddy needs to talk right now.”

  The girl’s mouth opened in a silent cry. She accepted the package, unsure of what to do next. Ryan recalled when Angie had been that young. Kids could break apart plastic dollhouses, demolish wooden furniture, and pop childproof caps, yet simple vacuum seals left them stymied.

  “You need to open it for her.”

  Tom lowered his head and pulled apart the plastic. Sophia’s face relaxed. “Okay? Please go watch your shows until I finish.”

  The girl scurried from the room, her bare feet flashing beneath a long princess nightgown. It was past noon.

  Tom raised his eyebrows in Ryan’s direction. “You were saying?”

  “ISI has a review policy in cases without remains.”

  “What’s to review?” Tom lowered his voice. “The court issued a death-in-absentia declaration. That’s the same as a death certificate.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not.” Ryan scratched at the wavy hair hitting the nape of his neck. The move was a nervous habit and a tell of liars everywhere. Men clasped the back of the neck when stressed. Women tended to trace the suprasternal notch, that delicate triangle between the collarbones. Ryan wasn’t lying, but he did feel anxious. Since the incident with his leg, confrontation made him jittery.

  Tom scratched at nonexistent stubble. “How is it different?”

  “There’s no cause of death.”

  “As I’m sure you know from all the media coverage, my wife drowned in the Atlantic. Her cause of death was well documented.”

  The ship’s security cameras had caught Ana Bacon’s fall. She’d been filmed hurtling through the air, grasping a lifeboat for a moment, and then, ultimately, losing her hold and dropping into the ocean. Unfortunately for Mrs. Bacon, the cameras had not yet been upgraded with sensors capable of alerting the crew when a large object went overboard. And, unfortunately for Mr. Bacon, a few seconds of fall footage wasn’t enough to prove the circumstances of his wife’s demise. A well-documented death needed a full timeline of the moments leading up to the last breath and the aftermath. It needed a body with a DNA-confirmed identity. Most importantly, it needed a coroner’s report with one of four words printed in the center: accidental, homicide, suicide, or natural.

  “Her disappearance has been established.”

  “Like hell—” Tom raked his hand over his mouth, blocking the profanities that undoubtedly wanted to follow. “Let’s just cut the nonsense. My wife is dead and your company wants to stall payment for as long as possible.” He looked at the ceiling, as if imploring his dead wife to intercede. “I have a three-year-old who is never going to see her mother again.” He pointed to the ISI policy on the countertop. “I purchased this coverage to ensure that she would always be well taken care of, should anything happen to one of us. I already had to wait for the court to issue the absentia ruling.”

  Ryan felt a rare twinge of guilt. Dependent beneficiaries were the worst part of the job. He tried not to think about them, to focus on the puzzle instead of the pieces. Find fraud. That was his job. Find the fraud.

  Ryan recalled an omission from the Bacons’ application. Neither had listed current employers, though they had each included former jobs under recent work history. Normally, the lack of gainful employment would have been a red flag, but the actuarial models showed that people with seven-figure former paychecks paid their premiums. Lots of ex-traders lived off investments these days.

  “Are you working?” Ryan asked.

  “What has that got to do with anything?” Tom’s chin jutted out. His biceps twitched. The micromovements answered Ryan’s question. Tom wasn’t employed, at least not in any capacity that he could list on a tax return.

  Money problems could lead to suicide. Ryan made a mental note to press for details later. Too many questions about the Bacons’ finances could encourage Tom to end their interview. “These are just standard questions.” Ryan gave Tom a beat to breathe. “What was your wife’s mood before she disappeared?”

  Tom squinted at him. “Her mood?”

  “Yes. How was she feeling?”

  “We were on vacation.”

  “Was she having a good time?”

  “Sure.” A dark blush crept from Tom’s hairless neck into his cheeks. Ryan sensed he wouldn’t get too many more answers.

  “Was there any reason she might have been feeling upset?”

  “You mean, was she depressed and jumped, right?” Tom scowled. “It was an accident. I know you don’t want that answer, but that’s what happened. It was just a horrible accident.”

  “So no reason she—”

  Tom slapped the counter. “My wife was pregnant, God damn it, and she had Sophia. To suggest that she’d intentionally leave her family . . .”

  Ryan debated whether to fire another question. When people overflowed with anger, the truth could spill out. On the other hand, too much fury could drown out conversation. Better instead to first repent and then follow up in a friendlier fashion. Quick ways to establish a rapport: common interests and flattery. “I’m sorry. You two must have been excited about a second kid. I only have the one.”

  Ryan withdrew his cell from the front pocket of his suit pants and flashed it in Tom’s face. Angie graced his home screen, bow mouth tied into a smile to hide the spaces vacated by baby teeth. The late fall sun shimmered on the blond in her browning hair. She was six in the photo. He’d taken it last year on a trip to the Bronx Zoo, before she and her mom had moved clear across the country.

  Tom’s expression changed from cross to careful. He had to know Ryan was only playing at good cop. But he also had to be aware that the insurance company wouldn’t pay if he didn’t at least try to cooperate with its investigator.

  “Pretty,” he said.

  It was the only response when kid pictures were passed around. Anything other than some
approving murmur was an insult, even if the darling daughter had horns, a cleft lip, and a tail. Still, Tom’s rote compliment was agreeing to a truce. And if Ryan did say so himself, Angie’s face would make most fathers join the NRA.

  “Were you looking forward to a new baby?”

  “I . . .” Tom drummed his fingers against the marble, as though working out where Ryan was headed with his new round of niceties. “You know, now isn’t the best time for this.”

  “I don’t have too many more—”

  “My daughter is waiting.” Tom stood. He pressed a palm on Ryan’s shoulder, as if they were friends at closing time. Ryan winced at the sudden contact. “Let me grab your coat.”

  “A list of family and friends would be helpful.” Ryan trailed his host to the mudroom. Salt crystals whitened a slate floor. A child’s jacket hung beside his own, above a built-in bench.

  “Why is that necessary?”

  “Medical history.” A half lie. It was routine to check the deceased’s family for conditions that might have led to a denial of coverage, but Ryan already knew he wouldn’t find anything. Ana didn’t have medical problems. Her parents hadn’t had a record of any hospitalizations. What he really wanted was for other people to attest to Ana’s mental state.

  “Sure. Fine.” Tom handed over Ryan’s coat with one hand and opened the side door with the other. “I’ll find time to put that together.”

  Cold air kicked Ryan in the chest. He jammed his feet into his boots and shoved his arms through wool sleeves.

  Tom waited with his hand on the door. “Let’s not drag this out. My daughter and I have been through enough.”

  Ryan could feel Tom watching as he limped down the gritty driveway to the Dodge Charger parked at the curb. Sizing him up. Tom probably thought he was a rent-a-cop with a bum leg, some ex-grunt who’d stepped on an improvised explosive device before returning to school with GI cash. Not a real detective. Certainly no more of a threat than the Bahamas Maritime Authority, the rubber-stamp cruise police to which the FBI and Coast Guard had willingly passed jurisdiction after rescue efforts had failed to turn up a body.