The Kept Woman (Will Trent 8) (31 page)

This was where the publicly accessible information on Jo Figaroa ended. Despite her age, Jo wasn’t on social media. She wasn’t a joiner. There were no groups with which she was involved. She didn’t go to parties unless they were for her husband’s work. She didn’t meld with the wives. She didn’t lunch. She didn’t wander around the mall or hang out at the gym. The only way Angie was able to track her at all was through her husband.

One year ago, a Google alert had popped up in Angie’s feed. Reuben ‘Fig’ Figaroa was joining the Atlanta team. According to the article, the move was lateral, the kind of thing that could prolong Reuben’s career for another few years.

How had Angie felt when she read the news? Annoyed at first. She didn’t want the temptation. Only a raving bitch would show up in Jo’s life twenty-seven years after ditching her. Which is why Angie had vowed to leave it alone. No good would come out of trying to insert herself into her daughter’s peaceful world.

But then there was a second Google alert: the Figaroas had moved to Buckhead.

And a third: Reuben Figaroa signs with 110 Sports Management.

That was when Angie had finagled a job through Dale Harding, promising him some favors because she knew that favors were the one thing Dale needed.

Why?

Angie wasn’t one for introspection. Reaction was more her thing.

And curiosity.

She had been tracking Jo off and on for almost twenty years. Background checks, internet searches and even a couple of private detectives. At first Angie had wanted to know who had adopted her daughter. That was a natural curiosity. Who wouldn’t want to know? But like everything else in Angie’s life, it wasn’t enough. She had to make sure Jo’s parents were good people. Then she had to know more about Jo’s husband. Then she wanted to know who Jo’s friends were, how she spent her time, what she did with all the hours in her day.

Greedy
. That was a better word. Angie did all of this because she was greedy. It was the same reason she couldn’t take just one pill, one drink, one man.

She wasn’t going to blow up Jo’s life. That was a promise. For now, for today, all that Angie wanted was to hear her daughter’s voice. She wanted to see if the tenor was the same. If Jo shared Angie’s dark sense of humor. If she was happy like she should be because she had dodged the biggest bullet of her life the day that Angie had bolted out of her hospital bed.

Twice in the same room. Twice Jo stood silently by her husband.

The girl didn’t look at Reuben Figaroa much, and that bothered Angie. After eight years of marriage, there shouldn’t be
googly eyes, but something was off there. Angie felt it in her gut. She hadn’t worked for Kip long, but you didn’t need a PowerPoint presentation to understand the athletes’ wives. All they had was what their husbands did with a basketball. LaDonna always crowed the day after Marcus did something extraordinary on the court. Likewise, she was hell on heels if Marcus missed an important shot.

Not so much with Jo and Reuben. The more attention the husband got, the more it seemed like Jo wanted to disappear.

And the weird thing was, Reuben Figaroa was getting a lot of attention. Angie didn’t understand the terminology, but apparently Reuben’s team position wasn’t about the glory, more of a grinder than a breakout player. Somehow he had managed to make himself indispensable on the court, the guy who was willing to take a foul or knock some heads or whatever it took to make sure Marcus Rippy scored the basket.

Everybody won when Marcus Rippy scored a basket.

Reuben was the puzzle that Angie needed to figure out. There weren’t many pieces to put together. Unusually, he didn’t seek attention. He didn’t go to clubs or restaurant openings. He actively avoided the press. Interviewers always attributed his shy reserve to a childhood stutter. His background was as innocuous as Jo’s. Small-town high school in Missouri, full ride to Kentucky, late-round draft pick to the NBA, middling career until he got dusted with the Rippy magic. None of this afforded great insight. The only thing that made Reuben stick out was that he was white in a sport dominated by black men.

It did Angie no good to know that Jo had married a man who looked like her father.

Angie put her glass on the table. She stared out the window at the dark sky. Ten basketballs were lined up on the ledge. Championship balls, she guessed, but Angie gave not one shit about sports of any kind. The whole concept of men chasing a little ball back and forth bored her to tears. She didn’t particularly find the players attractive. If she wanted to fuck a tall, lanky man with perfect abs, she could go home to her husband.

At least she’d always thought she could. Will had waited for her. That was his thing. Angie would go away. She would have a little fun, then a little more fun, then a little too much fun, which would necessitate her going back to Will so that she could recharge. Or hide out. Or whatever she needed to do in order to reset herself. That was what Will was for. He was her safe harbor.

She had never anticipated that a fucking redheaded dinghy would drop anchor in her calm waters.

Angie got it. She saw the attraction. Sara was a good girl. She was smart, if being smart that way mattered. She was corn-raised, from a good family. If a woman like that loved you, then it meant that you were normal too. Angie could see where Will would be drawn to Sara’s wholesomeness. He had always been such a freakish goody-two-shoes. Volunteering to help Mrs Flannigan at the home. Cutting the neighbors’ grass. He wanted to do well in school. He studied his ass off. He always tried for the extra credit. Except for being retarded, he probably would’ve been a star student.

It breaks my heart that he’s so ashamed of his dyslexia
, Sara had told Tessa.
The irony is that he’s one of the smartest men I have ever known.

Angie wondered if Will knew Sara was talking to her sister about his secret. He would not be happy. He was ashamed for a damn good reason.

The overhead lights flickered. Angie looked up at the ceiling. She watched the fluorescent bulbs spark to life. Harding ambled over to the drink fridge and took out a bottle of BankShot. He plopped down on the opposite end of the couch. His eyes were more yellow than white. His skin was the texture and color of a dryer sheet.

‘Jesus,’ Angie said. ‘How much longer do you have?’

‘Too long.’ He grabbed her Scotch. She watched him top off the glass with the radioactive-looking energy drink.

She said, ‘That stuff will kill you.’

‘Here’s hoping.’

They both heard a basketball bouncing against marble tile. They both scowled.

‘Where’s Laslo?’ Kip asked.

‘Here.’ Laslo was right behind him. He had a sour look on his face. Angie had tapped a favor for a peek at the guy’s sheet. Laslo Zivcovik was small, compact, but he was good with a knife and he had no hesitations about using it. He’d done a stint in jail for slicing up a girl’s face, but the heavy time had come from a knife fight outside a bar. Somebody had ended up at the hospital. Somebody had ended up at the morgue.

And now Laslo was in Atlanta with his knife.

‘All right, gentlemen.’ Kip held the basketball under his arm. He retrieved a black folder from his desk. ‘We’ve got a problem.’

Dale leaned over and helped himself to the bowl of peanuts. ‘Rippy rape another squealer?’

Kip looked irritated, but he didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I don’t know if y’all noticed tonight, but LaDonna was more pissed off than usual.’

Laslo groaned. He sat down in the chair opposite Angie. ‘What’s wound her up this time?’

Angie guessed, ‘Her husband cheating on her?’

Harding said, ‘You get the bank, you take the spank.’

Everyone but Angie laughed. They never got it, these guys. They thought that the wives only wanted money.

She asked Harding, ‘Would you fuck Marcus Rippy for LaDonna’s checkbook?’

‘Ain’t that Kip’s job?’

‘Shut up, asshole.’ Kip was so far in the closet he practically lived in Narnia. ‘Remember where we are.’

Harding nodded. ‘All right. I get it.’

They all got it. 110’s athletes were jet-setting multi-millionaires, but they were also small-town boys whose mamas had dragged them to church every Sunday. Their religion skipped over serial adultery and smoking weed and stopped dead at two guys doing each other.

Laslo said, ‘What’s she up to?’ He meant LaDonna. He was trying to steer things back on track. ‘She find out about the girl?’

‘What girl?’ Harding was paying attention now.

‘Marcus has a little play in Vegas. That’s not it.’ Kip tossed the black file folder onto the couch beside Angie.

She didn’t pick it up.

Kip said, ‘It’s Jo Figaroa.’

Angie’s heart did a weird shake. She had never heard anyone say Jo’s name aloud before. It had a kind of music to it.

Kip said, ‘Polaski?’

She worked to keep her expression neutral as she picked up the folder. The first page had a photograph of Jo. Her hair was shorter. She was holding a small boy in her arms. She was smiling. Angie had never seen her daughter smile before.

Harding brushed peanut dust off his tie. ‘She popping pills again?’

‘She’s an addict?’ Angie felt a razor blade pump through her heart. ‘How long?’

‘Got pulled over in high school for a DWI. They found a stack of scripts in her glove compartment. Valium, Percocet, codeine.’

Angie thumbed through Jo’s background check. She found a juvenile arrest record. There was no mention of illegal prescriptions.

Harding explained, ‘Her dad had some rhythm with the local force. He got it bumped. She did some community service. Everybody got paid.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Talked to the AO.’

The arresting officer. Angie checked the address on the report. Thomaston. A small-town cop would be able to hide evidence, but it would take more than one payout.

‘Whatever. Drugs aren’t her problem.’ Kip had traded his basketball for a BankShot. He twisted off the cap and tossed it into the trashcan. ‘It’s Marcus.’

‘Marcus?’ Angie looked up from the file. She tried to keep her tone conversational, but the thought of Marcus Rippy sniffing around her daughter made her want to rip his face off. ‘What’s he got to do with her?’

‘They grew up together. He’s the reason she met her husband.’ Kip said this as if everyone already knew. ‘Christ, Polaski, don’t you ever read anything?’

‘Not if it has to do with sports.’

Harding explained, ‘Rippy grew up in Griffin. He and Jo had some kind of summer-lovin’ bullshit at junior Bible camp. Fast-forward to his senior year. He was being heavily scouted. Some teams sent players down to woo him. Informal stuff, nothing that wouldn’t pass inspection. That’s when Jo got her head turned.’

Angie said, ‘Reuben Figaroa was one of the players who was sent to woo Marcus.’ She had always wondered how Jo had met her future husband. Now she understood. And she also understood that Harding knew a hell of a lot more about her daughter than she did. It made sense. Kip would’ve wanted Jo seriously vetted before he took on Reuben Figaroa as a client. Wives and girlfriends were always the weakest points.

She asked, ‘Have you asked Marcus if anything is going on between him and Jo?’

There was collective guffawing. No one questioned Marcus Rippy. 110 took a paternal relationship with all of their athletes, with the understanding that at any time, their bratty kids could take their toys and leave.

Angie said, ‘Let me wrap my head around this. Junior high, Marcus and Jo are sweet on each other. Summer’s over. They break up. A few years later, LaDonna hooks up with Marcus. She would’ve known about his previous girlfriends. I don’t see her not getting a full history, even as a teenager.’ She asked, ‘Why is it a problem now?’

‘Because Jo is here, right under her nose,’ Laslo answered. ‘La D seemed okay with it at first. Brought Jo into the group. Threw a party for her. Took her to lunch. But lately she’s been giving Jo the hairy eyeball.’

Angie knew that this would not turn out well for Jo. LaDonna was stone-cold crazy when it came to her husband. Office lore had it that she had taken a shot at a cheerleader who had gotten too close to Marcus at a party. ‘What about Reuben? Is he suspicious?’

‘Who the hell knows? The guy is a sphinx. He’s probably said ten words to me the whole time I’ve known him. None of them “good job” or “thank you”, by the way.’ Kip chugged the rest of his energy drink. His throat worked like a goose being fattened up for pâté. Angie didn’t know which was worse, watching him play with his ball or listening to him gurgle cherry lime BankShot. Ninety percent of his day was spent doing one or the other. By quitting time, his upper lip was like the red on a beach ball.

‘Hey.’ Harding tapped Angie’s shoulder. ‘Nobody calls him Reuben. It’s Fig. Didn’t you read his bio?’

‘Why would I read his bio?’

Kip belched. ‘Because he’s Marcus’s go-to guy. Because he brings in millions of dollars to the firm. Because once his knee gets straightened out, he has the potential to bring in even more.’

Harding asked, ‘What’s wrong with his knee?’

Kip side-eyed Laslo. ‘Nothing’s wrong with his knee.’

Angie closed the file. ‘Okay, what’s the problem we’re all here to solve?’

‘The problem is that Marcus is getting close to Jo again, and LaDonna doesn’t like it, and when LaDonna isn’t happy, ain’t none of us happy.’

Angie couldn’t see it. Reuben struck her as possessive, and Jo seemed to like that just fine. ‘What makes you think they’re getting close?’

‘Because I’ve got eyes in my head.’ Kip opened another BankShot. The bright red liquid spilled onto the floor. ‘You can feel it when they’re together. Where were you tonight?’

‘Not trying to feel things between two adult people.’

‘I saw it too.’ Laslo started pacing. He was taking this seriously. ‘Marcus touched her elbow when he gave her a drink. Intimate-like.’

Harding asked, ‘We looking at a Tiger Woods situation?’

Angie asked, ‘What does that mean?’

Kip said, ‘Tell me you know Tiger Woods is a golfer.’

‘Yes, I know who he is,’ Angie said, though she had no idea how.