Annihilate Them Page 3

  “It’s kind of how I put you to bed last night, if I remember correctly, Mrs. Wenn.”

  I reached out my arms and stretched them toward the ceiling in a triumphant memory of how attentive he’d been last night—and how wild our lovemaking had become in the process.

  Sometimes I did like a good smack on my ass. Sometimes I did like it a little rough. With Alex, who happened to be my first love as well as the love of my life, I always felt safe, so I generally was up for anything when we made love, which happily was often.

  We were still naked, and as he moved closer to me and kissed me on the lips, I could feel him against my leg. He wasn’t fully aroused yet, but he was on his way.

  “You’re insatiable,” I said.

  He buried his lips against the nape of my neck and said in a thick voice, “You make me insatiable.”

  “And your stubble is going to do me in, just as it always does.”

  “I know where you’d like my stubble.”

  “You’re terrible.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “If I did, it would only be a lie...”

  “We’ve got time, you know?”

  “How much time?”

  “If we skip breakfast and just have coffee—maybe thirty minutes?”

  “But that would just be a tease.”

  “Think of it this way—just imagine how flush and radiant your skin will look afterward. Blackwell approved.”

  I laughed when he said that and then held his face in my hands before I pressed him down toward my sex.

  “Have at it,” I said. “And then? Let me have my way with you.”

  LATER, AFTER WE’D MADE love, taken a shower together, and dressed, we went to the kitchen.

  Alex was wearing a charcoal gray suit with a cobalt-blue tie that matched the color of his eyes, and I was wearing a red business suit with matching heels. Since it occurred to us while dressing that neither of us had meetings until ten, we decided to slow things down a bit and enjoy the Times over a cup of coffee before going to Wenn Enterprises, the massive conglomerate Alex had inherited from his father upon his death. Alex had served as CEO and Chairman of the Board since then, with only one brief exception—when Stephen Rowe had managed to steal Alex’s company away from him seven months ago.

  But that was beyond us now—until suddenly it wasn’t.

  “Jesus,” Alex said from his seat at the kitchen island, where he was reading the Times. “Meredith Rowe is dead.”

  I handed him his cup of coffee and said, “Dead? How?”

  “Look,” he said, turning the paper to me, where I saw a photograph of her. “It’s front-page news. She was found last night at 8:23 p.m. on a sidewalk at East Sixty-Seventh Street. It appears to have been a mugging.”

  “On East Sixty-Seventh Street?”

  “If you’re going to mug someone, that’s where the money is, Jennifer.”

  And so it was.

  “What else does it say?”

  “Not much. When they went to press, they likely didn’t have much information because it says, ‘This story will evolve as the Times learns more.’”

  “Then, at this point, they’ve already learned more,” I said, reaching for my briefcase at the far end of the island. I removed my MacBook Air from it, started it up, brought up the Times site, and looked for Meredith’s story. “Here,” I said. “There is more.”

  “What does it say?”

  I scanned the article. “This is terrible,” I said. “They believe it was a mugging because Meredith’s earrings were literally ripped out of her ears, which tore her lobes. There also were bruises on her face, which suggests a fight of some sort, and there was no jewelry found on her body, nor did police find a purse or a handbag, which naturally she would have had on her. Even her shoes were missing.”

  “Her shoes?”

  “If she was wearing an expensive pair of heels, they would have wanted them for a specific reason—to sell them. And given Meredith’s money, she likely had three grand on her feet. This is awful.”

  “Has Stephen been questioned? Quoted?”

  “No. But they’re divorced now. After all of the negative press he’s received over the past year, who knows if he’ll even give a statement. I’m betting that he’ll keep silent. Or, if he’s smart, he’ll say something kind about Meredith and move on.”

  “What about their girls?”

  “It says here that they had shared custody. I would assume that the girls would go to Stephen.”

  “When we go to Wenn, we need to make sure that Ann sends flowers from both of us to Meredith’s funeral—whenever that’s announced.”

  “I’ll ask her myself.” I took a sip of my coffee and shook my head. “I’ve never met Meredith, but I can only imagine what she went through when Janice Jones spoke publicly about her affair with Stephen. That was the day that Rowe was hauled out of Wenn and brought in front of the media, which must have humiliated Meredith even more. What that woman has endured over these past several months is beyond unfair. And now this.” I paused. “You know that Rowe is going to be considered a suspect.”

  “Probably, but my guess is that he has nothing to do with it. He’d know that all eyes would be on him. He’s evil, but he’s also too smart to be put under that kind of scrutiny.”

  “What was Meredith doing on Sixty-Seventh Street at eight o’clock anyway?”

  “Maybe going to a party of some sort? It was Thursday night—the cocktail-party circuit starts then.”

  “But if she was driven there, how could this have happened? Her driver would have protected her.”

  “To be revealed, I guess. And speaking of parties, are we still on tonight for the Witherhouses’ party?”

  “We are, unless Maxine cancels out of respect for Meredith, which I doubt she will. Knowing Maxine, she’ll just use Meredith’s death to lift her party into the stratosphere. She’ll know that everyone will be talking about it. And Maxine Witherhouse will be watching it all and smiling like the Cheshire Cat that she is.”

  I checked the time on my watch. “We should go. Before my meeting, I want to hear what Blackwell has to say about Meredith.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WELL, WELL, WELL,” Blackwell said when I stepped into her office. “Look at you, Jennifer—showing up at nine-thirty without a care in the world. What a luxurious life you live. While you were rolling around in your bed snoring and probably farting, some of us were here at the crack of dawn.”

  “Farting?” I said taking the chair opposite her. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “A new low.”

  “And look at me—I found it deep within the depths of your own bowels.”

  Instead of answering back, I just looked at her with a sigh.

  Barbara Blackwell—head of Human Resources at Wenn Enterprises, a personal advisor to Alex and me, and one of my best friends and mentors—leaned back in her chair and used her pinky to lift her black bob out of her face while she popped a cube of ice into her mouth and bit down on it. She was wearing a black Chanel suit with white piping, and despite being in her mid-fifties, through good genes, exercise, and a strict diet, she looked like she was somewhere in her mid-forties.

  “Alex and I have meetings at ten—so we came in late,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is the message that sends to your employees.”

  “Everyone here knows that Alex and I work our asses off, so I’m hardly going to be engaged in that conversation. Let’s drop it because I only have thirty minutes. I came here to see if you’d heard the news.”

  “About Meredith Rowe? Of course I have—likely before you did.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “Do you want the ‘I’m sorry she’s dead’ version or the ‘bitch won’t be missed’ version?”

  That surprised me. “What does that mean?”

  “That she was a terrible person, and an even worse mother. If you’d known her personal
ly, as I once did, then you’d know she was a terror. Alex’s mother used to be friends with her mother, Jaqueline. The four of us had lunch a few times when Meredith was in her late teens and early twenties. She was a spoiled brat then, and she went on to become an even worse adult when she inherited the family fortune. I’ve never liked her. Now, does that mean I wish her dead? Of course not. She has two girls. It’s them whom I feel for this morning.”

  “Do you think it was a mugging?”

  “Have you read the Times, and the description of how they found her? What else could it have been?”

  When I mentioned Stephen Rowe to her, Blackwell scoffed.

  “Need I remind you that he’s also still on probation for threatening Janice Jones’ life?” she said. “That man would never risk prison for his ex-wife, regardless of how much he despises her.”

  “I think otherwise.”

  “Then think again. He’s a selfish son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid. Being on parole is far different from being locked away in prison, Jennifer.”

  As much as I loathed that man, when I thought about what Blackwell had said, I acquiesced. I trusted Alex and Blackwell’s judgment completely. This was a mugging. I was looking into more of it than I should.

  Blackwell waved a hand in front of her face. “Here’s how I see it—the press and the police are onto it, and in time, we’ll either find out the truth of what happened—or we won’t. New York can be a mystery that way. Sometimes, it holds on to its secrets so tightly, it refuses to let them go. As far as I’m concerned, this was a mugging that ended in death. Consider how they ripped off her earrings, for God’s sake. That sounds like haste and desperation to me. As if time were of the essence. As far as I’m concerned, Meredith was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “But enough about this,” she said. “You and Alex have a party to go to tonight. Bernie is on board for hair and makeup at six-thirty. Alex is on his own, but he’ll be fine because I’ve already made sure of it—he’ll have a new tux delivered to him this afternoon.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. The dress we picked out for you at Bergdorf on Monday also will be delivered today.” She looked at me. “The tailoring has been done. Let’s just hope that you haven’t gained an ounce since then.”

  “I only wish that I had,” I said.

  Blackwell was no fool—she knew what I’d meant by that, and her expression turned from cool to sympathetic as she leaned forward in her seat. “Look, I know that you’re frustrated, but it will happen. You will get pregnant.”

  If we were going to go there, I wanted my privacy. So, I reached behind me and shut the door to her office before turning back to her.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said. “It’s been nearly a year since I lost the baby. And Alex and I have been trying in earnest to get pregnant. I have so many pregnancy strips in our bathroom, they should have a suite of their own. I’m using one daily, just hoping that it will happen. My doctor says that it will and that this somehow is normal, but how can any of this be normal, Barbara? Again, we’re talking nearly a year here. This is ridiculous.”

  “It’s well known that stress can and does affect fertility. What are you doing to lower your stress level?”

  “To be honest? Not as much as I should be doing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because losing myself in my work keeps my mind off from all of it. When I stop working, I start overthinking everything, especially why I’m not pregnant, which drives me crazy with worry, anger, and fear.”

  “I’ve seen none of that in you.”

  “That’s because you weren’t raised by abusive parents. Long ago, I learned how to put on a happy face for my teachers and friends for a good reason—survival. I feared what might come from one of them learning that I was being beaten at home. A foster home? Another beating from my father? Even then, I knew that it would have been one or the other. We all wear our masks,” I said.

  “And so we do...”

  “For the past year, I’ve certainly been wearing mine. But what’s worse about all of this is that Alex and I don’t even discuss getting pregnant anymore. I know that he doesn’t want to pressure me just as much as I don’t want to crush his hopes that we might not have a child. So, we say nothing to each other about it. Instead, we’re just having more and more sex. And that alone ushers in a sense of urgency that underscores an unspoken truth—we both want to get pregnant. We desperately want to have a family. But it’s not happening.”

  “Listen to yourself right now,” she said. “Listen to how much stress is in your voice. Think about what that’s doing to your body. You need to start making priorities in your life, Jennifer. You can either choose to be a workhorse and continue to be frustrated and disappointed, or you can take a step back, reconnect with yourself, destress yourself, and see what comes of that. Why don’t you try working less? Try meditation? Or yoga?”

  “I actually used to do both in college.”

  “Because you were stressed out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did either work?”

  “They both did.”

  “Then start doing them again. Because I agree with you. Something is off, but I don’t think that it’s physical. Your doctor has ruled that out. I think it all comes down to your high level of stress, and now it’s up to you to fix it and lower it.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said.

  “I know you will—your tenacity is one of the reasons I love you.”

  I checked my watch.

  “I’ve got ten minutes before my meeting,” I said. “How about if we catch up on other things, because this line of questioning is just depressing. How are things progressing between you and Marcus?”

  “Between me and whom?” she said.

  “Oh, please.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Like hell you don’t.”

  She blinked at me. “Oh, look—I’ve suddenly gone deaf. Oh, look—the walls in my office are turning black.”

  “Oh, look,” I said, “Somebody clearly has developed feelings for someone else.”

  “The hell I have. It’s only been a few months, for God’s sake. And we’ve only seen each other a handful of times since we returned from Maine over the holidays.”

  “That’s only because he travels so much.” I nodded toward the large bouquet of yellow roses on the table behind her. “Who are those from?”

  “You know damn well who they’re from. You probably even crept into my office yesterday and looked at the card.”

  “Sorry, but I didn’t.”

  “The lies!”

  “He’s smitten with you.”

  “And how is that? We’ve only seen each other eight or nine times since the holidays. We barely know each other.”

  “Eight or nine times is more than just barely knowing each other, Barbara.”

  “Call it what you will.”

  “Maybe his schedule will calm down at some point.”

  “And what if it doesn’t? He’s a successful businessman. He thrives on his work, just as I do. I’m coming to the conclusion that I don’t want to encourage any of this. It’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s only because you still don’t believe that you deserve a second chance.” I nodded over at the flowers. “I’m assuming that he’s been in contact recently and that he’s asked to see you again?”

  “How unusually and unexpectedly perceptive of you.”

  “So, he has?”

  “He has.”

  “Dinner?”

  “It’s always dinner.”

  “Has it gone any further than that?”

  To my surprise, Blackwell flushed.

  “Oh, my God, it has,” I said, covering my mouth with my hand. “It’s all over your face. Even you can’t hide it. You’ve totally done it with him!”

  “It was just one night!”

  “Holy shit!”


  “Keep your voice down!”

  “Oh, please! Good for you! How was it?”

  “I refuse to have such a grotesquely personal conversation with you.”

  “After the way I just opened up to you? Come on...”

  That caught her off guard. She looked at me for a long moment, and then she just held up her hands in defeat.

  “OK, fine—we’ve had... we’ve made... we’ve done...”

  “The nasty!”

  “Oh, sweet mother of God—we have!”

  “I’m so proud of you!”

  “It’s not as if I haven’t had sex before, Jennifer. I do have two daughters, for God’s sake.”

  “But it’s been a while. So, how was it?”

  She leaned back in her chair and glanced up at the ceiling in abject horror before she looked back at me. “After so many years of not having sex? I don’t even know what to say about it. I mean, it was romantic. He was lovely. And he went all out—dinner, dancing, champagne, the works. And I succumbed to all of it because I have to admit that I was curious. As I’ve told you, before Marcus, I’d only been with one man in my life, Jennifer—Charles, who now is somehow married to a woman named Rita. I mean think of that for a moment—Rita! I still can’t get over her name. Every time I think of her I see her in a red light district holding out a sign that says, ‘A buck for a blow job.’ Anyway, to be honest—and I would only ever share this with you, because I know you’d never betray me—I think a part of me wanted to be with Marcus to get back at Charles. To definitively say that I’d moved on without him. A large part of me feels embarrassed and guilty about that because Marcus deserves better.”

  “I don’t think it’s just that, Barbara.”

  “No, I agree. Not completely, because I did want to be with him. But Charles was a motivator, and that’s not fair to Marcus.”

  “But that’s out of the way now, isn’t it? In your mind, you’ve proved to Charles that you can find someone else who not only finds you attractive and interesting, but who also might come to love you.”

  “Love,” she said with a sigh. “It’s such a loaded term when you’re my age.”