And how she looks when she’s nursing Lily. She’s the soul of patience and love.
Somehow, when I’m around the two of them, I become a kinder person. I don’t know why it happens. But they bring something out in me that I never even knew was there.
What will I miss about Ben when this job is over? Hard to say, since he’s still around. But let me think for a moment.
Okay.
Got it.
Nothing.
I’m not awake enough to read but not tired enough to sleep. I turn on the TV, grab the remote, and flash through channels, searching for something fun and mindless. I finally settle on an oldFriendsrerun (“The One with the Jellyfish”) and after that a newShark Tank(edible flowers; an at-home dental tool). I was looking forward to a free night all to myself. So why am I feeling uneasy?
Something is bothering me. And I can’t quite figure out what.
Then I can.
Why does Ben need a passport to go to Florida?
CHAPTER 50
THE FOLLOWING MORNING. Ben is on his way to the airport. Hailey is in school. The dogs are in the backyard, running around and sniffing each other’s rear ends.
My chance to do some serious snooping.
I call upon my decades-old Quantico training—and a quick Google search. The internet is filled with clever ideas on how to find something you’ve lost: Close your eyes and retrace your steps. Crawl along the floor on your hands and knees. Change the lighting. Pray to Saint Anthony.
But how can you find something you never had?
Talk about needles in haystacks. What I’m looking for could be as small as a two-inch flash drive in afifteen-thousand-square-foot house with more nooks and crannies than a Thomas’ English Muffin warehouse.
Where to begin?
There’s an old principle called Occam’s razor, the brainchild of William of Ockham, a fourteenth-century philosopher. Over several hundred years, the spelling has changed but the premise remains the same: The simplest explanation of something is usually the best. Or, as modern thinkers like to put it: When you hear hoofbeats, think of horses, not zebras.
I start at Ben’s desk, the most obvious place. True, nothing I discover can be used as evidence, but anything incriminating will allow the FBI to get a search warrant.
His drawers are all locked, of course. So I pull out my trusty bobby pin and paper clip, insert them one at a time into the top lock, do a few twists and turns… and I’m in.
The top drawer: the usual assortment of Pilot pens, rubber bands, staplers, two pairs of scissors, a glue stick, and some number 2 pencils with the erasers chewed off. All of this confirms what I already knew about Ben: He’s a nervous guy, and somewhat paranoid. Who bothers to lock up a bunch of office supplies?
Second drawer, second lock. This is where Ben keeps his old-fashioned Rolodex. Very few names in it, so I’m not sure why it’s under lock and key. Still, I photograph every card.
Drawer three: A bonanza! It’s filled with cell phones, obviously burners. Some still in their plastic shells. Oneby one I text the numbers to Metcalf so the FBI will be able to track data usage, texts, and calls.
The bottom drawer holds personal files. The receipts look innocent enough: Saks Fifth Avenue, plumbers, Ferrante Brothers Landscaping, Bruno the electrician, tennis lessons, club dues, Tumblestiltskin classes, on and on. I google every supplier. Every business seems legitimate.
Still at least eleven rooms to go.
I move to the kitchen. I don’t really expect to find anything of Ben’s there, but it’s fun to learn what gadgets no upscale home should be without. I find a retractable toothpick holder, a sterling-silver corncob grater, and my personal favorite, a high-tech Egg Minder that syncs with your smartphone. With a simple click of a button, you can learn how many eggs are in your fridge and which eggs are the oldest. Perfect for anyone who doesn’t have the energy to open the refrigerator. (Never been my problem.)
In the freezer I find frozen pizzas, steaks, Talenti gelato, and an open box of dumplings with something rattling around inside. My heart leaps! But alas, it’s not a flash drive. It’s one lone dumpling left behind, the others long gone.
Slowly, I make my way through the entire house. Somewhere between prying open old paint cans in the garage and looking under Paddington Bear’s little red hat in the nursery, I ask myself:Does this search make any sense?Ben’s not a guy who plays fast and loose with anything—well, except maybe his wife and kids. If he’s involved with something illegal, would he be stupid enough to keep any traceof it in his house? I don’t think so. He’d lock it up somewhere else. That’s why God invented safe-deposit boxes.
Metcalf wants to know Ben’s every move. But Ben’s rarely home. When he is, he shuts himself up in his office with the latest issue ofARTnews. He has no friends aside from a few golf buddies, and no hobbies. He makes a lot of calls, but they’re always behind closed doors.
Yes, Ben’s volatile, impatient, anxious, and unfriendly. But so are a lot of men. Yes, he has a bunch of burner phones hidden away. But so do men who are cheating on their wives.
