The Silent Widow

‘Try it,’ she said. ‘See what you notice as you move through your week.’

Lana left, stalking out of the room almost as angry as she’d been an hour ago, and only slightly more enlightened.

‘Take care of yourself,’ Nikki called after her as she left, an ugly sense of foreboding suddenly seizing her out of nowhere.

Too many people were dying around her. She hoped Lana wasn’t about to take any more stupid risks.

Goodman watched as Lana Grey pulled out of Nikki’s building in her leased Prius. He’d already learned that the actress was six months in arrears on the car and owed thousands in unpaid interest on the subprime loan she’d used to pay for it. The Victoria Beckham dress and pumps she wore to the audition had already been returned to Neiman Marcus, right after she finished with hook-up guy but before she swung by therapy. Goodman wondered how Lana was affording Nikki Roberts’ fees. He made a note to check the accounts later.

He assumed she was heading home now to her lonely, rent-controlled apartment in Ocean Park, and an evening of what? Another meaningless encounter with a stranger, perhaps? Or pills, booze and bed? What a tragic life. But he knew everything he needed to for now. He was done following Lana for the day.

Five minutes into his drive home, his phone rang.

‘Anything to report?’ Johnson’s voice sounded crackly. Bad line.

‘I’ll fill you in tomorrow. But no, not really. How about you?’ Goodman asked. ‘Any leads on Brandon Grolsch?’

‘Nothing,’ Johnson admitted. ‘I’m calling it a day. See you bright and early tomorrow.’

‘Mañana.’

Goodman hung up. Then, on a whim he pulled over. Waiting for a break in the traffic, he did a U-turn and headed back towards Century City.

About twenty minutes later, his patience was rewarded. Nikki Roberts’ Mercedes pulled slowly out of the garage beneath her office building, turned into the alleyway and then out onto Avenue of the Stars.

Re-starting his engine, Detective Lou Goodman slipped into the stream of cars behind her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Anne Bateman tightened her bow fractionally and brought it down to rest on the bridge of her violin. Anne’s violin was something between a dear friend and a love object. An early eighteenth-century Pietro Guarneri, it was one of the first really valuable gifts her husband had given her, the week after their wedding.

‘But this must be worth seven figures!’ Anne had gasped, opening the beautifully inlaid case it came in, a work of art in itself, before lovingly lifting the Guarneri into her arms. ‘It’s exquisite.’

‘Like you,’ Anne’s husband had purred, delighted to have been the source of such joy.

They’d been on honeymoon in Tahiti at the time. So it must have been eight years ago. Eight years, thought Anne, gripping her precious violin more tightly. Some days it felt like eighty.

She was sitting in the orchestra pit at Disney Concert Hall, about to start the first rehearsal for the LA Phil’s sold-out performance of The Best of Stravinsky on Friday night. Anne knew the great composer’s violin concertos inside out and backwards, but it didn’t stop her experiencing the same mixture of excitement and fear she always felt before a big performance. She’d tried to talk about her stage fright in her session with Dr Roberts earlier. But Nikki (‘You really must call me Nikki, Anne.’) ha

d insisted on bringing the conversation back to Anne’s husband, and what she would keep referring to as Anne’s ‘backsliding’.

‘Think of how far you’ve come,’ Nikki had pleaded with her. ‘Think how hard-won your freedom was. Are you really prepared to give all that up, to let him back in?’

‘I don’t know,’ Anne answered truthfully.

‘You need to ask yourself why you would do that,’ Nikki pressed. ‘Why you would even consider it, after everything that’s happened.’

She was right, as usual. When Anne was sitting in Nikki’s office, it seemed so obvious, so clear what she should do. Or not do. But the moment she walked out, that certainty deserted her, and with it her resolve. It was as if the further away Anne Bateman got from her therapist – the more miles she put between her Prius and Nikki’s Century City office – the weaker Nikki’s influence over her became. And in the vacuum left behind, her husband’s power grew.

‘First violin! Anne, my dear. Are you with us?’

Henrik Leinneman, the conductor, kept his tone polite – he lusted after Anne Bateman too much to lose his temper with her – but he was clearly irritated. All this daydreaming was unprofessional, not to mention unfair to her fellow musicians. Anne was a brilliant violinist, but still terribly young. At times like these, her inexperience showed.

‘Sorry, Maestro. Everybody.’ Anne bit her lower lip, a nervous gesture that made her look even younger. ‘I’m ready.’

Leinneman led them back into the second movement, and Anne swiftly lost herself in the music, allowing Stravinski to transport her to a world without her ex, a world without pain or conflict or denial or despair. How she wished she could stay there forever!

Anne Bateman had been only sixteen years old when she first met her future husband, a wealthy and powerful real estate developer some twenty-five-years her senior, at a concert in Mexico City. Already a well-travelled musician by then, this was the first professional trip Anne had taken without her mother as a chaperone. (Linda Bateman had come down with the flu the weekend before, and the tour managers had assured her that Anne would be well taken care of in Mexico. Besides, Anne was a sensible girl, who took her music deadly seriously. She’d have no time to get into any mischief between her grueling schedule of rehearsals and performances. What harm could possibly come to her?)