trouble—smoking, drinking, whatever—and Marcus had to send her to some kind of reform school for a year. Who knows why she went through such a difficult period. It might have been the trauma of the abduction. But it might just as well have been a reaction to her mother’s running off.
Or maybe it was just being a teenager.
* * *
“WHAT’S WITH all the security?” I asked. “It wasn’t here last time I visited.”
Marcus paused. “Times have changed. More crazies out there. I have more money. Newsweek did a story about me. Forbes, Fortune, the cable news—I mean, it’s not like I’m a shrinking violet.”
“Have you received any threats?”
“Threats? Like, did someone come up to me on State Street with a gun and threaten to blow my brains out or something? No. But I’m not going to wait.”
“So it’s just a precaution.”
“What, you don’t think I should be taking precautions?”
“Of course you should. I just want to know if you had any specific warning, a break-in, whatever—anything that inspired you to tighten your security.”
“I made him do it,” a female voice said.
Belinda Marcus had entered the kitchen. She was a tall, slender blonde, extremely beautiful. But icy. Maybe forty, but a well-cared-for forty. A forty that got regular Botox and collagen fillers and the occasional well-timed mini-facelift. A woman whose idea of “work” was something you had done at a plastic surgeon’s office.
She was all in white: skinny white ankle-slit pants, a white silk top with wide shoulder straps that looked like they were made out of origami, a low neckline with seamed cups that drew your eye to her small but pert breasts. She was barefoot. Her toenails were painted coral.
“I thought it was absolutely mad that Marshall didn’t have any guards. A man who’s worth as much as Marshall Marcus? As prominent as he is? We’re just sitting ducks out here at the end of the point. And after what happened to Alexa?”
“They were out shopping, Belinda. A movie, whatever. That coulda happened even if we had a … an armed battalion surrounding the house. They were in the Chestnut Hill Mall, for Christ’s sake!”
“You haven’t introduced me to Mr. Heller,” Belinda said. She approached, offered me her hand. It was bony and cool. Her fingernails were painted coral too. She had the vacant beauty of your classic trophy-wife bimbo, and she spoke with a sugary Georgia accent, all mint juleps and sweet iced tea.
I stood up. “Nick,” I said. All I knew about her was what I’d heard from my mother. Belinda Jackson Marcus had been a flight attendant with Delta and met Marcus in the bar at the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead, in Atlanta.
“Pardon my manners,” Marcus said but remained slouched in his chair. “Nick, Belinda. Belinda, Nick,” he added perfunctorily. “Is she not a gorgeous creature, this girl?” A wide, pleased smile: he’d gotten his teeth capped too. That and the new hair: Marcus had never been vain, so I assumed he’d done all this work out of insecurity at having a wife so much younger and so beautiful. Or maybe she’d been pushing him to renovate.
Belinda tipped her head and rolled her eyes, a coy, fawnlike gesture. “Have you offered Mr. Heller some lunch?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Now, what’s wrong with you, sugar?” Belinda said.
“What kind of lousy host am I?” he said. “See? What would I do without Belinda? I’m an animal. An uncivilized beast. How about a sandwich, Nickeleh?”
“I’m good,” I said.
“Nothing?”
“I’m fine.”
Belinda said, “How about I fix y’all some coffee?”
“Sure.”
She glided over to the long black soapstone-topped island and clicked on an electric kettle. Her tight white pants emphasized the curves of her tight butt. She clearly spent most of her time working out, probably with a trainer, with a special focus on the glutes. “I’m not really much for making coffee,” she said, “but we have instant. It’s quite good, actually.” She held up a little foil packet.
“You know, I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “I’ve had too much coffee this morning already.”
Belinda turned around suddenly. “Nick,” she said. “You have to find her.” She approached slowly. “Please. You have to find her.”
She was freshly made up, I noticed. She didn’t look like she’d been up all night. Unlike her husband, she looked refreshed, as if she’d just awakened from a long restorative nap. She wore pink lip gloss, her lips perfectly lined. I knew enough about women and their makeup to know that you didn’t roll out of bed looking like that.