Mean Woman Blues

tranquil living room, sunlight streaming in, Skip spoke again. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
    Karen said, “This is so weird,” and thought she sounded like some Valley girl on a television show. She sat up straight and made an effort to restart her mind. “I’m sorry. I’m a little disoriented.”
    “You’ve had a bad shock.”
    Several of them
, Karen thought.
Several of them.
    “You’ve been living with an entirely different man from the person you thought was your husband. Do you believe that now?”
    Karen nodded. She’d sort of more or less thought she had the hang of it, but viewing that tape was like watching science fiction, some awful end-of-the-world story in which aliens took over the minds and bodies of your loved ones. Except in this case it was the other way around: They wore people suits; they made you think they were human, and handsome, and loving…
    But there was only one, and it was her own husband. She really had to get that through her head. “But… how can you do that?” she said, not meaning how could anyone be so sick and vicious and conniving but how was it possible to accomplish such a thing.
    To her relief, the cop understood. “It would take a hell of a lot of money. Surgery; hair implants, maybe; speech lessons. He has sort of a British accent now— it could have been done in another country.”
    “But the pictures…”
    “Ah, yes. The ones you mentioned, of David with Rosemarie’s former husband. Photographs can be altered. But he’d have to get the photos first.”
    She was speaking very carefully, and Karen was beginning to get her drift. She was beginning to have a small epiphany. “Rosemarie!”
    Skip nodded.
    Karen said, “She has the money, and she’d be the only one in the world— or almost— who had the pictures. And she must have hired him; the cable station belongs to her.” She stopped to work it out. “But why didn’t they just get remarried?”
    “Educated guess? Way, way too close for comfort. It’s known that they know each other, also that he had recent contact with her— either he had her kidnapped and tried to make her help him once before, or they set it up to look like he did. No way could they be seen together. Let me ask you a question. You say he was in Rosemarie’s social set. How do you know that?”
    “We’ve been to parties at her house, parties for the cable station, that sort of thing; he knew the same people she knew.”
    “How many people?”
    Karen thought about it. “Not very many. Two or three, maybe.”
    “Uh-huh. She probably introduced him around at large gatherings, like the ones you went to, and by the time you met him, it seemed as if he was a close friend of her close friends.”
    “We never socialized with those people.”
    “There was probably a very good reason for that. Karen, listen. This man will do anything. If he tries to contact you, you’ve got to promise you won’t see him.”
    She tilted her head at the car across the street. “How could I see him with my babysitter out there?”
    “Don’t hedge. Your life could depend on it.”
    “You honestly think I have anything at all to say to the man I just saw on that videotape?”
    “I hope not.”
    “But what if he calls?”
    “Keep him talking. See if you can get him to agree to meet you. Then call the FBI and tell them when and where.”
    “Fuck the FBI!”
    “Okay. Call me then.” She wrote something on a card. “Call me if you hear from him. And whatever you do, don’t keep the appointment. Do I need to mention that?”
    Karen stubbed out her butt in the ashtray. “You think I’m crazy? The only place I’m going is out for cigarettes.”
    Skip pulled out another pack. “Brought you two. Just in case.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
    Mr. Right was at his best in a crisis; as soon as the worst happened, it was like having a weight lifted from his shoulders. Right now, his mind was in high gear, juices flowing, thoughts coming so fast he could hardly process them. He felt alive. He should have seen it coming, the way the bitch had set him up. He toyed with the idea of killing her now, trying to make it look as if she and her mini-Tarzan had killed each other in a lover’s quarrel. But with Rosemarie dead, there was no chance in hell of getting his hands on any of his money— the blood money he’d earned by freeing her from husband number whatever-it-was.
    His course of action was obvious. There was only one way out of this, and