Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  “Do you think I don’t know what you’re inferring?”

  “Ma’am, I’m not inferring anything—”

  “Do you think I don’t know Margaux spread those dirty lies among our friends? Complete fabrications! She could have ruined us, you know. Such accusations! To think anyone would believe my husband would have been inappropriate with Margaux . . . it’s ludicrous. Is that why you’re here? Are you looking for some way to pin motivation to kill her on me? On my husband?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. Like I said, I’m not with the police. I’m here to check in with you. To see how you’re doing.”

  “And to invent a personal abuse story to get on my good side! Have you no morals?”

  I stand. “I suppose I should be going.”

  “If you want to bother someone, if you want to know who’s responsible for Margaux’s death—”

  “I’m not investigating. I only came as a courtesy—”

  “—look at the obvious suggestion. Arlon Judson.”

  “I’ll inform the police.”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say as I edge my way toward the door. “I’m sorry to have upset you. I really was here only to see if you needed to talk.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest.

  “But I didn’t fabricate what happened to me,” I say. “I was hurt, and I survived. And if that sort of thing happened to Margaux, too . . . well, maybe she could have used some compassion instead of your judgment.”

  With that I place my card on a small table—if she wants to talk later, she can call—and head out the door, quick to text Decker: Call me. I might know something.

  THEN

  MARGAUX

  Arlon knew the password to gain entry—whip it good.

  He paid her initial membership fee, an exorbitant $1,000, and a guard—a tower of a man whose shirt was labeled PAGE—gave her a special card with a scanner code and a gold bracelet with the same code stamped on the underside. “You’ll need both to enter,” the page said. “Guard them with your life.”

  Then Arlon paid the cover charge, an additional $200. Each.

  And the moment she and Arlon set foot on the subterranean level of the Aquasphere Underground, Margaux’s nerves awakened.

  She felt the music in her bones, and the beat settled deep down in places she wasn’t supposed to talk about. Instantly, her flesh was dewy with the heat of the room, and she swayed against her new acquaintance’s body.

  The place smelled of something sweet, like cotton candy, and scantily clad waitresses roamed the floor with test tubes of a glowing purple liquid.

  “Aphrodisiac,” Arlon told her when she asked what it was.

  And the next she knew, she was throwing one back.

  Naked men and women alike danced in cages and on stages, some alone, some in pairs or triplets, and black doors lined the perimeter of the place.

  “There’s only one rule here,” Arlon said. “What happens at the Underground stays at the Underground. That means no pictures. No videos. Nothing posted online.”

  “I can see why,” she said.

  “And I have the same rule. Nothing posted online.”

  “I abhor social media.”

  She took Arlon by the hand and pulled him toward the closest door. A gold star on the door bore a label: WATCH ME.

  The next door: PARTY OF THREE

  The next: TIED UP AT THE MOMENT

  And the next: WAX ON, WAX OFF

  PAINT BY NUMBER.

  DRAG DAY.

  They had another drink.

  Then two, then three.

  Another shot of aphrodisiac.

  Another dance.

  “Look,” Arlon whispered. “It’s the ultimate act of trust.”

  She followed the point of his finger to a window across the hallway, where a dominatrix gave commands.

  A woman was tied to a table, and her man was honest-to-goodness having sex with her while a crowd gathered around. The dominatrix gave an order. The man obeyed . . . and closed his hands around the woman’s throat. She writhed in both panic and pleasure. Just when Margaux was sure the poor woman would die of strangulation, the dom whipped the man’s bare ass—“Enough!” He released his hold, and the bound woman practically squealed with the delight of orgasm.

  “Ohhh.” Margaux, mesmerized, felt hot and pink and pretty everywhere. “Yes, yes,” she said along with the woman on the table.

  The stranger she’d met tonight, Arlon . . . oh my God, he palmed her ass and squeezed. “Someday, you’ll trust me like that,” he whispered.

  He was just what the doctor ordered, just what she needed to forget about Richard and Helen and the money and the future they stole from her.

  And then, as if the mere thought of his name made him appear, there he was: everyone’s granddad, himself, exiting one of the perimeter rooms, this one coined BABYSIT ME.

  She knew what sorts of things probably happened in that room. Resentment coiled through her. Disgust.

  She kept her gaze fixed on him, and he stood there, mute, mouth agape, staring back. Pain registered in his eyes, but not of the physical sort. He was looking at her as if to say, how could you?

  He was wondering, no doubt, how she could disgrace him and Helen by walking through the door, by allowing someone she’d only just met to stand so close to her.

  Wasn’t it just like a man to assume she should never engage in something he’d been doing for years, if not decades?

  Arlon’s hand was still on her ass, and he was already biting at her neck.

  Margaux, with her eyes boring holes into Alderman Richard Akers’s, brought her hands to Arlon’s fly, unzipped, and took him into her hand.

  Chapter 9

  KIRSTEN

  “Patrick?” I hear the sound of bass-heavy music in the background and the nearby giggle of my son’s girlfriend. “Are you out with Becca? Clubbing?”

  “We’re out, yes,” he screams into the phone. “Not sure you could call this place a club, though.”

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sort of . . . hold on a sec.”

  The music fades away, and I ascertain he must be stepping outside.

  He clears his throat. “What’s up, Mom?”

  “Your father left. He’s on his way to your place.”

  He sighs. “I know. He already called me. What’s going on?”

  “I’m worried, Patrick.” I begin to fill him in on the day’s newsbreak, Margaux Stritch’s suicide-slash-murder.

  “I know, Mom,” Patrick says before I even get halfway into all the reasons I’m concerned. “He told me.”

  “He says this girl was having an affair with Doug, but it doesn’t make sense. Doug left Lena for Donna. Does that mean he was cheating on the girl he was cheating on his ex-wife with? It’s all so contrived. Doesn’t sound right.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with Doug, but if Dad says that’s what happened, well, that’s what happened.”

  “They’re saying this girl—the one who died—might have been a dancer at the Aquasphere Underground, and—”

  “Oh. Okay, then, that makes sense. That was part one of Doug’s bachelor party—that’s where we kicked off the night. So maybe . . .”

  “That’s all fine and good,” I say, “and maybe it even adds up. But if this girl had been with Doug, why would her panties have been in—”

  “In the jacket pocket, yeah, yeah. He told me about that, too.”

  I wait.

  “Have you considered Dad might be right? That you just need to relax a little? It hasn’t been that long since you . . . you know, since your episode.”

  “Okay, I was upset and a little out of control when Quinn told me she was moving out before the semester even began. I acknowledge it. But it has nothing to do with the fact that the dry cleaner pulled a red thong out of your father’s suit coat.”

  He sighs. “Look, Dad talked to me about it, and I have t
o say you’re way off base. There’s no way he’d do what you think he did.”

  “He seemed to think you might have borrowed his jacket that night. When you went out for a cigar.”

  “I was a little overserved, Mom. I might’ve.”

  “So you’re saying the underwear could be Becca’s.”

  “Probably is.”

  “But Becca stayed at the table with Quinn and me when you went—”

  “Not every time. Look. Just throw them away, okay? You’re making yourself crazy. Dad says he didn’t do it, I don’t really remember, and you’ve been married for a long time. Have a little faith, okay?”

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “I don’t know everything, Mom. But I know Dad. He wouldn’t dare. The alimony would kill him.”

  “The alimony—”

  “It was a joke.”

  But . . . I feel my shoulders go lax. “Is it?” I’ve never earned a dime of my own money. If Ian wanted out, he’d have to take care of me. For the rest of my life. “If Dad doesn’t see divorce as an option, he could feasibly find someone to see on the side.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No more ridiculous than to consider I have no choice but to stay. He could hide assets and leave me destitute.”

  “Mom.”

  “You just told me you were doing it for another case, so don’t tell me your dad can’t finagle it. And Patrick, they’re saying this girl might have been murdered. If they connect her to your dad—”

  “Mom! Relax. You need some sleep. You need to stop jumping to conclusions and trust me on this.”

  I take a deep breath. “Patrick, just once I wish you’d see things without your father’s influence, through your own filters.”

  “What?”

  “I raised you. I did. Your father is always your hero, but don’t forget that before you were an aspiring law student, you were a kid who couldn’t lose a tooth without your mommy’s help. Stop placating me. I’m not some idiot housewife you’re protecting assets from so you can screw her over in court. I’m your mother, and I deserve to be taken seriously.”

  “Who says you’re not taken seriously?”

  “You’re so busy protecting him that you’re not even listening to what I’m saying. She’s dead, and sooner or later, someone’s going to realize he’s been involved with her—on some level.”

  “What do you think I’m protecting him from?”

  “I’m going to bring the panties to the police station. Tell me: How confident are you that your father’s DNA won’t be found on them?”

  “Mom.”

  “Tell your father to be home by morning, or that’s exactly where I’m going and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  I hang up.

  Chapter 10

  JESSICA

  Amid a noisy crowd at a sushi restaurant off the beaten path, a ruby pendant stares up at me from a bed of black velvet.

  “Put it on.” Jack rises from his chair, walks around our cozy table for two, and picks up the box the necklace sits in.

  “It’s too much,” I say as he clasps it around my neck. And it is—on two levels. We haven’t been dating that long, for one thing, and for another, this looks like an actual ruby. A real one. And I’m wearing one of exactly two dresses in my closet, and all I can think about is how I’m going to keep this damn strapless bra from slipping off the girls all night. I don’t know when or where such an elegant accessory would be appropriate in a life like mine.

  “Beautiful.” I trace the outline of the stone with a fingertip.

  “I know you’ve had a hard week.” He resumes his seat. “You were on that call—the suicide.”

  “I was.”

  “And I wasn’t here for you. I should’ve been.”

  “It’s not the first dead body I’ve ever moved.”

  “Still, it’s awful.”

  “Brutal. But I got through it okay.”

  “How do you get over seeing something like that?”

  If I knew the answer to this one, I wouldn’t be waking up several times a night thinking of her, but my best guess is you drink too much and end up in bed with the detective in charge of the case, fucking it into oblivion, that’s how. “You just gotta roll,” I say. “There’s nothing else you can do.”

  “Is it true they’re saying she was murdered?”

  “They don’t know yet. But it’s an interesting case, for sure.”

  “Mmm.” An appetizer arrives at the table. Jack spoons a fried dumpling onto my plate before taking one for himself.

  “Jack, have you ever been to . . .”

  “This looks good. Sorry, it’s just that I’m starving.” He grins. “I feel like I don’t eat unless I’m with you.”

  “Yeah, I have that effect on a lot of people.”

  “No, I like that you eat. It’s crazy how many dates I’ve been on where she’ll nibble on a side salad and not even finish it!”

  “Well, you won’t have that problem with me.”

  “Glad to hear it. And go on. You were saying?”

  “I was wondering . . . have you ever heard of the Aquasphere Underground?”

  “Yeah. Over on . . . Western, is it?”

  “You ever go?”

  Effortlessly, he wrangles a dumpling between his chopsticks and pops it in his mouth. “Trick question.”

  I laugh. “It’s a yes-or-no question. In no way trick.”

  “Well, if I say yes, admit I’ve gone—”

  “Ah. So you have.”

  “—you think I’m some sort of pervert. I go home alone. If I say no, you think I’m a prude, that I’m not good in bed. I go home alone. Lose-lose.”

  I laugh. He’s funny. I like funny.

  He flashes a brief smile. “Either way, I’d gladly go with you.” He reaches across the table and brushes a few fingers over my knuckles. “Maybe it’s time we talked about us, where you see this going.”

  My chest tightens. Shit, I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to have to define anything. Talking draws a line. Definition means limits, which equals no Decker.

  God, am I ready to never see Decker again?

  I should be. No good could possibly come of the merry-go-round we’ve been on since I was inducted into the CFD, when our paths started to cross.

  Talk about spontaneous combustion.

  We met the night of a warehouse fire—an arson case—and we crashed into each other and didn’t come up for air for nearly two days.

  I just need to quit him. Rip him off like a Band-Aid.

  “You’re a different type of girl than I’m used to,” Jack’s saying.

  “Yeah. Apparently I eat, when the rest of the female population nibbles.”

  “You’re strong. Independent. You don’t need me any more than I need another headache. But we enhance each other, don’t we? And if you want to talk about doing things together, like going to the Underground—”

  Double shit.

  He thinks I asked because I’m curious, because I’m into the sort of kinky things that happen at the underground club. I can’t backpedal now. I can’t tell him I want to go to see if I can track down the girl quoted in the paper, Gail Force, or anyone there who knew Margaux. I want to know if anyone there knows anything about Arlon Judson, or anyone ever saw any red flags between him and Margaux. But Jack thinks I want to take things to the next level—that I want to skip levels, actually. Skip the basic sex and go straight to kinkville.

  I’ve been hanging out with Decker too long. With Decker, it’s sort of understood that every conversation is going to revolve around a case or a call or a cold file. I guess normal guys don’t think that way.

  As if he sensed I was thinking of him, Decker chimes in with a text message: Free?

  I cover the screen with my hand and glance up at Jack, who doubtlessly saw the name Decker light up my screen. I silence the ringer and refocus on Jack.

  “This is good between us. I only see
it getting better.” Jack winks and tops off my wineglass, which didn’t need another filling. “Lately, you’ve been much more of a distraction than I expected. Even when I’m halfway across the country, I find myself thinking of you, always wondering what you’re up to.”

  A sense of guilt rises in my gut. When he’s halfway across the country, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t approve of what I’m doing. I reach for my wine, and because I feel as if I should say something, I mutter, “I aim to please.”

  God, I’m a shitty girlfriend.

  “And I want to go to Aquasphere with you. I want to go to a lot of places with you.”

  My phone alerts again—vibrates this time—with another text from Decker.

  “Jessica.”

  I meet Jack’s glance across the table.

  “I just want you to know I’m here for you. I’m sure there are other people—your colleagues on the call with you—you’d rather talk with about this stuff. Other people you’re used to relying on . . .”

  Is that a veiled accusation? Does he know about Decker and me?

  “And maybe I can’t understand the job the way they do. But I’ll always listen. So if you want to talk, spitball theories . . . whatever. I’m here.”

  For long moments, we’re locked in a stare across the table.

  Finally, he offers a hand, and I slide my fingers into his palm. “And maybe someday you can put it all behind you. Maybe someday you’ll find you don’t want to do it anymore.”

  I refuse to blink. And even when he kisses my hand, he maintains eye contact.

  I get the distinct impression he’s not talking about my career.

  He wants me to put Decker behind me. He’s hoping I don’t want to do Decker anymore.

  “It’s none of my business if you’re seeing someone else, I guess,” he says.

  “I’m—”

  He stops me with a shake of his head. “We’ve never said either of us couldn’t. But I’m hoping you’ll want to change that.”

  I have to do it, or I’m going to lose Jack: I have to rip off the Band-Aid and quit Decker cold turkey.

  Chapter 11

  KIRSTEN

  I have to go to the police station or no one is going to take me seriously. When I told Patrick to give Ian my ultimatum last night, I 100 percent assumed Ian would be home before midnight. I didn’t think he would actually call my bluff, and now I’m in a tough spot.