Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

“Sure. I’ll grab something to go. Skype you when I’m home?”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  Margaux rounded the corner. Her building, with a lantern illuminating the front porch, came into view.

  And so did Arlon and a porch full of presents.

  He held up a bag of carryout.

  “You’re always reading my mind.” She terminated the call and ran toward him.

  They met on the sidewalk, and she threw her arms around him. His lips instantly found hers.

  “Turns out, I know you pretty well,” he said between kisses. “Red roses. White chocolate. Cheeseburger. And this . . .”

  A small bag from a lingerie boutique on State Street dangled from his hand.

  “This is actually a present for me, but . . . you get to wear it.”

  “You’re amazing,” she said. “How did I get so lucky as to find you?”

  A flash of light cracked the darkness.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Lightning,” he said on a breath at her neck. “Storm’s coming.”

  It seemed more like the flash of a camera, but she was too excited to see him to argue such a silly point.

  “Dessert first?” He leaned to her lips. “You? Nightie? Making love all night on your rooftop in the rain?”

  “Luckily for both of us,” she whispered into his ear, “I suddenly have a craving.”

  Chapter 12

  JESSICA

  “Arlon Judson,” I say when I walk up to Decker’s cubicle.

  “Who?” He barely looks up when I walk in, but I forgive it because it’s near the end of the night shift—about six in the morning—and if the guy’s slept, eaten, or showered since I last saw him, I’d be surprised.

  “He’s someone you should talk to.” I lean a hip against his desk, where I see he’s filtering through all the notes I left him the day he blew off our lunch plans.

  “Okay. Who is he?”

  “Margaux Stritch’s boyfriend, and I’m guessing the reason she has an A and a J carved into her breast.”

  He awards me a split second’s worth of eye contact. “Interesting. And how did we come across this information?”

  “I texted you, remember? Said I might know something? I paid a visit to her adoptive family. The alderman wasn’t in, but his wife . . .” I whistle. “What a treat. But she said you should be looking for Arlon Judson.”

  “Any clue how to find this Arlon Judson?”

  “Can’t do your whole job, Lieutenant. Just part of it. Is the autopsy report back yet?”

  “It is.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “It’s classified. Part of an ongoing investigation.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come on. The reason no one’s heard from your sorry ass since this whole thing happened is because I analyzed your meager little file. Gave you plenty to chew on, didn’t I?”

  “Don’t you have a kitten to pull out of a tree or something?”

  I help myself to a tin of peanuts open amid the clutter on his desk. “I’m not on shift until tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.”

  “Anything in the trash at Margaux’s building prove helpful?”

  Decker leans back in his chair and slowly shakes his head. “No half-dead bouquet of flowers, if that’s what you mean.”

  “So what’s with the vase, then?” I pop a peanut into my mouth.

  “I don’t know.” He reaches for me, draws a line with his finger from midthigh to my knee.

  His touch sends a shiver straight to all the parts of me that count in the middle of the night.

  “Want to grab a bite later? Maybe rent a movie?”

  “Can’t. I have a date.”

  “With boy wonder?”

  “His name’s Jack. And occasionally he cancels on me, but you know what? He texts me to let me know he’s not going to show. Christ, Deck, I waited here for you over an hour the other day.”

  His gaze hangs there, tangled with mine, and I know that suddenly—judging by his touching his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, the slightly askew tilt of his head—he’s trying to find something witty to counter my logic. He presses his lips together, as if holding back the words he knows neither of us should say, and the silence, in the space of only a few seconds, grows absolutely unbearable.

  “What?” I say. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “You’re pretty incredible, you know. And it’s not that I can’t grow up and have an adult relationship. It’s the job. The commitment to the cases I work. You’d be the same way if you were on the force. It’s tough for people to commit to cops in the long term.”

  “You push people away.”

  “You decided it wasn’t enough for you,” he says. “And I don’t blame you. You need what you need. And, apparently, you need someone more grown-up than me.”

  “How old are you, incidentally?”

  “At heart? Or in years?”

  “Either way, does it matter? We decided we didn’t work.”

  “And yet our paths keep crossing.”

  In the space of a breath, I remember how it felt not to be sneaking around with him—as if I’d just bought a great pair of one-of-a-kind strappy sandals. And they’re comfortable, and sexy, and they go with everything, but after slipping them on a few times, I notice they’re not holding up against normal wear and tear. Lieutenant KJ Decker is like those sandals. He’s great to a certain point, but then the buckles start to fall off and the leather becomes unstitched, so to speak. And he’s still beautiful, and I keep taking him out of the box to look at him, but I know if I test him out again, on actual pavement, it’s only a matter of time before I’m barefoot.

  Just when I think I can’t handle another second of the silence, he intentionally taps a file on his desk, and it spills to the floor. “Aw, man. Would you look at that?”

  I instantly crouch to help gather its contents.

  He’s crouched next to me.

  We make eye contact when I see an autopsy photograph.

  This one is of Margaux’s bruised neck, and I zero in on what he wants me to see: an oval smudge of black and blue, roughly the size of . . . “Is that a thumbprint?” I ask.

  “Sure looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “Strangulation. Made to look like a hanging. Up close and intimate. And considering she wasn’t wearing panties . . . lovers’ quarrel?”

  “Very good. So you can imagine how much I appreciate the intel about Arlon Judson.”

  “Yeah, but where to find him?”

  “I hope to know more about that as soon as the analysis comes back. The perpetrator left some DNA for us to play with.”

  A sinking feeling dances in my gut. “She was raped?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “All I know is there’s evidence of intercourse. It was likely of the rough variety, given the bruises on her inner thighs—old bruises, mind you, occurring a few days before her death. But not necessarily against her will.”

  I feel a little better hearing she might have consented, but—

  I think about the cash left on the counter at Margaux’s place. The panties in the drawer of her bureau, but none on her body. The reports of her working at the Aquasphere Underground. “Was she a call girl?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The hundred-dollar bills left on the counter. Four or five of them, right? Rough sex. Maybe someone was paying for it the way he liked it.”

  “Maybe. But I’d assume any john would take his cash with him after he committed a crime of passion.”

  “Unless it was an accident. Unless he got attached to her and felt remorse for what he’d done.”

  “Accidentally murdered her, then staged a hanging?”

  “In a panic. It could happen. I mean, a guy paying for sex isn’t going to want to call the cops if something goes wrong midromp.”

  “I guess.”

  “But either way, there’s evidence left behind. That’s
good. You’ll catch him.”

  “I will.”

  “Do me a favor: catch him enough for all the other bastards who got away with doing the things he did to her.”

  Decker’s stare is sober and focused. “It’s not too late, you know.”

  “Forget it.” Decker’s heard my tales of woe before, but now’s not the time to hash it out. Now he should be centered on Margaux. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “We can track the guy down and prosecute.”

  “It was too long ago. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

  “Your statute of limitations runs out in two years, ten years past your eighteenth birthday. That’s plenty of time for me to find him. And I will. If you want me to.”

  I stare into his eyes.

  “Your experiences could be the reason you’re always doing my job,” he says. “You want justice to prevail. And it didn’t for you.”

  “I . . . Deck . . .”

  He raises a brow, reaches for a strand of hair that’s escaped my ponytail. Such a gingerly touch. It feels good. Comfortable. But I know if I let it continue, I’m only signing up for a lifetime of waiting at diners for a guy who’ll never show up.

  “I gotta go.” I stand.

  “Talk later?”

  “Yeah,” I say over my shoulder. “Fine.”

  He knows I’m avoiding the conversation, but that’s okay. He should get a taste of his own medicine.

  When I near the lobby, I see a woman clad in Lululemon. A pair of sunglasses sits atop her head, holding back her dark hair. She’s somewhere pushing forty, and she looks as if she hasn’t slept in nearly a week. “I just want some information,” she’s saying to the desk sarge, who’s barely glancing at her as she speaks. “They’re not saying on the news one way or another, but . . .” Her hand dips into her purse and almost pulls out a plastic bag. Almost. At the last minute, however, she shoves it back in. “If Margaux met with foul play—”

  “You related to the deceased, ma’am?” the sarge says.

  “What? No. I’m . . .” She fumbles over words. “Not family, but sort of . . . I guess you could say we were friends.”

  “Sort of, huh?” The sarge looks at her over the rims of his glasses. “If you have information for the detective working the case, I’ll call him. But if you don’t, you’ll have to wait for the breaking news.”

  She steps back. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” The plastic bag is still in her grasp when she leans against the door and exits.

  It’s obvious she’s conflicted. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she doesn’t. But one thing’s for certain—if every city employee blows her off, we’ll never know.

  I follow her and have to break into a light jog to catch up because she darted around a corner. “Excuse me. Ma’am?”

  She turns toward me.

  I glance down at the bag she’s holding.

  Is that a pair of red underwear?

  The scene of the incident replays in my mind, as if on a loop: Margaux’s body on the floor as I straighten her red nightie over her bare lower half.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear.” I thumb behind me. “At the station.”

  “Are you a cop?” She regards me with caution.

  “No. Firefighter.”

  “Wait. You’re Blythe, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not too many women on the job. I saw you on the news. Your name down the side of your jacket. You were there.”

  “Yeah,” I admit.

  Her face lights up with a smile. “Female firefighter. Good for you. Thanks for your service.”

  “Just my job, ma’am.”

  “Is it? Because I’d think that’s quite a calling.”

  “Well, the priesthood it’s not, but yeah, I guess.”

  A wave of pedestrians walks around us as the crosswalk alerts them to continue flowing down the street, but we stay put.

  “Hey, I noticed the sarge was blowing you off back there, but . . . are you okay?”

  It’s hard to tell if she’s crying, because she’s pulled the sunglasses back over her eyes, but she takes a long, deep inhale and swallows hard.

  “You were a friend of Margaux’s?” I ask.

  “I don’t really know how to classify the connection,” she says. “But I feel just awful about what happened.”

  I nod. “Me, as well.”

  “I suppose I just wanted to talk to someone about it.” She shoves the bag back into her purse.

  “I can understand that. Have you had lunch?”

  “My treat,” she says. “It’s the least I can do for the potential sacrifices you make day to day, not to mention putting up with the boys’ club that must come with a job like yours, and we girls have to stick together, don’t we?”

  “I appreciate that—”

  She juts her hand out in front of me. “Kirsten Holloway. Homemaker.”

  I shake her hand and say, “Jessie Blythe. Fire and rescue.”

  THEN

  MARGAUX

  It wasn’t the first time Arlon spent the night, but it was the first time he was still in her bed, asleep, when she awoke in the morning. She snuggled up close to him and breathed in the fading scent of his cologne, which she knew would linger in the threads of her sheets long after he’d gone.

  A girl could get used to this. Presents all the time. Flowers and chocolates every time he returned from a business trip.

  How many days between visits would it be this time?

  Her body still hummed with satisfaction and practically purred with the memory of sex on the rooftop, the sounds of the city astir below.

  And speaking of stirring down below . . .

  She trailed her fingers down his chest to his hips, then lower. She closed her fist around the hardest part of him.

  He groaned as he roused, his lean body ready and waiting. “Maggie.”

  She felt a rush every time he called her that. He rolled her over.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he crushed her lips under his. In an instant, he was inside her.

  Soon, she neared the brink of orgasm, and as she tensed, he stroked the length of her neck with the tips of his fingers.

  “Choke me.” She placed her hands atop his and started to squeeze.

  “No, no.” He batted away her hands. “Not today. Not yet.”

  She slapped his cheek. “Do it.”

  He caught her wrist. “No.”

  She slapped him again with her other hand. “Do it!” And again. And again.

  Until he finally closed his fingers around her throat. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “Yes!”

  Her senses heightened as her throat began to restrict.

  “Breathe,” he whispered and closed his fingers around her neck. “Breathe.”

  And even as he moved above her and drove her closer to the breaking point, his fingers tightened and constricted.

  “Breathe,” he said.

  Her eyes widened, and she gasped for breath.

  Oh no. This was a mistake. She flailed on the bed as best she could to escape, but he was too strong. She had no breath with which to scream their safe word. He was going to kill her. With one hand pinning her by the throat to her bed, the other slipping beneath the small of her back so she was truly captive in his arms, he continued his controlled rhythm, as if she weren’t hanging in the balance between life and death.

  “Breathe.”

  His fingers tightened further.

  She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t even move.

  Her flesh broke out into a fine, misty sweat, and although her air supply was dwindling, and she was light-headed, fixating on the determined expression on his face—he wanted to kill her, he wanted her gone—a sort of ethereal sensation came over her as he worked her down below with precise strokes.

  Suddenly, she wasn’t trying to breathe.

  Suddenly, she was trembling with pleasure, and . . .

  He released his grip o
n her neck.

  Oh my God.

  She drew in a lungful.

  She quivered beneath him.

  “There’s nothing quite like it, is there?” he whispered against her lips. “To put your life in my hands and to trust that I’ll spare it every time?”

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  “I didn’t. We did.”

  She drew her fingers in circles around his heart.

  He groaned. “I think I love you,” he said.

  She melted in his arms.

  Chapter 13

  KIRSTEN

  The busing staff cleared our lunch dishes nearly an hour ago, but I’m still sipping on my second glass of wine, and Jessie just ordered another beer. For dessert, she said. I study my new friend across the table. Our conversation has been easy, if not polite, and if circumstances were different—if I weren’t on the brink of marital turmoil, and teetering on the edge of breakdown—maybe we could be friends, despite the age difference.

  I know she’s the youngest of five, the only girl, and while she hasn’t come right out and said it, she’s excited about the new guy she’s dating. He—Jack—doesn’t seem to be intimidated by her strength. She’s also struggling to give up an old habit she picked up by the name of Lieutenant Decker, but she hasn’t admitted that in so many words, either.

  I smile for the first time today. “Do you have a picture of your guy?”

  “Jack? We’re not quite there yet.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anyway . . .”

  She’s about to change the subject. She doesn’t like talking about herself, I can tell, and she feels as if she’s already said too much. “Why did you want to talk to the detective?”

  I could tell her truth. I could whip the red thong out of my purse and cry into my wine. But it all seems too much for a first meeting, so I shrug and say, “I just can’t help it. She’s not much older than my daughter, and I feel as if—I don’t know—no one’s missing her. I didn’t know her all that well”—a slight stretch of the truth, but both harmless and necessary . . . I can’t change my story now—“and I feel like I’m the only one shaken up by all this. Her adoptive parents haven’t made any statements, and I think that’s strange, given his status with the city is the likely reason her case has gotten the media coverage. And her neighbors are piling teddy bears and lipsticks and silk floral arrangements at the lamppost in front of her apartment, but none of those people knew her. No teary-eyed boyfriend, no family members pleading for the resolution of the case . . . For all the media attention there is, it just feels rather . . . contrived. Or plastic, maybe. Less than anyone deserves.”