Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  THEN

  MARGAUX

  The Akerses’ house was colder than usual, and its museum-like quality, which had fascinated her during her childhood, offered more of an aura of impending doom than curiosity today.

  She sat across from Richard in the large living room, where old maps hung on the wall alongside trophies of his hunting expeditions—deer heads, elk, and even the record Canadian moose from decades ago.

  Margaux’s gaze trailed across the room to where he sat in his favorite chair. His laptop was open on the side table, and he pretended to read while awaiting dinner. However, Margaux knew he was tracking sports scores behind Helen’s back, calculating his wins and losses.

  “I know you’re having me followed.”

  He looked up. “Babydoll—”

  “I know you’re curious about what Arlon and I do, and I know you’re paying someone to photograph me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I met someone recently who brought all this to my attention.”

  “You’ve been played, my dear.”

  “Don’t deny it. I know it’s true. But I don’t know why.”

  The alderman’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The third party said this would happen. Margaux had to stick to her guns. “Have you photographed me with every man I’ve been with? Or is it just Arlon?”

  Silently, he nodded.

  “Speak up, please. Every man?”

  “Every man.”

  “You get off on watching me with other men?”

  “I love you, babydoll. What am I supposed to do if you refuse to see me in that light?”

  “I was a child.”

  “Still, it wasn’t wrong. It was oh, so right.”

  “Do you think the voting public would think so? I know you’ve got your sights set on a higher office. Do you think that’s going to work out, if I start talking?”

  “But I’m repaying your trust. It’s what you wanted.”

  She steeled herself and prepared to say what the concerned third party told her to say: “Well, now I want more. You want me to shut up about what happened between us? Then do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “I’d like to discuss a plan for the photos you’re having taken of Arlon and me.”

  “The photos are just for me,” the alderman said. “No one else sees them.”

  “Then I send this letter”—she pulled an envelope from her handbag—“to NBC Chicago. I tell all.” She looked to the hallway, where she could see Helen seated on the tiny sofa there, paging through a magazine. “She’ll be mortified, you know. The scandal, the press . . .”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I need you to follow these instructions.” She handed over the envelope containing the letter. He’d find a few other instructions inside.

  Chapter 26

  JESSICA

  I’m drenched with rain by the time I get to the station. I wave to the desk sarge, who admits me, and I weave my way to Decker’s cube, where he and Ollie are busy pointing fingers at index cards.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s the word?”

  “The hair sample,” Ollie says.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s inconclusive.”

  I yank off my hoodie. “What does that mean?”

  “In this case, specifically,” Decker says, “the hair you pulled from the drain wasn’t pulled from one head. Does your guy have roommates?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “We’re still going to test the hairs . . . just won’t be able to tell which is Jack’s unless you plucked one directly from his skull.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, thanks to your intel, we’re able to track the leasing agreement of his apartment. It’s owned by a corporation, so more than one person could use it.” He massages his chin, which is bristly with a five o’clock shadow.

  “Which corporation?”

  “Barrett Enterprises. Ever hear of it?”

  “No. Who owns the corporation?”

  “We’re working on that,” Ollie says. “The company was incorporated in Nevada and shows virtually no income, has no shareholders of record, no contracts, no loans, and doesn’t appear to be doing business in Illinois. So what that means is . . . the owner or owners want to stay anonymous.”

  “But for what purpose?” I ask. “Why go through all the trouble of incorporating a business if you aren’t going to do any business?”

  “We’re hoping we’ll know that when we learn who owns the damn thing,” Decker says. “We’re waiting for some paperwork to come in, but seeing as Nevada doesn’t even have an information-sharing agreement in place with the IRS, you can imagine how quickly we expect to hear.”

  “Hmm.” I lean against the wall. “How’s the HOA of the apartment paid?”

  “Money order.”

  “So, no bank information. You don’t suppose . . .” I think for a second. “You said you couldn’t find Jack in Chicago. He travels constantly. Maybe he’s actually from Nevada.”

  “Devil’s advocate,” Decker says. “If he has the apartment for legitimate business purposes, why the secrecy with the corporation?”

  “Because if I decided to fall hard for him, and he suddenly disappeared, I’d be able to track him home to wifey.”

  “Ah,” Ollie says. “That’s an angle.”

  “Yet more compelling,” Decker says, “friends in central Illinois sent up a file on Arlon Judson. Same height and weight as your friend’s husband.”

  “So he could be the one photographed with Margaux?”

  “Well . . . if you’d guess what’s on his right shoulder . . .”

  “Infinity symbol?”

  “No. Nothing. The guy’s got a record. History of domestic battery when he was in his early twenties—”

  “Wow.”

  “—but no tat, and he has an airtight alibi. Supposedly reformed now. Sober. Preacher at a church. His wife says they haven’t spent a night apart since they were married seven years ago.”

  “Could she be lying?” I ask.

  “With four kids in seven years?” Ollie asks. “I doubt it. They’ve been busy.”

  “I don’t think he’s our guy,” Decker says.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket.

  It’s a text from Jack.

  He misses me.

  Chapter 27

  KIRSTEN

  “Kirstie. How are you?”

  I’ve been expecting Doug’s call. “To be honest, Doug, I’ve been better. But now that I have you on the line, who do you recommend for family law? The best in the business.”

  “The best in the business would be Fordham, Lane, and Holloway. Your husband runs our divorce division.”

  “Aside from him. Who’s his biggest rival? Who gives him the best run for his money?”

  “I’m not going to answer that question before I say what I have to say.”

  “Top three.”

  “You don’t need a family lawyer.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll listen to what you have to say. But at the end of your spiel, you answer my question. Deal?”

  He sighs. “Deal.”

  But the line holds only static, and he doesn’t offer any information. I prompt him: “So you’re calling to own up to knowing Margaux Stritch.”

  “I started seeing her right around the same time I met Donna. When I realized what Donna and I had, I ended it with the other girl, but I let it linger too long. Ian was telling you the truth. He’s been covering for me.”

  “I appreciate your coming clean,” I say. “Top three?”

  “Ian loves you. You don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Doug. Even if what you’re telling me about this girl is true, there are other issues at play. I probably don’t need a lawyer, but I think I ought to talk to one, don’t you? Ian has already tried to scare me into staying. Don’t you think I deserve to k
now my rights? Don’t you think I should know what my options are, so I can decide for myself which risks to take and moves to make?”

  “You don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I think of the last night Ian and I spent together. Body to body. If only I could forget the rest, if only I could forget the woman in the periphery.

  I need to talk to you, Ian.

  Maybe Doug’s tale and Ian’s case might hold water in the court of law. Those obscure pictures might not be convincing to a jury. But I don’t need a jury. I was there. I saw the way that young girl touched his arm, as if she’d touched it a thousand times before.

  I can’t make love with my husband without hearing her voice, without seeing her young body, without imagining her long limbs wrapped around him. There’s no room for both of us in our marital bed, and even though she can no longer interfere, the ghost of her scent still lingers.

  “Tragic,” he says. “The way it all ended.”

  I fill the space between us with silence. It’s an old lawyer’s trick, but it’s also served me well in motherhood. People don’t like silence. They want to fill it so they don’t have to endure it.

  Finally, Doug clears his throat. “I’d say top three are Goldstein, Yates, and maybe . . . Trisham.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You won’t tell Donna?”

  “Of course not.” I catch a tear on the tip of my finger. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Chapter 28

  JESSICA

  “Thanks for the ride.” I’m in the front seat of Decker’s car, and it’s still dumping rain by the buckets.

  He pulls up to the cross street at my building, which is now directly viewable out the front windshield. The streets are practically barren—who in his right mind would be out in this weather?—but just as I’m about to get out of the car, I see a figure in front of my building.

  Decker must see it, too, because he closes his fingers around my arm and nods in the direction of my residence.

  I follow his gaze to the steps of my building, where a man is craning, appearing to look up at the bay window to his left—into my apartment.

  Despite the newspaper tented over his head, his white button-down is stuck to his body like a second skin.

  “I’ll wait here,” Decker says. “Don’t let him up to your apartment.”

  I treat my companion to my best are-you-kidding-me expression. “Obviously.” I yank my hood over my head. I don’t have an umbrella, but it hardly matters. I’m heading straight from the street to the shower. I leap over puddles. As I draw nearer, I see a tattoo on the back of the visitor’s right shoulder, visible now that, thanks to the rain, the color of his flesh bleeds through the fabric. I stop short.

  It’s an infinity symbol. Just like the one Decker’s chasing down through the photos that showed up at Kirsten’s place.

  He turns around. “Hi. Are you Jessica by any chance?”

  I look back at Decker’s sedan. Hopefully he’ll be able to read my mayday through the rain.

  “I believe we have a mutual friend,” he continues. “Would you mind inviting me up? This storm is—”

  “Stop right there.” I hold up a hand when he takes another step closer.

  I hear the slamming of Decker’s car door. He got the message, all right.

  “Suit yourself. But I’ll have to come back if we don’t do this now, and if you don’t mind, I have a busy schedule.” He extends a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m—”

  “Interesting tattoo you have there,” Decker says as he approaches. “Would you mind coming down to the station so I can ask you a few questions?”

  “To be honest, I don’t have time.”

  “You can make time, or I can arrest you on probable cause.”

  “Probable cause of what?”

  “Arlon Judson, right?”

  My visitor takes a few steps backward, and before I can so much as blink, he takes off running.

  But his loafers betray him in this weather. When he slips, Decker’s got my visitor in cuffs. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “Wait, wait,” the cuffed man says.

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” Decker leads him back to the car.

  I follow a few steps behind.

  “Check my wallet,” he says. “Please. You’ll see I’m not who you think I am. It’s in my back pocket.”

  Decker slips the wallet out—I take it from where he sets it atop the roof of the car—as he shoves the perpetrator into the back seat.

  I open the wallet. My jaw hits the floor when I see the name on the driver license. “Uh, Deck?”

  He’s calling the station: “I need a patrol car to transport a person of interest to CPD fourteen.”

  “You wanna know this guy’s identity?” I ask.

  “Don’t need to know.”

  “He’s not Arlon Judson.”

  “We know the Arlon Judson we’re looking for is likely not really Arlon Judson. He took off when I mentioned the name. This guy’s got a tattoo. Just happens to be the tattoo I’ve been looking for, too.” Decker looks at me. “And here’s where you go up to your apartment and let me do my job.”

  “It says here his name is Patrick,” I say. “Patrick Holloway. I think he’s Kirsten’s son.”

  “Great.”

  “He lives on Oakley Street,” I say. “And the label on the magazine in Jack’s apartment said Oakley, remember?”

  “Yep. He might know someone who lives at Jack’s place.”

  “You mean he might know Arlon.”

  “I guess we’ll find out sooner or later.”

  THEN

  MARGAUX

  Arlon was calling. Probably to apologize for losing his temper at the club. But she wasn’t ready to hear it yet.

  She declined the call.

  A moment later, the doorbell was buzzing, too.

  She peeked out the window, saw his car parked at the curb in a tow zone on Webster, and instantly, a numbness filtered through her system. He wasn’t going to go away. He’d stay out there, pressing her buzzer, all night, and the longer she waited to acknowledge him, the more brutal his reception would be. Eventually, he’d come up—whether she admitted him or someone else in the building tired of hearing the buzzer—and he’d be furious. She’d learned from the night of the catsuit that he could be downright cruel when he was angry.

  She had to stand up for herself, once and for all, put a stop to this fear.

  She pressed the door intercom button. “Can I help you?”

  “You’re right.” His voice came through the speaker. “It’s your choice how you want to earn your money.”

  For a few seconds, she didn’t move.

  “But maybe there’s another way. I have money, Margaux. Would you still perform underground if you didn’t have to?”

  The look she’d seen in his eyes when he’d closed his fingers around her throat would haunt her forever. He was going to kill her . . . honest-to-God kill her.

  “Please. Let me come up. Let’s talk. I have money. I can take care of you.”

  Against her better judgment, she admitted him.

  She listened at the door as he climbed the steps. First one flight, then the second.

  She jumped when he rapped on the door.

  It was her last chance to come to her senses, to tell him to get lost.

  But instead, she turned the dead bolt and opened the door.

  He walked in.

  He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her hard and long. “I love you,” he said between kisses.

  She was numb in his arms.

  He led her, their bodies entwined and his tongue shoving against hers, to the window, where they’d first made love.

  He held her against the sill, kissed her for a time as he tore at the small sash at her waist. Then he flipped her around to face the window, ripped open the zipper at her back, and slipped her dress down over her bare should
ers, his fingertips following the curves of her body along the way.

  Her reflection in the window stared back at her.

  She braced herself for whatever was about to come—a knife, a rope, another few hundred bills tossed at her feet, another ignored black crow.

  He was on his knees behind her now.

  She held her breath.

  “Maggie?”

  She froze.

  “God, Maggie. Marry me.”

  “What?” She turned to find him genuflecting in front of her, a small box open in his hands, a ruby ring nestled on a bed of black velvet.

  “Marry me.”

  “Arlon.”

  “Law school. We’ve talked about it, and I’ve decided: I’ll foot the bill. All you have to do is save your performances for me. Stop seeing that other guy. And say yes.”

  “I can’t—”

  “We can. Do you love me?”

  “I thought I did.”

  “That’s all I need to know.” He slid the ring onto her finger, got to his feet, and held her close.

  She stared at the ring on her finger. He’d offered more than the rest of his life. He’d promised law school. Wheels started to turn in her head. There was a way to beat him at his own game.

  She could take what he offered—tuition—and chew him up and spit him out on graduation day.

  This ring was a momentum shift.

  A passing of the upper hand.

  This changed everything.

  Now she was in charge.

  Chapter 29

  KIRSTEN

  My phone is practically dancing on the countertop, vibrating with text alert after text alert.

  It’s Jessica:

  Decker has your son.

  He’s been arrested.

  In connection with Margaux.

  “Oh my God,” I say.

  My fingers are trembling, but I manage to dial my husband’s firm. Doug is head of the criminal division. He’ll come. He’ll help.

  “Doug, it’s Kirstie. Patrick has been arrested.”

  I’m seated at a table in a holding cell across from my son. Doug is with us and on his feet. Doug’s being here means the recording devices have been turned off, as everything uttered between them is considered privileged information, but I keep looking at them to be sure. No blinking red lights. No widening of the lens as it focuses.