Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.” I afford him a glance, but it’s quickly diverted by the ball of fur in his arms. It’s a puppy. A beautiful, blue-eyed Siberian husky no larger than a watermelon. “Oh my God.” My hand goes to my heart. He’s adorable.

  “You want to hold him?”

  “Oh . . . no. That’s all right. Beautiful dog.”

  “He’s one of twelve.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We rescued Mama from a puppy mill.” Frat boy spills the puppy into my arms. “They all need homes. Think about it.”

  I stare eye to eye at the dog. “I’ve never really—”

  “He likes you.”

  For a moment, I’m practically mesmerized by the cool blue eyes staring back at me. Could I . . . ? Should I?

  “Maybe someday.” I hand the dog back to the man-boy peddling him. “Ian would absolutely kill me if I came home with—”

  I shut up.

  What could my husband say about it if I did decide to adopt a dog? I’d train the dog, clean up after the dog, take it to the vet . . .

  It’s true we’ve never had a pet, and it’s also true that’s because Ian never wanted to deal with the hair, the responsibility, the plain thought of it traipsing through our home.

  “If you change your mind . . . they’re at Have a Heart Rescue. It’s our philanthropy.”

  “Have a Heart. Got it.”

  He treats me to a stare so long that the hair on the back of my neck pricks to attention. “How about a drink then?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I know. I’m wondering if you want a drink.” He grins.

  Is he hitting on me?

  “Kirsten. Hi.”

  I turn to see Jessica is suddenly next to me, removing her coat. She leans in. “Let the guy buy you a drink.”

  “How’s the chardonnay here?” I whisper.

  “I don’t even know if they know that word in this bar,” she whispers back. Then to the boy with the dog, whom she’s expertly managed to displace a foot or so as she squeezes between us: “She’ll have a Goose Island 312.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll have the same. Thanks.”

  “I don’t drink beer,” I tell her.

  “You’ll like this one.”

  “So what’s going on?” I ask.

  “Well . . . for starters, Jack knows Donna Fordham.”

  “Your Jack?” My Goose Island arrives. I take a sip. Not bad.

  “Furthermore, I think she knows something about him and Margaux. I haven’t gone to Decker yet with the possibility. Haven’t been able to nail him down the past day or so.”

  I chew on this for a few seconds. “You know, come to think of it, she ran the second I mentioned Margaux. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

  “She doesn’t want anything to do with the case, that’s for sure. Jack’s got something on her, and I’m pretty sure that’s why she’s keeping quiet.” Jessica is scrolling on her phone. “She looked almost scared when she talked to him last night. Look.”

  Just as Jessica is about to allow me a look at the phone screen, she looks past my shoulder at someone behind me. “Donna. Wait.”

  My husband’s cousin’s bride is hightailing it out the door as soon as she walks in.

  Chapter 34

  JESSICA

  “Wait.” I meet up with Donna on the sunny sidewalk outside the River. “Why’d you run?”

  “I can’t do this,” Donna says. “She’s family. If you tell her I’m involved with Jack—”

  “She doesn’t have to know any of that.”

  “But she will. She’ll figure it out. My marriage will be over.”

  “Her son was arrested, and she wants your help finding Gail Force so she can clear her son’s name. That’s all.”

  “Why Gail?”

  “Because of the quote in the paper. About why Margaux was dancing at the Aquasphere. We think Gail can identify the man who was in a relationship with Margaux.”

  She brings her hand to her mouth and starts to gnaw on a thumbnail.

  “Do you know where to find Gail?” I ask.

  “Well, I mean . . . sort of, I guess. Maybe.”

  “Come back inside. Let’s talk. Come on. Cute frat boys are buying our beers.”

  She takes a deep breath, and after a moment, she goes back inside with me.

  “Hi,” Kirsten says.

  “Hi,” Donna says.

  “I trust you got to where you were going on time the other day,” Kirsten says.

  “Pardon?”

  “You sprinted up the street last time I saw you.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. It’s just . . .” She sighs. “With what happened to Margaux . . . I was in shock, I think.”

  For a minute or so, the three of us sit rather uncomfortably. I break the ice:

  “I’m just going to come out and ask: Arlon Judson. Do you know who he is?”

  “Yeah,” Donna says into her mug of beer, which just arrived, courtesy of Delta Chi.

  “Kirstie says your husbands mentioned his name the other night. And the Akerses say she was dating him,” I say. “Is that true? Did you see them together at the bar?”

  Donna nods. “I warned her off him the first day they met.”

  “Why?” Kirsten asks.

  “I don’t know . . . You know when a guy’s just too aggressive? I’d seen it happen. He was pushy and had trouble taking no for an answer. Margaux seemed quiet. Sad, really. I figured the last thing she needed was a jerk pressuring her to go downstairs.”

  “Arlon Judson’s married,” I say. “The Arlon Judson we found, anyway, but we’ve ruled him out. It’s not a common name, so we’re puzzled—”

  “No one uses his real name underground. Someone probably made it up, or fantasized about having control of someone else’s identity. Someone they aspire to be, maybe. One guy there goes as Thomas Jefferson—and dresses like him, too. People choose aliases for weird reasons.”

  I text Decker: See if the Jack Wyatt you located and the Arlon Judson you’ve already ruled out have any overlap in their histories. Could be someone at the Underground is using both names. I remember what my research about the club taught me: someone who’d been kicked out could just obtain a new bar code.

  “Do you know if Arlon Judson has a tattoo on his right shoulder blade?” I ask. “An infinity symbol?”

  Donna nods. “Without a doubt.”

  “So you’ve been involved with him?” Kirsten asks.

  “That’s irrelevant,” Donna says.

  “How could you have seen his tattoo if you only served him drinks?” Kirsten persists.

  “Because.” Donna sighs. “Here’s some inside information for you, but you didn’t hear it from me, got it? I’m breaking code by talking about it. Every member of the Underground has the opportunity to be tattooed with the seal, and Judson was definitely the type to ink up. I mean, the guy would’ve been branded if the club offered it.”

  “Wait. Seal?” I ask.

  “The sideways figure eight.” Donna digs in her purse for a pen and, in absence of anything else to draw on, demonstrates on a coaster. She scribbles the word Aquasphere. “It’s the upstroke of the E at the end of Aquasphere.” She draws a curve up and extends it back to the left. “And the downstroke of the P.” She draws down and to the left and loops up meet the first line. “One of the rooms downstairs . . . it’s a body-art studio.”

  “So you’ve been downstairs,” I say. “To the Underground.”

  “Would you be able to work there and not venture downstairs upon occasion? Just out of curiosity?”

  “Wait a minute.” Kirsten flips through photos on her phone. “Are you saying this is an Aquasphere Underground tattoo? And not the logo of Fordham, Holloway, and Lane?” She slides her phone across the table to Donna, who studies the photo.

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “So our suspect pool just increased by hundreds,” I say.

&nb
sp; “Okay.” Kirsten closes her eyes for a long breath. “I need you to look at the man in the pictures, Donna. Look closely.”

  Donna picks up the phone. Zooms in. Flips from image to image.

  “Can you rule out that this is your husband?” Kirsten asks. “Ian says it’s Doug.”

  “Hmm.” Donna’s brow knits. “I don’t think so.”

  “How sure are you?” I ask.

  “About two hundred percent. Doug has a mole near the tip of the tattoo. Right about there.” Donna points to the screen. “This guy doesn’t have one.”

  “Okay.” Kirsten turns to me. “That means it’s Ian. He says it also could be Patrick, and since the cops picked him up . . . I thought, you know . . . maybe.”

  “It could be anyone.” Donna hands the phone back to Kirsten. “Why are you torturing yourself? You can hardly see the guy’s face.”

  “That’s what Ian said,” Kirsten says. “But the pictures were sent to Ian, so odds are, it’s him.”

  “Or someone wants him to think it’s him,” I say.

  This means that the man in the picture could be anyone else at the club. Perhaps good news for Kirsten, but it doesn’t bode well for Deck’s investigation. “Could it be anyone else in particular at the club?” I ask. And, because I’m fishing for information about my would-be boyfriend, I add, “Could it be, say, Jack Wyatt?”

  Donna trades glances between Kirsten and me. “It could be. Maybe. Good chance that it is.”

  “Gail Force would know for sure, wouldn’t you think?” I ask. “It’d be helpful to speak with her.”

  “I’m not sure she exists anymore,” Donna says. “She hasn’t been to the club in a long time.”

  “Do you know how we might find her?”

  “Actually . . .” After a minute, Donna looks up. “You already did.”

  It takes a moment for the message to register, but when it does, it hits like a tidal wave. “You’re Gail Force?”

  Donna looks at Kirsten, then quickly looks away. “I used to be. Listen, no one starts out in life wanting to make money that way. I started bartending there. That’s it. But there’s not enough money in slinging drafts, so I started working both circuits. Double the shifts, quadruple the money. I wanted to be a party planner, I’ll have you know. The plan was always to go back to school once I had enough saved.”

  Kirsten reaches across the table and squeezes Donna’s hand. “No one’s judging you. I understand. But I need you to talk to the police. This is my son’s future we’re playing with.”

  “You don’t get it: I’m finally in a position to do something with my life. Doug and I are comfortable. There’s a chance he’ll leave me if he learns what I really did at the Aquasphere. He knows I tended bar, but he doesn’t know about the other stuff.”

  “That’s a double standard if I ever heard one,” Kirsten says. “Didn’t they kick off Doug’s bachelor party at that club? And if he has the tattoo, that means he was probably part of the culture at one point, too.”

  “Not necessarily,” Donna says. “I don’t know why your husband got that tattoo, but mine got it as a tribute to the firm he established.”

  “Don’t be naive.”

  “I’m sorry, Kirsten, but Doug’s Doug, and Ian’s Ian.”

  An uncomfortable lull of silence hits us.

  “I have an idea,” I say. “What if I could guarantee your anonymity?”

  “My husband’s a defense attorney,” Donna says. “Do you think I haven’t wondered about that possibility? Anonymous information is inadmissible.”

  “We couldn’t use your testimony in court, in that case, but Decker is a brilliant detective. He needs something—someone—to give this investigation the teeth it needs. It’ll bite on its own.”

  Chapter 35

  KIRSTEN

  Ian’s a good lawyer. He can argue his way out of anything.

  I wonder how he’ll argue his way out of my asking him to leave.

  Considering the fact that my days are filled with inquiries about my husband and sex clubs and dominatrices, this should be easy. However, when you’ve spent your life with someone, when you’ve built your life around his, naturally, it’s terrifying to open the door to change.

  But I want things to change. Need them to, if I expect to hold my head high in front of my children, if I expect Quinn and Patrick to strive for a marriage or partnership stronger than the example their father and I have set.

  I wrap a page of Chicago Tribune around another framed photograph of Ian and our son and slide it into one of many boxes I’m packing.

  A sense of guilt filters through me, but I shoo it away like an annoying housefly. It’s not as if Ian doesn’t have the firm apartment at his disposal. But I’m removing him from our home. I may as well take an eraser to the past quarter century of my life, as if I’m saying scratch that, it was a mistake, let’s start again.

  Don’t get me wrong. He deserves the ousting. That’s not what I’m mourning, here.

  He did what he did, and there are consequences. But that doesn’t mean this is fair.

  I played by the rules. I was a good wife. I cooked, I cleaned, I took care of babies at all hours of the night. I supported my husband’s career. I perched myself on his arm whenever he needed an ornament. For the love of all that’s holy, I’m packing his bags. I’m rolling his socks, polishing all his shoes, and I’ve even arranged for delivery of his wardrobe downtown. No one can accuse me of not doing what I’m supposed to do. I’ve held up my end of the bargain.

  Ian may deserve to be kicked out, but I don’t deserve to be left alone after all the hard hours I put in, after I endured the sacrifice that comes with being an at-home mother, a homemaker.

  And he’s right. He can string a divorce case over the course of years. He can wear me down, starve me out. He can squirrel away assets while filing continuance after continuance. I could find myself temping at one of those large corporations—nameless, replaceable, and earning a dime over minimum wage when this is all over.

  Do I want to put myself in that position? No one wants to take a chance on a woman pushing forty without a single job on her résumé. I have no health insurance without Ian’s corporate policy, no retirement fund, no skill set. Nothing.

  My life’s work amounts to two people about to forge their way into the real world—one of them under suspicion of murder—and while I’m proud of what I’ve done to help make them who they are, that pride will scarcely keep me fed until my dying days.

  And, God, I can’t relax.

  Patrick’s future is in question until I can convince Ian to come clean and admit it was he who had the affair with Margaux.

  I don’t hear Ian come in so much as I sense that he’s suddenly in the room with me.

  I’ve just gotten out of the shower. I’m bent at the waist, drying my hair upside down, and wearing the black satin robe Ian and the kids bought me for Mother’s Day some years ago.

  He’s standing behind me.

  The heat of his hands permeates through the satin.

  I straighten and turn off my hair dryer and find his gaze locked on mine in the reflection of the mirror.

  He tugs on the sash of the robe, and soon those hands are traveling over my bare belly, navigating the curves and swells with the expertise that comes from years of exploring the same terrain.

  His mouth is at my neck.

  “Ian. Wait.”

  “Shh.” He guides me out of the en suite bathroom, to our bed, onto which he coaxes me under the persuasion of kisses and his touch.

  I look him in the eye and read his unspoken message, a silent dare to wipe the slate clean and start again. But first . . . repent.

  His expression tells me he is focused on claiming what he thinks he’s due, what he assumes is his for the taking and always will be.

  My hands go to his fly, first only mechanically—it’s what he expects because it’s what I’ve done for years, and I’m going through the motions—but once I release the b
uckle of his belt, a sense of calm filters through me for the first time today. He wants me? I want a little something from him, too. A reckless hunger drives me to tear at the button, the zipper.

  And I can’t get him inside me fast enough.

  He pins my wrists over my head with one hand and kisses me, open lipped, open eyed, as if he needs to keep a close watch on me. He’s assessing me, waiting for some cue, waiting to know: Did I buy Doug’s confession? Is all copacetic and business as usual?

  He presses a palm up the side of my body, over a fleshy hip and the side of a breast. He backs off, as if studying me—a last look, perhaps—and draws his fingertips over my neck.

  “Do you want to do it?” I ask. “Do to me what you did to her?”

  His lips smash into mine, and it’s all over but the orgasm.

  For a few minutes, we wrestle in the moment, and the anger, the love, the mistrust . . . it all flows together for one heated tryst in a bed that’s served us well for over two decades.

  When he’s finished, we lie there for a minute.

  I hear her voice in my head: I need to talk to you, Ian.

  I stare at the window but see only the silhouette of her dress in the flowing fabric of the draperies.

  I need to talk to you, Ian. Ian. Ian.

  I climb out of bed.

  “Where you going?” he asks.

  I begin to dress. “Out.”

  “Out where?” There’s a trace of laughter in his words. “Kirstie, come on. Come back to bed.”

  “I’ll be back,” I tell him. “There’s just something I have to do first.”

  Chapter 36

  JESSICA

  After a lot of convincing, Donna Fordham agrees to come to the station with me for a conversation with Decker. I was supposed to leave the moment I delivered the mysterious and elusive Gail Force, but Ollie opened a door for me, and I slipped behind the two-way mirror to witness the interrogation.