by Brandi Reeds
“I need to be disguised,” Donna insists. “My voice, my face. Or I’m not talking.”
“You don’t work there anymore,” Decker says.
“No,” Donna says.
“So what’s the problem with talking? With telling me what really happened over there?”
“First of all, there’s my husband’s career,” Donna says, “which might take a hit if my alter ego goes public. Second, the people who can afford to go to a place like the Underground? They’re powerful people, okay? Politicians. People with mafia ties. People who value their privacy and would stop at nothing if that privacy were compromised. These people can hire a hit and wouldn’t think twice before doing it. So I’ll talk, but everything’s off the record.”
“Want to tell me your name?”
Donna looks at Decker. “No.”
“Okay, I’ll revise. Are you the dominatrix known as Gail Force?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the Gail Force referenced in this article dated the day after Margaux’s passing?”
“I don’t know why I agreed to come.” She shakes her head. “I can’t do this.”
“If you’re so afraid, why did you comment publicly? To a reporter?”
“I thought it owed it to Margaux to set the record straight about who and what she was. And I didn’t talk to a reporter. I posted the comment as Gail Force in the Aquasphere Underground chat room, and someone must have lifted it from there. I wouldn’t talk to a reporter. I’m not an idiot.”
“But you were acquainted with Margaux Claire Stritch?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe your relationship?”
“For a time, in certain circles . . .” Tears rim her eyes. “She was my best friend at the club.”
Decker takes the photographs with which Kirsten supplied us and lays them on the table. “Do you recognize this man?”
“Do I recognize the back of his head, you mean? I recognize the tattoo. And that’s Margaux, so . . .”
“Is this the Arlon Judson the Akerses referred to?”
“I think it must be. She wasn’t sleeping around, so it must be Arlon.”
“Being Margaux’s best friend, had you ever observed the two of them together?”
“First, you have to understand: What happens in the Underground? It stays there. Margaux and I . . . we wouldn’t have gone out to lunch together, or shopping together. We didn’t double-date, and I don’t know where she lived, what her favorite food was . . . We weren’t the Hallmark version of BFFs. We were there for each other at work. I had her back, you know? Someone had to have it. That said, I more than observed. I coached them in the Party of Three room.”
“You were present during intimate interactions.”
“Once at the club, yes.”
“Can you describe their relationship in that instance?”
“He was controlling, which was the whole point. But he took things too far. It was my last private party, when he . . .” She stares off into a corner.
“What happened?” Decker presses.
“He almost killed her. I tried to make him stop, but he wouldn’t let up. No matter what I said, no matter how hard I hit him . . . I saw the look on his face. He wanted to kill her. I quit the next day.”
“This guy here?” Decker stabs a finger against a photograph.
“I think so. If I could see his face, I’d know for sure, but . . . I think so.”
“This is Arlon Judson?”
“That was the name he went by at the club, yes. But no one uses their real name at the club.”
“It’s an alias.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know any other names he goes by?”
She swallows hard. “If you can identify this man, you’ve got someone capable of killing her.”
Next, Decker slaps down a picture of Kirsten’s son, Patrick. “I know you recently married into this kid’s family, so forgive the discomfort I’m sure this causes: Have you ever seen Patrick Holloway at the Aquasphere?”
“Yes. Yes, I have.”
“Ever see him with Margaux?”
“No.”
Decker glances at the mirror and somehow manages to dart a gaze right into my eyes. “How about Jack Wyatt?”
Donna closes her eyes for a moment. “Look. Lots of men went to the club. Lots of men got the tattoo. But if you’re looking for someone based on the name he used underground, you may as well be looking for a ghost. I restricted Arlon Judson’s membership that night, but if he had the means, he could come back with full privileges, and maybe he has. Maybe he’s now Jack Wyatt. But you’ll have to ask someone else.”
“Because there are too many powerful people,” Decker says, “too many people who can ruin you—can ruin your marriage—if you talk.”
For a breath, with her head hanging, she doesn’t say anything. But when she looks up, she squares her shoulders and says, “You want to know what happened at Margaux’s place the night she died. Well, so do I. I wish I knew.”
THEN
MARGAUX
Margaux spied the concerned third party reading on a bench near the chessboard tables in a park in Logan Square. She took a close seat and stared straight ahead as she began a conversation. “I thought I’d find you here.”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I saw you here last week. Where’ve you been?”
Margaux’s acquaintance flipped a page in the book. “I have other things to do than meddle in your business, you know.”
Margaux tightened the sash of a silver raincoat around her waist and adjusted the gauzy red scarf wrapped around her neck.
“Is that scarf hiding a bruise on your neck?”
“Listen, I didn’t come for a lecture. I got what you wanted.” Margaux tapped the arrow on the screen, and a video began to roll.
The camera was panned upward, as if her phone was set on a table unassumingly, or maybe held in her lap, and centered in the frame, if even crookedly, was the alderman, Everyone’s Granddad Akers, explaining:
“I didn’t groom you, Margaux. I loved you. I waited until you were old enough to give you what you wanted—what we both wanted—and that’s no crime. We were special, you and I. Still can be. Still will be, once you stop being so angry about it.”
“I’m angry because I know better now. You used me. All you cared about was getting what you wanted, and once you got it, you decided to stay with Helen.”
“In my profession, I had no choice, but if I had a choice to make, it’d be you.”
“What about the others?” Margaux asks. “Did you say the same things to them?”
“The others were . . . no. They needed teaching, had some growing up to do. Not like you. You came to me ready.”
“Do you remember what I said to you that night? When you began to undress me?”
The alderman sighed. “I know what you said. But I also know what you meant.”
“I said no. I said I wasn’t ready. Do you remember what you said to me?”
“I told you I knew what was best for you.”
“And then you covered my mouth and did what you wanted to do.”
The concerned third party reached over and stopped the recording. “That must have been terrible.”
“There’s more.”
“It’s okay. I don’t need to hear it. I’ve heard enough. You’ll forward it to me?”
“I already did.”
“And you told the alderman what to do? And when?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll do it?”
“Does he have a choice?” Margaux draped a flyaway tendril behind her ear, at which point her companion noticed the ruby on the fourth finger on her left hand.
“I see you haven’t broken up yet. Easier said than done?”
“Things have become more complicated.”
“Is that right?”
She shifts next to the concerned third party. “I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but I
’m pregnant.” Her eyes reddened with tears. “We’ve been careful. Almost all the time, but . . . it happens, I guess.”
“How does this fit into law school?”
“I don’t need a lecture. I feel stupid enough—”
“How does the daddy feel about it?”
“Arlon doesn’t know yet. But he said he’d pay my tuition, so . . .”
“You really believe that?”
“He promised me. The way I see it, it’s insurance. If your plan doesn’t work with Richard, Arlon will have to support the baby.”
“Sweetheart. Child support won’t pay your expenses, your tuition, and day care. What are you going to do about the baby while you’re at school? Surely, given the circumstances, you don’t want to rely on the Akerses to babysit while you’re studying for the LSATs. You honestly don’t think Mr. Wonderful will be there with you, do you? It’s a big job, raising a baby on your own, and a man like that, with his circumstances . . . he’ll be gone the second you tell him.”
Margaux sighed. A whimper slipped out with the breath.
“He’s going to leave you alone and destitute,” her acquaintance said, “and that’s why this plan with Akers is so important.”
“But Arlon gave me a ring. He asked me to marry him.” She straightens the ruby ring.
“I see that. Very elegant.”
“Thank you.”
“Congratulations. On both accounts.”
“Thank you. Don’t you think this is a sign? That things don’t have to be this way? He’s changing, I think, but even if he isn’t, I have the upper hand now.”
“I hope your dreams come true,” the third party said. “But consider the probability. The odds are stacked against you.”
“I’ll hire a nanny with the money Granddad will pay to keep this story out of the papers. Arlon’s paying my tuition.”
“Arlon will help pay for an abortion. Seeing you to the clinic . . . that’s about the extent of the man’s capabilities. If you have this baby, if you keep it, however valiant and brave a decision it will be, you’ll find yourself alone, filling the shoes of both mother and father.”
“But I think he’s changing. The last time we were together, he was softer, somehow.”
“That same softness landed you with a bruise on your neck, with a carving on your chest.”
“I know how Arlon feels about me. He’s rough sometimes, but usually only when I deserve it. If I rationalize it, I can get what I want.”
“Honey. Arlon isn’t even his name.”
For a moment or two, Margaux stewed in the accusation.
The stranger stood. “There’s a wedding this weekend at the Columbus Park Refectory. A young bride and a man far too old to be her husband. Why don’t you drop in and see for yourself if you don’t believe me?”
“He’s lying to me? About even his name?”
“You would know better than me. You told me the first day we met: You’re the only one who matters, remember?”
Chapter 37
KIRSTEN
I enter the fourteenth district police station and approach the counter, where there’s an uninterested officer of some rank refusing to look at me.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I’d like to speak with Detective Decker—”
He raises a finger.
I shut up.
But after several seconds of his scribbling notes on a scrap of paper and turning to speak and chuckle with a colleague who’s walking past, I clear my throat. “It’s important, gentlemen, that I speak with the detective. It’s time sensitive.”
“He’s in interrogation.” Officer Crabass points to a bench. “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here, Miss . . .”
“Holloway. Kirsten Holloway. I was in once before. You arrested my son last night.”
“Here to post bail?”
“No. He’s already out on bail. I just need to talk to—”
“Have a seat.”
I wring my hands in my lap as I deliberate for minutes upon minutes. It would be easy to walk right out that door. No harm, no foul. I already gave them plenty to go on—the panties, the pictures, the cryptic message that hints at blackmail.
But Patrick already gave them plenty, too, and I just can’t play with his liberty.
I stay put.
Watch the minutes tick away like hours.
And finally, the detective appears and waves me back to a conference room.
“Sorry about the wait. What can I do for you today?”
“Let me explain.” I remove a scarf from my neck to reveal the marks about to bloom there. “No one’s going to allow my kid to take the fall for this.”
Hours later, I return to Ian in the black of night and slip between the covers as if I were never gone.
Ian stirs, however, and gets out of bed.
I stare at his bare, white ass, practically glowing in the dark of the room. He stands at the window overlooking our acreage.
My body is practically electric right now, satisfied and worked over properly.
This was the last time.
My husband doesn’t know it, but he will never again know my body the way he knew it tonight.
“Kirstie,” he whispers. “I love you. You’ve got to believe that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” I whisper back. “But I packed your things and sent them to your apartment in the city. I need you to go in the morning.”
“Kirstie—”
“It’s not up for discussion. You’ll go in the morning.”
Chapter 38
JESSICA
“Code sixteen, code sixteen.” The sirens are blaring throughout the firehouse. “Fire in progress at oh-four-one-three Western.”
I strap on the last of my gear and pile into the ladder truck.
At least the last two hours of the shift will be action packed. Still, I can think of better ways to spend my time at four in the morning.
“All units, all units,” the dispatch comes in through the radio.
“Four thirteen Western,” I say. “That’s the Aquasphere.”
We’re briefed along the way with what we know, but stories often change by the time we get there. Club closed for the night at three. No patrons inside. Last of the crew left half an hour ago. Presumed electrical fire. Old building, old wiring.
“My ass,” the battalion chief says. “Someone didn’t want that place standing anymore. Someone wanted the secrets burned along with it.”
He might be right about that, considering all the media attention on Margaux’s case, the allegations that she worked at the place of ill repute now in cinders, and not to mention the rumors running rampant about Everyone’s Granddad Akers, his gambling debts, and his taste for the kinky.
By the time we arrive, the old church is ablaze. Flames shoot out from the underground entrance and lick the old stone walls.
I fight the fire on a line with a hose, and when the entire place is doused and the hullabaloo dies down, I breathe in the stench of the burn.
We walk through the debris like through a museum of what once was. Skeletons of cages and tables abound. Stages and stations and tiny rooms.
When I emerge from the building, I see him standing amid a crowd of onlookers on the corner across the street: Jack Wyatt.
For the past few days, ever since I spied on him and the girl who turned out to be Gail Force, I’ve been ignoring his calls and leaving his texts unanswered.
A moment after making eye contact—his stare is piercing and unrelenting—he disappears in the crowd.
Maybe he’s not interested in seeing me, either, which is just as well. Or maybe he’s caught on that I know he knows something about Margaux and he’s here to check up on me. What a chilling thought.
I should share it with Decker.
No sooner than he pops into my head do I see him. Arms crossed, squinting at a floodlit area, gnawing on a wad of pink gum—and likely on a theory as to how the fire started.
We make eye contact.
He gives me a nod.
I nod in return.
It was a good night. No one died, not even all of the Aquasphere. We even managed to keep the fire contained to the tawdry section of the building; most of the original worship gallery half a story above street level was spared.
But after a call like that, no way in hell am I falling asleep. My entire body is humming with adrenaline. And the sun’s just coming up.
“Hold up your hair.” Decker fastens a necklace around my neck.
“What’s this?” I touch the pendant and see it’s the ruby necklace Jack Wyatt gave me on our sushi date.
“We couldn’t lift any prints off it. I mean, none other than yours, so I thought I’d bring it back to you.”
“I don’t know if I should wear it, considering—”
“Why not? It’s a nice necklace. You’re a beautiful girl. You deserve nice things.”
“Deck . . .” If I were any other girl, with any other man, I might have melted onto his lips.
“I probably owe you an apology,” Decker says. “Based on recent findings, it seems your boy wasn’t our man after all.”
“Huh?” I’m exhausted after our aerobic romp, and until two seconds ago, all I wanted to do was sleep. My hair is still damp from the shower we shared, and my clothing is a rumpled mess in the corner of the room. The scene is so very domestic that it could either comfort or terrify me, depending on the day, hour, or minute.
“Whoever Jack Wyatt is, he probably wasn’t fucking around with the deceased. I’m sorry if I made you feel like he was lying to you.”
“He sure as hell wasn’t telling me the whole truth.”
“True. But we got the prelim results back from our DNA swab on the Holloway kid.” Decker persuades me to look at him with a warm finger under my chin.
“And?”
“He has biological similarities to Margaux’s baby. They’re related.”
“Oh no.” Kirsten’s going to fall apart. “Father-child related? So you’re looking at him for Margaux’s murder?”
“Would be crazy not to.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily one hundred percent clear Jack. I mean, that magazine was addressed to someone on Oakley, and Holloway lives on Oakley.”