Third Party
Page 23
And Arlon Judson was not his name.
Best man Ian Holloway took the microphone and told stories about his cousin and a woman she thought was her friend—Donna, a.k.a. Gail Force from the club—who hadn’t even bothered to tell her she was getting married, let alone to a man who was cousin to Arlon, the man she both loved and feared, craved and abhorred.
It seemed she, Margaux Claire Stritch, was unimportant, merely a caricature, a punch line at the end of a bad joke.
Maybe it’s time she had the last laugh.
She strolled into the ballroom and smiled at the family surrounding the man she’d fallen in love with, the man she’d opened her very soul to, the man she’d trusted even when warning signals went off in her head—when his hands were around her neck, when pain became part of pleasure to the point she feared she might never breathe again.
“Excuse me.” She touched his arm. It seemed the natural thing to do. “I need to talk to you, Ian.”
The look of surprise on his face quickly morphed to a controlled expression. He never let his surprise show. “Of course.” He dropped his napkin next to his plate, stood—“excuse me”—and began to walk.
“Who is that?” she heard a young woman who must be his daughter ask.
“I don’t know,” the wife said.
Ian led her to a barren corridor, staying just a few steps ahead of her, not daring to look over his shoulder. To any bystander, it would appear she was following him, a perfect stranger coincidentally walking the same path. But the moment he knew they were alone, he took her by the elbow—hard.
He whipped her around, and her back slammed into the wall. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re married.”
“You have two minutes, and the time’s already ticking.”
“I have something to tell you, Ian.” Tears clouded her vision, but even through the mascara burning her eyes, she saw the set of his jaw.
His brows came together in a stern expression. “Tick tock.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“If I had a dollar for every time some girl tried that trick . . . my family is here. Do you know what you nearly did back there?”
“But I didn’t know you were married. I didn’t know you had a family. Arlon, you lied—”
“I’m supposed to believe you’re pregnant? When we’ve taken precautions?”
“Not every time.”
“Nearly every time, and the news is rather convenient, don’t you think? Tonight? Of all nights? You could’ve broken the news tomorrow, when it wouldn’t have made a scene, but the fact that you chose tonight . . . well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all a lie.”
“Here . . . wait. I can prove it.” She opened her clutch and produced a positive early pregnancy test. “I took about ten of these.” She smiled. “This one, I took this morning.”
He looked at the stick, pinched his eyes shut, and hung his head, as if in defeat.
His grip on her eased. “Maggie.” His expression softened, and he took the test from her grasp. “How can you be sure it’s mine? With what you do at that club—”
“It’s yours.”
“Do you expect me to believe you know that for sure? You slut around town—”
“I haven’t been with anyone else. I know it’s yours.”
“It’s still early.”
“Yes. About six or seven weeks. But there’s no reason to think I won’t carry to term.” She took his hand and pressed it to her abdomen. “It’s a boy, Arlon. I’m sure of it.”
“Seven weeks?”
“Or six. It’s hard to say exactly when—”
“First trimester.”
“Yes.”
“Then you can still get rid of it.”
“Arlon!”
He pulled his hand from her middle and tossed the stick into a nearby trash can. “Get rid of it!”
“You’re a father. How can you say that? Imagine if your wife had aborted your son. There’s a real, live being growing inside me, and even though it’s too soon to tell what he’ll look like, there’s a DNA map already determining the color of his eyes, the shape of his smile. It’s the magical combustion of you and me. Our baby.”
“Get. Rid. Of it.”
“I don’t want to get rid of it.”
“Maggie.” He leaned his forehead to hers. “Please understand. The timing couldn’t be worse.”
“I know. I’m about to go to grad school . . . that is, if you’re still willing to help me finance it. This isn’t convenient timing for me, either, but if we’re patient—”
“No.” He backed off, opened his wallet, and pulled out a credit card. “I’ll pay for the abortion. But then we have to cool it for a while.” He pressed the card into her hand. “She can ruin me in court, do you understand? Even though we live in a no-fault state, conduct makes a difference. It’s not supposed to, but it does. And I loved her once. Still do, when I let myself. I’ll leave her—I’m already working on managing the assets—but I can’t leave her for you. Not this way.”
“I don’t want an abortion, Arlon. I want to have this baby.”
“Go to the Grand Avenue Women’s Clinic. It’s not far from your place.”
“No.”
“I’ll be watching the statement. You won’t see me until I see the charge for the procedure come through. And if you don’t do it, you’ll never see me again.”
“But this is our baby.” She grabbed his hand and held it tight to her abdomen again. “Life. We created it together. You love me. Please. Let’s talk about this.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”
A throaty groan escaped him, and he began to gather the skirt of her dress in his hands. “You’re already pregnant.”
He spun her toward the wall.
“Arlon—”
And, with one strong arm, held her there.
“Wait,” she said. “Please, wait.”
He pulled her panties aside to allow him access, and in an instant, he had her dress up at her waist, his zipper down.
“Don’t.” Her whisper fell on deaf ears.
He positioned himself.
Her cheek scraped against the wall with the momentum of his first powerful thrust. “Arlon. Wait.”
But he was already rutting on her from behind, one hand gripping her waist, the other palming her head, holding her captive against the wall.
She closed her eyes, but the tears still came, burning hot rivers down her cheeks. Her head ached where he held it, and with every repeated pierce into her body, he may as well have torn at the flesh between her thighs.
“Stop,” she managed to whisper.
“This is what you want,” he said through gritted teeth. “For the rest of your life.”
Not like this, she tried to say. But all that came out was “Please.”
It took only a few angry thrusts for him to finish.
He slapped her on the ass, as if punctuating the power he held over her.
She let out a whimper.
He tucked his cock back into his pants.
She muffled a sob and sank to the floor, her head in her hands. “You love me.” She braved a last look at him. “Tell me at least that much is true. You do, don’t you?”
He snapped his fingers and offered his hand, palm up.
Just as she was about to take his hand and get to her feet, he spoke again:
“Give me the ring.”
“What?”
“The ring. Now. I shouldn’t have given it to you. You think I can’t tell when a girl’s trying to trap me?”
“I’m not—”
“The ring!” He forced her to her feet with a rough yank on her arm. “Give me the ring.”
“Okay.” She began to twist at it. “Okay.”
She tugged and wrung at her finger until the ring came free. She pressed the ring into his hand.
He leaned in close.
She smelled the bourbon on his breath.
> “I live with entrapment every day of my life,” he hissed. “Every fucking day.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I can’t do what you want me to do.”
“Get it done,” he said over his shoulder, zipping up as he walked away.
The proof of what had happened dripped down her inner thighs and pooled in the hammock of the red thong and in the folds of fabric of her formal dress. She dropped her face in her hands and sobbed until she had no more tears to cry.
Chapter 40
JESSICA
“Jessie? Are you on shift today?”
“Kirsten?” I put a hand to my ear to block out the noise of my four-year-old niece’s birthday party. “Are you okay?”
“I’m . . . listen, I’m heading to the fourteenth district police station, and I’m wondering if you can meet me there.”
“Yeah, I . . . can it wait a few minutes? Ellie’s about to open presents.”
“Of course. I’m still a ways out. Coming from Mettawa.”
“Sure.” I wait for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, I say, “Is something going on?”
“They just came for Ian.”
“Oh.” She seems oddly calm for a woman whose husband was just brought in on suspicion of homicide.
“Will you come?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I hug my niece—“Happy birthday, Ellie”—and kiss my brother on the cheek.
“On call?” he asks.
“Not exactly. A friend of mine’s heading to the station and needs support.”
“Auntie Jessica’s blowing us off for another guy on the job.”
“Actually, it’s a girlfriend.”
“You don’t have women friends.”
“Not usually. But I do now.”
Kirsten’s already there by the time I arrive. She’s casually texting, or maybe playing a game, on her phone in the lobby.
As if I’m equipped with a homing beacon, she looks up at me the moment I cross the threshold.
“They just took him back,” she says. “This guy”—she indicates the desk sergeant—“won’t let me back to see him.”
“Not until he’s processed,” the sarge says. “Then you can post bail.”
“I don’t want to take him home,” Kirsten says. “I’ve been trying to keep him at the place in Lincoln Park.”
“Lincoln Park?” I ask. “Jack lives in Lincoln Park.”
“I want to talk to the detective,” Kirsten says.
“What do you say, Sarge?” I say. “I’ll buy you a beer next time I see you out.”
“You know this girl, Jess?” the sarge asks.
“I do.”
“All right. I’ll get Decker for you.”
Minutes later we’re in a cold conference room waiting for Decker. When he finally comes in, with a thick file tucked under his arm, he’s twisting open the waxy packaging of a hunk of Dubble Bubble.
“Ladies. What can I do for you?”
“I want to know what’s happening. If you have enough to drop the charges against my son. I’d like to get that band off his ankle and put him back on track as soon as possible.”
“Here’s the deal with father-son DNA. It’s a little trickier to determine who’s the father of the girl’s baby. Sons sometimes come up as a false positive.”
“But you have Ian’s DNA, too. With Margaux’s, you should be able to tell beyond a shadow of doubt who fathered that child.”
“I’m told it’s trickier, that’s all, but we fingerprinted your husband, so hopefully we’ll hit on a match to prove he was in Margaux’s apartment shortly before she died. It would be helpful if your son could come up with a reliable alibi. Short of resurrecting the Aquasphere Underground and waiting for someone to exit and admit to seeing him there that night—”
“That’s where he said he was.” Kirsten looks as if her hopes are about to be dashed away. “Like father, like son.”
“Don’t say anything more.” A man in a suit bursts into the room.
My jaw practically hits the floor. I don’t know him, but I feel like I do.
“Doug.” Kirsten stands. “I’m just trying to figure out—”
“Kirstie, you retained me to represent your son, and Ian just retained me in this matter, and as your family’s counsel, I’m here to tell you not to answer any of the detective’s questions.”
“I’m not,” she says. “He’s answering mine.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “You’re the cousin? The lawyer?”
Doug Fordham turns to me, as if he just now realized I was in the room.
“Doug, Jessica. Jessica, Doug,” Kirsten says by way of introduction. “Doug is Ian’s cousin and lawyer. Jessica’s a friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you,” Doug says. Then he turns to Kirsten. “Why is a friend of yours in on this discussion? None of this is privileged, you understand. She can testify to what she hears.”
“Wouldn’t that be hearsay?” Kirsten asks.
I’m still staring at the lawyer, who says to me, “Will you excuse us, please?” And then to Decker: “You too.”
“Wait, wait,” I say.
Decker’s already halfway out the door. “Jessie?”
“But . . . I just . . .” I swallow hard over a dry lump in my throat.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” Kirsten says.
I follow Decker out of the conference room.
My fingertips are tingling, but the rest of me feels numb. “Deck?”
He turns to me. “Whoa. You all right?”
“He looks like Jack.”
“What?”
“The lawyer.”
“You’re saying the lawyer is Jack Wyatt? The Jack Wyatt I can’t find?”
“No, I’m saying the resemblance is uncanny. Do you have Ian Holloway’s mug shot printed?”
“Why?”
“I want to see a picture of him.”
“You can see him, if you want. I’ve got him in interrogation three.”
I head toward the interrogation hallway.
“Jessie—”
I pick up my pace. “Where’s number three?”
“Ollie just came out of it.”
I beeline toward the door, with Decker quick at my heels.
I burst into the room.
And there, in cuffs, seated at an industrial folding table, is the man I know as Jack Wyatt.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. The odd schedule. The windows open on his laptop during our last breakfast. The necklace matching the ring he gave Margaux—I touch it now—all part of a set. And Patrick showing up to talk to me. Maybe, because Kirsten kept insisting Ian was hiding something, Patrick followed clues his father left behind. And those clues led him to my apartment.
The color drains from Ian Holloway’s face. “Jessica. What are you doing here?”
“I just came to say hello . . . Ian.”
Chapter 41
KIRSTEN
“You don’t believe he did this, do you?” My husband’s cousin paces in a ten-by-ten conference room at the CPD fourteenth district building.
“I don’t know if he did it or not, Doug.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? He’s your husband, Kirstie. You’ve been together since you were kids. If you don’t believe his story, how is anyone else going to get on board? Do you hear what I’m getting at?”
“You want me to get on board. I understand that. But I can’t lie. They asked if I could account for my husband’s whereabouts on the night this poor girl died. I can’t. He wasn’t home. He was supposed to be working through some case file at the office that night, and he came home later than usual. That’s what his text messages will prove, and that’s what I’ve gone on record as knowing. So if you want to get him out of this, you can vouch for him.”
“I was still on my honeymoon that night, Kirstie.”
“That’s right. You were.”
“I can’t vouch for his whereabouts.” He shoves his h
ands through his hair. “From now on, just say you can’t recall. You don’t remember. It’s not our job to make their case.” He takes another lap around the conference table. “I want you to know we’re going to beat this. The evidence is strongly circumstantial. So his block letters match the suicide note. So it looks like the name on the note was forged. They’ll probably find his prints all over her apartment. Of course they will. He had an affair with her. We’ll admit that. But they can’t prove he attempted to sign her name on the suicide note, let alone that he killed her. Christ, they don’t even have a solid motive. He’ll be home with you before you know it.”
“Why did you lie for him?” I ask.
“What?”
“About this girl. You were willing to jeopardize your marriage to protect him. I could’ve gone to Donna with what you told me, and it obviously wasn’t true.”
“On some level, I knew you wouldn’t believe me. We have a strong basis of trust, Donna and me, and while she wouldn’t have approved of what I did for Ian, she would’ve understood.”
“You don’t know what kind of guy you’re protecting. He’s not the same man he used to be. You need to know that there’s a possibility—a real, fathomable possibility—that he didn’t want Margaux around. You say they don’t have a motive. But if she was pregnant, if she came to the wedding threatening to tell me . . .”
“You don’t know for certain he did this. And you’re forgetting I’m probably the one guy on this planet who knows your husband just as well as you do.”
“I don’t think you do.” I open my shoulder bag and pull out the envelope Detective Oliver found on my doorstep this evening. “Someone mailed this to Ian. I found another a while back—the one I told you about—with a note that looked suspiciously like an attempt at blackmail. I suspect it came from whomever he’s been paying twenty grand a month.”
“Twenty grand?” Doug hangs his head and sighs. When he again looks up, he gives his head a slight shake. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I were.”
“He didn’t mention it to me.”
“I’m not surprised, given what’s on this drive.” I spill the contents of the envelope into Doug’s waiting hand. “Listen, I don’t want to think this implicates Ian. I don’t want to think he’s capable of taking this girl’s life, but considering things I’ve recently learned . . .” I sigh. “Point-blank, if he had anything to do with Margaux’s death, he should answer for it.”