by Brandi Reeds
“Thanks.”
“You shouldn’t put up with Arlon’s bullshit.”
“I wish I’d met you first.”
“No, you don’t. I have a girlfriend.”
“Ohhhkay.” That made things even more confusing. “I’d get it if you were trying to get into my pants, but . . . why are you here, if you have a girlfriend?”
“I told you. You look like you could use a friend.”
“Well, if you ever lose the girlfriend, give me a call.”
“You’ll be the first I call.” He winked and walked away.
Chapter 43
KIRSTEN
“Thanks for meeting with me,” Detective Decker says.
“Of course.” I take a seat in yet another conference room. “What can I do for you?”
“For starters: I need help understanding who these guys are. Arlon Judson. Jack Wyatt.”
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“We get only one chance to prosecute someone. One shot before we weaken any subsequent chances to serve justice on Margaux’s behalf. I want this case as airtight as possible before I pass it off to the prosecutors,” Decker says.
“It isn’t tight now? With the DNA?”
“It could be better. Obviously, your husband had been with this girl. He’s admitted that, but infidelity isn’t murder. Any defense attorney worth his salt can cast a shadow of doubt. The way this case reads, Margaux was involved with Arlon Judson but carrying Ian Holloway’s baby. It reads like she had two boyfriends, and even Gail Force has admitted that Margaux talked about seeing someone else while she was dating Arlon. Arlon Judson may have had as much motive, if not more, than your husband to kill her. And Arlon Judson is a ghost.”
“I see.”
“Margaux didn’t post a single picture of the guy on her social media pages, but Helen Akers insists they were together. But she never met him, so as far as an identification goes—”
“You can’t do it.” I finish his thought for him. “It’s a hole in the case.”
“So far, yes. My theory is that Arlon and Ian are the same person, and I could use your help proving it, but I’m guessing you don’t want to do that even if you could.”
I think for a second.
“We have two known aliases in the Underground,” Decker says. “I found a Jack Wyatt, roughly the same age as Ian.”
“Jessica’s boyfriend.”
“Right. Only last time Jessica was here . . . spoken to her lately?”
I shake my head. “She must be busy. She hasn’t taken my calls.”
“She saw your husband here the night of his arrest. She attests to the fact that Wyatt and Ian are one and the same.”
My heart quickens, and my fingertips go numb. “She’s been seeing my husband?”
“She’s been seeing Jack Wyatt. And Wyatt’s apartment . . . ,” the cop continues. “Venture a guess as to the address?”
“I’m guessing it’s in Lincoln Park? Fordham, Holloway, and Lane’s corporate apartment?”
“Bingo. So all signs point to Ian Holloway and Jack Wyatt being one and the same. It proves your husband used aliases, but we still need to connect him to Arlon Judson.”
“I see.” If this detective is able to do such a thing, Doug’s backup alternate scenario is as good as gone, which means they’ll use Patrick as a distraction. The only way my son is safe from suspicion is if this cop seals up his case against Ian, airtight.
Decker continues, “According to Gail Force, members of the Underground choose aliases for a reason. Pretending to be someone else is one of them. And I found an Arlon Judson, who’s forty-two. But he’s never heard of Jack Wyatt. I’m looking for a connection, but their lives don’t overlap.”
“With each other’s. But what about with Ian’s?” I wait a second for the cop to react. When he doesn’t, I continue. “A Jack Wyatt beat out Ian for a fellowship in college—at Northwestern. He still bitches about it. But Arlon Judson . . . I don’t know him. I overheard Ian say his name a few weeks back when he was talking to his cousin, but I don’t know who he is.”
“Let me enlighten you. He used to practice family law but was disbarred. Something about a domestic battery charge and mayhem.”
“Maybe Ian knows him, then. You should ask him.”
“We have.” The detective leans back in his chair and stares me down.
I sigh. If Ian is responsible for Margaux’s death, he deserves what’s coming. If he isn’t, this isn’t going to help his case. Still, better him than Patrick. “Ian said the name. I’m one hundred percent certain. Maybe Ian meets girls, he’s a jerk, and then all the girls are left thinking Arlon Judson’s an asshole. Or Jack Wyatt’s an asshole.”
“That’s helpful. Thanks.”
“Anything to keep this spotlight away from my son.”
Decker pours another sugar into his coffee. “Everything you know, please tell me. You never know how it might help.”
“In that vein, you also might want to have another chat with Gail Force,” I say. “I think she knows more than she’s telling. I think she’s scared.”
“Will do.”
“So the theory is Jack Wyatt is Ian.” I bite my lip.
“Appears so. Sorry to say.”
“How’s Jessica handling the news?”
“Hanging in there. Probably more worried about what’s going through your head.”
“I should call her.”
“She’d appreciate that.”
“So where does that leave my son?”
“When we ran Ian’s prints through the system, it was like fireworks went off for miles with all the hits. All over Margaux’s apartment—on the money left on her counter, in her bathroom, on the vase found half-filled with water in her sink. On a knife there, too. We know Ian was at the apartment—likely the night she died.”
“So why are you looking at Patrick at all?”
“Because circumstantial evidence won’t convict. I need to look at everyone if I expect justice to run its due course. And that includes looking at your son.”
“Patrick didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Can we go over it one more time: How did you learn of the affair?”
“I suspected it after I found a pair of panties—a red thong—in the dry cleaning.”
“And when was this?”
“Oh, I think the day Margaux died, but they were in his suit coat for weeks before I found them.”
Decker nods. “Mm-hmm. And how do you know that?”
“It was the suit he wore to his cousin’s wedding.”
Decker nods. Says uh-huh at intervals. I get the feeling he’s going through the motions. He wants me to admit something spectacular, something he doesn’t already know. Little does he realize my whole life revolves around dry cleaning and errands and household chores. If he was looking for fireworks, he called in the wrong gal.
Finally: “Can you account for your husband’s whereabouts the night of Miss Stritch’s death?” He states the date, the time.
“He texted and said he would be late, that he had some work to finish at the office.”
“Was that usual? Did he do that often?”
“Lieutenant, my husband is a lawyer. That means that even when he’s home, he’s working. It’s very common for him to stay late to work on a case, especially if a court date is looming.”
“What time did he come home that night?”
I pause. Take a deep breath. “I was tired. I wasn’t feeling all that well. I turned on a movie and lay down on the sofa.”
“Did you speak to him when he came home?”
“I did.”
“Did he appear disheveled? Nervous? Anything out of the ordinary?”
I shake my head. “He came home with a bottle of red wine that night. And roses.”
“That’s out of the ordinary?”
“We’ve been married for twenty-two years. Together for three before that. Not unusual. Just not an everyday occurrence.”
But, now that I think about it, I should have questioned it. When we got together, we were very young and very broke. Ian’s idea of sending flowers was leading one of our kids into the kitchen with a fistful of dandelions. I buy flowers. Ian doesn’t.
“About the wine and roses . . . his lawyer provided us with proof of credit card activity to support what you’re saying. He bought the wine around seven, then the roses at seven fifteen. Did he come home shortly thereafter?”
I think for a moment. If I concur, I establish Ian’s alibi. But I honestly don’t think he came home that early. And if he harmed Margaux, I can’t cover for him. “I don’t think so,” I finally say. “But I can’t be sure. I took a pill.”
“Mrs. Holloway, your husband’s DNA matches that of tissue extracted from Margaux’s uterus. Does that sound like a man who’s worthy of your protection?”
“I’m not protecting him. I really don’t know.”
“One more time: Was your husband with Margaux Stritch the night of her death?”
“Possibly.”
“Did he ever mention the name Maggie?”
“No.”
“Did your son?”
“My son?”
“We have enough of a match to continue looking at him, too. And Ian’s told us the thong belonged to whomever Patrick disappeared with that night.”
“He said that? Actually went on record and said that?”
“The night we arrested him.”
It’s happening. Doug and Ian have already put the pieces in place. They’re already pushing my son into moving traffic.
“But that didn’t happen.”
“Your son didn’t disappear for a time the night of the wedding?”
“He went out for a cigar—”
“Alone?”
“Yes, but he didn’t take the jacket.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“You know what your husband’s lawyer’s going to say, right? That you’re unreliable. That you’re angry about the affair and you want to save your son’s skin, so you’re not remembering things clearly.”
“That’s a crock.”
The detective shrugs. “You have anything definitive that puts your husband at that apartment the night she died?”
“Here’s what I know: his father came home with wine and roses the night Margaux died . . .”
I review it in my mind. I lay down on the sofa with a fire going. Ian came home with wine and roses. I heard him come in, but I was only half-awake and groggy from the antianxiety meds. He woke me with a kiss and a glass of wine. He’d changed from his daily attire to a pair of track pants and a T-shirt.
Realization dawns. I’ve been missing something all along. It’s the dry cleaning. There’s proof in the dry cleaning.
“Let’s get back to the underwear,” the detective suggests.
I rise from my chair and pace. I’m sick of talking about the thong. Every time he mentions it, it’s like he wants to remind me what went on behind my back. “Tell me you’re not hinging this case on the underwear. I’m positive it was hers, but I’m also one hundred percent sure it was in that pocket for at least twenty days. They weren’t on her body the night she died.”
“Am I overlooking something?”
“She showed up at the wedding, all right? He took her aside. They were gone for a few minutes. And you’re telling me they were going to have a baby, and there were panties in the pocket. Of course they’re Margaux’s panties. But they don’t do anything but prove the affair happened, and maybe that they had sex right there at the wedding, but that doesn’t help you determine what happened the night she died.”
I stop walking. “He’d been after me for weeks to get that suit to the cleaner’s. He claims he didn’t know how the underwear got into the pocket, and honestly, why would he hound me to drop the suit off if he knew there was evidence of an affair in the pocket?”
“Maybe he forgot the underwear was there.”
“Or maybe he really didn’t know.” Pieces of the puzzle fall effortlessly into place in my mind now. He wanted me to take in the dry cleaning. But it really wasn’t about the Brooks Brothers suit. He knew that if I were going to the cleaner’s, I would bring everything that had to go. The urgency, I realize, was about the shirt he’d worn the day Margaux died. He’d spilled some wine on the collar.
Spilled wine.
That’s what he said.
But he’d changed before he opened the bottle.
And even if he didn’t, even if he somehow changed after opening it, how would he splash wine on his collar? And the girl at the cleaner’s said someone had tried to lift the stain at home. When had he ever attempted to get a stain out on his own before? If it were wine, as he said, he wouldn’t have tried to hide it.
Decker challenges me with a stare.
Finally, I break the silence. “Lieutenant, I’m here for you to see if I can establish an alibi for my husband, is that right?”
He gives me a nod.
“I can’t help you any more than I have already. I’m sorry, but I just don’t remember what time he came home. I remember that I heard him come in. I remember he’d changed before joining me in front of the fire because there was a stain on his shirt. But I don’t know what time it was. It was weeks ago.”
He stands, and we’re eye to eye. “I’ll walk you out. You’ll call if you remember something?”
“I can scarcely remember anything these days. Can’t even remember to pick up my dry cleaning, what with everything going on.” I riffle through my purse and produce my keys. My pink pickup slip from the dry cleaner’s sticks to the keys and floats to the table. I glance at it purposefully, then meet Decker’s gaze.
Hesitantly, his fingers go to the slip.
I nod. That’s right. Take it.
“I remember the shirt was white with gray pinstripes. The stain was on the collar. On the left. If I think of anything else, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you.”
We exit the room and walk side by side.
“Can you tell me: How did this girl die?” I ask. “Was it by hanging, as the initial news reports said? Or is something bigger going on?”
“I’m afraid we have to hold back some details during an active investigation.”
I want to know if she had any open wounds.
That spot on his shirt? I’m pretty sure it’s Margaux’s blood.
And I just gave Decker the ticket to test whatever’s left in the threads of the fabric.
Chapter 44
KIRSTEN
“Patrick and Quinn are staying the night,” Ian says when I return from the station. He’s a little drunk, judging by the slight slur in his words, his heavy eyelids.
I look to the open bottle of wine on the island, next to an empty one.
“Do you mind if I stay, too?” he asks.
“Well, you probably shouldn’t drive.” I pull the scarf from my neck and begin to unbutton my coat.
“Let’s hit the hay, then. I’m beat.”
“And the sofa’s quite comfortable.” I smile at Ian’s exasperated sigh, pour myself a glass of wine, and take a seat at the kitchen island. “What, like I’m going to let you back into my bed? After you nearly brought a child into this world with another woman?”
“She said she had an abortion.” Ian pulls up a counter stool across the expanse of the island so we’re across from one another. “Is this okay? We can talk about this?”
I indicate the stool with an open palm. “I suppose better late than never.”
“You saw the charge yourself.” He takes a seat. “Do you suppose the police are bluffing?”
“You wanted me to get an abortion, too,” I say. “When I was pregnant with Patrick.”
“Do I have to hear about this for all of eternity? I was eighteen, Kirstie.” Ian worries at a callus on his right forefinger with his thumb. “I didn’t think I could take care of myself, let alone a wife and a baby.”
>
“Well, you’re not eighteen now. And not too long ago, you suggested we have another baby. Was that because of what happened with Margaux?”
“Tragic.” He dabs at his eyes.
Is he fighting tears? For the first time, I realize he may be mourning her death, or her baby’s. She was part of his life, after all. Or maybe it’s a show of remorse for what he’s done to our family by crossing the line with this girl. “Were you trying to replace what was lost?”
“There’s no comparison. You’re my wife. We have a family. I couldn’t see what was happening with Margaux as fatherhood. I just didn’t see her baby as mine, and honestly, I figured she was sleeping around. I didn’t know the kid was mine.”
“It’s always someone else’s.” I roll my eyes.
“It would’ve been different with us. Kirsten, it always was.”
“Margaux’s pregnancy was terminated, just like you wanted. One way or another. It just didn’t happen at the clinic.”
“She had an appointment. She was going to do it. I thought she had. She paid for it—as you’ve already discovered—with my credit card. And I told her . . .” He hiccups, as if he’s holding back tears. “I told her if she did it, we could continue to see each other. But I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to say something she’d believe. Something that would persuade her to do it. And then that night . . . the night she died, I was going to tell her I’d changed my mind, that I didn’t think it was a good idea to stay involved. I went there early, before she was usually home. I was writing a note to tell her it was over.”
“Did you arrive at that conclusion because you’d begun to see Jessica Blythe on the side? It must have been terribly difficult to juggle all three of us.”
“All right.” He gnaws on his lower lip and stares at the countertop. “How do you know Jessica?”
“We met by chance. Care to explain how all that started, too?”
“That’s beside the point. I wanted to end it with Margaux because it was the right thing to do.”
“Yet you took her to bed one last time.”
“It just happened. Don’t you think I wish I could take it back? And the whole time, she kept begging me to squeeze. Just a little tighter, just a little longer. It’s almost as if . . . It’s like she wanted me to leave marks on her neck. I think she planned it. I think it was the ultimate revenge. I left marks. She staged her suicide to make it look like I killed her.”