Promise You Won't Tell? (6 page)

At five o’clock I unlock the front door of my office, look at the vacant reception desk, yell “Damn it!” and text Fanny.

Where are you?

Hospital.

Oh yeah? Which hospital? Which room?

Sorry, ER nurse just told me to turn off my cell phone.

The front door opens and a very red-faced Eric Cobblestone enters, holding a paper bag at arms’ length.

He takes a seat across from me, places the bag on the desk.

“Your wife’s panties?” I say.

He nods. “They’re in the plastic bag inside.”

“Congratulations!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You weren’t sure she’d have sex with you.”

“It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that.”

I believe him.

“Well,” I say, “That part’s behind us. Your determination is about to pay off.”

“I hope so, because this is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“It is? Seriously? Why?”

“Are you kidding me? That’s fluid from my body. You’re going to be
looking
at it.
Inspecting
it.”

I say, “Have you never given a doctor a urine sample?”

“Not on a pair of my wife’s panties.”

“Good point. Still, I can’t help but think you’re making too much out of this.”

I peek in the bag.

He says, “What happens next?”

“We apply a chemical to the stains.”

“To what purpose?”

“The stains will turn a specific color based on the unique protein compounds in your semen.”

“Like a fingerprint?”

“Exactly.”

“And how will that help us?”

“We’ll compare it to the backflow in her panties next week.”

“What do you mean?”

“Next week, or whenever you suspect she’s cheated on you, you’ll bag the panties she was wearing, and bring them in.”

“And?”

“I’ll test them. If they contain semen, it’ll show up a different color than yours.”

“What if she’s sleeping with my identical twin brother?”

“Do you have an identical twin brother?”

“Not that I know of, unless we were separated at birth.”

“Well, in that absurdly ridiculous case, the stains would probably be the same color.”

“So it’s not so unique after all.”

“I suppose not.”

“So you might not be able to prove anything. This could be a complete waste of my time.”

I sigh. “If your wife is fucking any human on the planet Earth, aside from a non-existent identical twin brother, the stain will be unique, and easily distinguishable from yours. Can you trust me on this?”

He shrugs. “What choice do I have? I can’t continue carrying this paper bag around with me wherever I go. Today a co-worker asked if he could share my lunch.”

“Well, her panties are safe with me. And we’ll get to the bottom of them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’ll soon have our answer.”

He says, “Is there some sort of international semen database I don’t know about?”

“What do you mean?”

“How can you tell
who
she’s sleeping with based on the stains in her panties?”

“I can’t. But if they contain semen stains that don’t match yours, we’ll know she’s cheating on you. And if she is, I’ll have her followed.”

“If she’s meeting someone, it will probably be Saturday morning.”

“Why?”

“She said she has to run errands.”

“Maybe
you
should follow her.”

“I’ve got my Space Ace convention.”

“Whatever that means, I’ll assume you’re indisposed.”

“Obviously!”

We look at the bag. He says, “Can I watch?”

“Watch what?”

“The test.”

“Are you serious?”

“Totally.”

I sigh.
Why do I get all the crazies? Of course his wife is cheating on him. Who wouldn’t?

“Let’s go,” I say.

He follows me to the testing room.

“This is your
lab
?”

“I’ll concede I may have overstated when I referred to it as a lab.”

“It’s a
kitchenette
!”

It’s actually a break room, with a small table, two chairs, a refrigerator, a microwave oven, and a sink.

I say, “All I need’s a place to spray the chemical. This is as good as any.”

He looks around. “You
eat
in here?”

“Of course.”

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You remove soiled, stained panties from plastic bags, spray them with a chemical above the sink, then sit at that table and eat your lunch?”

I frown. “Maybe not after today.”

I point to one of the chairs. “Care to sit?”

“Not on your life!”

A few minutes later I show him the multi-colored hue that uniquely identifies his sperm.

“Where do you store them while waiting for the next pair?” he says.

“Uh…you don’t want to know.”

He follows my gaze, walks to the refrigerator, opens it, says, “I don’t fucking
believe
this!”

I shrug. “Can I offer you a yogurt?”

“I’d rather have a root canal from a witch doctor.”

“A simple ‘no thank you’ would suffice.”

“After the case is closed, can I have them back?” he says.

“What, the panties?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll insist on it,” I say.

“What can you tell me about Ethan Clark?”

I’m on the phone with Riley. She says, “Ethan Clark? What have you heard?”

“Rick overheard someone talking about what happened at the sleepover.”

“What did he say?”

“He wouldn’t give details, but Ethan’s the key. Was he there Saturday night?”

“Yes. He was driving one of the cars.”

“He’s got a license?”

“Provisional.”

“Meaning he’s not supposed to drive after midnight?”

“Yes. But he does.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“He’s the richest kid in school. His parents, I mean. His dad’s a corporate attorney, and married well. His wife is a Bennett.”

“As in the Fortune Five Hundred Bennetts?”

“Uh huh.”

“Carson Collegiate’s a private school, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Terribly expensive?”

She pauses, then says, “You want to know how we manage to pay the tuition?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I’m on scholarship.”

“Academic? Athletic?”

“Both.”

“Full tuition?”

“Yes, ma’am. They also pay for books, supplies, activities, and projects.”

“You must be pretty smart.”

“I was. Until Saturday night.”

“There’s that,” I say. “What are you planning to major in, at college?”

“Criminal justice.”

“Wow. You
are
smart!”

She says, “You might want to check out Ronnie English.”

“Who’s he?”

“Ethan’s best friend.”

“Was Ronnie at Kelli’s?”

“Yes. Wherever Ethan goes, Ronnie follows.”

“Could they have slipped away from the others?”

“You mean when they were all in the basement?”

“Yes. Could they have snuck off for ten or fifteen minutes without being missed?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Unless the others were playing a game or something.”

“Like Truth or Dare?”

“Or Beer Pong, or Spin the Bottle.”

“Kids still play Spin the Bottle?”

“Sure. It’s a classic.”

“Do Ethan and Ronnie have girlfriends?”

“Ethan’s dating Melanie Hughes. Ronnie’s in between girlfriends, I think.”

“Are they the sort of kids who’d take advantage of an unconscious girl?”

“They’re the sort who’d try to drug her first.”

“Have they been in trouble with the law?”

“Not that I know of. But if they have, their daddies probably paid someone off.”

“Where can I find Ethan?”

“Alone?”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t have a job like Rick. And like I said, he’s got his own car. A brand-new Mercedes, if you can imagine. But he’s usually with Ronnie, or Melanie, or both.”

“Must be nice to be seventeen, rich, and driving a Mercedes.”

“There’s something else,” Riley says.

“What’s that?”

“Ethan’s above the law.”

“No one’s above the law, Riley.”

“I’d like to believe that,” she says, with a tone that suggests I’m naïve.

I say, “If he did something to you, we’ll get him.”

“I think not. But I
would
like to know.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Is your husband home?”

“What’s this about?”

I’m on the porch, talking to Kelli’s mom, Lydia Underhill, who doesn’t recognize me from the recent news coverage.

“How do you know my husband?” she says, letting me know she can recognize a possible marriage threat when she sees one.

“I
don’t
know him. I was hoping to catch you together.”

“Doing what?”

“Pardon?”

“You don’t look like a salesperson. Are you campaigning for some sort of office?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Kelli.”

“What about her?”

“May I come in?”

“You expect me to just let you into my
house
? Are you
kidding
me? Who
are
you?”

“Dani Ripper.”

She frowns while studying me.

“Your name sounds familiar,” she says. “You
look
familiar. Where do I know you from? Carson Collegiate?”

“No. I’m a private investigator.”

“Why would a private investigator be asking about my daughter?”

“It’s about the sleepover Kelli had Saturday night.”

“What about it?”

“After you went to bed, the girls swiped a fifth of vodka and drank it.”

“Obviously, this is a joke.” She looks around, then peers over my shoulder, as if expecting to find a camera crew.

“Just after midnight, two cars full of boys came over. Kelli let them in.”

“Is this your idea of a joke? Because this is ridiculous! Kelli’s an honor student. She simply wouldn’t
do
that.”

I hand her my card and say, “Talk to her about it. Then give me a call.”

“Why should I?”

“Because something happened here that night, whether you want to believe it or not.”

Her eyes narrow with anger. “I was here the entire evening, and remained here until each girl was safely picked up by her parent on Sunday. I don’t appreciate your insinuations about my daughter, or my parenting skills. What I
would
appreciate is for you to get off my property, immediately!”

“Talk to Kelli,” I say. “Then call me.”

Wednesday.
I follow Ethan’s Mercedes as he drives his girlfriend, from place to place.

It’s tough having a girlfriend sometimes, isn’t it, Ethan? Cramps your style, I bet. Well, don’t worry. I doubt she’ll be around much longer.

Eventually, he makes his way to her house, walks her to the door, kisses her. It might have been a tender moment had he not grabbed her ass when she turned to enter the house.

Now I’m following him as he turns on Radcliff, now Wyatt, and onto the interstate. I pull up beside his car and honk my horn. He looks at me, does a double take, smiles, waves. I lower the passenger window and yell, “Follow me!”