Fugitive Red

by Jason Starr

  I believed all of this—well, maybe for ten seconds or so. Then I decided I was full of shit.

  An affair was a huge mistake that I didn’t want to make. I had to do the mature, adult thing and go home to my family and try to work things out the right way. But I couldn’t just take off, not without giving Sophie some kind of explanation.

  I continued down the block, proud of myself for finally making the right decision, and headed up the stoop to the front door of the townhouse. I’d apologize to Sophie, tell her that it had been a blast getting to know her, and that if things didn’t work out in our marriages, I’d love to get to know her better, but right now this was the right thing to do. She’d be disappointed, but she’d understand.

  My mind was made up; I felt so mature, so logical. Why couldn’t I have had this revelation a week ago?

  As I’d expected, the door was open, slightly ajar. I entered, blown away by how gorgeous the place was. I’d expected a townhouse worth millions to be nice inside, but somehow, from my chat sessions with Sophie, I’d expected the place to have an offbeat, Bohemian vibe. Instead it was full-throttle upscale. A large foyer with a winding staircase going up. Going by the new floors and new crown molding, the place seemed to have undergone a renovation recently.

  “Hello?” I said.

  As I went farther inside and smelled perfume—her perfume, I figured—suddenly I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist her, after all.

  “Hello?” I said again.

  No answer.

  I continued through the downstairs of the townhouse. The place was nice, all right—way nicer than I’d expected. The dining room had an elegant table that could easily sit ten people, and the kitchen had been totally redone with an island with a sink and new appliances. Brian at my agency had sold a similar property, also in Kips Bay, for close to four million last year and this one was in better shape. It could get six and change, maybe seven.

  I checked the kitchen, but she wasn’t there, and then, looking up, I noticed that a light was on upstairs.

  “Sophie … Sophie, are you there?”

  Still nothing.

  As I headed up the spiral staircase, the scent of her perfume was getting stronger and I was getting weaker. I knew what was going to happen next. I’d go into the bedroom and she’d be there, waiting for me. I flashed back to our sexting, the things she’d said she wanted to do with me. I’d try to be strong; I’d try not to give in. I’d explain to her all the reasons why this was a bad idea, why it would screw up our lives.

  But what if I couldn’t resist? I’d never had self-restraint. Who was I kidding?

  The second floor had a wide hallway and my feet creaked the long floorboards. I passed a bathroom and what looked like a guest bedroom.

  “Sophie?”

  I continued to the end of the hallway, toward another room. The door was a few inches ajar and a light was on.

  When I first began performing live music, I’d suffered from awful stage fright. Sometimes the anxiety got so bad that I couldn’t even move, no less perform. Though my terror never fully subsided, I managed to deal with the issue well enough to get through my gigs.

  I felt the same way now. My breath got short and my pulse throbbed, but I forced myself to fight through it.

  I entered the bedroom and sure enough she was lying in bed. Jesus, a woman I liked, whom I’d connected with, was waiting for me in bed. I couldn’t turn back now; I’d come too far.

  The scent of her perfume was so intense, so overwhelming, that at first I wasn’t really aware of anything else. Then I saw that there was something weird about her mouth—her jaw was sagging—and something was wrong with her face, too. It was too pale, and her eyes were wide open—and she was wearing a bright red tie.

  Then I realized she wasn’t wearing the tie.

  Somebody had strangled her with it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I STARED AT her for a long time—thirty seconds, a minute, or it could’ve been longer. Time was distorted; it was hard to be sure about anything. My legs were weak and I felt unsteady, like I was trying to balance myself on the deck of a boat in rough water.

  Then I thought I saw her chest move.

  Snapping into action, I loosened the tie and tried to give her mouth-to-mouth. I’d taken a CPR class before Jonah was born, but under pressure, I couldn’t remember how to do it. Were you supposed to breathe five times? Three times? And when were you supposed to pump the chest? Anyway, her lips were stiff and cold and whatever I was doing obviously wasn’t working. I tried to loosen the tie, but it was wound too tight. Going by how cold and stiff her lips were, I’d probably made a mistake; I hadn’t seen her chest move and she’d been dead all along. After a couple of breaths, I backed away again, shaking.

  Then I saw the blood on my hands.

  I was confused for a few seconds; where the hell had blood come from? Then I saw some blood on her head, near the pillow. I must’ve gotten the blood on me when I gave her CPR.

  I rushed to the bathroom and rinsed the blood off my hands, watching the pink water spiral down the drain. I scrubbed my hands, too, to get rid of any perfume scent.

  Then I went out to the hallway. Several seconds went by, maybe longer, and I just stood there. In shock, I guess. Then a terrifying thought hit: How do I know that the killer isn’t still here?

  I listened, didn’t hear anything, then realized how pointless this was. If someone was here, what was I going to do, get into a conversation?

  I went down the stairs as fast as if I’d jumped from the top of the landing. But at the front door I stopped, telling myself, You can’t just leave.

  A woman had been killed; a woman whom I knew had been killed. This was a crime scene now. If I ran away, it would be like a hit-and-run. Even though I was innocent, if I left now I’d be committing a crime. Besides, my prints and hair fibers and whatever else were probably in the house, maybe even on her body. From the CPR, my saliva was on her mouth. And what about the blood? I probably still had some on me.

  No, I couldn’t leave now. I had to do the right thing and call the police.

  In the vestibule, still trembling, I punched in 911 from my cell.

  “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

  My lips started to move, then I ended the call.

  From the moment I’d seen the body till the moment I’d heard the operator’s voice, I’d been reacting, not really thinking, but now it all clicked—I realized what deep shit I was in.

  The woman I’d met online and had arranged to meet for a sex date had been strangled to death. When the police came, I’d be questioned; I might even be a suspect. Then Maria would find out that I’d met the woman online—on Discreet Hookups no less—and any hope for a “good divorce” would be officially shot. There would be no convincing lie to tell, no way to explain it all away. Although nothing had actually happened—I didn’t kill this woman and I didn’t have an affair with her—there was no way she’d believe this. She’d want a divorce and, if I was a murder suspect, I’d almost certainly lose custody of Jonah.

  I hated myself for making the bad decisions that had gotten me to this point, for fucking up my life all over again.

  Then I heard a voice inside me, shouting, Run! Get the hell out!

  But I couldn’t run—running would only bury me deeper.

  On Discreet Hookups, there were records, chat transcripts, of all my interactions with Sophie. Even if I deleted my account and the police never found any record of the chats, I wouldn’t be safe. Sophie had told me that she’d kept our relationship a secret, but what if this wasn’t true? What if her closest friends knew all about us?

  I called 911 again and, as calmly as I could, said, “I want to report a dead body,” and I told her the address on East 32nd Street.

  “How did the person die?” the female operator asked.

  “Murdered.” I was so scared I was shivering. “I mean, I think she was murdered. I mean, strangled. Or maybe hit on the head.” />
  “Help is on the way,” the operator asked. “Are you still inside?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is there anyone with you?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible for you to go outside?”

  “Yes.”

  I left the townhouse.

  “I want you to go outside,” the operator said.

  “Okay, I’m outside,” I said.

  The cool fall air taunted me, like the air in a prison yard.

  “Help will arrive soon,” the operator said. “Can you stay on the line with me?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  As the operator continued to talk to me, trying to keep me calm, it registered that Sophie was dead, actually dead. I didn’t actually know her, but it felt like I’d known her, like I’d lost a friend. I saw flashes of the bright red tie around her neck, the blood on my hands, and her wide-open eyes, and queasiness hit, like I was discovering her body all over again.

  Who the hell had done this to her? Why?

  The answer to question one was so obvious that if I hadn’t been so busy, worrying about my own situation, it would’ve occurred to me immediately.

  Her husband had killed her.

  I was still in shock and scattered and it was hard to think clearly, but her husband—it had to have been him. She’d said he was abusive, that there had been problems in their marriage for a long time. Besides, it was always the husband. He must’ve followed her here and—

  Shit, the front door. I remembered it had been ajar when I’d arrived. I’d assumed Sophie had left it like that, but her husband could’ve forced his way in and dragged her into the bedroom. He killed her and then took off quickly without bothering to close the door. But he must’ve left at least a couple of minutes before I’d arrived, or I would’ve seen him.

  Unless …

  I glanced at the house; curtains covered the windows downstairs so I couldn’t see inside. Was it possible that he was still in there, hiding somewhere?

  Then I heard a siren, increasing in volume, and a few seconds later saw the police car turn onto 32nd Street. It stopped in front of the townhouse. Two officers got out—a young, muscular Latino and a blond, stocky woman. Although I knew there was nothing funny about any of this, as the officers approached me, I realized I was smiling. A nervous smile overcompensating for panic and fear, but, still, probably not the best first impression to make to the police at the scene of a murder. My expression could have easily been misinterpreted as a crazed, shit-eating grin.

  “We got a call about a possible homicide,” the woman said.

  “Yes, that was me.” Shit, that’s not what I’d meant to say. “I mean, I made the call. She’s inside, second-floor bedroom.”

  “You discovered the body?” the Latino asked.

  I looked at his name tag: Jimenez. The woman was Riley.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Who are you?” Jimenez asked. “Neighbor?”

  “Friend,” I said.

  “Does the vic live in the house?” Riley asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean, sort of. It’s a, um … second residence.”

  “There anybody else in the house right now?” Jimenez asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I don’t think so. The door was open when I got here. Maybe he left.”

  “He?” Jimenez asked.

  “I think her husband killed her,” I said.

  I knew I was talking too much, but I was nervous and couldn’t help it.

  “Why do you think that?” he said.

  “Because she said he was abusive, he was beating the shit out of her.”

  “When did she tell you this?”

  “She didn’t actually tell me it, she implied it, and … it just makes sense, okay? He probably followed her here, or knew she was going to be here.”

  “She told you her husband was going to be here?”

  “No, he wasn’t supposed to be here, but he came anyway.”

  I realized I had no evidence to suggest her husband had killed her; it was all just speculation.

  Riley walked away up the sidewalk a little, talking into her radio, saying something I couldn’t hear.

  “What’s your name?” Jimenez asked.

  “Jack,” I said.

  “Jack what?”

  “Harper.”

  He was writing in a little pad.

  “And you discovered the body?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I … I tried to give her CPR … She was already dead.”

  “You sure she was dead?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Then I thought, Was I?

  “I mean I think so,” I said. “I didn’t know there was blood until after I gave her CPR. So I washed the blood off my hands. I mean, I was shocked, and just wanted to get it off me, so …”

  “You washed the blood off before you called nine-one-one?”

  “No,” I said. “I mean yes. Like I said, I was in shock. I was surprised.”

  He took some more notes then asked, “How do you know the victim?”

  “Like I said, I’m a friend.”

  “And you just stopped by to say hi?”

  “No, she invited me.”

  Although I was telling the truth, I felt like I was lying.

  “Did you touch anything else in there?”

  “Else?” I asked.

  “Besides her.”

  “I … I’m not sure. I … I mean probably.”

  “You’re not sure or probably?”

  “Probably?”

  “Did the vic live here or not?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I mean, yes. It was a second residence.”

  Another police car pulled up. Riley went to talk to the cops—an older black guy and a Latino, younger than Jimenez. Then Riley called Jimenez over and the four cops huddled.

  Maybe a minute later, Jimenez came over to me and said, “Wait with the other officers, please. We’ll have more questions for you, I’m sure.”

  With their guns drawn, Jimenez and Riley entered the house. Meanwhile, I was trying to come up with a way to explain why I was here that wouldn’t ruin any chance of getting even partial custody of Jonah. I could say Sophie was showing me the house for a possible listing, but if the cops discovered the Discreet Hookups transcripts, I’d be fucked.

  An ambulance arrived and two male EMS workers came over to where I was waiting with the other officers.

  “We’re in there right now,” the older officer told them.

  After about five minutes, Jiminez and Riley exited the house. Riley spoke to the EMS workers and they entered the house.

  “So why did she invite you over?” Jimenez asked me.

  I could tell it was the second time he’d asked me this. I’d been distracted—by my panic and by watching Riley.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You her boyfriend or what?”

  “Oh, no not really. But I came here to meet her, yes.”

  “She let you in?”

  “No, no of course not. She left the door open for me.”

  “Why’d she do that?”

  “Because she said she would.”

  “When did she say she would?”

  “Look, it’s a weird situation, okay?” I was terrified to tell the truth, but I knew there was no way to sugarcoat it. “I … I met her online.”

  Jesus Christ, I was starting to cry. I couldn’t help it—the emotion, all of my pent-up disgust with myself, was gushing out. But I was worried the cops would misinterpret it. Did crying make me look upset or guilty?

  “Where online?” he asked.

  Trying to get ahold of myself, I didn’t answer.

  He said, “Facebook? Twitter?”

  “Discreet Hookups,” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  I knew he’d heard me; he just wanted to hear me say it again, maybe for humiliation’s sake.

  “Discreet Hookups.”

  “What’s that, some
kind of dating site?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I mean, no. I mean, not really.”

  “Wait, I’ve heard of it,” he said. “It’s one of those cheating sites, like Ashley Madison.”

  “It’s not really like that,” I said.

  His look said, Yeah, right. In his mind, I was a cheating scumbag and nothing I could tell him would change that.

  But I tried: “I mean, I didn’t go on the site to cheat. This whole thing, it wasn’t serious, okay? I mean, we just got to know each other and … and we decided to … meet. Just to hang out and say hi, you know?”

  “Not serious, huh?” he said. “A woman’s dead and that’s not serious?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I said. “I mean, we weren’t doing anything. We weren’t in any kind of relationship.”

  I saw Jimenez’s eyes shift downward briefly, obviously noticing the wedding band on my left hand, and then his gaze met mine again.

  “Look, I had nothing to do with any of this, I swear on my life,” I said. “Obviously I’d rather no one knows I was here.”

  “Lemme be clear with you about one thing,” Jimenez said. “We want to find out who killed this woman. We don’t give a fuck about your marriage.”

  I should’ve expected this reaction.

  “Of course,” I said. “I totally get that. Obviously what happened here is more important than anything related to me. I’m sorry I even said that. I’m just really nervous right now.”

  If I wanted any chance of Maria not finding out about any of this, I had to be as helpful as possible with the cops, not antagonize them.

  “When was the last time you talked to the vic?” Jimenez asked.

  I had to think for a moment, then said, “In person? Never. It was totally an online thing. That’s when she told me about her husband. He’s the guy you should really be talking to.”

  “Why? She told you something about her husband?”

  “She told me she was in a bad marriage.”

  “What does that mean? If every guy in a bad marriage killed his wife, there’d be no wives left.”