One Little Secret

by Eliza Lentzski

Her pale neck and collarbone were unblemished, untouched, no scratches or love bites, no flush to her apple cheekbones.

  I heard her heavy sigh. The force of her breath rustled the loose papers on her desk. Her body language revealed fatigue.

  “Hi.” The one-word greeting got caught in my throat.

  Julia’s head snapped up. “Jesus, Cassidy,” she exclaimed. “Where’d you come from?”

  It was a rhetorical question and not meant to be answered. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Julia walked around her desk. In her high heels, she was slightly taller than me. Her fingers touched the collar of my button-up shirt and she instinctively re-arranged the material. “It’s okay; I didn’t know to expect you.”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I told her. “I had an unplanned trip to a hospital morgue.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrows arched in interest. “Anyone we know?”

  “A local girl got shot. It might be connected to an old cold case.” I wasn’t forthcoming with the details, but only because something else had taken residency in my thoughts. “What was your ex-girlfriend doing here?” I blurted out.

  Julia’s caramel eyes perceptively narrowed. “I would hardly call Melissa Ferdet an ex,” she resisted.

  “What would you call her, then?” I challenged, although my tone held neither malice nor heat.

  “We were both interns at the same law firm during law school.”

  “Yeah, but you guys have history.”

  “History?” she repeated with an incredulous laugh. “We made out once at a company Christmas party.”

  I nearly choked. “You did what?”

  Julia pursed her lips. “Let’s not be naïve, darling. We both were with other people before we found each other.”

  “I know that,” I scowled, “I just never expected to actually meet any of your exes.”

  “I told you—Melissa Ferdet isn’t an ex-girlfriend. It was a one-time thing. I can assure you that it went no further than the women’s bathroom.”

  I nearly hyperventilated. “You made out in a public bathroom?”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “It was the company bathroom of a powerful criminal law firm, not a port-a-potty, Cassidy.”

  “What was she doing here?” I asked. A new misgiving crept into my brain. “How did she even find you?”

  “It’s called Google, dear. I never told her where I worked, if you’ll remember. Apparently, she made an innocent comment to someone at her firm about running into me, and they asked her to follow up.”

  “For what?”

  “For a job,” she clipped. “I’m being head hunted.”

  “Why?”

  “Why are you asking so many questions?” she deflected.

  “I’m a detective. It’s what I do,” I responded.

  “Well there’s nothing you have to detect from me.”

  I watched her work the back muscles of her jaw. “Why are you getting so mad?”

  “I don’t know,” she practically growled. “Maybe it’s because Melissa Ferdet just barged into my office with her vintage Gucci suit and Jimmy Cho heels and Louis Vuitton bag.”

  “You look fine,” I naïvely remarked.

  Julia struck her hand against the top of her desk. “That’s not the point.”

  The hamster that worked the giant wheel of my brain slowly caught up with our conversation. “It’s because you’re a public defender. And your office always smells like burnt coffee. And she’s going to be partner at some high-profile criminal defense firm.”

  Julia shuttered her eyes and her shoulders drooped forward. She didn’t verbally confirm my revelation, but she didn’t need to.

  I dropped my blind jealousy and wrapped my arms around her. When I realized she was silently shaking, I tightened my hold. “Shhh,” I hushed into her ear. “Baby, it’s okay,” I tried to sooth.

  “It’s so juvenile. It’s so pathetic. I’m pathetic. This shouldn’t be a contest. I like the work I do; it’s challenging and rewarding like nothing else I’ve done.”

  “And yet …” I started for her.

  “And yet … why do I let the Melissa Ferdets of the world make me feel ashamed of where I am?”

  Surprisingly, I could relate to Julia’s frustration. I’d joined the military to escape St. Cloud. I’d become a police officer because it was the most logical transition from the Marines. But being a Cold Case detective had never been part of the plan—not that I’d ever been good at setting out personal career goals for myself.

  When she’d been in law school or studying for the bar exam, I was sure Julia had never imagined this career for herself. The stains on the worn carpeting. The peeling wallpaper. The outdated furniture. They were much more than ugly interior design elements; they were a microcosm for how far she’d fallen, from small-town city prosecutor to indigent public defender. The work she was doing was important—so important—but in the day-to-day monotonous grind, it was easy for the bigger picture to get lost.

  “I feel like some of my insecurity is rubbing off on you,” I muttered guiltily.

  Julia brushed at the hair that had fallen across her eyes. “Don’t try to shoulder the burden here, Hero,” she mumbled. “I’ve got to get out of my own way and out of my head.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said cheekily. “It’s a pretty big head.”

  Julia’s mouth fell open and an offended noise rattled up from her throat.

  “But it’s only big because of that big old brain in there,” I quickly backpedaled. “I don’t know how your neck doesn’t get tired from holding it up all the time.”

  A small smile played on Julia’s painted lips. She shook her head. “You’re normally so charming. What happened?”

  “I guess I must be a little rusty,” I shrugged. “Why don’t you get your friend back in here, and I can practice on her?”

  The air suddenly felt like it had been sucked out of the room. Julia flicked the tip of her tongue against the fine, pale scar at the edge of her lip. She stood perfectly still, like a rattlesnake coiling unobtrusively in the moments before it lashed out at its unsuspecting prey.

  But I wasn’t unsuspecting. I knew exactly what I was doing. I might not have had the consoling and reassuring words to pull Julia out of her Melissa Ferdet-induced funk, but I knew how to make her mad. Jealous. Angry. Fiery. There would be no room in that big brain of hers for self-doubt if she had me bent over her office desk. My lower abdomen warmed at the simple imagery.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said. Her tone was even and measured.

  I raised my eyebrows. “No?” I questioned with faux innocence.

  “Is Alice still out there?” she questioned.

  I grinned and rocked back on my heels. “Nope.” I let my lips emphasize the second half of the word. “It’s just you and me.”

  Julia’s normally erect posture visibly sagged. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel like doing this here.”

  My cocky façade fell away. “Wait. What?”

  Julia’s features lost some of their sharpness and heat. “I’ve been in this office for long enough today, Cassidy,” she sighed. “Can we continue this conversation at home?”

  I nodded and cleared my throat of the disappointment that had lodged itself there. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

  I followed the red taillights of Julia’s black Mercedes back to her St. Paul apartment. Too many conflicting thoughts and emotions ricocheted around in my head. My brain hollered louder than the in-car radio. I had expected to be slammed against an office wall. Julia would have made quick work of my belt and the front fastenings of my dress pants before jamming her fingers down the front of my underwear with the same intensity with which she threw my willing body against the back of her office door. I could practically feel the phantom lingering of her teeth in my neck and her fingers twisting and pulling at my nipples.

  Fuck. What had gone wrong? Where had I messed up?

/>   I worried that my teasing may have gone too far. Julia clearly had strong opinions about this Melissa woman. Maybe I’d unintentionally stepped over a boundary with her.

  I entered the apartment with a ready apology. “Julia, I—.” But before I could say anymore, a body crushed against mine.

  Eager teeth nipped at the sensitive flesh of my neck. The bottom of my shirt was unceremoniously yanked out of my pants. It normally wasn’t smart to ambush a police officer who also happened to be a formerly enlisted Marine, but I leaned into the attack when Julia’s sandalwood musk overwhelmed my senses.

  “I-I thought you were pissed at me?” I managed to gasp. Fingers wiggled under my shirt and polished nails scratched across my bare torso.

  Julia cocked her head to the side. “Why would I be mad at you, dear? I only wanted to fuck you from the comfort of our bed and not on an office floor. It’s hard on my body; I’m not as young and pliable as I used to be.”

  “No more public bathroom make out sessions for you, huh?” I teased.

  I watched the previous fire from her law office return. Flames practically flickered behind her caramel irises.

  “Not another word from you, Miss Miller,” she sternly commanded, “unless it’s my name.”

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Fourth Precinct was a large building—one of the largest police stations in the city—yet it wasn’t big enough to house all of the physical evidence related to the unsolved missing persons, homicides, and general crimes that we oversaw in the Cold Case division.

  I was crammed into the passenger side of Stanley’s hybrid car on the way to the warehouse we referred to as the Freezer. It had been Stanley who had unironically come up with the nickname; we worked for Cold Case and the storage facility was kept at a consistently chilly temperature to preserve the integrity of the evidence stored inside. I had only been to the evidence warehouse a few times, but Stanley split his time between our basement office in the Fourth Precinct and the Freezer.

  Our task that day was to retrieve the evidence boxes connected to the investigation of the death of a young man named Michael Bloom. He had been shot at a post-high school graduation party, and later died at an area hospital from gunshot wounds. The case had gone cold when none of the teenagers were forthcoming about what they had or hadn’t witnessed that night, and everything related to the teen’s death had been boxed up and sent to the Freezer until new information was discovered that might warrant a second look.

  The dead girl at the morgue, Kennedy Petersik, had been present at the house party where Bloom had been shot. The coincidence itself, of course, wasn’t enough to re-open the Bloom case. Ideally, we would need the bullets retrieved from both shootings to match—to have come from the same gun. It was a long shot, but the more time I spent on the Cold Case team, the more I recognized that we existed solely for these long shots.

  Stanley stared straight ahead at the road in front of us. His hands gripped the steering wheel at 10 and 2. ”Did you know that Vincent van Gogh died from a gunshot wound to the abdomen?”

  “The painter?” I asked.

  “It was the early morning of July 29th, 1890,” he recited. “He died in his room at the Auberge Ravoux in the village of Auvers-sur-Oise in northern France. To this day, it’s still debated if it was suicide or murder. They never found the gun, and eyewitness accounts kept changing. Most people at the time assumed that he’d killed himself, but I mean, who shoots themselves in the stomach?”

  “Maybe the kind of person who cuts off his own ear?” I proposed.

  I’d noticed a change in my co-worker ever since our visit to the hospital morgue. Stanley had never been a chatterbox, but he’d become more reserved over the past few days. I’d also caught him talking to himself on a number of occasions. Something was off, but I didn’t know how to ask.

  “Stanley—do you have a photographic memory?”

  “A little bit, but it’s not textbook,” he stated. “It’s never been clinically documented, at least.”

  “How did you remember Kennedy Petersik was a person of interest in an old cold case?” I inquired. “We have hundreds of unsolved cases. Maybe thousands.”

  “I didn’t—not really.” His lips thinned momentarily before he began again. “We went to the same high school. Not at the same time, though. I graduated eons ago.”

  Stanley didn’t look much older than myself, but he wasn’t fishing for compliments about his youthful appearance. He was only stating facts.

  “Kennedy and I were recipients of the same academic scholarship at Pius High School,” he continued. “It goes to disadvantaged youth who show academic potential. I’m on the board now that reviews applications for who gets the scholarship each year. We also have a mentor program to help the recipients through their first year. It can be hard being the Scholarship Kid at a private high school,” he remarked in his matter-of-fact style. “We all wore the same khaki pants and polo shirt uniform, but you still stuck out like a sore thumb.”

  Stanley’s tone wasn’t wistful or melancholy, yet my stomach sank uncomfortably. “Were you Kennedy Petersik’s mentor, Stanley?”

  He didn’t provide me with an immediate response. He cleared his throat and his grip tightened on the steering wheel of his hybrid car. His non-answer was telling.

  “I’m sorry.” My apology stuck in my throat.

  Stanley wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “I am, too.”

  + + +

  I stood in front of a giant whiteboard with eight names written to one side. A series of numbers were located next to the names, giving it the appearance of a scoreboard, but I didn’t know the game. The Homicide division was located on the ground floor of the Fourth Precinct building. I’d walked past the area countless times, but I’d never had a reason to actually visit.

  “That’s the clearance board,” a nearing voice informed me. “The Sergeant keeps track of open, closed, and pending cases on it. All of those numbers represent a dead person.”

  I looked to my right to see a man in a fitted suit standing beside me. His badge hung on a chain around his neck, just like I’d been doing until Julia had convinced me to wear my badge on my belt. She’d been right about the look—the man looked like he was attending an IT conference or worked at a big box store rather than being a police officer.

  The man stuck his hands in his pants pockets and rocked on his heels in expensive-looking loafers. “Did you know that if you’re murdered in America,” he continued, “there’s only a one in three chance of finding the killer? The national clearance rate is under 60 percent. Back in the 1960s, it was as high as 90 percent.”

  “Why so low?” I questioned. “I would have thought the reverse considering new technology, like DNA testing.”

  “The standards for charging are too fucking high,” he grumbled. “These goddamned prosecutors are only willing to charge someone if they’ve got an open-and-shut case.” He removed his right hand from his pocket and thrust it in my direction. “Detective Jason Ryan,” he introduced himself. “Homicide.”

  Jason Ryan was young—maybe even younger than myself. Excitable blue eyes that bounced around the room as if he was always looking for the next best thing. Brown hair trimmed on the sides and a little longer on top. He used an unnecessary amount of hair product to keep the top hair slicked back. His stubble looked purposeful—highly manicured, not the result of being too lazy to shave his face that morning. Non-uniformed police could do whatever they wanted to do with their facial hair—within reason—since they didn’t have to worry about riot gear making a tight seal against their jawline.

  His navy blue suit was too fitted for a police officer. The men I knew in the department wore boxy dress pants, white collared shirts, and ties they’d gotten for Father’s Day or as a birthday present. Detective Ryan’s pants were skinnier than mine.

  His youth and wardrobe set off a warning flag. Typical homicide detectives had spent a lifeti
me in the department as they slowly worked their way up the food chain, one grueling promotion after the next. I was an anomaly at the rank of detective—damaged goods not fit for a patrol car, but too much time as a police officer to be discarded entirely. It made me wonder what Detective Jason Ryan’s situation was. He could have annoyed people along the way and gotten shuffled from one department to the next. It took a lot to fire someone who’d made it through the academy.

  “Detective Cassidy Miller,” I eventually returned, shaking his hand. “Cold Case.”

  Detective Ryan’s eyebrows furrowed. “Cold Case? What are you doing up here? I thought you all hung out in the basement.”

  “We have a mutual interest in the death of Kennedy Petersik.”

  “Petersik. Petersik.” He chanted the name as if it was somehow familiar, but he couldn’t recall why.

  “Caucasian. Female. Twenty years old. Single gunshot wound to the abdomen,” I recited.

  Detective Ryan snapped his fingers. “Petersik! Damn it. I should have remembered. Her parents call us nearly every day to see if there’s new leads on her homicide.”

  “You’re ruling it foul play already?” My surprise showed on my face and in my voice. “I didn’t know the forensics was conclusive.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you know about it?”

  “I went down to the morgue and saw the body.”

  Ryan’s upper lip curled. “Are you some kind of overachiever? Betting that we won’t solve this thing, so you’re getting a head start?”

  “No, of course not. She was a person of interest in one of our files.”

  “And now that she’s dead you think there’s a connection?” he posed.

  I shrugged. “Could be. We think it’s worth checking out, at least.”

  I noticed, then, that one of the names on the clearance board was Ryan’s own. The number thirty-five was written in bright red marker next to his last name.

  “This number,” I said, pointing at the thirty-five, “is that Kennedy Petersik?”

  He nodded.