A Study in Crimson

by Chris Orcutt

  “Ta-dah!” Sucking her cheeks together so her lips puckered, she spread her fingers and motioned from her head to her toes. “My ‘sexy nerd’ look. You like?”

  My chest pounded. I had to gulp to create an airway.

  “Very much.”

  She kissed me, minced into the bedroom, and—glancing at me over her shoulder—reached into a pouch on her Rollaboard. With titillating slowness, she removed a comically long accordion strip of condom packets. Humming, wagging the strip from her fingertips, she minced over to my bed making bedroom eyes at me, peeled the covers off, tossed the strip of condoms on a pillow, and lay down on her side facing me. Stretching out her legs and rubbing her feet together almost imperceptibly, she bent her elbow and propped up her head with her hand. Some of her hair dangled over her breasts; clenching her eyebrows in annoyance, she tossed the hair over her shoulder.

  The sight of her nude body, as smooth and creamy as a pearl, was dizzying. Between the days of flirting with her, kissing her, seeing her lovely figure in that maraschino cherry swimsuit and her legs in those obscenely short skirts; between making out with her next to the soda machine and on the hotel elevator; between her hanging all over me in my car and her relentless barrage of coquettish looks and breathy, high-pitched come-ons—my willpower was down to fumes. Quaffing the bourbon and feasting my eyes on her from the bathroom doorway, I knew that any further resistance was futile: the two of us sleeping together had been fated since the beginning of this case, and I was powerless to stop it.

  “You’re sure about this, Sally?” I shut out the bathroom light, went over to the nightstand, put down the bottle. “You swear you don’t feel coerced or anything?”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “Dakota, I’ve never wanted to do this with anyone like I want to with you.” Grinning, she adjusted her eyeglasses and traced her fingertips over her curves. “Besides, if anybody’s being coerced here, it’s you.” She patted the mattress. “Come, lie down. Let me reward my hero.”

  Slowly, I lay down on my back beside her. “My ribs are on fire.”

  “I’ll be super-gentle,” she said. “I promise.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this, Sally,” I said. “These broken ribs have pretty much knocked me out of commission.”

  “Shh.”

  She pressed a finger to my lips and started kissing down my chest and stomach. Skating her breasts tantalizingly against my skin, she lowered her petite body down mine by straddling me and hooking her feet over my legs. Every few kisses, she paused to push up her glasses sliding down her nose.

  “You might be…out of commission,” she said sweetly, “but I’m not. And anyway, who said…you had to do anything? I’ll do all the work.” She moved her hair out of her face, kept kissing downward. “Besides…your most important body part…seems fine.” Upon reaching my groin, she moistened her lips and raised a jaunty eyebrow. “Perfectly fine.”

  * * *

  Afterwards we took a nap, and Sally slept with her head on my shoulder into the early evening, when I made us get up. We got dressed, walked over to a pizza parlor across the road, ordered a pepperoni and mushroom and soft drinks, and brought the food back to the motel. As we ate on the bed, we watched a movie about a ditzy blonde who follows her boyfriend to Harvard Law School. When the movie was over, I switched off the TV.

  “Hey!” Sally said.

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “About what happened, and what’s going to happen—starting tomorrow.”

  Sitting cross-legged with her back against the headboard, she reached for another slice and gave me a bite.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” she said, grinning. “We had mind-blowing sex—that’s what happened.” She gazed pensively across the room. “Kind of makes me wish someone would try to kidnap me every day.”

  “Don’t say that, Sally,” I said. “Remember—there are still fourteen girls missing. You, Megan and Jade were almost three more.”

  “You’re right. Sorry.” She took a bite of pizza. “As for tomorrow, I go home—so what?”

  “So...you’ve been through a lot of trauma over the past couple of months,” I said.

  “Trauma?” She scoffed. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “How about almost being abducted by your boyfriend? A boyfriend who made you wear a collar and left you chained up in his apartment like a dog.”

  She froze in the middle of chewing and gaped at me. “How’d you know about that?”

  “I searched his apartment and saw the cable,” I said. “The point is, Sally, you need therapy.”

  “Therapy? Please.” She resumed eating.

  “May I be blunt?” I said.

  She shrugged.

  “First, I think you’ve got daddy issues,” I said. “You also show signs of bipolar disorder—wild mood swings between elation and depression, as well as some pretty impulsive behavior.”

  “Are you calling me crazy, Dakota?” she said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “No, I’m not saying you’re crazy, Sally, but I do think you need treatment. Although the daddy issues and the bipolar stuff don’t concern me as much as something else.”

  “What?”

  “The sex stuff,” I said. “Like earlier—how you could only express your gratitude toward me through sex.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t enjoy it?” she said. “Because it was the best sex I’ve ever had! Do you regret it?”

  “No,” I said. “But I do feel a little guilty, like I took advantage of you.”

  “You didn’t take advantage of me, Dakota,” she said. “When I got in the shower, I knew what was going to happen, and I wanted it to happen. But forget about us. You said, ‘the sex stuff.’ What other stuff are you talking about?”

  “How about the months you were with Malone? The BDSM collar? The ‘master-submissive’ role-playing? How about the fact that your boyfriend was operating a human trafficking ring right under your nose?”

  “I think you’re exaggerating how traumatic these things have been on me,” she said. “Get real.”

  “Okay,” I said, “how’s this for real? What about Malone forcing you to have sex with him in public, where you could have been caught anytime? Huh?”

  She looked at me blank-faced.

  “I followed you one night last week,” I said, “and yes, I saw the two of you going at it on Acorn Street.”

  She dropped her pizza slice back in the box and held her face in her hands.

  “Did he make you do that a lot?” I asked.

  She nodded without saying anything.

  “Wouldn’t it help to talk to somebody about it?”

  She nodded again and began to cry.

  Wonderful, Dakota. Here we go again.

  Propping myself up on the pillows, I fortified myself with a long chug of bourbon and a bite of pizza, laid her head on my chest and let her cry. After a good fifteen-minute cry, I got her some tissues and held her hand while she blew her nose.

  “So will you agree to get counseling?” I asked.

  She nodded and turned on her side to face the wall.

  “Okay,” I said, “it’s been a long day. Let’s get some sleep.”

  I double-checked that the motel room door was locked and chained, and for extra security, I re-wedged the desk chair under the doorknob. After I brushed my teeth, I made Sally brush hers, and then I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. Retrieving the shotgun from under my bed, I leaned it against the wall between the headboard and the nightstand where I could grab it in the night if necessary.

  I slid under the covers and shut out the light. A few minutes later in the darkness, above the plangent hum of the A/C unit, I heard Sally in her bed softly weeping.

  “Sally?” I said.

  “
Yeah?”

  “If I let you come over here and I held you, would it make you feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you promise you won’t turn it into something sexual?”

  “No,” she said. “But I’ll try.”

  “All right, come on over.”

  I heard her covers flap open, and within two seconds she was in my bed, spooning her bijou backside into me. I kissed her neck and stroked her hair.

  “We have to be up early, Sally,” I said. “It’s time for sleep.”

  “Okay,” she said over her shoulder. “But I should warn you, Dakota…in the wee hours, like three o’clock…”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “I tend to wake up from extremely erotic dreams,” she said. “Goodnight.”

  30

  The Standish Household Milieu

  Late the next morning, after sleeping in and enjoying a leisurely breakfast at Waffle House, Sally and I set out in a cold drizzle for Greenwich, Connecticut. Since it was after rush hour, the highways—I-495, I-290, the Mass Pike, I-84 and now, I-91—were virtually empty. As I drove, Sally cuddled against me, curling her legs beneath her in that enchanting feline way that only svelte, petite women can. The two of us had been quiet for many miles when she finally broke the silence.

  “I’m going to miss you, Dakota.” She kissed my cheek and rested her head on my shoulder.

  “I’ll miss you, too, Sally.”

  “Remember what you said on the beach the other day—about me being too young for you?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” She retreated back to her seat and crossed her legs. “I think you’re wrong. I think I’m the perfect age for you.” She turned to me. “But…I’m willing to wait. You realize, in five years I’ll be twenty-five.”

  “So?”

  “So, let’s say this…in five years, if our paths cross again and we’re still attracted to each other, we’ll get together. By then, I’ll be a grown woman, like you want.”

  I chuckled, patted her leg.

  “Don’t laugh,” she said. “I’m very serious.”

  “A lot can change in five years, Sally.”

  “Yeah—we might feel even more strongly for each other. Did you consider that?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Okay. In five years, if our paths cross again, and if we still have feelings for each other, it’s a deal—we’ll get together.”

  “You swear?” She held out her hand.

  “I swear.” We shook on it.

  When we reached the I-95 exit for Greenwich, home of the Standishes and legions of other WASP families, Sally gave me turn-by-turn directions to a row of mansions overlooking Long Island Sound. Hers was a rambling brick affair. Perched high on a bluff, it was visible from the lower main road, as was the hedge-lined serpentine drive that led to it. As we neared the driveway gate, Sally visibly stiffened in her seat.

  “Stop the car for a second?” she said. “Please, Dakota?”

  I pulled over and rolled down the windows. A salty cool breeze wafted into the car.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “My parents are going to be on my case the second I walk in the door.”

  “Relax and take a breath,” I said.

  “I just know they’re going to be all judge-y about Geoff,” she said.

  “Maybe, but you’ll survive it.”

  “Will you come in with me?” she asked.

  “Of course. I’m sure your father will want to talk to me as well.”

  She took a few deep breaths.

  “Ready?” I said.

  She nodded. I turned into the driveway and pressed the call button on the intercom. A few seconds later, the gate whirred open and we started up a seemingly endless series of hedge-lined switchbacks.

  “Look, Sally,” I said, “whatever you do, don’t tell your parents about your BDSM collar, or about you and me fooling around, and definitely not what happened between us last night, okay? We went through a life-and-death ordeal yesterday, and that often causes men and women to—”

  “Relax, Dakota.” She squeezed my hand. “It’ll be our secret. Always.”

  “Thank you.” I squeezed her hand back. “While we’re on the subject, you probably shouldn’t discuss your sex life at all with your parents. Your father looked on the verge of a heart attack when he hired me. If he learns the truth about your sexual exploits, it might kill him. Besides, I was hired by the Director of the FBI, who’s friends with your dad, and—”

  “I promise I won’t say a word, Dakota,” she said. “About any of it. But there’s something I want you to do for me before you go.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  I parked the car in a cul-de-sac in front of the house and shut off the engine. When we got out, I was struck by how much the house, a sprawling brick monstrosity in the neo-Georgian style, looked like one of the buildings in Harvard Yard. There was even red ivy growing up trellises on either side of the front door. The rest of the Standish household milieu became apparent the moment the front door opened and we were greeted by a Hispanic woman wearing a gray maid’s uniform. I didn’t think they even made those uniforms anymore.

  “Miss Sally,” the woman said, “it is wonderful to see you. Your parents, they are very happy you come home.”

  “Thank you, Rosa.” Sally kissed her on the cheek and handed her her suitcase. We followed her inside.

  She led Sally and me down a hallway lined with landscape paintings into a great room. Across the room, with a fireplace blazing behind him, Mr. Standish sat in a maroon leather club chair reading the Hartford Courant. A trim and petite brunette woman in her mid-forties sat in a matching chair licking her forefinger and turning pages in Travel & Leisure magazine.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Standish?” Rosa said. “Sally is here.”

  Tossing the magazine aside, Mrs. Standish leapt from her chair, minced across the room to her daughter, and hugged her. Mr. Standish carefully folded his newspaper and set it on an end table before rising slowly to his feet. With a slight limp in his right leg, he walked over to Sally and his wife and stood awkwardly beside them, wearing a forced smile and patting his daughter’s arm. Rosa took Sally’s suitcase and disappeared.

  “Oh, my darling, darling baby girl!” her mother chirruped. “You’re home, safe and sound!” She let go of Sally and grabbed my hands. “And all because of you, Mr. Stevens! I cannot express...oh, Mr. Stevens, you simply must stay for lunch!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Standish, but I’m afraid I can’t. I have a new case.”

  “Oh, that is most disappointing. Are you sure you won’t stay?”

  “I really can’t. Sorry.”

  “Another time perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Mr. Standish frowned. “Mr. Stevens, I thought you were bringing Sally home yesterday.”

  “I was, Mr. Standish.” Thinking of something James Bond says in Goldfinger, I surreptitiously tapped Sally’s ankle with my shoe. “But something big came up.”

  Sally clenched her jaw to keep from laughing.

  “Something big?” Mr. Standish said. “What was it?”

  “May we speak in private, sir?” I said.

  “Yes, well…let me congratulate you in front of Sally and Mrs. Standish.” He shook my hand. “Fine work, Mr. Stevens. Fine work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Come into my study with me and we’ll settle up.”

  I started to follow him down the hallway. Behind us, Sally called out, “Dakota, be sure to see me before you leave, okay?”

  “Of course, Miss Standish.”

  Mr. Standish led me into a study. The walls, like the ones in Sally’s dorm library, were dark wood and lined wi
th books. The room felt like one you’d encounter in an English Lord’s manor house; the only thing missing was one of those giant antique globes for recounting your worldwide adventures. He gestured at a brass bar trolley with crystal liquor decanters on it.

  “A drink, Mr. Stevens? You’ve certainly earned it.”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  He hobbled behind a desk, sat down with a grunt, and bade me sit in the armchair on the side of the desk. Taking my seat, I had a rush of déjà vu remembering a scolding 16 years earlier in the Millbrook School headmaster’s office. I took a breath and let it pass. Mr. Standish folded his hands across his stomach and stared at me unflinchingly.

  “Before I compensate you for your work on this case,” he said, “there is one question I need an answer to.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Mr. Stevens…in the course of your investigation—that is, while you were wooing my daughter away from Dr. Malone—did you discover any evidence to suggest that Sally is…sexually active?”

  “Sir, forgive me, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss your daughter’s—”

  “Come now, man—did you or did you not find evidence to suggest that my daughter is no longer a virgin?”

  A wave of pity for Sally swept over me. Soon, the poor girl would undergo this exact interrogation.

  “No, sir,” I said. “Nothing. In fact, her relationship with Dr. Malone seems to have been entirely platonic.”

  “But…what about all of the nights she spent in his apartment?” Mr. Standish said. “Your predecessor, Mr. O’Toole seemed quite convinced that—”

  “He was wrong. I believe Dr. Malone and Sally were simply working late, Mr. Standish. Sally was his assistant, after all.”

  “Ah, I guess that explains it. Excellent news, Mr. Stevens.”

  “That being said, sir,” I continued, “I believe this entire incident has scarred your daughter significantly. I’m no psychiatrist, but I strongly suggest she receive counseling.”

  “Counseling? Don’t be ridiculous. For what?”