Cold Blooded Lover

by Eliza Lentzski

  The teasing smile fell from Sarah’s face. “I’m really, really sorry about that,” she apologized again. “I had no idea Captain Forrester would be so insistent. It’s not like Tracey Green’s parents are going anywhere.”

  “It’s okay,” I dismissed. “It’s only a day on the calendar.”

  Sarah arched a high eyebrow. “How romantic. You’re as bad as a guy, Miller.”

  “Nuh uh,” I protested.

  Her mouth curled into an amused grin. “Okay then, Casanova. What’d you get her for her birthday?”

  “Nothing. But I didn’t even know it was her birthday!” I protested before Sarah could point out more of my failings. “Julia’s very secretive about things like birthdays, or even letting me know her age.”

  “Most women are,” Sarah mused. “Have you looked her up in the system?”

  “No. And I’m not going to.”

  Sarah snorted. “I don’t even agree to coffee with someone until I’ve looked them up.”

  “Does that mean you looked me up?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What’s the point of working for the police if you don’t take advantage of its perks?”

  “I don’t like poking around without her knowing,” I shrugged. “If it was important, she’d tell me about it.”

  “You’re very trusting,” Sarah observed with a wry grin. “Or you’re very pussy whipped.”

  I let myself smile at that. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

  + + +

  I lay in bed that night with a belly full of pizza, but a mind too full of worries to be able to properly sleep. Not only did I have to worry about nightmares, but I’d upset Julia as well. Despite her earlier admonishment, Sarah actually snored herself, which made it easier for me to stay awake. I only fell asleep in the early hours before the alarm on Sarah’s cell phone went off.

  It took me little time and effort to get ready for the day, but Sarah’s morning regime more labor intensive. I found myself with time on my hands as I waited for her to finish up in the bathroom. I sat on my unmade bed, cradling my phone in my hands. I owed Julia a phone call and an apology, but I doubted she’d actually answer. She was typically difficult to get a hold of during the workday unless I called her office directly.

  Instead, her birthday present still on my mind, I opened a searchable browser on my phone. I breathed out roughly in frustration. What should I even search for? How to use a strap-on?

  “Fuck it,” I mumbled aloud.

  My fingers hit the appropriate keys.

  “Oh, gross.”

  I should have been more specific.

  Before I could type “lesbian” into the search window and amend my search, Sarah stepped out of the bathroom.

  “Need toothpaste to brush your teeth,” she seemed to mumble to herself.

  She glanced in my direction. “Don’t worry. I’m almost ready.” Her eyes seemed to linger on the phone in my hands and what was certainly a panicked expression on my face. “Hotel porn. Cool.”

  “N-n-no,” I stuttered out.

  “Miller, everybody does it. It’s no big deal.”

  My face grew hot all the way to the top of my ears. “I wasn’t looking at porn. Not exactly.”

  Sarah’s head cocked. “Not exactly?”

  “It’s research.” I exhaled.

  She still looked confused. “For the case?”

  “No, no. For my girlfriend’s birthday. She wants me to, uh, to uh—to do something in bed, and—” I ran my hand over my face. “God, I can’t believe I’m even telling you this.”

  “It’s okay. We all have our kinks.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” I cleared my throat. I couldn’t believe I was going to say it out loud. “It’s a strap on.”

  Sarah hardly blinked. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it? Easy for a straight girl to say,” I challenged.

  “When did I say I was straight?”

  I made an involuntary noise. “I just, I—uh …”

  “I am straight, but you shouldn’t assume things about people, Detective.”

  “I’m sorry,” I breathed. “This whole thing has got me pretty frazzled.”

  “I used one on an old boyfriend,” she unnecessarily shared. “It’s called pegging if you’re wondering what to Google.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I think I’m all done researching.”

  “Just be honest with your girlfriend,” Sarah advised. “I find in relationships that’s usually the best thing—strap-ons or otherwise.”

  + + +

  The awkwardness of the morning had momentarily distracted me from the real reason we were in St. Cloud. But after Sarah finished getting ready for the day, we had no more excuses to delay the inevitable.

  “You do this a lot?” I asked my partner.

  Tracey Green’s family home looked like any other house in St. Cloud. The architecture was very familiar to my own childhood home. Grey shingled roof. White vinyl siding. Manicured front yard. Annuals planted in the flowerbeds.

  Sarah stood beside me at the front curb. A warm breeze swirled around us. “Never.”

  My head swiveled to appraise her. “Never?”

  Sarah’s gaze was trained on the front door of the single-family home. “I’ve tracked down missing persons before, but they’ve always been alive. All of my family reunions have been happy ones.” She looked in my direction. “What about you?”

  “Once,” I said thickly. “A guy died in a car accident. I had to tell his wife.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “Uh huh,” I agreed.

  “Well, I guess we’d better get this over with.” Sarah took a deep breath and one step forward. “Gotta get you back to your girlfriend.”

  As we walked up the driveway, I thought about Julia’s words of caution. There’d been no missing persons report on Tracey Green. How estranged would a family have to be to not notice their daughter had been missing for over ten years?

  It made me reflect on my own situation; how long would I have to not speak to my parents before they began to worry for my safety? When I’d been in Afghanistan, I’d written and called whenever I had the opportunity. I probably had spoken more to my mother when I was halfway across the world than now when we lived in the same state.

  The front door of the Green’s home opened before we reached the front stoop. An older woman stood in the open doorway. She looked about the same age as my mom, if not a little older, in blue jeans and a t-shirt. She was small in stature with hesitant, grey eyes. Strands of silver streaked through blonde hair that she wore short and curled around her ears. Her mouth was thin and curved downwards.

  “Mrs. Green?” Sarah guessed.

  The woman nodded.

  “I’m Sarah Conrad, and this is Detective Miller with the Minneapolis Police Department. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  The woman wrung her hands in front of her body. “You said you have information about my daughter?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sarah confirmed. “Can we come in?”

  Mrs. Green nodded grimly and held the door open for us.

  The house was eerily silent, and the air was still. Our steps were muffled on thick carpet as we entered the house. No television played in the background. There wasn’t even the rhythmic tick-tock of a cuckoo clock.

  The front foyer opened into the living room. Piles of magazines and newspapers cluttered the coffee table and various end tables. I took note of the wooden crucifix on the wall and the paucity of framed family photographs. My own parents’ living room was practically a shrine of my accomplishments, yet as I looked around, I saw no visual evidence of Tracey Green’s existence.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Green offered. “Coffee? Water?”

  “No, thank you,” Sarah declined. “Detective Miller?” Sarah called my name, pulling my attention away from an old set of encyclopedias on a bookshelf.

  “I’m good,” I grunted.

&nb
sp; “Harold!” Mrs. Green hollered toward the back of the house. I winced at the elevated volume. “The police are here.”

  A tall man with broad shoulders and a distended stomach entered the room. His blue eyes were close together, and his blond hair was thinning.

  Sarah addressed him first. “Mr. Green, I’m Sarah Conrad. This is Detective Miller,” she re-introduced me. “We work with the Minneapolis Cold Case division.”

  “Cold case?” he echoed. He had a deep, booming voice nearly too big for the living room. “What does this have to do with Tracey?”

  “Why don’t we all sit down?” Sarah suggested. She gestured to the living room couches. The Green’s occupied the larger of the two, while Sarah and I claimed a loveseat.

  Sarah clutched at her kneecaps as she launched into words I was sure she’d been practicing all morning. “Mrs. Green. Mr. Green. There’s no easy way to say this—I’m terribly sorry to inform you—but your daughter is dead.”

  Mrs. Green released a discernible sob. “No.” She grasped at the gold chain and cross around her neck. “How?”

  “Chemical poisoning,” I supplied.

  “Chemical poisoning?” Mrs. Green echoed. “You mean someone killed her?”

  “We suspect foul play,” I confirmed. “Any and all information will be helpful in our investigation.”

  Mrs. Green cast a furtive look in her husband’s direction. He had yet to verbally react to the news of his daughter’s death. “I’m not sure how much help we can be,” she stated. “It’s been a very long time.”

  “When did you last speak with your daughter?” I tried.

  Mr. Green finally spoke. “I honestly couldn’t tell you.”

  “1999,” Mrs. Green supplied.

  “You seem … awfully sure of that,” Sarah observed.

  “Tracey was a senior in high school,” Mrs. Green said. “She would have graduated top of her class.”

  I looked to Sarah for instruction, but she continued to stare intently at Tracey Green’s parents, waiting for one of them to elaborate. Mrs. Green stared down at her lap instead of at us. Mr. Green looked off to the side. I watched the muscles at the back of his jaw clench and unclench.

  “Anne-Marie walked in on Tracey,” Mr. Green continued for his wife. “In her room. With. A girl.” He spoke with stilted language. “We haven’t seen her since.”

  I took a deep breath, meant to calm myself, but I inhaled so deeply, I might have sucked all of the air out of the room. “You kicked her out.”

  Mrs. Green raised her arms in a helpless gesture. “It was a different time!” Her voice pitched several octaves. “We didn’t know what to do!”

  “It’s an abomination,” Mr. Green grunted. “I don’t know where Tracey got those ideas, but that kind of behavior couldn’t be tolerated under my roof.”

  Sarah, thankfully, kept the conversation moving forward. “You didn’t hear from her after that?”

  “No. Nothing.” Mrs. Green covered her face with her hands. “I thought she would call. But she never did. And I don’t blame her.” Her shoulders shook with palpable grief.

  “Maybe you two should leave,” Mr. Green said gruffly. He looked uncomfortable about the emotions bouncing around the room.

  “No!” Mrs. Green dropped her hands from her face. “I need to know where my daughter is!”

  I could have interpreted her question philosophically—where does anyone go after death?—but I knew she was asking for a more literal answer.

  “After your daughter’s …” I stopped and cleared my throat. I couldn’t say the word ‘body’ or ‘corpse’ in front of the deceased’s family. “After your daughter … went unclaimed and unidentified,” I started again, “she was cremated. The urn is currently in a city-owned mausoleum.”

  My answer pulled an audible gasp from Mrs. Green. “Can we—

  can we … bring her home?” she asked.

  “Of course, Mrs. Green,” Sarah gently responded. “And if you’d like, we could have someone bring her here, so you don’t have to make the trip.”

  Mr. Green looked to his wife. “That could work.”

  “No,” Mrs. Green said in a clearer, stronger voice. “We’ll be picking her up ourselves and bringing her home.”

  Since the Green’s had lost contact with their daughter, there was nothing more they could do to further our investigation. We exchanged information so they would know whom to contact to claim their daughter’s remains. Sarah lingered a moment longer with the family while I left for the car out front.

  Sarah bounced down the wooden steps and joined me at the car. I stared up at the house. If the Greens were watching us, I couldn’t tell because of the sunny glare that bounced off the front windows.

  “Good job in there,” I admired.

  She stood near the passenger-side door as she waited for me to unlock the squad car. “You, too.”

  “I barely said two words,” I deflected.

  “Exactly. You kept your cool. I don’t know if I would have been able to.”

  I made a noise. “Let’s say I’ve had a little experience with disappointed fathers.”

  “Drink?” Sarah proposed. “You can tell me all about it.”

  Dulling my emotions with alcohol sounded appealing, but more than that, I wanted to get back to Julia.

  “Actually, do you mind if we head back?”

  Sarah didn’t take offense. “Of course,” she grinned. “Time for your birthday party.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I used my key and let myself into Julia’s apartment, not quite sure what I’d find. Sarah and I had left St. Cloud directly after our tense meeting with Tracey Green’s parents, which got us back to the cities at a decent hour. I’d had to hang out at the office for a little longer to fill out paperwork on our meeting with Tracey Green’s parents and add my notes to the case file, but once I finished my work I drove straight over to Julia’s. I didn’t message my girlfriend to let her know I was back in town. I was nervous after how I’d left our conversation the previous night.

  The muffled sounds of a television greeted me when I entered the apartment. It was early in the afternoon, much earlier than the end of Julia’s typical workday, and yet she sat on the couch in the living room.

  She turned her attention away from the black and white movie on the TV.

  “Hey,” I greeted. I took off my boots and lined them against the foyer wall.

  “Hi,” she returned.

  “You’re home early,” I observed, still trying to take the temperature of the room.

  “I didn’t go in to work today,” she informed me. “I wouldn’t have been any good to my clients.”

  “Julia, I’m sorry—.”

  “Don’t,” she cut me off. “It was selfish of me to expect you to ignore your work responsibilities just because it was my birthday.”

  “You’re allowed to be selfish on your birthday,” I allowed. “It’s supposed to be your special day.”

  “Special day.” Julia wrinkled her nose and made a noise of displeasure. “How was your meeting with Tracey Green’s parents?” she deflected.

  “Uneventful. Sad,” I decided. “They had no idea she was even missing, let alone that she’d died. They’d kicked her out of the house when she was in high school for being gay. They apparently hadn’t been in contact since.”

  “That’s terrible,” she murmured.

  “Makes me almost feel lucky. My parents didn’t understand me, but they never threw me out of the house. I voluntarily left.”

  Julia sighed, and I wondered what she was thinking. About her own parents, perhaps. It had been months since she’d last seen her mother who suffered from dementia, and she’d been estranged from her father since discovering he’d been stealing money from her hometown and had been cheating on her sick mom.

  I moved to join my girlfriend on the couch, but stopped short when I spotted torn wrapping paper on the dining table. The gift box that contained the sex toy remained on the
table, untouched from where I’d left it the previous morning.

  “Get in the bedroom.”

  Julia appeared confused by my command until she realized what I was staring at. “It’s not my birthday anymore,” she resisted.

  “Julia. Bedroom,” I repeated.

  “It’s really not necessary.”

  “You don’t want sex?” I untucked my shirt from my dress pants, both wrinkled from a long day of work and travel. I unfastened each button, starting at the top and working down until my bra and abdomen were on display. “Wow. You must really be getting old.”

  My words were just the challenge she needed. Julia rose from the couch and stalked across the room and sized me up.

  “Bring the box,” she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered down the hallway towards the bedroom and out of my view.

  I stood alone in Julia’s en-suite bathroom. The notorious shoebox sat on the granite countertop. Although I wasn’t one for tidiness, I’d carefully folded my clothes from work, mindful of the pleats on my pants and the button-up shirt that had become my plainclothes uniform. I’d even rolled my trouser socks, which now sat on top of my shirt and pants beside the open shoebox. Although I’d earlier surged with confidence, now I hesitated. All of my meticulousness was to delay the inevitable.

  I stepped into the nylon harness, one leg at a time. I pulled the straps tight around my upper thighs until the silicone appendage felt secure at its base.

  I regarded my image in the bathroom mirror. I looked like myself from the waist up. The vanity mirror over the bathroom sink reflected only my naked breasts, not the light pink projectile jutting out from my pelvic bone.

  I reached down and took a firm grasp of the dildo. There was nothing that connected back to me, making it feel infinitely more foreign. I flicked the tip once, making it bounce up and down.

  “How do guys live like this?” I wondered aloud.

  “Do you need any help in there?” Julia called to me through the shut door.