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  CHAPTER 8

  Brad’s breath at the base of Raina’s neck sent a shiver of excitement from her shoulders, down her arms, and piercing through her fingertips. The bathroom wall was cool as he backed her up against it, kissing first her neck, then chest, intensifying the sensations racing through her body. Cupping her breasts, his mouth moved up her body, kissing each spot until he was back at her lips.

  In a single movement, he slipped her black lace panties to her ankles and pressed himself against her as she wrapped a leg around his waist. Forcing her leg back to the ground, he spun her in a complete one-eighty, her cheek now feeling the coolness of the wall. The air in the small bathroom pulsed with the intensity of getting caught as her body quivered and surrendered to her true cravings. Each thrust electrifying her need to be wanted. Knowing what he liked, she arched her back, pressing her bare bottom into him. Groaning, he finished and collapsed on top of her, inflated with the rush that comes with having someone you weren’t supposed to. As their breathing slowed, she waited for the guilt she knew she should be feeling, yet never felt once after one of their secret rendezvous.

  Raina knew not to sleep with a married man but doubted she was the first New Yorker to meddle with someone else’s marriage. The guilt never came. If anything, she felt Ara deserved it, always playing by the rules. However, Brad seemed to regret their passionate trysts each time, which irritated her.

  “She cannot find out. Ever. Understand me?” Brad said. “This would destroy her. I don’t know who she would kill first, you or me.”

  Thinking of Ara killing her made Raina laugh out loud. “You think she could take me? Nah, you would just have to deal with her all sad and crying,” she said, pouting at him with a fake frown.

  She knew damn well Brad was not hers, and she never expected him to be. More importantly, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to be. That would spoil their undeniable attraction. It was the danger of being with Brad that ignited something deep in the pit of her insecurities. Yes, he was good-looking, successful, and could screw like an A-lister in a Hollywood movie, but it was the feeling of power and being second to no one, not even his wife, that she loved. The fact the he would risk it all—his entire life with Ara, for a five-minute romp in a New York bar—who wouldn’t be turned on by that?

  “She never has to know,” Raina said as she secured her panties back in place. Taking one reassuring glance in the mirror, she wiped a smear of lipstick from the corner of her lips. In a blur of confidence, she returned to the cocktail party and her best friend.

  “You dirty little thing, you!” Ara said as Raina approached her. “You are practically screaming that you just screwed. You and James again?” If you only knew.

  James and Brad walked toward the girls with fresh glasses of prosecco, Brad giving a slight wink to Ara that she returned with a content smile.

  “You’d be surprised,” Raina said as she playfully poked James above his belt buckle.

  “I do not even want to know. You’re one of kind!” Ara said as the foursome clicked glasses and continued into the ease of a night out with friends.

  You’re right, Raina thought. You do not want to know.

  CHAPTER 9

  Detective Benjamin Maro stared at the file that lay open amongst the clutter of take-out containers and unclosed cases making up the mess he called his desk. As a detective in a major metropolitan area like Jersey City, he was not new to the mystery and frustration of a case going cold, but he could not seem to let the Brad Bugia case go. No matter how many times he slammed the file shut, concluding the poor son-of-a-bitch had did it himself, the file and its details would taunt him until he reopened it. Sure, it was the victim’s gun, but it didn’t mean he had to be the one who pulled the trigger. If his day was slow, he would peek back into the file, intrigued by each detail of the haunting death of such a promising young man.

  Maybe it was Bugia’s pretty little wife; Ara Hopkins could probably sway Elton John back to the straight man’s side. Image after image of the young widow lay in front of him, looking like she stepped out of some wholesome primetime television sitcom from back in the day, not the nonsense they fill the timeslot with now, chock full of vampires and teen drama. But did her beauty mean she was innocent? No one is that good on the inside and outside.

  Although a genuinely passionate cop, Maro was known to push the boundaries. He was also known to be compulsive and passionate when convinced of someone’s guilt. While his gut instincts were often spot on when it came to the street thugs and dealers that crowded his city, the high profile, high society cases seemed to get to his head. As if there was a score that needed to be settled between the upper crust and himself.

  Maro shuffled his mouse causing the screen to kick back up from sleep mode, revealing Ara’s bare-boned Facebook page. Her page lacked the details that others from her generation posted on the social site, yet he scrolled down through the now-familiar photos and posts, hoping he would find something revealing if he just looked a little bit deeper. He didn’t know a soul this day and age with a squeaky clean digital presence; there was always some sort of dirt somewhere. He was sure of it. He just hadn’t found it yet.

  Maro took a bite of his Mama’s Chicken Fra Diavlo—not homemade, of course; Mama’s was the dingy corner spot near the station—he stopped mid-chew and stared at one of the comments posted after Brad’s death. A Dr. Daniel DaVedere said, “My heart goes out to you, Ara. And to think all you have overcome.” The comment, vague yet too significant to ignore, was closed with a simple, “I’m here.” No contact info, no other details.

  Maro sat straight up and stared closer at the screen. Now who the hell are you, Dr. Daniel DaVedere from New York, New York? And what has Ara overcome?

  Clicking into a second tab, Detective Maro pulled up his Google browser and carefully copied the doctor’s name into the bar, clicking to reveal all the internet had to offer. Dr. Daniel DaVedere was a psychologist serving the five boroughs, with an “innovative, hands-on approach in tackling minor to severe mental illnesses.”

  Maro scrolled through the various pages of the psychologist’s templated website, surprised to learn that Dr. DaVedere did not treat couples. “Due to Dr. Dan’s ground-breaking and unique tactics, we prefer to counsel all ages strictly one on one.” Ara must have seen him alone.

  And to think all you have overcome apparently did not mean as a couple. Maro disliked the guy already. With just one look at his headshot he could tell he was a douchebag. Just the fact that he referred to himself as “Dr. Dan” irked him. Like he was trying to appeal to you in a neighborly, guy-next-door fashion. In his early forties, his face showed minimal signs of aging, his lines likely concealed by expensive fillers. What a jerk-off, Maro thought. The doctor had the type of face you couldn’t help but want to punch.

  Taking screenshots of the Facebook comment and anything on the doctor’s website or personal Facebook page that flat out rubbed him the wrong way, Maro printed them out on the old, beat up ’90s communal office printer and tucked the sheets of paper into the file, then turned back to the photos of Ara. What are your secrets, Ara Hopkins? What did you overcome?

  His cell buzzed on the desk next to him.

  “Maro,” he said, still staring at the photographs. “What do you mean you got something?”

  He grabbed his keys and shoveled a final bite of Mama’s into his mouth. “Just wait right there. Don’t do anything. I’m on my way.” And with that, Maro was out the door and off to the forensics lab processing evidence from the Bugia case.

  If his gut feeling was right and this was more than a suicide, this could be just the case he needed to polish the smudge from his reputation.

  Maro forced his way through the double doors at the downtown forensics lab without an ounce of grace in his step. His younger partner, Detective Jason Ameno, was involved in an intense conversation with the forensics expert assigned to the case. They all turned to Maro when he walked in, seemingly anxious to share wha
t they had.

  Ameno jumped in as the tired, veteran forensics examiner dutifully took the back seat. “The gun was registered to Brad Bugia. The victim, we know that,” Ameno said.

  As if he didn’t know that already. Tipping his neck from side to side, Maro took a deep breath, calming his more irritable side. He was not a fan of working as a team, especially when his partner seemed to align their working relationship with that of college fraternity brothers. Poking and prodding about what Maro did the night before while he bragged about the blackout blowjobs he got from wasted twentysomethings he met at the Hoboken bars. He’d prefer to save reminiscing on personal matters for when he was alone at home and just stick to doing his job when he was at work. Events in his rearview mirror were easier to accept when no one was there to judge him.

  “Were there any prints besides his own?” There was nothing wrong with knocking him down a notch or two. The forensics examiner, hardened with years of experience, recognized the power move and smiled at her baby boomer ally.

  Ameno cleared his throat and said, “That’s the best part, there are three confirmed and one partial. His, hers, the best friend detective, and an unknown partial.”

  Maro’s face tightened as he turned to the forensics examiner. “So we got Brad, Ara, Lane, and a partridge in a pear tree? That’s great. The owners of the firearm, a NYPD detective, and an unknown? Not to mention, it matches up with what Ms. Hopkins and Bene told us. What the heck am I going to do with that?”

  “I’m not in the mood, Detective,” said the examiner, a quirky five-foot-nothing fireball of a women from the Bronx. Maro suspected she was thinking something along the lines of asshole detectives. “But since I like my job, unlike you miserable folks, I will tell you that the two gentlemen’s prints were found near the trigger, and the victim’s prints were also found in a defensive position, such as this, as if you were trying to get the gun away from someone.” She mimicked the motion.

  “And Ara Hopkin’s?”

  “Not on the trigger, but you do have her holding the weapon.”

  “I knew it wasn’t suicide, we’re gonna get her on this.” Maro grabbed the file from the examiner and literally patted Ameno on the back. This was his favorite part of the job, when his gut instincts rang true.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, Detective. The only full prints near the trigger are from the vic and Detective Lane Bene,” she said, now moving him down a peg or two. “And then there is the partial that’s not in the system.”

  Ameno jumped in, “And I found a figure on the security footage. I followed up, knocked on some doors, and haven’t been able to cross it off. We may have someone in the building who wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  The gratification from learning about the prints was replaced with a boiling sense of rage. Why can’t I catch a goddamn break? Maro knew he wasn’t wrong with this one. It wasn’t the friend or Brad or an unknown. It was little Miss Ara Hopkins. He was positive, and it would take a lot to convince him otherwise. Although he reminded himself that he had felt this way before, and unfortunately it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong. This time was different, though. It had to be. Other times, he had been sloppy, drank a little too much, or was distracted by immature relationship drama, the type where your only choice at the end is to play the it’s not you, it’s me card. But he hadn’t had a sip of hooch in over a year, and he sure was steering clear from any type of nonsense distractions he couldn’t afford to have in his life. Not if he wanted to keep his job. The chief had made sure that was clear. And thanks to free internet porn and an occasional hook up who was impressed with his badge, he didn’t need anything of real significance. He could get by as he was just fine.

  “One more thing before you go. I got the subpoena for the emails from the firm,” Ameno said as he handed Maro a thick envelope overflowing with what he hoped was straight juice.

  Scanning through the top few pages, we got her, was all Maro could think.

  Unfortunately, Martina Hernandez, the District Attorney residing over their corner of Jersey, didn’t see it the same way. “What do you have on her? I don’t have to remind you that you need hard evidence to make an arrest, Detective, do I?” She walked over to the detectives, grabbing the emails from Maro’s hands.

  The detective paced back and forth, rubbing his forehead. “Her prints are on the gun, I told you. There’s more there, Hernandez, we just need time.”

  “So what?” she countered. “It was her husband’s gun. Didn’t Bene say he taught them both how to use the weapon, that explains three of the four prints. You are not giving me anything to work with here.”

  Martina Hernandez was known for being tough on crime and even tougher on the men who were on her side. “I just need more time, Hernandez, please,” Maro begged. He knew she wouldn’t allow such a controversial case to be tried on circumstantial evidence alone, but he’d had to try. No jury would convict Ara Hopkins on a single fingerprint that any decent defense attorney could explain away.

  “Time is not something I can give you, Ben.” Maro hated when she called him by his first name. She only did so when her virtuous, motherly side was coming out—or when she wanted him to remember that his cases were nothing without her approval. She was calling him Ben much more often now, after the incident. It almost cost her her career the last time, and like any obedient dog, she had learned from her mistakes.

  Maro knew Hernandez could see the fixation in his face, and he knew it wasn’t good. He had to be levelheaded. Act like he was no more invested than he needed to be.

  “This is what happened before. You dig and dig and dig until you lose sight of reality,” she said more firmly. “You need to let this one go for now. You get more evidence, other than a partial print or whatever the hell you got, fine. But for now, this conversation is over.” Martina Hernandez turned on her heel. “I mean it, Maro. It can’t be like last time. You have nothing on Ara Hopkins, nothing that’ll stick.” At least he was back to his last name. She must not be too mad at him.

  She was right. It couldn’t be like last time. His gut had been contaminated last time, poisoned by Johnny Walker. He hadn’t been able to think straight, in a constant fog from being drunk or hungover. But it wasn’t about being obsessed with that case, it was about proving his own worth. He’d needed to solve that case—for himself, not just for the victims and their family. Corners had been cut, and a few formalities overlooked. And yes, an innocent girl had almost ended up in jail. But at the time, those were small infractions compared to closing the case.

  Yet his mistakes had cost him everything he’d ever cared about. Somehow, he had managed to mend the situation professionally, but at immeasurable loss to his personal life. His divorce had stripped him of everything: his wife, twin boys, and half his pension. Hell, she got the house and all that was in it, too. If only he’d been in a better state to fight at that time, for his marriage and for himself. Things could’ve been so different.

  But that was then, and almost three years had passed. He’d taken advantage of the court-ordered rehabilitation and stood with the other drunks every Tuesday in the basement of St. Catherine’s, repeating the mantra, “Hi, my name is Ben Maro, and I’m an alcoholic,” as if it was something he would ever forget or forgive himself for. It took a while, but finally he’d regained unsupervised visitation with his twins. Or he would, if they’d ever agree to see him, which so far they refused to do. One day. Today, he had to find more evidence in this case.

  “Tell me more about this mysterious figure, Ameno.”

  “Damnit, Hernandez, are we really gonna get jammed up on a dark spot on the security footage, give me a break.”

  “Well, Ben, I’m no detective, but an unknown person, unknown prints, and a stack of emails filled with financial details, political players, and, if I’m reading correctly, some very saucy office affairs. Looks to me like you got some more work to do.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was a week after the funeral, a
nd thanks to the cocktail of anxiety and depression medication Ara washed down with black coffee each morning, she was slowly adjusting to her new life. Still not able to return to her apartment or her advertising job at NBC, Ara’s days were filled with reruns and rearranging her few things in the cramped corner of Raina’s apartment she occupied. Her once-healthy 128-pound figure was disappearing, leaving more and more room in her sagging clothes. Her hair, now always secured in a tight bun, desperately needed to be tended to, and her manicure was chipped away.

  Every day, Raina brought home moderately-priced takeout meals and cued up the cheesy horror movies they used to enjoy together in a desperate attempt to entertain her. But a part of her died with Brad that cold winter day in their now empty apartment, and with their baby. And nothing Raina could do would change that. Ara was mourning more than her young husband. She was mourning the loss of pieces of herself.

  Her mother flew in from the West Coast and spent an astonishing entire week at The W in a mild effort to console her. With only a few disapproving comments, Ara almost enjoyed the pity-filled time they spent together. A very tactical and analytical woman, Arabelle guided Ara through the many post-tragedy annoyances that needed to be dealt with, such as working with Brad’s parents in planning the funeral. An event Ara would have loved to keep on the small side, but was overruled by both mothers.

  The entire thing had felt suffocating. From standing over Brad’s grave, cringing at each pair of eyes lashing out at her with their opinions on whether she could have killed the well-loved Brad Bugia to Ameno and Maro’s presence that only increased the judgment. Nothing, especially two men lacking custom tailored suits, got by the movers and shakers Brad’s family engaged with. All she could do was hope her natural anxiety wasn't poking holes in the grieving widow appearance her mother put together.