Rooked Read online

  This last trip, however, Ara was prepared. Bringing all the bells and whistles Brad enjoyed, floss-like lingerie and a few items on the conservative end of S&M props. Their sex life was passionate, and occasionally crossed the line to straight kinky, but never to the point where a safe word was necessary. Ara kept his interest as she strapped herself into an outfit she had ordered from some lingerie-of-the-month club, tapping him lightly on his bare skin with her whip. Within seconds, he’d risen to his knees revealing his now-hardened penis, obviously pleased with the shakeup. Ara slapped his forearm as he reached for her. “No, no, bad boy. No touching,” she’d said, fueling his already-heightened drive. Ara backed him up to the bed and spread his arms and legs to the four post banisters, securing each with a soft length of fabric. Loose enough that Brad could probably escape at any time but tight enough to drive the excitement. She crawled up his lower half before turning her back to him, easing herself down to take him in reverse cowgirl since Brad always called himself an “ass man” as vulgar as that sounded. Moaning, she finished him off, falling back onto the pillows and her favorite spot in Brad’s shoulder.

  “I saw that on Nickelodeon once and always wanted to try it,” Brad said as they both burst into laughter. “You’re confusing Fifty Shades of Grey and Titanic,” she’d said, unable to control herself. Naturally his response included the idea of making a porno.

  “Why don’t you teach me how to play chess downstairs instead?” she proposed, confident he would take the bait. This wouldn’t be their first attempt. What often started in jest over a bottle of red, usually concluded with Ara insisting Brad was speaking to her like a zoo animal. He wasn’t nearly as patient with her as Dan, who taught her to play years ago. It was easier to act like she needed teaching than to actually beat Brad. It would take days for him to recover from his wounded ego, and that was a trouble she didn’t need to deal with. Back at home in New Jersey, the two would sit across from each other at Brad’s antique chess table like a couple of old English schoolmates catching up. The table, a wedding gift from his grandfather, was one of the few belongings Ara ever saw Brad express any emotion over. Unlike most men, he never hung onto old sports team’s T-shirts or foul balls, but Brad’s grandfather was a man of great stature, and having his chess table in their living room made Brad feel important.

  “Maybe the Caribbean air will bring you luck,” Brad said as he jumped from the bed. Ara was hoping it would, too; her chance of getting pregnant was riding on this trip.

  They strolled through the lobby hand-in-hand and out to the breezy, covered piazza where the hotel had a chess board set up adjacent to the bar. They ordered a bottle of cheap champagne, the kind they wouldn’t be caught dead drinking back home. But on an island resort, miles away from New York, anything with a recognizable brand name was welcomed.

  Ara took a long draft, finishing her glass in a single tilt, nodding for a replacement before the waitress left.

  As he set up the board, Brad walked through the pieces and rules of the game as he had many times before.

  “This piece, they call it a rook,” Brad said, swirling the piece in his hand like a fine wine. “It’s a misunderstood and often misused piece.”

  “How so?” Ara asked, faking interest as she took another sip, lingering on the tartness of the champagne’s price point.

  “Rooks need to be paired with each other or another piece to have power.” The drama in his tone was derisive. “You see, they start in the corners of the board and can only move forward and back, so they can’t really do all that much and don’t seem like a threat.”

  Ara wanted to yell as Brad moved his hands in the motion over the board. She enjoyed learning to play chess from Dr. Dan, who, unlike Brad, had never made her feel like she didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. Dan was quite the wordsmith, everything he’d said at the time, came off as a compliment.

  You don’t want a rook castling with the king, Dr. Dan had once told her. Think of it like shacking up. When a rook and a king are in this position they support one another and the rook can move easier around the board toward more favorable positions.

  Back in the Caribbean, Ara said, “The queen is still the strongest in the game, right?” as she mimicked a royal stance and a fake crown on her head. Brad laughed, reaching across the table and pulling her in, kissing the top of her head where her pretend crown would’ve sat.

  “Yes, that is true. But,” he said, “don’t be overconfident, your highness. Even a queen may be sacrificed for a more fortunate position.”

  “So you’re saying even a queen can get rooked.”

  Brad laughed. “Look at you and your clever word choice. Chess is a lot like life, Ara, anyone can have anything taken from them at any time, and yes, anyone can get screwed.”

  Their eyes locked as he finally took a sip of his champagne. She looked toward the blue water and said, “Good to know,” before tipping her head, chugging the rest of her champagne, and signaling for another from the bar.

  CHAPTER 19

  Standing up from the table, Ara signed the check, tucking her mother’s credit card back in her wallet. It was just like Raina to walk out without paying her share of the bill. Rubbing her temples, she realized the bottomless mimosas had had more of an effect on her than she’d originally thought. It was barely 4 p.m., and she was as drunk as an underage sorority sister after a night of hard-core initiation partying. Ara made her way to the busy street, fumbling with her cell phone. Thinking she should take an Uber, she struggled trying to drop the pin in her exact location. She was about two years behind the rest of her generation in learning new technology, something she often laughed about considering her past career in digital advertising. Her complete lack of capabilities when it came to technology amused Brad, who was a natural whiz. “You are a bad millennial,” he had joked after she found herself cruising down the Garden State Parkway toward the Jersey Shore instead of their waterfront Jersey City apartment. She had whined the whole way back to the city about how it was ridiculous that the app made you drop the pin in your exact location as Brad continued on about millennials needing everything to be effortless.

  Only two years older, his superior ways could be quite irritating. His natural smugness and hate for living on the other side of the river was hard to ignore. “No one dreams of being bridge and tunnel,” he’d say before moving on to his father’s help. “My father can help us close the gaps, fill in if we need it for the security deposit or something. He’d want us in Manhattan.”

  Ara would cringe every time he said the word, Manhattan, arguing that he should call it New York, or The City, or anything other than Manhattan.

  “That is what it is called babe. Man-hattan. We would never have to leave, we’d have it all,” he would promise.

  She’d scrunch her nose at his pretentious tone as his nose seemed to lift a little more to the sky. To Brad, they were on their way to being untouchable. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to the top.

  Ara, on the other hand, loved their Newport address. Many nights as Brad attended happy hours and dinners, she’d look out their ten foot windows at the bright city lights, enlivened with power. From her view, she felt she could see everything.

  “Ara Hopkins,” said a familiar voice. “You look like you are having yourself a fine weekend stroll.”

  Ara looked up and saw the second-to-last person she wanted to see while drunk on a sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon. Detective Jason Ameno walked toward her, extending his right hand. At least it wasn’t Detective Maro. She didn’t think she could spar with the “bad cop” of the pair on the amount of alcohol she’d consumed.

  “Hello, Detective,” Ara said, loosely putting her hand in his. “What are you doing in the city?” Ara knew it was a silly question; obviously he was here because of her.

  “Just brunching with friends,” he said, but by the looks of his standard detective ensemble—striped shirt, loose-fitting tie, and outlet dress pants—she coul
d more than assume that wasn’t the case. Spinning just a little too fast to walk in the opposite direction, Ara’s heel got caught in a crack in the sidewalk and sent her tumbling to the ground. Now shaken, she fumbled to pick up the loose items from her purse as Detective Ameno gently kicked a rolling Chanel lipstick in her direction.

  “Too much fun today at your own brunch, Ms. Hopkins,” he said in a way that lacked any resemblance of a question.

  “Because I’m the only widow to get trashed before 4 p.m.?” Ara said, pulling her skirt back to cover her as she rose from the pavement. She tried to come up with a hard-hitting insult but was instead left mouth open, searching for words to fill the gaps.

  “Of course not, Ms. Hopkins,” he said, gently placing an arm around her waist. Leaning in close enough for her to smell the recent cigarette he’d smoked. “Self-medicating, are we?”

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” she said as she pushed him. “This is fun for you, isn’t it? Isn’t it!”

  Detective Ameno wasted no time. “No, Ara, it is not fun for me. Sure, I came to talk to you but now you are visibly intoxicated, yelling on a street.” Huffing he continued, “Can I at least give you a ride home or call someone for you?” He didn’t wait for an answer and began walking her toward the rear passenger side door of his undercover car.

  After helping her in, Ameno slammed the door and walked around the trunk of the car where he kicked at the gravel, toddler like, before getting in the front seat.

  “Let me be straight with you, Ms. Hopkins,” he said. “Your husband was a dirt bag. He had other women, shady friends, poor business dealings, he had it all. Some would say he even deserved it. But I need you to help me here. The pressure at the department and with Maro . . . .” he trailed off, obviously contemplating if he said too much already.

  Maro couldn’t be easy to work with, Ara thought, suddenly feeling the slightest ping of compassion for Ameno. “Arrest me, please, so I can call my lawyer.” They both knew he wasn’t going to do that, he had no reason and he sure as hell wasn’t going to take any chances. Not on a high-profile case like this and not when she had Barry Goldberg on retainer.

  Ara’s drunken eyes flooded. Your husband was a dirt bag. The phrase seemed like the type of thing only she was allowed to say. Brad was her self-centered jerk to call names. Not some detective looking to make a jump in his career off of her failed marriage and obvious lack of ability to judge a person’s character. But he was right, Brad really was a dirt bag. A self-centered, weak man, who’d thought only of himself.

  “Why are you following me, Detective? Is it protocol to stalk your suspects?” Ara’s mind raced through every crime show she ever indulged in, trying decide if this was a normal situation. “Let’s be straight. You want me to confess to murder so you can outshine your partner and become the hero cop who sweet-talked me into a confession. Am I getting this right?” The champagne started to turn on her as her right temple began to throb. Leaning back against the leather, she sighed. “You think very little of me, Detective, don’t you?”

  Ameno fumbled with a few knobs up front, presumably checking that his radio was off before saying, “That's not true at all. I think quite a bit of you actually.”

  "Oh yeah?" Ara said, more eagerly than she would have liked. Damn you, champagne.

  “Slow your roll.” Caught. “Either you are a brilliant black widow who is managing to get away with her husband’s murder, or you yourself are a victim, and someone may want to hurt you. Either way, that makes you a person of interest to me,” Ameno said before continuing, “and the ID Network, eventually, I’m sure, for a weekend special.”

  “You wouldn't believe me even if I told you the truth,” she said.

  “Try me.”

  “I knew everything about Brad,” Ara began, only to be interrupted by Ameno’s thoughtless laughter. For someone who was trying to cohere a confession out of her, he certainly lacked any sort of swagger. “I knew he was unfaithful. I just didn't—“ hesitating only to press the record button on her voice memo app to safe guard herself”—I didn't know every last steamy detail. But I knew he was having affairs.”

  Ara was shocked she thought to record the conversation, but she’d been married to a lawyer, after all. Brad barely ordered lunch without recording the evidence. Though now she knew there was plenty in his life he didn’t want a record of.

  “I know how it all works, Detective. You don’t get to where Brad was by playing by the rules,” she said dryly, hoping the champagne was at least assisting her acting abilities. She needed an infusion of Brad’s smooth confidence.

  “You were OK with that, Ms. Hopkins?” Ameno asked. “To think you were starting a family with this man.”

  “Accepting, I suppose.” An honest answer. “Sometimes your judgment is clouded by the things that you want in life.” Sometimes it seems so much harder to start over, Ara finished silently in her head. This may be the part of the truth that she was not ready to admit openly to others. “What I’m trying to say, Detective, is I had come to terms with certain aspects of my life, because I was looking forward to so many other things. My dreams died with Brad that night.”

  An understanding, disguised in a comforting silence, sat right between the two.

  “If it makes you feel better, I am not interested in you as the suspect,” Ameno said matter-of-factly. “Maro is the one with the hard-on. I just think you know more than you’re letting on.”

  “I’ve just learned to not let my emotions get the best of me.”

  Ameno grunted. “You may use your phone, call your own ride home. Of course, that may alter your recording,” he said with a glance in the rear-view mirror that could be mistaken as charming.

  “Detective Bene is already on his way,” Ara said as she returned the glance.

  “Of course he is. When did you text him?”

  “Right before I got in the car.”

  Lane pulled up just a few moments later and rushed toward them, looking ready for an altercation as he knocked forcefully on the driver side window. Ameno shimmied out of the seat.

  “Calm down, Bene. All is good,” Ameno said, acting more like a fraternity brother whose house party got busted than a detective. “No trouble for Ms. Hopkins, just wanted to make sure she got home safely.”

  Lane scoffed. “Back off Ara, Ameno, before there’s a harassment charge smacked on your desk.”

  Ameno shifted his weight and leaned in toward Lane. “I said there was no problem, Bene.” He opened the rear driver’s side door, allowing Ara to step from the car. Lane reached for her hand and walked her back around the car and to the sidewalk.

  “I think a judge would be more interested in your emotional involvement, Bene. Banging the victim’s widow is usually frowned upon in an open case.”

  Lane rushed back toward Ameno threateningly. “I said back off, Detective.”

  Though slightly amused by the situation, Ara did not need this ending up on social media or worse the news. She yelled, “It’s my fault, Lane, let’s just go home.”

  “You’re being summoned,” Ameno smirked, taking a few steps back to the driver side of the car. Lane once again took Ara’s hand, pausing only to point at Ameno, “Leave her alone, Detective.”

  Once in Lane’s passenger seat, Ara was happy to be alone with him. She preferred this cop and his car over her earlier company. Lane brought a calmness to her even though she knew him well enough to know that he was angry and that his repeated comments about getting foolishly drunk in the afternoon came from a place of genuine concern.

  It’s not that Lane was wrong. She should be keeping a low profile, not get obliterated in public mid-day. The media was probably wishing her story would turn into a Dateline-type tale featuring both Brad and her own glamorous upbringings as the fortunate offspring of the tristate area’s one percent: each provided every opportunity the competitive city and its sprawling suburbs bursting with country clubs and overpriced mansions had to offer. The truth
was in the lies that were concealed behind the prettiest of packaging.

  I should pitch this, Ara thought, chuckling. At least the world would get the chance to see Brad without his expert wrapping and pretty little bow.

  “You are really something,” Lane said, interrupting her thought. “And who the hell is Danielle? I don’t ever remember you mentioning someone by that name, but she was calling you like crazy this morning.”

  Dammit, Dr. Dan, Ara thought. She didn’t realize Lane had picked up on her ignoring the calls.

  “An old friend, Lane, nothing to worry about. She's probably just concerned.”

  “Some friend, I feel like she called ten times before noon. A few more calls and I would think she was some kind of stalker or something.”

  Ara’s stomach turned; she didn’t need him finding anything on her sordid past. “I told you, it's an old friend. Next time, don’t pretend to be sleeping if it’s bothering you.”

  “Well, be careful. I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble. It’s amazing the people that come out of the weeds when you’re going through something.” Lane slammed his blinker knob and made a quick left in the opposite direction of Ara’s apartment.

  “Danielle is nothing to worry about.” Holding her phone to the right of her crossed leg, she edited contact Danielle to now read Lady Dr. “Deleted.” She held up the phone to Lane. “See. Problem solved. So, can we please forget it and move on?”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Lane said, “I was just wondering.”

  “Don’t you think if I wanted to talk to her, I would?”

  Lane only nodded and Ara hoped it was enough of an explanation to keep him from asking any more about Dr. Dan and his disguised alias in her cell phone.