WiP: Rope, 2 of ? (Lie To Me)
Chapter 1: Tabula Rasa
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“So, Jerald…” Foster sighs, skimming through the file in her lap. The manila folder is balanced on her bare knees, that tantalizing four-inch strip of promise exposed between her calf-length boots and smart little skirt. A breath passes, and then another, before she finally closes the file, tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, and crosses her legs. “Tell me about the night you spent with Laura Friedt.”
The man inside The Cube with her smirks, “What is it you want to know?”
Hovering on the wrong side of a soundproof glass wall, reduced to spectator, Cal Lightman has to remind himself he wanted things this way.
Like Foster, Jerald Tharp sits at a slight angle from the interview table, but that’s where any similarity ends. A former athlete, the subject of their investigation is tall and muscular, endowed with the kind of leading man good looks women often mistakenly trust. Foster, on the other hand, with her freckled, little girl arms and china doll chin, is what’s graciously referred to as petite. The height listed on her driver’s license is five-six, but the clerk at the DMV must’ve been feeling generous that day. She has that effect on people.
She smiles encouragingly, a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth intended to put Tharp at ease. “Why don’t we begin with how the two of you met?”
“Alright.” He slouches down in his seat with a disinterested sigh. In jeans and a chambray work shirt, the current darling of the avant-garde art world appears surprisingly low key. Not a bit of leather, chains or latex in sight. “There really isn’t much to tell. We met on a social networking site. I liked her profile, so I gave her a poke.”
Foster blinks. “I’m sorry…?”
Tharp is still for a moment, as if deciding how to respond. Then the handsome face splits into a passable imitation of a shy grin, baring just a hint of gleaming white teeth. “That’s what they call private messages on the site-pokes.”
“Okay.” She pauses to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. She’s wearing black again. So far, every day this week. “Do you recall the name of the site?”
“Of course. We met on bbp.net.” Another smile, with less shyness this time and more teeth. “It’s a site for bondage enthusiasts.”
The admission hits Cal like a jolt of adrenaline. Pacing along two sides of The Cube’s perimeter, he watches his partner produce a pen from her purse, open the case file and scribble a note, even though that information is already included in the police report.
“Can you believe this guy?” Torres snorts.
Lightman glances over his shoulder to where his protégée, Ria Torres, sits slightly hunched over a computer console. Her dark eyes are focused on the monitors displaying Tharp’s Autonomic Nervous System responses; her upper lip is curled in disgust.
“Looking at him, you’d never guess he’s being questioned in connection with attempted murder,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s getting off on this.”
Beside her, Loker also flashes a microexpression of disgust. But, unlike Torres, The Lightman Group’s perpetual adolescent isn’t looking at the monitors. He’s looking at Foster.
Filing that bit of information away for later, Cal jabs a finger in Tharp’s direction. “Definite attention-seeking behavior,” he tells Torres, knowing precisely what she’s thinking. “But not necessarily sociopathic. They can’t all be like Martin Walker, aye?”
Torres bites the inside of her bottom lip and frowns at the display while, inside The Cube, Foster prompts the suspect to continue.
“There really isn’t much to tell.” Tharp makes a shrugging gesture with his upturned palm, a motion that comes off a little too polished to be spontaneous. The clothes, the hair, the mannerisms… everything about him is just too deliberate, too slick not to be part of a con. He’s hiding something, Cal’s sure of it. “After chatting a few times, I suggested we meet. She agreed, and we wound up getting a room at the St. Charles.”
“Jerald, I hate to interrupt, but please remember to keep your left hand as still as possible. We don’t want anything to interfere with the accuracy of your reading.” Smiling apologetically, Foster leans in to check the ANS sensors. Microphones pick up the rustle of clothing as she runs her fingertips over the Velcro strap secured to his forearm. Tharp’s ropey muscles, still well-developed from years of conditioning, bunch beneath her touch.
“I’m so sorry,” he claims, all politeness and remorse. “I didn’t screw anything up, did I?” His apology might come off more convincing if he weren’t taking advantage of the opportunity to stare straight down into the shadowy delta of her cleavage.
Cal shoves his hands in his pockets and occupies himself with keys and loose change.
Finally satisfied everything is in working order, Foster retreats to her side of the table. “No harm done. Now where were we?”
The tosser shoots her a cheeky grin. “At the part where I say I’ve learned my lesson about hooking up over the Internet and you send me on my way…? Because I’ve told you everything.”
If he’s trying to be charming, he’ll have to do better. A familiar vertical line appears in the middle of her brow, a sure sign of annoyance. “What you’ve told me is a highly abbreviated version of events.”
“Well, I was trying to respect Mrs. Friedt’s privacy. But if you want details…” His voice trails away as his eyes wander along the creamy tops of Foster’s breasts. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more intimate. “All you have to do is ask.”
Again with the grin. Cal feels the sudden urge to knock a few of his caps in.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” she suggests, resuming control of the conversation. A blush has crept into her cheeks and neck, staining the pale skin pink. “You sent her a private message…”
Her partner notices she doesn’t use the word poke.
“That’s right.”
“How long before she responded?”
“Within a day.” The photographer scratches at the stubble dotting his jawline. “Two at most. It’s not like I kept track.”
“What happened then?”
“We chatted a few times-three or four, maybe-and decided to meet for drinks.”
“By drinks, you are in fact referring to sex…?” Maybe it’s her clinical tone, or maybe it’s just the fact that she has a face so earnest it belongs in a cereal commercial, but Foster somehow manages to sound both relentless and demure. It’s a neat trick, especially since it isn’t a trick at all.
Tharp’s eyebrows arch in response to her question. There’s arrogance in the expression, but something else, too. Genuine delight. Her modesty amuses him. “Yes, Doctor Foster,” he says, making a point of meeting her gaze. “We met for the express purpose of having sex. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“That’s…” Her fingers dance along her knees, plucking at the hemline of her skirt. “…What we’re here to determine.”
Tharp shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. He moves slowly, with a practiced nonchalance designed to catch others off guard-the sign of an experienced predator. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m a bit confused. When I spoke with my attorney yesterday, he said the police had declined to file charges. Has something changed?”
Her hesitation lasts a mere fraction of a second. Barely long enough for those startled-kitten eyes to drift toward the thick panes of glass isolating her from Cal. A microexpression if ever there was one.
But long enough for Tharp to notice.
“You look surprised.” Tilting his head, he studies her with an intensity her partner finds unnerving. “Isn’t that what you were told?”
Foster smiles tightly in an unsuccessful bid to mask her displeasure. She’s a crap liar. Except when she’s not. “We’re just here to tie up a few loose ends.”
“Ah. I see.” Tharp glances over his shoulder at the glass wall, and for an instant Cal sees what Laura Friedt must have seen as she felt her life draining away. Lurking behind the sculpted cheekbones and dimpled chin, something sharp and dangerous peers out. It winks conspiratorially, like they’re all in this together. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Cal gets the eerie feeling the bastard is speaking directly to him. In his pockets, his hands clench into fists.
Foster doesn’t waste any time getting to the point. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s just as eager to end the interview as Tharp is. Arms folded protectively over her chest, her posture radiates discomfort. “Did you have sex with Laura Friedt?”
“Well, we weren’t watching True Blood for four hours.” He’s the only one smiling.
“Do you deny restraining her during sex?”
“Why would I deny that?”
A look flits over her face then disappears again, too quick to catch. “Please answer the question.”
“I. Don’t. Deny. It.” Every word its own sentence, as if speaking to a child.
“Do you deny striking her during sex?”
“I don’t deny that, either.”
Her chin comes up, the unconscious issue of a challenge. “Then what is it you do deny, Mr. Tharp?”
Mr. Tharp, Cal notes. Not Jerald. Not now.
“Tell me, Dr. Foster, have you ever been part of a scene?”
In the second of silence that follows, every single cell in Cal’s body comes alive.
“No?” Tharp laughs, obviously toying with her. “Never…? But you want to, right?”
“I-I don’t…” Foster tries to refute it, but it’s too late. She blushes again, even more violently than before.
Tharp hunches forward, dropping his voice to a suggestive hum. “Oh, I think you do. Even though you’re the type who’d never admit it, I think you know exactly what it’s like to need to be conquered. To be completely powerless.” His stare roams over her again-too freely-taking stock, sizing her up with an artist’s critical eye. “To have all that self-control stripped away.”
“Uh, Dr. Lightman…?” Loker’s voice, so hesitant it sounds like the words are being squeezed out of him.
Something’s wrong, Cal can feel it. But he can’t take her eyes off Gillian.
“Tied up…” Tharp murmurs.
The pink tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“…Spanked…”
She swallows thickly.
“…Ass in the air just begging to be fucked.”
“Dr. Lightman,” Loker repeats, louder this time. “The ANS is offline. I think Creepy Guy has pulled one of the leads loose. Should I…?”
The harsh lights of the Cube cast a reflection on Cal’s side of the glass. He looks beyond his own mirror image to see Loker’s hand hovering over the intercom button. On the other side, Foster’s pupils are the size of dinner plates.
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “I’m goin’ in.”
Comments and criticism are always appreciated; mentions of typos make me fall at your feet.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter Two: Ouroboros
<<>>
“So, Jerald…” Foster sighs, skimming through the file in her lap. The manila folder is balanced on her bare knees, that tantalizing four-inch strip of promise exposed between her calf-length boots and smart little skirt. A breath passes, and then another, before she finally closes the file, tucks a strand of hair behind one ear, and crosses her legs. “Tell me about the night you spent with Laura Friedt.”
The man inside The Cube with her smirks, “What is it you want to know?”
Hovering on the wrong side of a soundproof glass wall, reduced to spectator, Cal Lightman has to remind himself he wanted things this way.
Like Foster, Jerald Tharp sits at a slight angle from the interview table, but that’s where any similarity ends. A former athlete, the subject of their investigation is tall and muscular, endowed with the kind of leading man good looks women often mistakenly trust. Foster, on the other hand, with her freckled, little girl arms and china doll chin, is what’s graciously referred to as petite. The height listed on her driver’s license is five-six, but the clerk at the DMV must’ve been feeling generous that day. She has that effect on people.
She smiles encouragingly, a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth intended to put Tharp at ease. “Why don’t we begin with how the two of you met?”
“Alright.” He slouches down in his seat with a disinterested sigh. In jeans and a chambray work shirt, the current darling of the avant-garde art world appears surprisingly low key. Not a bit of leather, chains or latex in sight. “There really isn’t much to tell. We met on a social networking site. I liked her profile, so I gave her a poke.”
Foster blinks. “I’m sorry…?”
Tharp is still for a moment, as if deciding how to respond. Then the handsome face splits into a passable imitation of a shy grin, baring just a hint of gleaming white teeth. “That’s what they call private messages on the site-pokes.”
“Okay.” She pauses to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. She’s wearing black again. So far, every day this week. “Do you recall the name of the site?”
“Of course. We met on bbp.net.” Another smile, with less shyness this time and more teeth. “It’s a site for bondage enthusiasts.”
The admission hits Cal like a jolt of adrenaline. Pacing along two sides of The Cube’s perimeter, he watches his partner produce a pen from her purse, open the case file and scribble a note, even though that information is already included in the police report.
“Can you believe this guy?” Torres snorts.
Lightman glances over his shoulder to where his protégée, Ria Torres, sits slightly hunched over a computer console. Her dark eyes are focused on the monitors displaying Tharp’s Autonomic Nervous System responses; her upper lip is curled in disgust.
“Looking at him, you’d never guess he’s being questioned in connection with attempted murder,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s getting off on this.”
Beside her, Loker also flashes a microexpression of disgust. But, unlike Torres, The Lightman Group’s perpetual adolescent isn’t looking at the monitors. He’s looking at Foster.
Filing that bit of information away for later, Cal jabs a finger in Tharp’s direction. “Definite attention-seeking behavior,” he tells Torres, knowing precisely what she’s thinking. “But not necessarily sociopathic. They can’t all be like Martin Walker, aye?”
Torres bites the inside of her bottom lip and frowns at the display while, inside The Cube, Foster prompts the suspect to continue.
“There really isn’t much to tell.” Tharp makes a shrugging gesture with his upturned palm, a motion that comes off a little too polished to be spontaneous. The clothes, the hair, the mannerisms… everything about him is just too deliberate, too slick not to be part of a con. He’s hiding something, Cal’s sure of it. “After chatting a few times, I suggested we meet. She agreed, and we wound up getting a room at the St. Charles.”
“Jerald, I hate to interrupt, but please remember to keep your left hand as still as possible. We don’t want anything to interfere with the accuracy of your reading.” Smiling apologetically, Foster leans in to check the ANS sensors. Microphones pick up the rustle of clothing as she runs her fingertips over the Velcro strap secured to his forearm. Tharp’s ropey muscles, still well-developed from years of conditioning, bunch beneath her touch.
“I’m so sorry,” he claims, all politeness and remorse. “I didn’t screw anything up, did I?” His apology might come off more convincing if he weren’t taking advantage of the opportunity to stare straight down into the shadowy delta of her cleavage.
Cal shoves his hands in his pockets and occupies himself with keys and loose change.
Finally satisfied everything is in working order, Foster retreats to her side of the table. “No harm done. Now where were we?”
The tosser shoots her a cheeky grin. “At the part where I say I’ve learned my lesson about hooking up over the Internet and you send me on my way…? Because I’ve told you everything.”
If he’s trying to be charming, he’ll have to do better. A familiar vertical line appears in the middle of her brow, a sure sign of annoyance. “What you’ve told me is a highly abbreviated version of events.”
“Well, I was trying to respect Mrs. Friedt’s privacy. But if you want details…” His voice trails away as his eyes wander along the creamy tops of Foster’s breasts. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more intimate. “All you have to do is ask.”
Again with the grin. Cal feels the sudden urge to knock a few of his caps in.
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” she suggests, resuming control of the conversation. A blush has crept into her cheeks and neck, staining the pale skin pink. “You sent her a private message…”
Her partner notices she doesn’t use the word poke.
“That’s right.”
“How long before she responded?”
“Within a day.” The photographer scratches at the stubble dotting his jawline. “Two at most. It’s not like I kept track.”
“What happened then?”
“We chatted a few times-three or four, maybe-and decided to meet for drinks.”
“By drinks, you are in fact referring to sex…?” Maybe it’s her clinical tone, or maybe it’s just the fact that she has a face so earnest it belongs in a cereal commercial, but Foster somehow manages to sound both relentless and demure. It’s a neat trick, especially since it isn’t a trick at all.
Tharp’s eyebrows arch in response to her question. There’s arrogance in the expression, but something else, too. Genuine delight. Her modesty amuses him. “Yes, Doctor Foster,” he says, making a point of meeting her gaze. “We met for the express purpose of having sex. That’s not a crime, is it?”
“That’s…” Her fingers dance along her knees, plucking at the hemline of her skirt. “…What we’re here to determine.”
Tharp shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. He moves slowly, with a practiced nonchalance designed to catch others off guard-the sign of an experienced predator. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I’m a bit confused. When I spoke with my attorney yesterday, he said the police had declined to file charges. Has something changed?”
Her hesitation lasts a mere fraction of a second. Barely long enough for those startled-kitten eyes to drift toward the thick panes of glass isolating her from Cal. A microexpression if ever there was one.
But long enough for Tharp to notice.
“You look surprised.” Tilting his head, he studies her with an intensity her partner finds unnerving. “Isn’t that what you were told?”
Foster smiles tightly in an unsuccessful bid to mask her displeasure. She’s a crap liar. Except when she’s not. “We’re just here to tie up a few loose ends.”
“Ah. I see.” Tharp glances over his shoulder at the glass wall, and for an instant Cal sees what Laura Friedt must have seen as she felt her life draining away. Lurking behind the sculpted cheekbones and dimpled chin, something sharp and dangerous peers out. It winks conspiratorially, like they’re all in this together. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Cal gets the eerie feeling the bastard is speaking directly to him. In his pockets, his hands clench into fists.
Foster doesn’t waste any time getting to the point. She’s trying to hide it, but she’s just as eager to end the interview as Tharp is. Arms folded protectively over her chest, her posture radiates discomfort. “Did you have sex with Laura Friedt?”
“Well, we weren’t watching True Blood for four hours.” He’s the only one smiling.
“Do you deny restraining her during sex?”
“Why would I deny that?”
A look flits over her face then disappears again, too quick to catch. “Please answer the question.”
“I. Don’t. Deny. It.” Every word its own sentence, as if speaking to a child.
“Do you deny striking her during sex?”
“I don’t deny that, either.”
Her chin comes up, the unconscious issue of a challenge. “Then what is it you do deny, Mr. Tharp?”
Mr. Tharp, Cal notes. Not Jerald. Not now.
“Tell me, Dr. Foster, have you ever been part of a scene?”
In the second of silence that follows, every single cell in Cal’s body comes alive.
“No?” Tharp laughs, obviously toying with her. “Never…? But you want to, right?”
“I-I don’t…” Foster tries to refute it, but it’s too late. She blushes again, even more violently than before.
Tharp hunches forward, dropping his voice to a suggestive hum. “Oh, I think you do. Even though you’re the type who’d never admit it, I think you know exactly what it’s like to need to be conquered. To be completely powerless.” His stare roams over her again-too freely-taking stock, sizing her up with an artist’s critical eye. “To have all that self-control stripped away.”
“Uh, Dr. Lightman…?” Loker’s voice, so hesitant it sounds like the words are being squeezed out of him.
Something’s wrong, Cal can feel it. But he can’t take her eyes off Gillian.
“Tied up…” Tharp murmurs.
The pink tip of her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
“…Spanked…”
She swallows thickly.
“…Ass in the air just begging to be fucked.”
“Dr. Lightman,” Loker repeats, louder this time. “The ANS is offline. I think Creepy Guy has pulled one of the leads loose. Should I…?”
The harsh lights of the Cube cast a reflection on Cal’s side of the glass. He looks beyond his own mirror image to see Loker’s hand hovering over the intercom button. On the other side, Foster’s pupils are the size of dinner plates.
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “I’m goin’ in.”
Comments and criticism are always appreciated; mentions of typos make me fall at your feet.
Thanks for reading.
Chapter Two: Ouroboros