by Deanna King
“Powdered courage, JoAnn, you don’t do that, why tonight?” he asked as he sauntered back into the room, taking the glass of tainted whiskey from her, then chugging it.
“I like the way it makes me feel. It makes me feel sexier.” She let out a sexy low laugh as she dropped onto the bed, sitting on the edge, crossing her naked legs.
He poured a second healthy shot of whiskey and drank the entire glass. He pushed her on her back and then told her to scoot up to the headboard. He pulled her arms up to the metal headboard and cuffed her hands to the bed, and then he spread her legs wide open. He gagged her with a silk scarf and then picked up his belt. With slow deliberate moves, he slid the belt up between her legs until she writhed, then he began whipping her, and red welts appeared on her legs. Her laugh was muffled, with pleasing anguished sounds. He cinched the belt around her neck and pulled her head up toward him, yanking the gag out of her mouth.
“You like that? You want me to fuck you again?” He growled, the sudden high from the cocaine making him invincible and mean.
She panted; her own snort of cocaine had her feeling no pain. “Yes, yes, get the scarves and tie them together, you know how I like it, I want to be delirious.”
Scarfing: in his life, he had never met a woman who liked autoerotic asphyxia, and she’d been a woman who craved the feeling and begged for it. He un-handcuffed her and made her roll onto her stomach, then he re-cuffed her to the metal headboard. Tying the scarves together he formed a slipknot that fit over her neck. Then he affixed the other ends in slips to the small metal headboard posts so that as she arched her neck and pulled, so did the scarves, tightening around her skinny white throat. He liked her on her stomach. He could enter her from behind and it gave him a better advantage for control, and he could fuck her harder.
“Pull the scarves tighter, last time the scarves never tightened.” She pouted with a big huff. “I didn’t get my jollies, but you did.” She was a lunatic, one he would never understand but he was happy to fulfill her wishes, any time.
Entering her with a hard thrust, he pulled the end of one of the scarves as he began driving into her, and with each thrust, he pulled at the scarves harder and harder, his eyes closed; he was euphoric. It was at least five minutes of hard driving sex, and he didn’t notice if she was getting off or not. He didn’t care if she got off. His own satisfaction was all he cared about.
Sweat rolled down his brow, the salt stung his eyes, and he dropped hard on top of her when he had finished.
“You get your rocks off, bitch?” He panted out a laugh as he as spoke to the back of her head. She was quiet. Why, was she pissed off?
“JoAnn, did you get off or not?” He reached up and uncuffed her, then turned her over. Was she was pissed off, giving him the silent treatment? It wasn’t the first time she had acted this way.
No one had ever come off a high like that so fast. Her face was lifeless, her eyes bulging: he had gone too far. Holy Christ, she’d asked for it. He felt for a pulse, perhaps she had just passed out. No pulse. God, now what was he going to do? Panic gripped him as he picked up the phone.
“It’s me. I have a problem, you hafta help me!” He tried keeping the alarm out of his voice, hoping like hell, he didn’t vomit.
Briefly, he told Jed what had happened. If they helped him, he would pay whatever they asked. He paced the room, not looking at her, and unable to leave. What was taking them so long to get here?
Jed knocked on the door. “It’s me, open the door.”
His face was pallid. “I don’t know what happened. I mean, she asked for this. I’m going to prison, I can’t go to prison!”
“We’ll handle it, sit and be quiet.” Scottie shoved him toward the bed. Sarge followed him in.
When the camera came out, he became violent.
“What in the hell, what is, oh no, you’re not doing that.” He acted as if he was a wild animal caught in a trap. “You bastard, uh-uh, no, don’t do that.”
The big bald man held him back and with one punch knocked his ass out. It felt good to hit the bastard. After Jenna had told him what he made her do, it pissed him off.
“Lay him on top of her, like that. Put the scarves in both of his hands, but be careful. Now move back and let me get the pictures.”
Jed watched as Scottie snapped photo after photo, getting every angle, then he stepped back.
“Get his clothes and the clothes Jenna gave you, Sarge, then drive the car over here,” Scottie snapped out orders.
“Jenna already has it out front and waiting.”
They took the whore’s lifeless nude body into the bathroom. Scottie took his .38 special and put a hollow point bullet in the back of her head.
“Now whydaya do that, Scottie? She’s already dead, man.” Sarge thought that was overkill.
“No face, no ID.” Scottie was satisfied with the job.
Now she was no longer a worry to him. She’d been the one person who knew that it was him that night on the streets. Why she hadn’t ratted on him was a mystery. He was certain of two things now—he would never have to be indebted to a whore, and he’d have no worries about blackmail.
There hadn’t been much spattered since her heart was no longer beating. Particles and bone had blown out of her head; they wiped most of it off then redressed her in clothes that Jenna brought to them.
Jenna stood at the door handing the car keys and clothes to Sarge. All she saw were feet on the bed, and a man on the floor, but she didn’t see who the feet belonged to. Sarge was purposely blocking her view. She partially saw the torso of a naked man, and a tiny gasp escaped her lips. She knew him. She squinted to see if he was breathing and let out an inaudible sigh when she saw his chest heave. Sarge backed her up from the doorway, and with his hand on her shoulder he turned her around to get her to leave.
“Take my car, Jenna, and go home. You didn’t see nothing, hear me?” Sarge warned her.
She fumbled with the keys, trying to get them into the ignition. Something bad had happened, but she didn’t know what or to whom. Whose feet were on the bed? Fear rose in her throat…she had no idea it was all planned. She was a whore, and that could have been her. She had to get out of the business and Sarge needed to keep her safe. She knew he would jump off a bridge for her.
Once they’d dumped the body, they went back to the motel to take care of their pal. He was out cold. Dragging the young lawyer out of the room and stuffing him in the trunk of the car, they took the fool back to his place and tucked him in for the night. He would have one freaking headache when he came to. He would remember most of it, and he would be calling.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was early, and glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost two hours before he really needed to be at work. That was long enough for a decent visit.
Wearing his gray fake elephant skin boots, jeans, and a light gray sports coat, all that was missing was a hat to give him that “Texan” look. His boots and the very bottom of his jeans were getting damp as he walked over the dewy grass until he reached the paved road. He walked about two hundred yards, turned right, walked another two hundred yards, and turned left. Another two hundred feet and he was standing in front of the concrete bench adorned with angels around the edge. He sat on the bench, lowered his head, and whispered a short prayer before looking up again. No matter how many years passed or what day it was, this haunted him.
The headstone was a soft variegated gray and black. It stood two and a half feet tall and was two feet wide. A large W was carved into the top center and centered beneath that was a football, a star, and praying hands. Below that, the name, Cole Arron West -Wonderful Son and Brother, and below that, his birth date and sadly his death date were carved in.
He saw this headstone even when he wasn’t at the cemetery. All he had to do was close his eyes, and every chip, crack, or impurity of the marble, and the curve of every single letter, painted a picture in his head. It had been eighteen years since that fatal night. He had lost his best friend in the world, his older brother Cole, shot dead in a gang drive-by. Cole was in the wrong place at the wrong time, a random victim. The area they hung out wasn’t even in the gang district; someone had wanted his brother dead. There had been very few random murders on his watch. Ninety-nine percent of the murders he worked were premeditated or spontaneous due to rage, or perhaps jealousy, and each victim knew their killer.
Cole’s murder had been deliberate, there had to be a reason. Something had always bothered him about this shooting even before he entered the police academy. His brother’s case, unsolved, lingered in the back of his mind. It was the very reason he had gone into police work. His drive had been to find the person that had pulled the trigger and get justice for his brother. He had more than a negative attitude against all gang members. He profiled anyone who even looked like a thug. His anger began to fester and led him to various reprimands in the department early in his career, and then to some soul-searching and police counseling. He learned then that he had to squelch the negative attitude and do the job that would make his brother proud.
There continued to be anger, but he found ways to keep it in check, never letting on how he felt about certain types of people. He was always searching for an anger outlet. As time passed, he learned that putting every ounce of energy he had into the job worked best for him. Cole would have told him to ease up and try to focus some energy on his life. Have some fun, laugh, get a girl or something, and don’t let your work control you. God, he missed his big brother.
He leaned, both arms on his knees, his hands clasped together, and for the first time, as he sat alone in this very quiet cemetery, he addressed the headstone.
“I want you to know, big brother, there’s no new news. I wish I could tell you I’ve succeeded in getting justice for your senseless death, but I’m working on it. You know, bro, it may never happen, but I won’t give up…ever.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was nowhere close to getting any answers. He had worked the files he had at home until the pages were tattered and fading. Most days, he had to put his brother’s case aside to do the “real” police work that the people of Houston depended on him to do. All of this, he knew, was some kind of vindication in his heart for his brother’s senseless death. Each solved case with a solid conviction made him feel like he was there for a purpose. He hated that saying, “things happen for a reason.” There was no reason on earth for his brother to die young, no damn reason. He knew that’s what pissed him off the most.
The sound of crunching gravel caused him to turn his head and glance over his shoulder. A car was approaching. Long, sleek, and black. It was the funeral director’s car. He glanced at his watch. He needed to leave and get to the station. An hour had already passed, and he knew from past visits how mere moments slipped away into oblivion. It always did out here, so peaceful and serene. He might have enough time to get a bite to eat, as long as the morning traffic cooperated.
He surveyed the area as he stood. It was the best place for his brother to rest. The grounds were nicely maintained and groomed. Magnolia Cemetery was not one of the larger cemeteries in Houston, but it was beautiful. It was a six-acre resting place, by far smaller than Glenwood and Washington Cemeteries. This was a key landmark since it was the resting place for one of the most important people he ever had in his life.
His parents chose this cemetery since it was close to their house. They wanted to be close to Cole even in death. Their house now sold, his parents were retired and living in Florida. It felt like a hundred years ago when he lived between Bunker Hill Village area and Piney Points Village, born and raised there a lifetime ago. He moved to Deer Park after his parents moved to Florida. Up until then, he stayed close to them, in a nice apartment within a stone’s throw away. It was convenient since his mother was constantly cooking and he had home-cooked meals at his fingertip. He smiled; he missed home cooking and his parents.
He got a decent deal on a three-bedroom townhome in Deer Park. It was all he needed and not too much yard work to fiddle with. The townhome needed no improvements, and it fit him, and if luck was to shine on him one day and he had a woman in his life, it would be perfect. His house was located close enough to Beltway 8 and Highway 225 and was roughly twenty-five miles to the station. Nice area. Some renters, some owners, it was a quiet neighborhood.
The Magnolia Cemetery was near the station, so it was never an imposition for him to visit Cole’s grave. There was no excuse not to visit and pay his respects or just talk to Cole. He had promised his brother on the day they had laid him to rest that he would never let him be lonely, not ever.
Deep in thought, he again heard the crunch of tires as the funeral director’s car was pulling away and another truck headed up the path. Laden with a green funeral cover, tent and chairs, they were setting things up for another sad day for some unknown family.
As he stood, he skimmed the three tombstones in front of him. He knew the graves on either side of his brother. Turning to his right, an old woman who had died at age eighty-five lay buried. Her name had been Della Roseanne Crayton. He assumed her death was due to her advanced age. Buried on the left lay a younger man, Russell Edward Washburn, his headstone carved with Loving Husband, Father and Brother. Oddly, he investigated Russell’s cause of death and found that it had been due to a bout with pancreatic cancer.
He wanted to know about his brother’s “neighbors” for some reason. Both graves had fresh flowers in the vases attached to the bottom of the headstones. He admonished himself for not getting flowers for Cole’s grave today. “Sorry, big brother. I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered toward his brother’s headstone.
He then glanced right. “Della, you angel, have a wonderful day.” Then he turned to his left. “Russell, my man, I wish I knew your family. I’d visit your kiddos for you, but I am sure you are peeking in from time to time.” Lastly, he stared at Cole’s headstone. He smiled. Not a heartfelt smile, nevertheless, a small smile appeared.
As if on perpetual rewind, his brother’s unsolved murder ran through his mind again. His brother’s case might go unsolved, but he’d keep trying. He assumed that all those who might have been involved were thugs, dying young or incarcerated, because crime became their life, or perhaps they moved on to a different life. This he doubted. Once you were in, you were in; it was for life or until death. He knew that drugs and the hard life they had chosen had warped their brains. Dying young was another sad certainty. Misplaced loyalties meant that no one would ever talk. It was at most a hopeless case for law enforcement officers. Not him though, not Detective Jackson West, he would always be on the case.
He peered again at his brother’s final resting spot. “Okay, bro, gotta go get some morning Wheaties, but now I eat them in the form of an Egg McMuffin, or sausage and egg, depending on whether I want to splurge or not. Then after my ‘Wheaties McMuffin’ powers me up, I have to go fight crime. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He saluted his brother good-bye and turned to walk back to where he had parked his older black Dodge Ram. Sitting in his truck, he turned the key and came up with an idea. “Cole, I know you can hear me wherever you are. I’m gonna make up for missing the flowers. If a case doesn’t keep me too busy, I’m gonna bring you a surprise.”
He was not a lunatic. He smiled as he put the truck in drive and made the U-turn to go out the main gates…he missed his brother that much.
As he headed to the station driving on the Loop, he grumbled, as usual, traffic was congested. Stuck driving at about five miles an hour, he was stopping and startin
g every few minutes. Up ahead he saw some flashing lights and one lone fire truck, and about a half dozen or so tow trucks. As usual in the bustling city of Houston, the tow truck drivers swarmed in droves. They arrived first on the scene, even before the police or any other emergency vehicles arrived. It was as if they lay in wait and were equipped with radar that immediately guided them to each fender bender in the city within seconds of the crash. Each driver waited to put his or her business card into a hat to see who got the job; it was craziness like this at each accident.
Detective Jackson West would have to sit in the slow, nonmoving traffic like the rest of the regular people. Picking up his cell phone, he clicked on his contacts. Scrolling through, he found the number for Dawson Luck, hit call, and then waited for his Bluetooth to fire up.
Dawson answered on the third ring. “Hey, Jack, what’s happening?”
“Hey, partner, listen. I am on the Loop right now, and it’s a parking lot. I see the tow trucks working, but I’m going to be here for a bit, we have anything new going on?”
He heard paper shuffling and Dawson breathing.
“Lucky, you there?”
“Hold on, Jack, give me a sec.” He rustled more papers and then came back on the line. “We haven’t pulled a new case yet, and I am finishing up the report from the last case.”
Dawson Luck was the best paper-pusher partner he’d ever had. He, himself, was good, but he hated paperwork.
“Get here when you get here. All you can do, right?”
“Will do. Tell the captain I am on my way in and what my delay is. See you when I see you.”
