by Adira August
Cushman did it perfectly. Apologized for me being late. Mirrored Celeste's body language. Expressed sympathy at how difficult this all was. Let the witness speak. When Celeste leaned back in her chair, it was time.
I entered the interview room with a yellow legal pad, a file folder and two bottles of water. Cushman moved around the table to the chair next to Celeste. I slid into the chair she'd vacated, across from them both and placed a bottle in front of Celeste and myself.
"I'm Sergeant Dane, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. We spoke on the phone?" She nodded, but didn't offer her hand. I placed a business card on the table in front of her. "Is it Mrs. Sugarman?"
"Not really. Not anymore. Ms. Farleigh is fine," she said, sitting up again. "My father owns the house."
"Thank you." I made a note. "And you know you aren't suspected of doing anything illegal? You are free to leave at any time." I let my voice warm in concern.
"I see," she said.
"I have a driver's license photo of the person we found at your house. Will to you identify her, if you can?"
She barely glanced at the print-out I took from the folder. "That's my sister," she said, her voice thickened slightly. She cleared her throat and looked out the open door.
I frowned over my notes. "Ms. Farleigh, according to your dates of birth, you and your sister were born four months apart."
She didn't color or blanch or look at me. She did move her eyes in Cushman's direction for a second.
"Detective, go get the visuals and evidence list organized for me," I ordered her. Cushman's lips pressed. She grabbed her coat off the back of her chair and left.
Excellent. I closed the door behind her.
"Louise is my half-sister by father from my mother's dog walker," she said, without hesitation.
I waited. She looked past me.
"My father paid her off, my parents adopted the baby, people believe we're fraternal twins."
"That seems quite generous of your mother," I said.
"She hired a nanny. They had their own wing," she said. Then she looked at me, fierce and challenging. "We loved each other, Mr. Dane, make no mistake. We … " Tears spilled suddenly.
I reached over and opened the water and set it back in front of her while she found a tissue in her purse. She sipped the water.
"My parents divorced when we were five. Mother disappeared to Europe, somewhere. My father's in hospice with end stage colon cancer. Louise and I are all that's left."
She slumped back in the chair. "There's no motive, you see. Lou and I had all the money from our grandfather's trust fund. Our father is in reduced circumstances, as they say. We support him. The house is all he has. We thought if we could get the outside fixed up, after father passes, we could sell it for enough to pay his bills. There's no drama here. I'm a wealthy woman. I have a theater management company in Manhattan."
"Thank you for being so candid," I said. She looked ... bleak was the word that jumped to mind. "I have to pry just a little more, I'm sorry."
She nodded and her fingers moved in a listless go ahead if you must.
"Do you inherit?"
A slight smile. "You are direct. No, in fact, I don't. She knew I didn't need it. Every bit of it goes to a non-profit that serves women's causes."
"Will her partners benefit by her passing?"
"Oh no," she sat up. "Louise was the rainmaker. I imagine they'll be scrambling to keep her clients on board. I'm not a lawyer, but I think her shares are part of her estate." She shrugged. "They might have a big insurance policy on her, maybe. But it wouldn't be as good as having her. She made them all rich."
She teared up again. "People loved her, you know."
I kept a straight face. Years of practice.
"Are you going to find this cop? The one she was so angry with?" It was a challenge.
"Did she tell you anything about the officer? Like what city they work in? If it was a man or woman? Had she mentioned this cop to you, before?"
She was shaking her head at every question. "I didn't even think - wait - it must be a man. She said 'if that son-of-a-bitch thinks he's won.' So it's a man."
"Do you know her whereabouts last night?"
"That's policespeak, isn't it? Whereabouts. Just like television." She picked up the water bottle and took a careful drink. "She didn't say." She capped the bottle.
"You should know, we didn't really live in that house,” she said. “No one did. She has a townhome in Cherry Hills Village. I live in Connecticut. We pick up mail there. I sleep there when I'm in town. But the house is mostly closed up."
"Ms. Farleigh, I'd like you to listen to something. This music was playing in the room where we found your sister." I put my cell on the table and started the recording.
"Please! Enough." She held up a hand.
I shut it down.
"What was that?" she asked.
"I was hoping you'd know," I told her.
"Well, it wasn't Louise's. She hates rock and roll. Really, she didn't like music much, at all. She said it was distracting when it was good and annoying when it wasn't." She frowned. "I don't even know where my father kept any stereo equipment."
I had to get back inside that house. I made a note. And changed the subject.
"I'm also wondering, if your sister lives in Cherry Hills, and you weren't in town, why was she there at all last night?" I asked.
Celeste looked surprised. "I … How odd. I never thought about it. Why was she there?"
I escorted Celeste Farleigh to the elevator twenty minutes later. When I got back to the squad, Cushman told me the Captain was waiting for me.
Horace VanDevere was tall, iron gray, strong-jawed and steely eyed. An aging Superman. He'd never been much of a detective because he tended to snap judgments and narrow vision. Except for his religious quirks, he was a good Captain. He brought on quality people, let them do their jobs, and wrangled the political machine. We could have had a lot worse.
His door was open. I knocked on the doorframe and waited to be waved inside.
"Have a seat. What do we have, so far?"
"Just getting started, really," I said. I brought him up to speed in a general way. I wanted to ease into my own involvement.
"Your next step?" he asked.
"Two things. Get to her law office and interview her closest associates. Get a timeline of her day, if possible. They might know where she was after work. Also, get back to the house now that it's cleared and take a more thorough look around."
"Close the door," he said.
I did. He waved me back to the chair.
"This case seems to have … political issues." He gave me a stressed look, as if I'd know what that meant. He was fishing, because he didn't know, himself. I allowed a bit of confusion to show.
"How's that, Captain?"
He cleared his throat. "Well, I'm not at liberty to say, but we've decided the case would best be handled by a special task force out of the District Attorney's office. You'll stay on as DPD liaison and work as chief field investigator. One of the DA's people will be heading things up."
"Heading things up? I'm working under them?"
"You're working for me, Sergeant, as always. I'm assigning you to cooperate and give all assistance to the task force."
"Absolutely, Sir." I knew Symonds was behind this, I just didn't know how it helped. "So, am I working out of the courthouse or from here?"
"Neither. They've set aside an office in the old Metro State offices, up the street. Someone will text you when they're ready. Meanwhile, pack up what you have and get on with your work."
I nodded and moved to the door.
"Dane? I don't have to stress confidentiality to you, do I?'
"No, Captain. You absolutely don't."
I packed up and told Cushman to give yesterday's bleed-out guy report to the Lieutenant and ask for reassignment.
"You used me because of my color and my background."
"'Yes, Sergeant', is the response I was l
ooking for," I said, hoisting the heavy briefcase.
"I can report you."
"'Thanks for all you taught me,' would be a nice touch." I headed for the elevator. She followed.
"I'm serious."
"Did you watch the rest of the interview?" I asked.
"Yes."
"How'd it go?"
"Really well," she said, eyebrows seeking one another.
"That bothers you." I repressed the urge to push the already lighted down button, again.
"What if she'd been some young stud instead of a prissy-ass white woman?"
"Watch the judgments, Cushman, they'll prejudice you to the facts," I told her, really wanting to press the button again.
"That's not an answer."
"I don't owe you an answer. The important question is - if you are questioning some young stud, what will you do? And why?"
Ding!
Thank you, elevator gods.
My cell pinged a text one floor after the doors closed. It was a response to one I'd sent while packing up: an address and vehicle description.
"Didn't know what you wanted, so, I got a lot of different stuff," Cam said, handing me a couple bags of fast food across the console of the beat up Subaru Outback he was driving. "There's a roast chicken club if you don't want more dead cow."
I'd found him parked at the very back corner of the fast-food lot, half under some wind-denuded forsythia bushes.
He took a huge bite of a double decker cheeseburger.
"How do you eat like that and still fit behind the wheel of your R8?" I asked, unwrapping the chicken.
"I have the metabolism of a twenty-something professional athlete," he grinned. "Jealous?"
"Hell, yes," I said, handing back the bag. Cam searched inside and pulled out a container of onion rings.
"And I'm not training right now. So. What's the deal?"
"Let me eat first." I hate eating and working. I don't know how people do that.
We chatted. He told me about some impressive wind damage he'd seen. It reminded me of a small mystery.
"Hey, my cell rang at like four-thirty," I said. "You were up and dressed and showered and had coffee ready. Did you not sleep at all?"
He laughed. "Oh, yeah. Like the dead. But, it was early when we finished, you know? Like, ten, ten-thirty."
"God, it felt like two am."
"I know." He fished out a fried dessert something with goopy red filling. "I got five-six good hours in and just woke up at my regular time."
"Four aye-em is your regular time?"
"Most of my life. I had to train before school. I have to train every day when I'm in training. Four aye-em works best. I think most of us do that."
"Most Olympic athletes?"
"Most people serious about succeeding."
Wondering how big a loser that made me, I finished the chicken and wiped my hands on one of the myriad napkins he'd gotten with the order. Cam downed half a bottle of water and swished it around in his mouth.
Time for work.
"That call I got this morning?" I began.
"Yeah?"
"It was EllBee."
"She called you? How'd she get your number?"
"No. She didn't call me. Dispatch sent me on a case. She was the victim." Blank stare. "Cam, someone killed her last night."
He froze with the water bottle halfway to his mouth. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
The Dom who owned me, twice, was suddenly a twenty-something kid. A kid who'd spent his life in clean white snow. Amongst the privileged.
His job was more dangerous than mine, statistically. Just as ugly when it went wrong. But still, it was a thing going wrong. Not a person taking a life.
I tried again. "I got a call to a residence in central Denver. Inside was the body of a woman. She'd been murdered. It was EllBee. She's been positively identified."
His eyes filled. "But you … you totally humiliated her last night," he said.
"Yes." I used the water bottle and wet some napkins. I wiped his hands clean while he just watched.
"I helped," he said, tears spilling over.
"A little." I used a clean dry napkin to soak up the tears.
"I enjoyed it." His voice a strained whisper.
"Cam, did anyone tell you what prize she chose, if she won? If she solved it in three tries?"
He shook his head.
"She said she'd peg me for the crowd."
He looked horrified. "But, she hated you."
I nodded.
"She'd have hurt you. Bad, probably."
"I believe that was the point."
He thought for a long time. "She might have solved it in three tries."
"Very possibly."
His eyes narrowed. "You did that to her, humiliated her, so she'd quit."
"Yes."
Cam moved around in his seat and ran his hands through his hair. "This all really sucks."
"Yeah. And there's more." I explained about her statement to her sister on the phone and that I had to clear everyone at the club last night.
"That includes me," I said. "Which means someone needs to hear from you that we were together."
"Oh." He crossed his arms over the top of the steering wheel and thought about that.
I put the bags, now full of trash, behind his seat on the floor, giving him time to process. I knew Cam didn't hide his gayness. But his public demeanor, his saleable image, was a sweet, innocent boy hero. BDSM clubs and being with an older man who packs heat didn't fit.
He was nodding to himself. "So, everyone's going to find out about you? Like at your job? I mean, does your family know?"
Me? He was worried about me. Jesus, this kid …
I reached over and dragged him across the console into my lap. Pulling the seat lever, I reclined us a little and wrapped my arms around him. He snuggled into me like a big blond tabby. We were a close fit, but I was afraid he was getting shocky and the car was chilly with the engine off.
"Ad and I and someone high up in the city machine are trying to avoid anyone finding out about anyone," I told him. I rubbed his arm, wanting to keep him warm.
"At some point, maybe today, you'll need to speak in person with someone from the District Attorney's office. I haven't met with the investigator yet, but I think the point will be to keep from generating paper that would have to be made available to the defense in the event of a trial."
He looked up at me. "Do you think it was someone from the club?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. I tend to doubt it, what would be the motive? I want everyone cleared today and then I can focus on who might actually have killed her."
He was quiet for a long time, tracing the shape of my pec with his finger. It made me feel restless. "Are you making an assumption?"
I shook my head. "I'm just stating the probabilities. I'll know more after I talk to Chez and Sherrilynne later." He wriggled around and I shifted uncomfortably. "You okay?"
He tilted his head back to get a better view of me. "The windows are tinted."
"I - what?"
"The seats totally recline."
"Cam," I said. Sternly, I thought.
"You're hard," he said wriggling again. His eyes were big, the arctic blue giving way to black pupil.
He was being ridiculous. "That’s just physiology. I'm working."
He reached for the lever and my seat went almost completely flat.
"You're at lunch," he said.
"I don't have time," I felt my voice tighten.
"Five minutes, tops," he said. "It'll just feel a lot longer.
Damn kid …
He braced himself against the door, took me under the arms and shoved the top of me onto the back seat.
I heard him lower my zipper and felt the rush of cold air against my erection before I felt his hand.
"Cam - "
He rose up over me, bracing himself on his hands on either side of the seat. He gave me a lopsided grin and a stare as cold as the
ice he mastered.
"You have something to say, sub?"
Sonuvabitch! My cock jerked and throbbed.
He lowered his lips to my ear, his warm breath heating the blood rushing to my gut. "You're a slut at heart, you know."
He slid down between my legs until his elbows rested on the seatback next to my hips. "I think you deserve this."
Insinuating his fingers through the flap in my briefs, he freed me. He didn't unbutton my pants, just pulled my dick out and held it up like a super-sized bomb pop. I heard the crackle of paper and he put a wad of clean napkins on his seat, within easy reach.
"Tell you what," he said, eyes glinting. "If you lie very still and don't make any noise, I'll think about letting you come, this time."
He was referring to last Friday, when he tortured me with his mouth just before I left the club and didn't get me off. I had to finish myself in the car in the sub basement of police headquarters. I couldn't walk, otherwise.
"Put your hands behind your head so I can see your face. I love to watch you suffer." He smiled and touched my slit gently with a fingertip.
I swallowed my groan and complied. The action lifted and opened my leather jacket. He could see the Colt in the shoulder holster. He licked his lips.
"If you come before I tell you, if you come in my mouth, you will present yourself to me tonight for discipline. Do you understand?"
I felt precum gush. He slipped a thumb over my cockhead. Spreading it. Bastard. "Yes, Cam."
He lowered his wet, hot mouth onto me. And then there were no cars in the drive-thru or pulling into parking spaces. No people or voices or puzzles to be solved. There was just Cam and the mystery of his tongue and lips and hands and teeth. His throat.
His eyes glittered with the malicious delight, fixed on my pleading ones as his lips and tongue and fingers worked me over. I watched him do it because he required me to. He watched me watching him because it excited him. In less than a minute, I was desperate for restraint. For a gag. For release.
And he was just getting started.
Hunter
1:10pm Offices
"This is your office."
It was a decent-sized room with large windows, an old desk with an oak desk chair, and a dead ficus in one corner. There were built-in shelves under the window and a file cabinet in another corner.
