She was lightweight and easy to carry. She could not have been more than a hundred and ten pounds, very light for a five-feet-nine-inch woman. She remained asleep in my arms. I struggled to get the apartment door open while holding her but managed it. I sat her on my couch. She slid into a sleeping position, curling her knees up to her stomach and hugging a throw pillow like a teddy bear.
She still smelled ripe, but I didn’t feel like now was the right time to wake her up and suggest she take a shower. I went into my bedroom, grabbed a spare bed pillow, a downy blanket and a spare pair of my silk pajamas. I grabbed a bath towel and a bar of soap. I also went back to the car and grabbed the gym bag that Waldrip had given me for her.
When I got back inside Irina was now snoring softly, like a little piglet. I sat the pillow near her head, pulled off her shoes and covered her with the blanket. I sat the towel and the bar of soap next to the gym bag on the coffee table where she could see it when she woke.
I was exhausted myself, looking down on her, now sleeping so peacefully, reflecting on all the sadness I knew about her youth, and wondered just how badly things for her had gotten since I’d lost track of her. I would get answers tomorrow, I told myself. For now, I needed sleep.
I stripped down to my boxers and crawled into my bed, falling into a deep slumber almost instantly.
I woke to the sound of the shower running in the hallway bathroom. I looked at my digital clock. It was five-forty-two in the morning. Irina woke up and found the towel and soap, it appeared. I hoped she would take the hint but felt a little embarrassed at the less-than-subtle implication she needed one. Like it was a big surprise, right? I lay there listening to the gentle hum of the shower head spraying, slowly drifting off to sleep again. Twenty minutes later, I heard the whir of my hair dryer.
At six-fifteen I smelled bacon frying. I got out of bed and slipped on my robe, walking out of my bedroom. In my kitchen, I saw Irina in my silk pajama top, which was long enough to cover her behind. She stood over my stove, poking at the eggs and bacon that were frying in the skillet.
Her long, red hair had been washed and combed out, and now hung past her shoulders. The front of her hair was parted down the left side and hung loosely around her face. The pajama top was baggy, unbuttoned to the center of her chest, barely hanging on her shoulders. She had rolled up the sleeves but they still covered part of her hands. Her legs were thin, shapely and velvety white.
I began to chuckle at the sight of my pajama top nearly falling off her frame. She turned toward me when she heard my chuckle, and she began to smile. For the first time, I saw the Irina I remembered in those last days before the debacle; the bright smile, the freckles on her cheeks, the clear blue eyes.
“I am ready for the prom,” she said, holding her arms out and turning in a pirouette. She spun twice and laughed. Her laugh was infectious.
I watched her turning, looking at this very beautiful and very troubled woman in my kitchen, thinking back to the time I’d spent with her in my childhood. At that moment, I didn’t care what baggage she carried. I didn’t care what emotional scarring might need to be healed. I only saw the beautiful fifteen-year-old Russian girl I knew in high school—my first, and perhaps only, true love.
______________________
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
______________________
HICKS
“It’s my day off, captain,” I said. “Did I really need to come down here today at six-thirty in the morning.”
“I’m afraid so,” Captain Paulson replied. He reached in his drawer and pulled out a plastic bag. My heart sank when I saw there was a bullet in it. I knew what was coming next but had to play out the game.
“What is that?” I asked, as innocently as possible.
“I think you know,” he said. “Two of our CSI agents canvassed the scene of your bust. They found this bullet—same caliber as the bullet from your partner’s service weapon. Would you like to revise your statement about a . . . car backfiring?”
I said nothing, just stared at the bullet, realizing Falco must have shot the bullet straight up into the air. It’s the only way the CSI team could have found it.
Paulson leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together, touching his nose, “You know, if Falco had just fessed up in the first place to firing a warning shot, then it wouldn’t have been such a horrible thing. After all, it is legal to fire warning shots in Williamson County, where he served in Franklin. He could have gotten off with a minor code violation in his file and a few days of suspension.”
He paused to see if I’d respond. I didn’t. All I was thinking was that I had made matters for my partner worse with the coverup, not better.
“But he lied,” Paulson continued. “He told you it was a warning shot and then tried to cover up the whole thing by using a foreign substance to clean the barrel of the weapon so I could not tell the gun had been recently fired. He falsified a report, Hicks. I can’t let that go.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Don’t look so surprised, Hicks,” he continued. “I was a beat cop myself. I used the same compressed air trick myself once or twice.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because the Assistant District Attorney knows about all of it, and now he knows Falco lied on the report. He’s going to wonder, if Falco lied about firing a warning shot, maybe he lied about whether or not you abused your authority with that perp. Someone is going to have to go down for this, Hicks. I’d rather it not be both of you.”
“What are you saying, captain?” I wondered.
“I’m saying, the ADA has spoken to the perp’s lawyer. He is willing to drop the charges against you in exchange for a reduced sentence, which the ADA is willing to do.”
“So, what’s the problem, then?”
“The problem is, I can’t look the other way when a CSI agent brings hard evidence to light that Falco fired a warning shot and then lied about it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because your report contained a lie about the warning shot, too, Hicks,” Paulson said. “However, you can easily modify your report to read that you were still inside the restaurant when you heard the shot. What you have to say is, when you got outside Falco told you it was a car backfiring and you had no reason not to believe him.”
“Fuck,” I said. “You want me to throw Falco under the bus.”
I was getting nauseous. Falco wanted to fess up. I’m the one who insisted he cover it up. Now, I could save my ass from the excessive force mess, which I did cause, by ratting out my partner for lying on a report, which I also caused. This whole thing was fucked up. If it was true then Falco was screwed either way . . .
“The ADA is giving you a free pass, Hicks,” Paulson said. “Take it. You’re a decorated officer with over six years of service with Metro PD under your belt. He doesn’t want to see you go down for this. If the CSI team hadn’t recovered the bullet, this would all go away, but they did recover it. Falco did fire off a warning shot and he did lie about it. All you need to do is . . .”
“Rat out my partner . . .”
“I was going to say . . . protect yourself,” he said. “Look Hicks, Falco is fucked. He fired the shot, he lied about it on a report he signed. There is no reason for you to go down with him. Now, get out of here. I expect your modified report on my desk by tomorrow morning.”
______________________
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
______________________
FALCO
I took a bite of egg and bacon, watching Irina consume her food as if she had not eaten a whole bag of burgers from Krystal the evening before.
“How long before you realized it was me?” I asked.
She looked up, “From the first moment I saw you,” she said.
“Why didn’t you say something then?”
“I was embarrassed,” she said, “at what you were seeing—me at rock bottom—homeless, starving, freezing. My fa
ce was covered in soot and dirt. I smelled like a wet dog.”
Worse, I thought, but didn’t say, “I understand.”
“I could tell from the look on your face you didn’t recognize me,” she continued.
“Well, it has been twenty years,” I told her. “Your hair was covered by the hat. You never looked directly at me. I think I would have caught on if I had heard your voice or seen your freckles but your cheeks were covered in soot.”
I watched her scooping up more eggs. My pajama top hung so loosely on her I could see her right breast down the top. It was just like I remembered, only rounder and fuller, creamy white with a pale areola and a perky nipple.
“Your English is much better,” I noted, averting my eyes from her breast.
“I’ve lived in the US since I was twelve, Jackie,” she said. “Still, people hear my accent very quickly, and I don’t always use words right.”
“Your accent is very sexy,” I said. “And your grammar is better then ninety percent of the people I work with.”
She smiled at me when I said the word ‘sexy.’ Her smile made me blush a little.
“You are sexier than ever,” she said. “Still the same beautiful face, though your jaw is stronger and much manlier. Your hair is shorter but every bit as thick and brown. You have many muscles, and I see some tattoos, too.”
I’d forgotten I had no tattoos when she last saw me. I had lots of ink on both my arms from shoulders to wrists, and across the top of my chest. I pulled my robe off my shoulders and allowed it to fall to my waist. I stuck out my chest and held my arms out, modeling the tats for her.
“You like?” I asked.
“Yes, very much,” she said. “You are a cop, but you are also like . . . a badass.”
I chuckled.
She leaned over and lightly touched the tats on my left arm. I looked down at her tiny hands. Her touch sent a sensation through my body.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I asked.
“Yes, one.”
“Can I see it?”
She blushed, “If you wish.”
I heard my phone buzzing. A text was coming through. I opened my phone and read it.
“I suppose you wish to know how it is I am homeless?” she asked.
“Yes, I do, but we’ll need to talk about it later,” I said. “I’ve been called into work.”
“Oh, you tell me before this is your day off,” she said.
I shrugged, “The life of a police officer. What can I do?”
“Do I need to leave?” she asked. “I would understand if . . .”
“What? No, of course not,” I told her. “You’ll stay here until we get this all figured out.”
I reached into my wallet and pulled out a debit card, “Look, take this. The Brentwood Shopping Center is only a couple of miles from here. Pick up a few things for yourself: clothes; underwear; shoes. My pin number is 1098.”
She waved me off, “I cannot do this,” she said. “You have done too much already.”
“No, I insist,” I told her. “I need to take my car, so you’ll have to Uber it. You can use the card for that. Get whatever you need. Buy some food you like, too.”
“Jackie, I do not wish to spend your money,” she said.
“Irina, when we were kids, I told you I’d be your friend . . . always. Do you remember that?”
“Of course,” she said. “I think of that day every day of my life.”
“Well, I meant it,” I said. “Do me a favor and try to keep it under four hundred dollars if you can. I don’t get paid for another two weeks, but other than that, get what you need. I’ll get my spare door key for you.”
“How long will you be gone?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing all day, but I’ll be back around six.”
She slipped her arms under mine and hugged me tightly. I could feel the swell of her beautiful breasts rubbing through the silk pajama top against my bare chest. I hugged her back and together we gently swayed silently as we embraced. I released the embrace when I felt like I was starting to get aroused. I didn’t think she was ready for that, nor was I, all evidence to the contrary.
“Almost forgot,” I said. “You were going to show me your tattoo.”
“Ok,” she said, backing up, her face reddening a bit. She lifted the bottom of her pajama top, allowing me to see her panties. And there I saw it, just below her belly button, a tattoo of a yellow and purple flower—the Blackeyed Susan. The single tattoo on Irina’s body was the image of a flower I had given to her that day during lunch period in school when I first sat with her.
“You like?” she asked.
I cleared my throat, “Uh . . . yes, of course I do. It’s beautiful.”
“Do you recognize it?”
I nodded.
She beamed, “I have it with me, always, Jackie. Every time I see it in the mirror, I think of you and the wonderful moments we shared.”
I was so touched I was speechless.
“Jackie, is everything ok?” she asked.
“Yes, I just have to get ready,” I said, feeling paralyzed by the presence of this beautiful woman who had just fallen back into my life.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I managed to finish.
“Jackie, thank you for what you do for me,” she said. “You have saved me again.”
She slipped into my arms. I hugged her. Her body was warm. I felt her soft, natural breasts pressing against me once again. I smiled at her. I said nothing. All I could think of was . . .
Boom!
______________________
CHAPTER NINETEEN
______________________
HICKS
I had left Paulson’s office with my head reeling. I felt sick to my stomach. I really wanted to get out of there and think matters through, but fate had other ideas.
There was a domestic disturbance on the northern end of my normal beat, just off Nolensville Road. It was from the home of Bob and Mary Miller, repeat offenders and names I knew well. This was the third such call I’d gotten to their home in the last two years. I didn’t want to call Falco in from his day off, but hell, it was his third day on the job, I didn’t think he’d mind. I was already in and had already built rapport with the Millers. It only made sense for me to go . . . but not without backup.
I called Falco. I told him what I knew. A neighbor called in claiming to have heard screaming and loud banging noises coming from the Miller home. I told him they were repeat customers and I had been to the home on two previous calls.
“I’m in route,” he said. “Should be at the station in five.”
“I’m on the road, already,” I told him. “Meet me at the house. From where you are now, you may beat me by a minute or two. Wait for me.” I gave him the address.
Sure enough, Falco beat me to the Miller house. He was dressed in civilian clothes, as was I. Each of us had our badges clipped to our belts, fully visible. Identification would not be an issue since I already knew the Millers.
Falco had parked on the street in his personal vehicle, a real piece of shit Ford Focus, and was standing by his truck, a new looking Ford. I pulled the patrol car up behind him. I did not use the red and blues.
I saw Falco, dressed in tight jeans with a blue button-down shirt opened to the center of his chest. The shirt was tight, exposing the outline of his broad shoulders and amazing biceps. The man was looking fine.
“Thanks for coming,” I said, getting out of the cruiser.
“You bet,” he replied.
“I’ll take the lead,” I told him. “I know them.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” he promised.
“They get pretty violent with each other, but I’ve never felt the need to draw my weapon. I’ve had to throw Bob in the tank before and let him cool off, but to be honest with you, Mary may be the hardest to handle.”
“Roger that,” he said.
I heard screaming and shouting as I walked up
to the door and banged on it, “Mr. and Mrs. Miller! Open up. It’s the police.”
The shouting stopped as soon as they heard the sound of my voice.
“Is that you Hicks?” I heard a male voice answer.
“Yes, Bob, it’s me,” I replied.
He opened the door, holding his forehead. I could see blood trickling down his face and between his fingers.
“You’d better get in here,” he said. “She’s on a rampage.”
I could hear his wife, Mary, screaming and breaking plates in the kitchen.
“Is she armed?” Falco asked.
He looked at Falco as though he had just arrived on earth from another world, “Yeah, with cups, saucers, pans and the random steak knife,” he said. “And she is deadly accurate.”
“Mr. Miller, what did you do?” I asked.
He shrugged, “The usual.”
I let out a sigh, “Jesus, when will you ever learn to keep your dick in your pants?”
He shrugged again, “I always do . . . around her. We wouldn’t have this problem if she showed any interest in it.”
“Falco, call an ambulance,” I instructed before turning back to Mr. Miller, “This is Officer Falco. He will take care of you.”
“Don’t you need me for backup?” Falco asked me.
“No, I got this,” she said. “No offense, but with Mrs. Miller, I’m better off without another male present.”
“Roger that.” Falco stepped forward, “Mr. Miller, think you can step outside with me, please? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I walked to the entrance of the kitchen. Mrs. Miller was still breaking dishes and screaming obscenities.
Domestic calls were among my least favorite calls to deal with because none of them were cut and dry. In Tennessee, I didn’t have the luxury of using too much discretion when it came to DV. If I showed up at the door, you can bet someone was going to jail. Occasionally, I would treat the DV case as a violation of a noise ordinance, as if the neighbors complained that the music was too loud, but in this case, since Mr. Miller was injured, I wouldn’t be able to do that.
Until Falco_Happily Ever Alpha Page 9
