Striker

by Patricia Green

  That made me grin. It was definitely something I could work with. “Relax, babe.”

  “I can’t when you’re doing… mmm… that.”

  I fingered her slit, and though I couldn’t reach to penetrate her, I did touch her everywhere I could. And I lingered on her swollen clit for a good long while. The sounds she made, the arching of her hips, the sucking wetness of her pussy, all gave me a raging hard-on. Part of me was regretting starting this, but as she got more and more excited, I found that my discomfort was subsumed by my enjoyment of what we were doing together.

  Her hips gyrated and bucked and she gripped the console and the armrest with white-knuckled fingers. We stopped at a red light where four lanes of traffic waited and a red left turn arrow shone, and a guy in a car on her side gave us a sharp look. Probably because Angelica had her head thrown back and was moaning.

  I loved that she was transported. I loved what I was able to do to her. I rubbed her clit, dipping down for more moisture every now and then. Faster and faster I pressed on her button, and she writhed beneath the constraints of her seatbelt. “Do it,” I whispered to her. I don’t know if she even heard me over her moans. Maybe she did, because only a few seconds later, she arched hard and cried out, moving to clutch my hand where it was buried in her panties. She was breathing heavily, but her desperate grip on my hand lessened until she finally released it. I slid my hand out from between her legs and licked her moisture off my fingers. She tasted like salted caramel.

  The red light changed to green and we continued to the precinct.

  Chapter Seven

  Once back at the station, we began going through wants and warrants, but found none for Walter Mason. I consulted the DMV records, and found eleven men by that name living in Glendale. I tried to compare the men in their driver’s license photos to the grainy image we had from the recent crime scene, and that eliminated three guys who were over fifty and balding. The others were relatively young men. Facially, they were quite dissimilar, and they were of varying body types, but the photo from the scene really hadn’t given us any clues as to height, weight, and eye color. And the lighting was poor, so even the man’s hair color was inconclusive.

  I needed someone to identify him. Immediately, I thought about Tamika. It meant a trip to the gritty side of town, and at night, but we were as armed and dangerous as the thugs, so I thought we could chance it. We had to; there was little choice.

  We were on our way to the car when we encountered a tall, heavy-set guy with a big smile for Angelica. “Hey, Angel. How’s it going?”

  Angel?

  Angelica looked up at him and gave him a tired smile. “Hey, Damon. I’m good.”

  He gave me a quick look, as I stood there with her, but his eyes didn’t linger on me long. He focused on her again. “You owe me a coffee.”

  “It’ll have to wait. I’m on a case.”

  “Right. Homicide now?”

  “Yeah. Serial killer.”

  “Big time. I heard something about that. I’d love to hear the details.”

  I butted in. Perhaps it was unwelcome, but it made me prickly to have him sniffing after Angelica. A few sexual encounters didn’t give me the right to tell her what to do, but nonetheless, I felt compelled to stake my claim. “We’re on our way out,” I told him. “Chit chat can wait. You ready to go, Piccolino?”

  Damon frowned, but Angelica nodded and murmured her agreement.

  “Bye, Damon. We’ll have that coffee in between cases, alright?”

  I propelled her away from him with a gentle hand on her elbow. We heard Damon call his goodbye as we walked away.

  “Who is that guy?”

  Angelica sighed. “Oh, that’s Damon Dinwiddie. He’s an audio guy for Vice.”

  So this was a fellow who wired up undercover officers, and who did audio surveillance from neighboring locations. I imagined him touching her to place the wires on her body and my hackles rose. “Fortunately, we rarely need that kind of tech,” I said, trying to keep my tone moderated. It didn’t work too well.

  We got to the car and opened the doors, but before we got in, Angelica asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  She was irked and it was clear in her voice. “No, it’s something. Be honest.”

  I really didn’t want to say. It could only come out like a temper tantrum from a controlling prick. “I said it’s nothing. Let it drop.”

  “Striker, I don’t really want to get in this car if you’re going to fume at me for some mysterious fault, or slight, or other issue.”

  “Get in the car.”

  “No.”

  “Angelica-”

  “You know, you only call me Angelica when you feel emotional.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do. Most of the time, you call me Piccolino.”

  She was probably right, and that made me even more irritable. I snapped at her. “So what. Get in the car.”

  “I won’t until you tell me what’s wrong.”

  Stubborn as she could be, I knew that she’d hold her ground until I gave in. “Are you going to have coffee with Dinwiddie?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I ground my teeth together. I knew it had been a mistake to say anything. “Yeah, I’m kidding. Get in the car.”

  She did not get in the car. “You’re… fuck, Striker, you’re jealous!”

  In fact, I was, but I wasn’t going to tell it to her straight out. “Do what you want, but let’s get back to work.”

  Instead, she leaned on the top of the car with both arms, as casual as can be. “I’m flattered, I really am,” she said, wearing a smile. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “Of course I care. Do I have casual sex with all my partners? Do I give them orgasms in the car?”

  “I don’t know, do you?”

  I snorted. The thought of having anything intimate to do with Smitty was laughable, and he’d been my only partner since making detective. “Of course not. Now that we’ve settled that, get in the God damned car!”

  How pleased she sounded when she cheerily agreed and got in.

  I was flagging from a full day and hardly any sleep the night before, but we had a job to do. The last thing we wanted was to find another dead girl with a rose on her belly. And I was not going to let Angelica’s suddenly chipper mood rile me anymore.

  She hummed softly as she sat there with a shit eating grin on her pretty face. Although the scent of her arousal had long-since dissipated from the car, we were both cognizant of what had happened just hours previous. We shared a look, and I knew that Angelica was thinking about it too. I wanted to let it lie. I wanted to allow the moment to cool and become something less urgent, but I couldn’t do it. Angelica brought out the crazy side of me, the side that takes uncalculated chances, and which leaps into emotional bottomless pits. It was eye-opening. I didn’t realize I had that in me.

  “Stay with me tonight, Angelica,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We have to call it a night sometime. Come with me to my place and stay over. I want to show you a little tenderness.”

  “Tenderness…” She sounded wistful.

  “You know. Kisses. Breakfast in bed.”

  “The case…”

  “We’re no good to anyone working 24/7.”

  “I suppose not.” There was a long pause. “I suppose we’ve really opened a can of worms.”

  “Yeah, we have.”

  I felt her eyes on me. “Is this a mistake? Should I ask for a transfer?”

  My gut hurt at the thought. “No. Don’t.”

  “Maybe you’d be happier without all this conflict and tension.”

  Would I? It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be happy without Angelica. “No. And if you don’t want to sleep with me, I can accept that.” What a lie. Losing her would be awful, when I’d come so close to forging something with her. Sure it hadn’t been a long relationship, but maybe it could become one.

&nb
sp; “You mean it?”

  I couldn’t even speak. My nod would have to suffice. I glanced at her and saw that she was no longer energized. Her expression was troubled, her shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure I want things that way.”

  “Is it that Dinwiddie guy?”

  She snapped at me when she said, “Fuck sake, Striker. No. He’s a colleague.”

  “He calls you Angel.”

  “Everyone in Vice calls me Angel. I can’t even remember how it started, but it stuck.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.”

  “Sorry, Angelica. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m not myself.”

  “I like who you are, Jase Striker.”

  That made me feel a little better. “I like you, too, Angelica Piccolino.” I might even be falling in love with her, if I was a hundred percent honest with myself.

  “Yes, I’d like to spend the night with you. If we ever get to go to bed, that is.”

  I nodded. “We’ll see what Tamika has to say. I can taste victory.”

  That was the end of our conversation until we got to Tamika’s apartment and knocked on the door. It was quite dark outside, and her curtains were closed. No light shone through them or around them. Piccolino leaned forward and listened at the door, shaking her head as she came away. “Nothing.”

  I knocked. There was no answer. Maybe she was at work down by the freeway. I knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Then I heard it. It was a thin sound, a kind of weak mewling, like a sick kitten, but more human than that. I gave Angelica a look and saw that she’d heard it, too.

  I pounded on the door. “Police! Open the door!”

  That frail sound carried through the door again. I gave my partner a nod, and yelled, “Police!” It took me two tries to kick down the door, but it hadn’t been a particularly strong door, old and battered. Angelica ran in, drawn gun pointed upward, and took a position to one side of the door. I followed—annoyed at her for taking point—and took the other side, my weapon pointed up toward the ceiling, into the darkness, looking for anything threatening. The mewling sounded again, louder this time, and coming from where I remembered the mattresses on the floor. I fumbled to find a light switch.

  I found it and switched it on. An overhead light gave scant illumination to the room, but the source of the noise was obvious immediately. It was Tamika Jones, curled up in a fetal position on a bloody mattress. She wore the same sweatpants and tank top she’d been wearing earlier, but this time, her arms sported significant bruises. Piccolino holstered her weapon and ran to the crumpled woman, touching her gently.

  “She’s beaten up bad, Jase,” my partner said. “She might have internal injuries, and I’m pretty sure her jaw is broken or dislocated. She looks half-dead.”

  Turns out, she was half-dead, though that’s not the technical term the paramedics used when they came to get her. Angelica tried to get something out of her, a name if possible, but the woman was too far gone for that. Instead, she got carted off, leaving us with more questions than answers again. And no one to identify Walter Mason.

  We went back to the station and filled out our paperwork. I hated that we’d made so little progress, despite our efforts. But cases could take months to solve. Unfortunately, serial killers didn’t always take months to strike again.

  * * *

  Although we were both exhausted, we went with our decision to stay together overnight. We got naked and into my bed and cuddled for a while, but both fell asleep before anything more interesting could happen.

  I awoke to find Angelica’s mouth on my cock. I was hard and anxious, turned on at seeing her there between my legs. She laved me fast and hard, then slow and gentle, while fingering my balls reverently. I put my hands in her hair and gave it a tug, less out of any kind of intention, and more because I needed to have her under my hands, to touch the smooth strands and claim her as she was claiming me.

  It lasted a good, long while and I was tempted to let it go to completion there in that simple fashion, but I also wanted to bring her pleasure. I cared for her; she wasn’t a casual lover anymore.

  “Angelica, come up here. Come up on hands and knees.”

  “You want me to crawl?”

  “No. I want you to feel me in you from behind. I would never make you crawl.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  It took her a brief moment to position herself in the center of my bed, and she looked so perfect there, a jewel on a background of aquamarine. I took a mental picture of her, to remember always.

  Kneeling behind her and between her legs, I rubbed my hard cock all over her wet pussy. She was soaked, glistening in the semi-dark of the new sunrise. When she moaned and squirmed under my hands, I knew she was ready for more, so I slid home. And home it was; we were a perfect fit. Although we’d come together on our first night, it hadn’t been from this angle; this one was exceptional. I smacked her butt and she drew her breath in with a hiss.

  “Like that?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  I did it again.

  “I’m still not sure.”

  I swatted her twice more.

  “I’m close to making a decision.

  Chuckling, I peppered her rear for a full minute, sliding in and out of her as I did.

  She gasped and moaned, pressing back against me. I didn’t need to ask her again, I knew she liked it. Her behind was pink, and her asshole winked at me from between those bright cheeks. I had a sudden urge to take her there, but thought that such a thing was for a different kind of intimate moment, one reserved for lovers of longer acquaintance. Angelica had other ideas. She moved one of my hands to the crack of her ass and pressed it to her asshole.

  “Touch here,” she whispered.

  I thumbed the surface of her puckered hole and she moaned softly. I took that as an invitation for more, so pressed inward, feeling that sphincter give way slowly, until I’d popped my thumb in place.

  “Mmm, yeah.”

  I did not slow fucking her, but I did time the two motions so that I was constantly inside her body in one place or another. Her breath came rapidly, as did mine, until we were both grunting with the overwhelming sensations. I couldn’t hold out much longer, and, judging from Angelica’s moaning and writhing, neither could she. “Together,” I suggested.

  “Yes!”

  I felt her tightening on my cock and then the wavy motions of her pussy contracting on me. It was more than I could take, and everything I wanted. I came like a racehorse on a fertile mare. “Ah!”

  “Mmm.”

  Longing for just a little more from her, I wiggled my thumb and she shot into bliss again, this time calling my name. It was a moment of completion in my life.

  She collapsed on the bed and I withdrew, reluctantly, but efficiently. I lay next to her, spooning her from behind for several minutes, but I knew we had to get up and get back to work. Our six hours of respite were over, and a serial killer was waiting to kill again.

  All the clues and findings ran through my mind. Each piece of the puzzle sliding into place, leaving the largest area empty. Whoever Walter Mason might be, we had to find him today.

  “Bear-bear!” Angelica called out, her body going taut in my arms.

  “What?”

  “We can get Bear-bear to identify the photo.”

  “He’s off-limits until he’s more secure with his grandparents and comes forward to tell us what he knows.”

  “Can’t we just show him the pictures and ask? Maybe we can gauge from his reactions and he won’t have to say anything.”

  Maybe we could. I’d call CPS when we got back in the office.

  “Let’s take a shower and then get out of here,” I suggested.

  “Yeah, time’s wasting.”

  “Exactly my thought. Together?”

  She half-grinned. “How much in a hurry are you?”

  It was a point I didn’t want to hear. Showering with Angelica appealed in a way that was undeniable. Unfortunat
ely, we had our professional obligations to consider. Although it nearly killed me to say it, I had to say no to more than a quick wash—separately.

  I don’t think I ever cursed my job before, so this was a first.

  * * *

  Ms. Renig, of Child Protective Services, wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but she realized how important it was to find the killer. Once we determined which Walter Mason we were looking for, it would be a simple matter to go to the address we had on his driver’s license and pick him up. Granted, these things were rarely that easy. Still, we could hope.

  I placed a call to the Alexander residence and found them away from home. Apparently, they’d taken Barry to the park for a couple of hours. So we were stalled, waiting for a four-year-old and the vagaries of time.

  Angelica was in her cube, working on forms, getting a search warrant application ready to go except for the address. We’d know that after talking to Barry—we hoped.

  Eventually, Mrs. Alexander called back.

  “How can I help you, Detective?”

  “I wonder, ma’am, if Barry has said anything pertinent to his mother’s death, since we last saw him. Unfortunately there have been two more similar murders and we need to know whatever the boy knows.”

  “I saw something on the news about that.” Her voice was cold. “No, he hasn’t said anything new. I’ve asked him a few times to give some details, but all he says is that he doesn’t want the devil to get him. We are planning on taking him to church on Sunday, to introduce him to the pastor and hear about why the devil won’t get him if he’s a good little boy.”

  “That seems wise, ma’am. But I’m afraid this can’t wait until Sunday.”

  She sounded exasperated when she responded, “I don’t know what you want, Detective. He’s just a little boy.”

  “I realize it’s an imposition on the whole family, Mrs. Alexander, but three women are dead and one is in serious condition in the hospital, and we think Barry is the only witness who can identify the criminal.”

  Silence, followed by a deep sigh. “Come by, Detective. I think you’re more likely to coax information out of him in this safe, familiar environment.”