Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  “Hey, Officer Palmer,” he said, taking in her prim business suit at a glance. She’d deliberately chosen it as a contrast to yesterday's outrageous get-up. “You feeling better today?” he asked with a wink.

  She rolled her eyes and grinned weakly. “Yes, thanks.”

  “That was one bad-ass crime scene. You done good, going back upstairs. Took guts.”

  She warmed under his praise but was spared comment when McGraw called the meeting to order. One by one, the departments gave their reports on the latest murders.

  “So far there's nothing concrete from the house,” said Maria Rawlins, Chief of Forensics. “We're working on a whole bunch of non-conforming hairs and fibers FIS found downstairs, but the neighbor said they had a dinner party Saturday night, so that's probably where they came from.”

  “Do we have a guest list?” McGraw asked.

  “Yep,” Bobby said. “Neighbor put it together for us this morning. Reed's team can call them all in to give statements and volunteer hair samples.” Officer Reed, who was in charge of the phone banks, gave a nod. Bobby continued, “Of course, the killer may have been one of the dinner guests.”

  Several people at the table groaned. This would mean countless hours trying to connect all the guests to the previous victims, even though the probability of it being one of them was less than slim. Still, all leads must be followed.

  “Anything else, Maria?”

  The Chief of Forensics shook her head. “Nothing at this point. But it's early days. It'll take weeks to go through all the vacuum bags from all the crime scenes.”

  “What about the bodies?” McGraw asked the assistant medical examiner.

  As A.M.E. Bruce Benedict gave the preliminary report of how, precisely, the victims had met their demises, Caro's gaze was inexorably drawn to the man sitting at the end of the table. Despite the sleepless night she knew Mick had had as head of the task force, he was impeccably dressed as always. Jacket over a crisp white shirt, razor sharp creases in his navy blue slacks. Tie knotted just so. Short sandy hair neatly brushed. She noticed it had a slight wave to it, just enough to beckon a woman's fingers to smooth it into place. What would it be like to touch? Silky? Coarse? How would it feel, fisted in her hands as she pulled his face closer—

  She came to with a start, almost dropping the chin she'd been resting on a palm as she stared at him. He was staring back.

  Holy shit.

  She had to get a grip. Fantasizing was one thing. Drooling was quite another.

  The assistant M.E. was saying, “Same weapons seem to have been used. Fillet knife in the back. Large hunting knife for the frontal wounds. More on that in the report. Our team is checking local hunting stores for a likely match for that one, since it’s the more unusual. Of course, it could have been purchased over the Internet.”

  “What about plastic and absorbent material in the wounds?” Mick asked, apparently unaffected by her scrutiny. “Same as last time?”

  “It appears so,” Maria put in. “Very few fibers, but enough to analyze. We’ve narrowed the content down to a kind of disposable mattress pad for baby cribs. Available in every department and drug store in the country.”

  “The sheets?”

  “Still working on them. Teddies, too.”

  “Thanks,” Mick said, and looked back at Caro. “Anyone else have anything urgent or new since last night?”

  There was a murmur of negative responses.

  “All right, then, if you'd all pass your morning briefs to Officer Palmer. From now on she'll be in charge of putting together and distributing the update reports to everyone.”

  All eyes turned to her. She produced a smile and murmured, “Thank you,” to everyone who sent down papers.

  “I'll get you the final autopsy reports as soon as they're done,” Benedict told Mick as he handed her the M.E. and Coroner's reports.

  Just then a tall, rangy man wearing khakis and a sport jacket walked in carrying a briefcase. “Sorry I'm late,” he announced to the room in general, and went to shake McGraw's hand.

  Mick rose to greet him. “Woodruff, I presume? Glad you could make it. Folks, this is Special Agent Tim Woodruff from NCAVC.”

  Woodruff had arrived from the FBI's National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime early that morning, at the request of Chief Trujillo. Caro had heard that after the second set of murders, McGraw and Bobby decided to call in the big guns from Quantico for help. Gone were the days when high-profile cases were jealously guarded by local jurisdictions. With the dawn of the Information Age, law enforcement was finally learning the value of cooperation and sharing. At least this department was.

  She was eager to hear what the FBI profiler had to say about their quarry.

  After a few opening remarks, he got right down to it.

  “Based on what we know so far,” he said, “this is who I think we're looking for: White male, mid to late-thirties but quite possibly older, above average intelligence, good-looking, socially adept, drives a flashy car. This man is macho, very neat in appearance, and needs to be in control. He dominates his sexual partners, and has a hard time maintaining steady relationships. Look for a history of sexual assault and/or rape. He's obviously into fetishism in a big way, and may have priors of breaking and entering to gather tokens or objects fitting his obsession with BDSM.”

  Wow. She'd read about profilers gaining amazing insights from a simple written description of a crime along with a few photos. But when confronted with a real person analyzing this complicated case, it seemed fairly amazing. She'd have to do a lot more reading. Maybe corner Special Agent Woodruff and ask him for some specifics.

  “Our guy is a very, very organized killer,” the FBI man went on. “Very precise. He's been fantasizing these murders for a long time, which is why I’ve upped the age range from the usual serial suspect. He has perfected his ideal scenario in his mind to the degree that the crimes are already all nearly identical. And that scenario is extremely complex and revealing. What we need to ask ourselves is why now? Why hasn't he acted on them before?”

  There was a spate of suggestions from the floor. He'd been in jail. Maybe he’d done it before, but out of state. Something in his personal life had set him off, pushing him over the edge from fantasy to acting out. Woodruff nodded at all of the suggestions, and Caro took copious notes.

  “What about the posing of the bodies?” she asked impulsively. “And changing the sheets and all?” She glanced up at Mick to see if she'd breached protocol, ready to defend her right to speak, but he was busy writing, too.

  “Good questions. Very unusual situation to begin with, killing couples. There have been cases where a female in company with a male was targeted, but very few where both were deliberately killed and staged at the same time. That's a key factor and a big clue to this guy's head. We also need to figure out what he was trying to say by his method of killing the victims. Why stab and gut the men but strangle the women?”

  “You mean why not just shoot them both, which would be easier,” she ventured.

  “Exactly. In killing the men, he's telling us he's angry. A knife is a very personal weapon. Sexual, almost. The brutality of the deaths tells us he's got a whole lot of hostility and rage directed at whomever the male victim represents in his fantasy. And yet, he is very controlled in his rage. He uses two different knives, is precise with their placement and careful to absorb the initial blood spatter. Then he deliberately and savagely guts the men. It’s almost like he’s trying to shock us with the brutality once he has them under his control. Trying to make it look like a crime of passion, when in fact it’s meticulously planned.”

  “And the woman? Why strangle her?”

  Woodruff contemplated a spot on the wall behind the table. “With the woman, it's something very different. Subtle. There are no wounds, and despite the overt sexual context of the crime scene, he leaves her in a modest, even innocent pose. He cleans her up, along with the bed, and dresses her in white, hands folded over her
chest. Almost reverently. Like he wants to leave her in a good light.”

  He looked up and down the table at the members of the task force. “Our job is to figure out why.”

  Caro thought about that as Tim went on to analyze other details of the crime and answer questions from the task force. If they could solve that one puzzle they'd be a lot closer to pin-pointing the murderer. It was something she'd have to keep in mind when she and Mick started meeting people at Brimstone. What deep need was the killer fulfilling by killing and leaving his victims in just this way? And which particular suspects were most likely to fit the profile?

  Her musings were interrupted when everyone at the table turned to look at her.

  “Officer Palmer and I will be going in undercover,” Mick was saying. “We're working with LAPD for surveillance, and hope to be able to spot the perpetrator before he does any more damage.”

  “Dangerous,” Tim said, tenting his fingers in front of his chin contemplatively. “But...hell, it just might work. I'll have a real close look at any suspects you identify.”

  “I was hoping you'd say that,” Mick said.

  “You two should probably move in together.”

  Caro stared incredulously at Woodruff, who had made the preposterous statement. Studying serial killers for years had obviously affected the NCAVC profiler's own mind. The man was out of his gourd.

  “No,” she replied emphatically.

  At the same instant, McGraw recovered from his shock sufficiently to utter a firm, “Impossible.”

  Woodruff wagged his head back and forth. “It's up to you, of course, but I'd strongly advise it. All the victims were couples married or living together. As I said, this guy is highly organized. It wouldn't surprise me if he stalks, or cases, his victims well ahead of time. Remember, the credit card receipts all indicate the dead couples were at Brimstone during the week. But they weren't killed until the weekend. He's probably checking them out in the meantime. The fact that they all lived within several blocks of each other supports the theory that he’s probably killing in familiar territory, close to his home.”

  To her dismay, McGraw sat back and actually appeared to be considering the idea. Oh, brother. She had to nip this one in the bud but quick. So what if she occasionally wondered what Mick McGraw's delectable body would look like naked? It was a totally different thing to actually have to confront it walking out of the bathroom every morning for God knew how long until they caught this guy.

  No. Not a good idea. She didn't do naked men.

  Way too unsettling to a woman's career. She'd made it this far without messing up, and she didn't intend to start now when her goal was actually in sight.

  Though she had to admit, this was the one man she'd be real tempted to make an exception for. Damn his hide.

  “I only have one bed,” she tossed out, very grateful he was also the one man she could absolutely count on not to entertain any notions of accepting. If he hadn’t come on to her during the past year in her hooker outfits, he wouldn’t now, either.

  Down the table, Bobby chuckled. McGraw sent him a scowl, then said to Tim, “He'd have to follow us from the club. I can stay for a few minutes when I drop her off at her place.”

  Caro hid a satisfied smile behind her coffee mug. Who said reverse psychology didn't work any more? Men were so damn predictable.

  “Well,” Woodruff told Mick, “I'd seriously think about it. I know you wouldn't want to miss catching this wacko just because you didn't like sleeping on the couch.”

  “We'll discuss your suggestion.”

  Caro groaned inwardly. What would it take to convince McGraw this was a terrible idea? Maybe she'd just have to use a little more reverse psychology.

  Like maybe on their shopping expedition that afternoon....

  ***

  Mick stared at the tangle of leather latigo straps held together by buckles and steel O-rings, and balked. He looked like an extra for a Conan movie. Or worse. “This is not what I had in mind.”

  Caroline and the cute oriental sales girl at the kinky clothing store they'd gone to on Hollywood Boulevard both gave him knowing looks.

  “Just what, exactly, did you have in mind?” Caroline asked with what might have been amusement in her voice. When she let her gaze linger on his button-down shirt and tie with the black jeans he'd purchased the night before, he drew himself up to his full six-foot-four and glared down at her.

  “I was going to wear a T-shirt with the jeans. A black T- shirt. I just didn't have one with me today.”

  “Uh-huh,” she stated in that annoying female way she had. “What's the matter, McGraw? Afraid to show a little skin?”

  “Hardly. I just think this is a bit extreme.”

  Caroline appealed to the sales girl. “Do you think it's extreme? We're dressing up as Master and slave for a party.”

  “It's perfect,” the other woman answered with a smile. “Very authentic. All the real Masters are wearing this kind of torso harness these days. The look is very Middle Ages and domineering. And it comes with a fun attachment—” She held up a foot-or-so long strip of matching latigo, with a buckle on one end and a dollar-sized rubber ring on the other.

  Jesus.

  He glanced at Caroline. Judging from the guileless expression on her face, she had no clue as to its actual purpose.

  “I don't think so,” he said flatly. It would be a cold day in hell when he wore a cock ring in public.

  Caroline picked up the harness on its hanger. “Fine. Forget the attachment, but you're trying it on.” She took his arm and pulled him toward the back dressing rooms, calling over her shoulder to the sales girl, “Black leather pants. Something that goes with the harness.”

  “Officer Palmer,” he ground out between his teeth, “I have no intention of—”

  “Look. You brought me into this gig because of my expertise with costume, right?” She steered him into the dressing room and shut the door behind them. It was a roomy place with a plush easy chair, lots of mirrors and a solid door. With a lock.

  His nerves shimmered. He watched her put the hanger on a peg and slip the leather harness off it.

  “Well?”

  He met her gaze. It was obvious she was unaware she had a tiger by the tail and had locked herself in the cage with it.

  “Partly,” he conceded.

  “So, trust me. I know what I'm doing.”

  “I have no doubt of that. But I thought we were here to buy stuff for you.” He glanced at the short skirt, tank top and fuck-me shoes she'd worn for their shopping expedition. Not that her outfit needed all that much beefing up. Maybe a nice, decadent slave collar...

  “You be a good boy and try this on, McGraw, and I might let you dress me up afterwards.” She winked and thrust the harness into his hands. Before he had a chance to even think of a response to that, there was a knock and the door opened.

  “I thought you might like this style,” the sales girl said, and handed a pair of black leather pants to Caroline, who looked them over critically.

  “Nice. He'll look great in these.” She hung the pants on the peg and the both of them stood back and watched him expectantly.

  He was tempted to give them the show they were waiting for. Mighty tempted. Caroline looked like a wet-dream and the oriental sales girl was pretty, and had just enough exotic mystery to inspire fantasies in any customer, him included.

  But that would be out of character. So he scowled at them until they got the idea and backed out of the dressing room, giggling like a couple of co-conspirators. He felt decidedly outnumbered. And more than a little horny. Fuck.

  He swiftly shed his shirt and tie, and donned the latigo harness, which, with a few buckle adjustments fit him like a second skin. Just like coming home.

  Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he rejected the feeling soundly. But looking calmly back at him was the very image of the man he'd been running from his whole life.

  “You ready yet?” Caroline called from just
outside the door, jerking him out of his clawing thoughts.

  “Almost.” Jaw clamped, he slid out of his stiff jeans and pulled on the leather pants. Image complete.

  The door cracked open and her head peeked around. “You decent?”

  A number of comments ran through his mind, but he clipped out, “Yes. And next time knock.”

  He spotted her in the mirror and almost choked. Instead of the tank top, she had on a satin, lace-up corset that showed just the right amount of her pale, smooth body in just the right shape to seriously turn him on.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he said, fighting for a shade of derision in his tone, rather than reveal his true reaction. Nothing could have prepared him for how she looked. “You aren't seriously thinking of wearing that, are you?”

  Ignoring his comment, she stepped purposefully into the room, followed by the clerk, and fussed at the latigo straps criss-crossing his back and chest.

  “Nice, McGraw. Very sexy.”

  He reminded himself they were supposed to be a steady couple dressing for a theme party. He tolerated her hands on him because the sales girl would think it strange if he batted them away. But he didn't like it. Her hands and the corset were giving him ideas. Ideas best left miles alone.

  He wasn't about to break his rules. Even for the most tantalizing woman he'd met in decades. The one he’d hand-picked for this very role. For that very reason.

  But she was a cop. He had to work with her. And they had a killer to put away. Stepping out of line now would be far too risky.

  He caught the two women assessing his pants. He planted his fists on his hips and narrowed his eyes.

  “Too baggy,” they said in unison and turned to file out before he could draw breath to protest. They weren't baggy. They were ample.

  And it was a fucking good thing, too.

  By the time Caroline came back with another pair for him to try, he had his unruly mind and body under strict control.

  Right up until he saw the new outfit she was in. Thigh-high spike-heeled boots and the skimpiest leather demi-bra he'd ever seen in his life. Along with her black miniskirt, the combination made it nearly impossible to breathe.