by Suz deMello
She phoned Galway’s Pub, asked to talk with the manager, and identified herself. After inquiring about the security tapes, she learned that Galway’s, in common with many establishments, kept a week’s worth of tapes. If nothing occurred to justify keeping the tapes, they were reused. Any evidence showing what had happened to Sindie Keller on May 9th was gone.
Liza talked to her boss again, who pooh-poohed her theories and expressly forbade her from using any Major Crimes resources in pursuit of her “wild gash chase.” Nevertheless, she tried to phone Tom for backup, but couldn’t get hold of him. She left a voice mail message asking him to go to Galway’s, to watch and follow her, but not to approach unless she signaled.
She bit her lip. That wasn’t enough backup to satisfy her, so she phoned her old boss at Vice.
“James Li? You think we could nail James Li?” Victor Cabrera sounded as though he was dancing on the ceiling at the prospect.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s clever. Everyone knows he’s got three whorehouses, but he’s never been convicted of anything.”
“You came close, though,” Victor said. “Okay, I can spare Wilson.”
Liza frowned. “Wilson? Who’s that?”
“She’s new, came on when you got kicked upstairs. She’s fresh out of patrol. She’s a big redheaded girl, handles herself well even though she’s a rookie.”
Liza winced. “O-kay.”
“She’s all right,” Victor hastened to say. “She’s not you, but she’ll follow directions to the letter.”
“Make sure she knows what Li looks like,” Liza said. “Tell her to go in plain clothes to Galway’s, but not to intervene unless someone other than James Li approaches me. If Li takes me, she’s to follow him to wherever we go. He’ll probably take me either to his Chinatown house or to the Pacific Heights mansion. I’ll check out the house he takes me to, and she’s to visit his other place.”
“You think you’ll be okay with Li?” Victor sounded dubious.
“Yeah. Nothing in his history indicates he’s violent.”
“He could have turned bad.”
“Ya think?”
Victor paused. “No, not really. Li has always been civilized.”
After completing the conversation, Liza changed into a short, black leather skirt and a peek-a-boo lace top. On a whim, she skipped underwear and picked out high-heeled black pumps to complete her outfit. She left her satchel at home, taking only her keys and some money in her pocket before mounting her bike.
She set out for North Beach at about four o’clock. The spring day was mild; the evening fog wouldn’t roll in for another hour or two. Her motorcycle’s engine hummed pleasantly between her bare legs, like riding a giant vibrator. She always enjoyed the mild turn-on she got from riding her bike. Though she wore a helmet, the sense of freedom and control made her feel strong, powerful. Sexy.
In a state of heightened sensation, she rode her bike to City Lights Bookstore, a few blocks from Galway’s. She bought a copy of Story of O, then went to the pub and ordered a cup of coffee.
She chose a table in the middle of the room, and for a few minutes, watched her surroundings. Galway’s was a classic pub, one of many that did business in the city. Most followed the same pattern with few variations. Wooden floors with sawdust; large screen TVs set to SportsCenter; liar’s dice played at the bar. The heavy aroma of free popcorn filled the air.
Upscale Galway’s served a score of beers, including Guinness on tap. It had cut glass panels in the wooden front door, and rock music, Irish ballads and hip-hop in the juke. This Friday afternoon, the mostly male patrons wore everything from jeans to three-piece suits. She caught a few curious glances, but no one approached her.
About a half-hour after Liza entered, a woman with stop-sign red hair stepped inside Galway’s wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket. As she went to the bar, her gaze swept the entire pub. She gave Liza a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Liza relaxed and allowed O’s story to seize control of her mind. She’d never before read the novel, but was aware of it. Knew it was a classic. Knew it was about a young French photographer who allows her lover to take her to a mysterious chateau outside Paris, where she’s brutalized, prostituted, reduced to a sex slave.
The subject matter had never interested Liza, but as she turned the pages, she reluctantly found herself fascinated. There was something about the writing that transported her into another world, one where sexual domination became a holy rite of passage. O -- defined only by her female orifice -- found her degradation ennobling.
Liza didn’t understand that, but to her horror, she found that as she read, fire ran though her body to her core. Her nipples hardened, and her pussy wept with need. What was wrong with her? Did she secretly wish for enslavement?
She bit her finger, then turned back to read the part when James, one of O’s torturers, forced dildos into A’s backside to loosen her ass for his pleasure.
Despite herself, she sweated and shuddered with dark desire.
Then a man’s hand came over her shoulder and pushed the open book down in front of her, smacking it hard onto the table.
“No, don’t turn around,” he said.
She felt him, a presence behind her, his other hand tight on the nape of her neck, holding her immobile. Her heartbeat jumped.
The hand, clad in a well-cut sleeve, lifted from the book to rest on her shoulder, gripping firmly. “Get up and walk outside,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Liza stood on shaky legs. What had she gotten into? She didn’t want to become James Li’s sex slave ...
Or did she?
She loved sex but didn’t do anything really kinky. Once Tom had asked her to handcuff him to a chair and go down on him. She’d done it, but nothing about the experience had tempted her to go for a repeat.
Now she was in for it, whether she liked it or not.
She was unnerved by the possibility that she’d like it.
Her captor’s hands slid down her back, imprisoning each wrist. “Go on, now,” he said, his voice soft and cajoling. His hands tightened. “Go.”
If this man wasn’t Li, Wilson should intervene.
Nothing happened. Liza prayed that her backup knew what she was doing.
So Liza obeyed. She caught a quick glimpse of his face in the tiny glass inserts in Galway’s door. Darkly handsome, with almond eyes, beautifully cut lips, and an extraordinary bone structure. Not young and not old, in his thirties, perhaps ...
Her pulse tripped and thudded. Had she allowed her nemesis to take her?
He released one wrist to open the door for her, the gentlemanly act at odds with his obvious intentions.
Though she couldn’t identify him for sure or even see much of him, he seemed strong but not husky, at least judging by the well-kept hands and the shape of his arms in the dark suit.
Maybe she could take him if she had to. Maybe.
But not if he was the man she thought. Though James Li didn’t have a history of violence, he was known to be an expert in several of the Asian martial arts. She was trained also, but she couldn’t take him. Or could she?
It would be damned interesting to try, to pit her will, her skills, and her wits against him.
While she’d sat in Galway’s, the day had darkened into a misty, cool dusk. Fog pressed down upon the city, upon the street, upon her, damp and dank; she slowed, and the warmth of the man behind her enveloped her body.
“Keep walking toward the street,” he said. “The Jag there, get into it.”
Gleaming in the night, a cream-colored Jaguar sedan with dark-tinted windows sat by the curb. She tried to read the license plate, but the street lights, obscured by the mist, didn’t illuminate it. She heard a click behind her. The Jag’s door locks clattered, and its lights flashed.
He stroked her back. “Get in.”
She shivered. Why had she done this? What was she thinking? She turned, and quick as light, his hand covered her
eyes. “You know you want to,” he whispered.
She did. Yes, she did. He wasn’t a big man. She could take him if need be. Maybe. And she’d find out what had happened to Sindie Keller.
She reached for the car door, opened it, got in. She turned her head but saw only a trim body clad in a dark suit. His head, his face, was above her, blocked by the car’s roof.
“Lean forward and press your forehead against the dashboard.”
Breathing heavily, she did, and found she could see nothing.
“Hands behind you, please.”
He said please. She giggled.
“Hands behind you. Now.” Steel entered the voice.
She obeyed, and he bound her wrists at the small of her back. With a handkerchief, she imagined, because the bond didn’t feel rough, like a rope, or metallic like handcuffs.
“Sit up.” He tied another handkerchief around her eyes, blinding her.
Her body jerked, and she realized the danger she was in.
His hand gripped her neck again, and she gasped. Seated in the car, with his body blocking her from freedom, she was his. With her hands tied behind her, the position thrust her breasts up and out. They rubbed against her blouse, her nipples rasping on the rough lace.
She sensed movement, heard the slide of a seat belt, felt the warmth of his body over her. Heard the click of the metal halves joining.
She was tied, blindfolded, trapped by the seatbelt in the car of an unknown assailant. And she’d done it to herself.
What had she been thinking?
The door closed. She was alone.
Chapter Three
People used many ugly words to describe James Li and, being a Scrabble fanatic, he knew them all. Pimp, whoremaster, procurer, ponce, panderer ... He didn’t care. He worked with well-paid, happy men and women (whores, prostitutes, courtesans, harlots) who liked to have sex and get paid for it. No customer (john, trick), left any one of his houses (knocking shop, bagnio, bordello, brothel, cathouse) dissatisfied, and if they were unhappy, well, they could just walk right back in and get licked, sucked, fucked or blown again -- he didn’t care. Whatever worked.
He’d always been a fortunate man. When he’d been born, his mother had taken him to his great-grandfather, a wise old man experienced in the ways of the I Ching, the classic method of Chinese divination. The old man had cast the yarrow sticks into hexagram number 55, meaning feng, abundance. The old man had predicted that James would be successful in whatever enterprise he chose.
Even so, he couldn’t believe his luck. Eliza Blue Bowman in his complete control. This was beyond any fantasy he’d ever entertained.
They’d first met when she busted him at his Chinatown house. He’d been swinging with three of the girls, no money exchanged, just for fun. After, they’d showered together, dressed in their best, and went out onto the gambling floor for different fun and games.
The girls had flanked him at the table, he remembered, clad in slinky red Mandarin-style gowns slit so high that they flashed their plump, satisfied pussies at customers as they strutted. He’d eschewed a tux that night, preferring to blend with the crowd in one of his closetful of suits, this one a sober charcoal Armani.
As he’d played Texas hold-’em, he’d become aware of someone’s scrutiny. He’d cashed out of the game and met her gaze. Dressed plainly in black jeans and a jacket, she’d tapped short, buffed fingernails on the table’s side as she examined him, her blue eyes clear, unclouded by booze or drugs. His cock instantly hardened. That had startled him, since he’d already taken three women that evening. Despite that, something about this woman turned him on.
They’d exchanged a long glance, the kind of look that often foretold sex. But not this time. She was certainly beautiful enough to attract him, but her glance was too intelligent, too calculating. She wasn’t in his club to have fun. Ignoring his body’s reaction to her, he’d immediately fingered her as a cop, since the card-counters tended to hang around the twenty-one tables.
He didn’t say anything, just trusted his employees to do what they were supposed to do. Turned out that Detective Bowman, the lead officer in the bust, had assigned herself to him. To handle him in case he turned violent. When he’d found that out, he’d felt vaguely insulted. Sending a petite brunette to control him was a mistake, but he wasn’t a violent man, despite his black belts in a half-dozen different disciplines.
Now she’d learn about discipline. Now he had the opportunity to control her, and clearly the lady wanted to be controlled. Dominated. Combined with the see-through lace top, leather skirt and fuck-me heels, reading Story of O in public was a blatant come-on.
But something was up. Within a couple of weeks, two young ladies had shown up in one of his haunts, both clad in leather, both carrying Story of O. He wondered if it would be wise to take up Detective Bowman’s invitation.
They’d last seen each other in a hall at the San Francisco courthouse. Bowman hadn’t screwed up the bust -- she was too smart for that -- but James was smarter. The way he ran his businesses, the D.A. would never get a conviction. Never. He’d walked. Again.
She’d stared at him, her eyes narrowed with contempt. “I’ll bring you down, Li,” she’d hissed.
He’d winked. “I’ll get down and dirty with you anytime, Liza, baby.”
“Don’t call me that. You have no right --”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want. Remember that, Liza. What I say goes.”
So they’d joined in a battle of wills. That had been just four months ago, and then he’d learned she’d been kicked upstairs to Major Crimes. He regretted that. Though he was sure she’d deserved the promotion, it meant he wouldn’t see her again. Detective Eliza Blue Bowman was a straight shooter, and she’d never come into one of his houses for kicks.
What game was she playing?
He walked around the car, one hand jingling the antique Chinese coins he kept in his pocket for good luck.
Liza heard the scrape of his shoes on the damp pavement outside, was acutely aware of the creak and slam of the driver’s door as he got into the Jag. His warmth and male aroma pervaded the car. He was wearing a spicy cologne, or was that how James Li naturally smelled? She didn’t remember. In the past, she’d been in his presence maybe a total of ten minutes, but the impression he’d left was indelible. She remembered what he wore, a dark, well-cut suit, like a businessman. Li was lean but not thin, obviously fit but not bulgy or misshapen like a bodybuilder. Perfect.
As she and her team had prepared the case, she’d found herself mooning over his mug shot. She’d never seen a mug shot that looked good -- they were sort of like driver’s license pictures -- but his was great, although he’d been booked into the jail at two a.m.
She remembered all that, but didn’t remember his scent.
She was titillated by the thought that James Li might be her captor. At the same time, she hated the possibility that he’d abducted and killed Sindie Keller. That kind of evil seemed out of character for Li. Difficult to understand, but he did run clean whorehouses.
What was she thinking? James Li was a pimp. Pimps weren’t clean. Period. He was a slimeball and a criminal, and she was wicked, wanton, and just plain wrong for wanting this, wanting him.
Behind the blindfold, she closed her eyes, forced to acknowledge that she did want him, had wanted him since she’d laid eyes on him, sleek and assured, gambling in his casino. Master of all he surveyed.
Except her.
But now she’d given herself to him. Intentionally or not, that was what she’d done.
The Jag’s leather seat squeaked as he leaned toward her. “Lift up,” he said.
“Wha-what?” She hated the quiver in her voice.
“Lift your butt up off the seat.” He sounded amused, and she wanted to slap him, but couldn’t.
Instead, she obeyed, pushing her heels into the floor mat for leverage. His hand stroked her thigh, then tugged up her leather skirt, bunching it around her waist, leaving her
exposed.
“Nice.” A finger ran from her tailbone, along her crack to her slit, sliding in the moisture. “Very nice. You may sit down. Keep your knees apart.”
She eased down to the seat. It clung to her pussy, which throbbed against the slick leather. She could smell her scent, the scent of an aroused woman, mingling with the rich aroma of the Jag’s leather interior. Her face heated with shame. It was as though she wasn’t a detective, wasn’t Liza Bowman, but had been reduced to a sex toy. Like Sindie Keller.
And she’d done it to herself. What did she think she was going to find out? She cleared her throat. “Umm, have you done this before?”
“Did I give you leave to speak?” His tone was calm, conversational, but she heard the threat that underlay his words.
Would he punish her for talking? “I wasn’t aware it was necessary,” she said rigidly.
“You’ve read that book. You know the score. Your mouth, your lips, have only one purpose now: to take my cock whenever and wherever I choose.” He leaned over her again and unbuttoned her blouse to caress her breasts, first weighing them in his hands, then plucking her nipples, one after the other. “These lovely little tits belong to me. Your cunt and ass are mine. You are mine, to use as I please or even to share with others.”
Her body jolted.
“Oh, yes.” He laughed softly and started to drive.
She tried to count off the seconds, but quickly forgot her task as his free hand began to fondle her inner thigh, sometimes coming close to her core, then backing off before moving in again to tug on her muff, opening her labia and revealing her clit to his probing finger. He toyed with her until she was wet and ready and about to come.
She threw back her head, panting, the blood thundering through her veins.
He withdrew his hand, then played with her nipples again. He didn’t hurt her, and she cherished the hope that he wouldn’t, but in her heart, she guessed that he would take full advantage of what she’d offered.
Herself.
She forced her mind into its usual, investigation-oriented paths. She reminded herself that nothing in Li’s rap sheet or history would indicate he’d turned violent, although he trained in several martial arts. She bet that Li had picked up Sindie Keller, given that he’d snapped at the bait Liza herself had offered. Chances were that Sindie, with her taste for bizarre sexual kicks, had left her boring old life as a paralegal to turn tricks in one of Li’s houses. If Liza was lucky, they’d encounter each other, and she’d leave with another notch on her badge. A happy ending for all.
