Traces

by Paul Jr. Logan

  15

  - How did it go?

  The wine sparkled in Craig Ruell's hands, squeezed by the narrow neck of the bottle.

  Alison Vaughn turned to him.

  - My father told me everything my hero did for me. My faithful knight.

  Ruell laughed lightly, yet reservedly. That's why she liked him, for the lightness and collectedness that marked all of what he did when he conducted financial transactions at the stock exchange, and when his strong fingers caressed her thighs.

  - How was your brother?

  - My little brother? she laughed. Wade did everything he could to wipe Rowan.

  Both glasses were filled with reddish liquid. Craig Ruell stepped toward her and offered one of them. Alison's warm fingers, with their long manicured nails, lightly touched it as they intercepted the base of the glass.

  - I have nothing against Rowan, she said. But he's not made to rule. It's only a little mistake of fate that he was the one to get these shares. But my hero will correct that mistake, won't he?

  Ruell stood with his legs spread wide and looked at her a little mockingly over his glass. She calls him her hero.

  - Yes, you are my knight in shining and polished armor, Alison said. She knew that her voice stirred him and made his blood boil behind the ice of his ironic calm. And I am your queen.

  - You are my queen, Ruell affirmed.

  - You will sit me on a high throne, covered in scarlet velvet, and put the golden crown of the Vaughn bank on my head, she leaned back spectacularly. Craig Ruell continued to stare at her.

  He was the only man she could trust. She knew that he was devoted to her deep voice, silky hair, perfect body.

  - And you have already begun doing it, my hero. You have deployed your troops to the rebellious capital, she laughed, her breasts rising from under her thin gown. And you will bring me my crown, my knight.

  - My queen, Ruell said, taking another sip of wine. He'd said it before, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Well, let her speak.

  - My grandfather must have been a good man, Alison said, twisting the glass in her hands. But too limited. Back then, no one believed in the possibilities of a woman... But only I am worthy to head the family bank, only I have enough insight, willpower, and intuition. And that is why I am the queen.

  She laughed again. Ruell watched her breasts thrill and tried to hide his grin over his glass of wine. Insight and intuition she got them.

  Her voice was slightly mocking, but she really believed what she was talking about. Justice would be restored, and control of the banking empire will be in her strong hands. She would hold and direct the bank as confidently as she now controlled her lover.

  - You will help me to win the throne that is rightfully mine, she said. And I will descend from it to hang the order on your chest.

  She couldn't help giggling. He smiled admiringly.

  Ruell tried to hide the amusement that was overwhelming him. The throne, her rightful throne. You'd think this girl hadn't been brought up in the most expensive private schools in Los Angeles or was that there she'd been inculcated a complete lack of taste?

  - I want to take a shower, my hero she said. And wash the dust of the family crypt. Take off your gleaming armor come here.

  He didn't move.

  The funny thing is, she believes in him. Believes in her knight, who'll break his neck to present her with the keys to the president's office. And after that, she's going to mercifully throw him down the royal handouts. The thought of how naive people are makes you want to fly and look down on them. Alison's hand twisted behind her back, her fingers gracefully opening the zipper. She didn't realize that he couldn't see this spectacular movement. The soft silk gently released her body from its shackles, the dress slowly slipped down to her feet. He froze, gazing at her with admiration and delight.

  He was thrilled to feel his power over her. She was ready to die for him and in doing so, she would continue thinking that it was him sacrificing himself. Craig Ruell had never met Wade Vaughn, but from Alison’s words he knew him very well. He would sweep the girl out of his way like a janitor squeamishly removes a crushed cockroach from the wall. But until that happens, Craig Ruell would have his hands full with her. How cute it will be when the bank account will add a few zeros.

  She stretched out, standing in front of him. Her entire body twitched, and her breasts, squeezed by a black see-through bra, bounced upward slightly.

  - Don't keep your queen waiting, my knight, she said, slowly opening the clip.

  - I'll finish the wine, my queen, Ruell said.

  He wasn't sure he wouldn't laugh if he approached her now.

  - And I'll join you.

  Her firm breasts popped out of her unbuttoned bra, and the blood began to rush into his lower head. She wasn't bad in bed-otherwise he wouldn't have had anything with her.

  Alison smiled and leaned forward. Her fingers ran over her strong, muscular tennis player's legs. She wasn't wearing stockings, and Ruell regretted it.

  Her fingers picked up the elastic of her panties and began to pull them down slowly. Family dust. You can't even think that a man who doesn't wear Vaughn's last name could be running his own game on the family stock. You are sure that your knight, at the risk of losing his life, his freedom and acquiring a stomach ulcer, will win for you your stinking kingdom, lay it at your sturdy legs, and then he will modestly step aside, waiting for you to come down and pet him on his head. How naive people can be.

  Now she was completely naked, and he got a little horny. He knew how to enjoy, but he never let his feelings control him. She smiled at him, turned around and headed for the bathroom. He watched the play of her firm buttocks as he finished his wine.

  Craig Ruell set the glass on a small table and began unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. He heard the sound of pouring water and grinned. His queen. Such a foolish creature is incapable of running a bank. Alison can’t control even her own life.

  He carefully straightened his two-hundred-dollar shirt on the back of a chair. Directly in front of him was a picture depicting an autumn forest on an early sunny morning. Alison Vaughn had acquired this Monet several years ago, and always proudly showed to people from her circle when they visited her.

  Ruell knew it was a fake. He also knew in which museum the real painting was. Sometimes he wondered how many of Alison's acquaintances knew it. One day he realized with amazement that she did not distinguish Claude Monet from Edward Monet.

  Craig Ruell despised Alison.

  She stood under the shower and the warm jets of water ran down her naked body. Alison's silky hair was wet, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. He stepped forward, she smiled, and there was something predatory in her smile.

  - You came to me, my hero, she said, and this time her voice really excited him.

  He stood a few steps away from the girl, a splash of water fell on him when she got closer.

  Alison held out her hand, and her long manicured fingernails gently closed on his slowly swelling cock.

  She held his manhood and felt him surrender to her will. He was completely at her mercy, a faithful servant, willing to do anything for his queen.

  Her fingers ran lightly over his cock like it was the keys of a piano. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and began to kiss her neck. Alison's hands fell helplessly and she moaned.

  Streams of quite cold water, poured over Ruell's head. His fingers gripped Alison's back and his lips kissed hers.

  When he finished with her neck, he began to move slowly downward. His tense tongue caressed her upturned breasts in turn, Alison's skin was soft and silky under his fingers.

  She threw her head back, closing her eyes and exposing her face to the jets of water. She felt victorious almost like Wade the moment he finished with Rowan. But her victory would be definitive over her brother as well.

  Ruell leaned over the girl's hot body, tracing with his lower lip over her wet skin. When his mouth was near her le
ft nipple, he could hear her heartbeat. He felt so good around her. He leaned even lower and his tongue dug into her belly button. Alison moaned softly and her nails sank deeply into Ruell's firm hair. The tender moisture poured over her face, she climbed steadily to the pinnacle of bliss. She wished for him to kneel before her.

  - I am your queen, my knight, her voice became husky, warm streams of water poured into her opened mouth. Get on your knees.

  A hot wave burned Craig Ruell's body, and he straightened sharply and sank onto her lips. His arms gripped her waist tightly, and for a moment she thought he was going to break her spine.

  Her lover's hot body drove Alison into ecstasy, the rage and sweet excitement of his disobedience bubbled and foamed beneath her silky hair.

  She shuddered and pressed hard against his lips. The disobedient lover had to be punished. Her hands slid down his back and stopped on his buttocks.

  Alison's right leg rose and began to caress Ruell's thigh. He continued to kiss her. Her long manicured nails dug deep into his buttocks. Craig Ruell felt pain, but he didn't care.

  Her fingers continued to slice through his skin. Blood trickled in thin streams and dripped down her raised leg and was washed away by streams of water. His hands crumpled and broke her body, she moaned softly, catching the falling drops with her mouth.

  Her knight served her faithfully and devotedly.

  She arched a few more times and felt ready. Ruell realized it too-he knew women and he knew her.

  Alison's arms surged upward and clasped tightly around his neck. He wrapped his arms around

  her waist, her left leg lifted off the wet floor. He entered her smoothly, and she moaned.

  Ruell held the girl's supple wet body tightly against him. Her face with half-closed eyes was right in front of him. The tennis player's strong thighs squeezed him tightly, her wet hair clinging to his shoulders.

  She was his from the tips of her hair to her toes. She was submissive to his thrusts, her body was melting in his arms. He fucked her in every sense of the word.

  Ruell's cock languished sweetly in that microwave oven where the orgasm was heating up. But that didn't stop him from smiling crookedly at his taunt. After a moment, he dismissed the thought unlike her, he had enough taste to enjoy flat-out witticisms.

  Her upturned breasts squeezed under his thrust and pressed tightly against his body with every push. His tight arms encircled her back and her hot buttocks felt the cold of the wall tiles.

  Then she cried out, and needles of water ran down her tongue. Ruell continued to move steadily, pulling her heated body against him. Her sweat mingled with his; she was a queen.

  When, after a few minutes, Alison was out of breath, in Craig Ruell's eyes a slight irony was playing again. She closed the water, swaying slightly in the process, and asked:

  - Well, my knight, are you ready for the next battle?

  Ruell did not answer. She took him by the cock again and led into the bedroom.

  Craig Ruell fell asleep at dawn, on wet sweaty sheets.

  He didn't know about the man who had spent the night in the car across the street. Nor did he know of another who had waited unsuccessfully for him to appear in front of his house at the outskirts of Hollywood. Only when the light rays of the sun set fire to the dark horizon, the second man annoyingly slapped the steering wheel, started the engine and drove away. His name was Ethan Burns, and he was a professional boxer.

  16

  Inspector Herrmann was wondering whether he was beginning to go bald from his work or his sarcastic temper.

  - Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Davis? he asked.

  The woman nodded her head in agreement.

  - I can't say we have the best coffee in town.

  Herrmann rose from his seat and picked up a tiny paper cup. – But most cops like it.

  Mrs. Davis accepted the crumpled cup from him and sipped the murky brown liquid.

  - It's been almost a week since my little girl died, she said and I've come to talk to you.

  - I'm always at your service, Mrs. Davis, the inspector's big teeth bared in a smile.

  - I wanted to ask you about the guy, you know, the one who did this, the woman said. Have you arrested him yet?

  Mrs. Davis was a widow and lived in North Texas. That's where she rented a small, cozy apartment. A few days ago, Inspector Herrmann called to make inquiries about her. The usual police routine. The cops there informed him that Mrs. Davis had never worked and lived off the money her daughter sent her from California. It wasn’t very much, but it was enough for a decent widow.

  At their first meeting, Inspector Herrmann asked her if she knew what her daughter was doing.

  - I know my girl wasn't a saint, Mrs. Davis told him. She may have led a somewhat liberal life. But that doesn't mean that rich people can kill innocent girls, does it, Inspector?

  She tried her best to let him know she didn't know who her daughter was. And Amber Davis was a whore a pretty expensive one who only served a small circle of playboys of the Los Angeles rich families but still a whore. And every cent she sent to her mother, she got for wriggling under a rich bum.

  Mrs. Davis denied she knew it. Inspector Herrmann saw that she was lying.

  That's why he didn't like her.

  - Mr. Rowan Vaughn if you mean him is only a suspect, the inspector said. He had a smile on his face. One time the district attorney told him there was something sadistic about the way he smiled. Mrs. Davis, however, evidently did not notice it.

  - We can't arrest anybody unless we have sufficient evidence, the inspector went on softly. In his long years in the police force he had learned to answer to people in smooth and non-transparent official terms. It was easier that way. Several people indirectly confirmed Mr. Vaughn's alibi. That's why we need to widen the range of our search and look for new suspects.

  Mrs. Davis finished her coffee and placed the cup on the inspector's desk. A large drop of coffee fell from her thumb and began to soak into the top of the documents.

  The inspector did not offer her a second one, he was sure she would say yes.

  - I buried my little girl a few days ago, Mrs. Davis said. Poor girl was so young.

  Inspector Herrmann dulled his smile slightly, as soon as the circumstances demanded. He had been at the funeral, and he knew that Mrs. Davis hadn’t spent a cent of it. Everything was paid for by some boxer, Amber's lover. He also picked up the body from the morgue and took care of all the formalities. The inconsolable mother was left to mourn in the cemetery and sob into a crumpled handkerchief. The only expense she incurred was the bill from the laundry. She didn't even offer to take her daughter's body to the town where she was born, because that would have been a serious expense. And Mrs. Davis didn't have a second daughter to send her money.

  - I empathize with your grief, Mrs. Davis, Herrmann said. He didn't think his smile was sadistic. It's just that he couldn't afford to fully empathize with anyone who cried at his table. Then not only the hairs would be coming off his skull, but the skin as well.

  - I've been thinking a lot about all this, Inspector, Mrs. Davis said. Every day I waited for you to arrest the scoundrel who killed my little girl and put him in jail. But it's been a week now, and you haven't done anything. You know who did it, inspector.

  She met Ethan Burns when she came to Los Angeles for her daughter's funeral. Amber's death was reported to her by a police officer, and she hit the road immediately. She had to take care of her little girl, to bury her pCooperly, and look after her belongings.

  At the city morgue, where Amber's body was placed, Mrs. Davis found out she'd been overrun. A man named Ethan Burns had picked up the deceased and made all the arrangements for the funeral.

  Amber never told her mother about Ethan. She didn’t tell her anything at all. Mrs. Davis was interested and tried to find him.

  Burns was delighted to meet her mother. At this point he really needed someone with whom he could talk about the girl. Mrs. Davis allowed Burn
s to pay all the expenses.

  From him she learned about Rowan Vaughn and Craig Ruell. In the early days the Boxer was too shaken to do anything about it, and spent his days talking to Mrs. Davis and practicing. He went to a bar four times, and left sober every time. A professional boxer can't get drunk. If Burns hadn't been so shaken by Amber's death, he would have been proud of himself.

  He's a strange fellow, too, that Burns. Inspector Herrmann had long ago ceased to be a naive boy who enrolled in the police academy to defend law and justice. Years of routine, several bullet wounds one quite serious, the doctors even feared he might lose an arm, and the expression in the eyes of the arrestees that he encountered, all of it knocked the childish naivety out of Herrmann. Maybe that's why he started going bald, and his smile became sadistic. But the attitude of those close to Amber the inspector could not accept.

  Unlike Mrs. Davis, Ethan Burns made no secret of the fact that he knew how the girl earned her bungalow. The night she died, the boxer was in Las Vegas, so he could say nothing about the murder. But Burns knew a lot about Amber's relationship with young Vaughn and his buddy

  Ruell.

  And knowing that, he could love and respect her. More than that he could respect himself, knowing very well that the woman he loved is a prostitute. When he told the inspector about Amber this was a couple of days ago he referred to her several times as his fiancée. It made Herrmann smile broadly and ask if Burns knew his fiancée's profession. The boxer jumped up and tried to hit him.

  He didn't care that Amber was sleeping with other guys, and those guys were paying her for it. But he couldn't hear anyone else talk about it.

  Then Burns asked Herrmann:

  - Don't you, Inspector, sell what you can do for money?

  Did he really believe it, or was it just convenient for him to pretend that he believed it, and when his opponent's swollen fist tightened into a swollen glove made his body to shudder, didn't Burns feel just like a prostitute letting someone do whatever they wanted with his body.

  - I wanted to ask you this, Inspector, Mrs. Davis's voice was deep and sharp at the same time. I've been advised to file a civil suit against this guy. Would you be able to help me?