Savage Deception

by R. T. Wolfe

  Striding to him, her arms snaked up his chest before she released the top button of his shirt. He took hold of her wrists before his eyes crossed. "There's more."

  He led her to the bathroom he had made twice the size he would have if not for her. The woman took more time in a bathroom than any Hollywood actress he'd ever dated.

  She held out her arms and turned in another circle. Two vanities, adjustable lighting, separate shower and hot tub, an island for drawers with a bar stool tucked beneath near a magnified lighted mirror, and outlets for a hair dryer and irons. He didn't tell her about the heated towel bars and floors.

  She covered her mouth with her hand. "Let's hurry up and have sex so we can shower. No, let's shower then have sex."

  He was determined to break in the bed and turned her around, pushing her out the door. It was then she spotted the second desk.

  "Why do you need two desks?"

  "I don't."

  Her feet stopped, causing him to nearly trip over her. She spun, her face not at all seductive or impressed with the area any longer. "I'm not living with you."

  He wasn't planning to ask... yet. It had been difficult enough to get her to keep the key to his first house. The way she said it stung nonetheless. It was one more attempt on her part to keep their relationship from moving forward.

  "I hurt you," she corrected. "I hurt you on such a perfect day. I'm sorry."

  "It's a desk. I bought a stand for your cello too. It's not a ball or a chain, and isn't this something the man is supposed to concern himself with?" He smiled and watched as she blinked rapidly.

  "I'm going to ignore the chauvinist comment, because right now, I want you so badly I can't think straight." She grabbed hold of his shirt and took him to the floor with her. Her strong legs wrapped around him as he pulled her sweater over her head. Beneath, silk the color of powder blue barely held her in. It made his toes curl.

  She yanked his shirt from his pants and fumbled with the buttons. Seductive lips sent him from zero to sixty in seconds. They gave up on the buttons and, together, pulled it over his head, exposing the tattoo of Black Creek across his left pectoral. Zippers were released and clothes tossed as they rolled on the soft, new carpet, twining limbs and lips.

  He couldn't get enough; he always needed more.

  "I love you. I love us," she gasped. Her fingertips traveled down his torso. He nearly choked when she found him.

  Nickie's back arched as impatient anticipation flooded her. His strong fingers traced the curve of flesh that refused to stay tucked in the blue silk she chose purposely for their night together. She loved the way he could multitask and quickened her pace around him.

  Savoring the way his eyes turned opaque, Nickie didn't let go and maneuvered herself until she straddled him. His eyes, his face, the sensation of primal need. His hands. His glorious, magical hands took hold of her through the blue silk. The fingers of one traveled and dipped below the matching bottoms.

  Her head flew back, and he reached behind her, both holding her up and releasing her from the silk. She fell into his hands, and he took hold as he flipped her around until he hovered over her. His eyes moved from one of hers to the other as his hand trailed a line down her neck, over her stomach in a line to her center.

  It was more than any human would be able to take. She was completely in love, and it scared her as much as it thrilled her. She'd never held such need, such intensity as she did when she was with him. Barely keeping her eyes on his, she went over with a cry that seemed distant. He didn't let go, didn't stop, and only slowed his pace long enough for her to climb upward again.

  Desperate for purchase, her nails dug into his shoulders. She wrapped her legs around his back pulling stronger, deeper. "I need you," she breathed. "It has to be now. Tell me it can be now."

  He didn't answer her words, but lowered over her until they were sinking together in light and darkness. Joined. The artist and the cop, as if this were meant to be from the day they met. They raced like their lives depended on the last inch closer.

  She heard the air escape his lungs and knew it was time. Time for them. Here. Tightening around him, she choked on a gasp as they went over the last peak together. A sheen of sweat lay between them as they moved together in the final push.

  The weight of him collapsed over her, with nothing moving other than their hearts and lungs. It took longer than usual for their breathing to return to a semi-normal rate.

  "We didn't make it to the bed," he breathed into her hair.

  She smiled, knowing what that meant to him. Lifting her heavy limbs, she wrapped her legs around him, linking the backs of her feet together and clasping her fingers behind his neck. She clung to him like an infant chimpanzee. He lifted, carrying her to his new bed. Still twined, they squirmed until they crawled beneath the covers. It was an early evening for them, and she looked forward to a solid night of sleep next to her friend and lover.

  Chapter 8

  Nickie sat on one of the two stools at the wet bar Duncan installed next to his painting studio. Her hair was wet, and she wore her detective gear; black pants, black boots and a button-down blouse, with her gun in her holster and badge secured on her belt. He wore a three-piece designer suit, not a chocolate-brown hair out of place. Even the obvious difference in their appearance couldn't kill her mood that morning.

  He'd stocked the mini-fridge with orange juice and a fruit salad. She ate with him as the sun rose through the windows. A bag of whole grain bagels and cherry-filled donuts sat between them. Metaphorically, she was the donut and he was the bagel. Except, he knew her too well and set a donut on his plate only. Damned Monticello fat genes.

  They ate in silence, not needing useless small talk to fill some kind of awkward space. Absently, he ran his thumb over the back of her hand as he read some documents that had more numbers than words.

  He lifted his head and turned an ear toward the door. She hadn't heard anything, and she was the cop. But Duncan seemed to have a constant awareness of the sights and sounds around him.

  "Andy's here." He straightened his papers and slipped them in his briefcase. "And Lynx." He reached in his pocket and took out a silver circle that held the single key to his new house. He held it toward her, letting her make the next move.

  She smiled at him as she stuck out her hand. It was a short, silent conversation only they would understand.

  Now, she heard them. Eddy was early. Figures. They were due to check out the home address of the bookie Rex Baxter hit them onto. She glanced at her watch. Not at this hour, though.

  "I'm coming up, brother," Andy called from below. "You two had better be dressed."

  Between Andy and Rose, she was beginning to suspect everyone thought all she and Duncan did was fool around. As usual, Duncan was a man of few words. He crossed the room and opened the door for them.

  Swallowing her last gulp of juice, she stood and adjusted the gear on her belt. Andy came through first and made a beeline for the food. Eddy stood, legs apart, inside the doorframe.

  She checked out the room. No clothes on the floor, and Duncan had made the bed. Relief.

  "Help yourself to a donut, Lynx," Duncan said as he buttoned his suit jacket.

  Andy spoke with his mouth full. "Trimmers are coming this morning. Time and a half due to the holiday weekend. You know this is illegal, right?"

  Unlike Andy, Eddy took the long way to the food, browsing through the expansive room like a visitor in a museum.

  "Hmm?" Duncan asked as he lifted his briefcase.

  "Staying here. It's nowhere near ready for inspection."

  Duncan turned his eyes to her with an expression no one else would be able to detect. It read sultry sarcasm. "You should call the cops."

  Andy washed down the donut with some OJ. "Very funny. I'm glad you're here, legally or illegally. I have a few things to run by you."

  Duncan stepped to her and ducked his lips near her ear. "I'm pretending to whisper something profound so I can nibble on y
our earlobe before I deal with Andy's 'few things.'"

  And he did. It took great restraint not to shiver from the sensation or smile at his rare attempt at humor.

  "Eat on the go, Lynx," she blurted. "We're crowding the work crew." As if on cue, the sounds of a diesel engine rumbled outside. Eddy stuck a donut between his teeth, mumbling his thanks to Duncan as he fooled with some papers in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

  * * *

  "I told you I trust your judgment," Duncan said as Andy drilled him about faucet hardware, tile design and which second-floor guest rooms should have a gas fireplace.

  Andy shook his head in frustration. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear. The gesture reminded Duncan of their uncle.

  "When is your next gig?" This was his brother's affectionate term for 'creating a painting for a client.'

  "I leave for L.A. in ten days. I have an appointment with the assistant to the governor Tuesday." Duncan washed the few breakfast dishes and put the rest away in the small cupboard above the wet bar sink.

  Andy wrote something in the notebook he'd taken from his back pocket. "Wait a minute, the assistant to the governor? Of New York?"

  Duncan nodded again, this time more prominently and with a lift of his brows.

  "He's the dude we hacked not too long ago," Andy said like it hit him at that moment. "I have a feeling this isn't a coincidence."

  "True enough. I'd like to make my own assessment of him and his property."

  "You are one ballsy bastard."

  Duncan lifted a corner of his mouth.

  They headed for the crew that unpacked on the first floor. Duncan locked the door to his master bedroom. The area was done, and he didn't believe in tempting anyone who could use some state-of-the-art equipment.

  "Speaking of," Andy added, "you need someone to go with you on Tuesday? I could have my secretary move some things around for me. You shouldn't go alone."

  "I'll keep you on speed dial. Other than that, it's a regular appointment with a potential client. I've done it a hundred times." They rounded onto the final flight of stairs, stepping over visqueen and around paint cans.

  "A regular appointment with someone you think might be involved in your girlfriend's past. Have you told her? Is that what Lynx was getting out of your printer?"

  Duncan's feet stopped, and he grabbed the unpainted railing in the middle of the stairs. "Excuse me?"

  "Ahha. Not many times I catch something you don't. Points for me."

  How had Duncan missed that? What was in there? Lynx was Nickie's friend, her partner. Sort of. It was possible he needed a piece of his paper to use as a notepad. Duncan oftentimes did that.

  "I don't have anything to tell her yet. There is no need to upset her or put unfounded ideas in her head."

  "It's your neck."

  The crew needed the stairs, so he and Andy made haste and got out of the way. They nodded greetings as they passed.

  * * *

  Thanks to the desk guys at the station, Nickie had a face, a name, two addresses and two phone numbers. What she didn't have was a suspect. The bookie was MIA. Something didn't add up.

  So, she decided to wait. She hadn't done a stakeout in a whole six days, she thought sarcastically. Eddy was the tricky part. She didn't have the patience or the professionalism to handle his talking for potentially hours while sitting in a stagnant car. She considered taking a beat officer. Or wearing headphones? Alone?

  The thought made her realize that during the last handful of calls, Eddy had refrained from his rapid chatter. He must be taking the hint. Go you, Eddy.

  Luckily, they agreed to split up. She was parked in front of the bookie's home and he in front of the bookie's business. If either one saw anything, they would call the other. It was a small city. Couldn't take more than ten minutes for one to get to the other.

  She thought about her transfer here. Northridge was big enough to have a hospital, a place to shop, great restaurants, and a movie theater. But it was small enough that her captain was a stepdad to Duncan's sister-in-law. She was glad she didn't have to say that aloud ten times fast. And she was glad she was here. She'd learned a lot, good and bad.

  She and Eddy hadn't mentioned the day's plan to Captain Nolan. Better to ask forgiveness rather than permission in this situation.

  While she waited, she used her tablet and did a deeper search for both Rex Baxter the boxer and Hendrix's bookie. She took down names of their employees and did a search on them individually, creating a spreadsheet that included photos of each.

  The house she watched was a single-family with evergreen bushes that fought the winter weather and offered a glimpse of the season yet to come. The car got cold, but she didn't want to turn it on and attract attention with gas fumes creating steam from her tailpipe. She blew into her hands so her fingers would move over the screen of her tablet.

  It looked like Rex Baxter was a naughty boy. Two stints in county and a mistrial that should have taken him to the big house for five to seven. The bookie was more careful. Questioned on suspicion of money laundering, but no arrest.

  A black SUV pulled into the curb space between the bookie's house and the next-door neighbor's. Nickie got out her digital and cursed that it didn't take better pictures from this distance.

  It was a man. A man who was not Hendrix's bookie or Rex Baxter. He appeared as if he might work out at Baxter's gym. In his hand, he carried... two bags of fast food? Feed the kids while he does the wife. Gross. She was taking the best pictures she could when her cell rang.

  "Savage."

  She heard a woman sucking air and sobbing on the other end.

  "This is Detective Savage," she repeated.

  "My kids. Detective, my kids."

  "Calm down, miss. How did you get this number?"

  "You gave it to me. He's... he's targeting my kids. I don't know what to do." It was Mrs. Hendrix. She should be glad Nickie wasn't the type to say, 'I told you so.'

  "Where are you? Where are your children?"

  "They're in school. I checked. I'm home. Oh! Do you think I should leave? They sent me pictures." She was barely audible through her sobbing. "They took pictures of my kids."

  One thing Nickie learned from her years on the force is the fact that damned near every mother loved their children. They may love their drugs more, want their abusive husband more, but they all loved their children.

  Her own mother served as an exception to that rule.

  "Lock the doors. I'm on the way. Can you do that?"

  "Uh, huh. I keep them locked all the time now."

  "Are you alone?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  * * *

  Settled in his office, Duncan booted his equipment. 'It's your neck,' resounded in his head. His view out the top story window displayed downtown Northridge. It was like something off a postcard. Business owners took care of their stores and office buildings. Some tall, some short, they all carried fresh paint and maintained brick or clean siding. The top of each was dusted with picture-perfect white. He tucked the memory away for a future painting and turned his attention to his desk computer.

  He had exactly two hours to fit in a virtual meeting with an out-of-town realtor, a face-to-face with his agent and a conference call with his next L.A. client. The last two pieces for his art show were nearly completed, but if he didn't get in some hours on them, they wouldn't be ready on time.

  His growing list aside, what he really wanted to do was spend time on an image search for the assistant to the governor. He checked email, the price of silver and a few of his real estate investments. Finally, he gave up, plopped his shoes on his desk and set his tablet on his legs.

  He found mostly the same images of the governor's personal assistant he'd found previously. Few were taken in New York State. Yet, the press loved this guy. Thurmond Moody. He had twice the number of pictures taken at sporting and gambling events than he did at charities or political venues.

  He dressed well, Duncan would
give him that. There was the photo of him at Mardi Gras with strings and strings of beads dripping around his neck. One of him at the Kentucky Derby surrounded by obnoxiously bodacious women in their enormous racing hats. He had to scroll to page seven to find the one he'd been searching for, the one of him at the press conference discussing the Maryland Monticellos' daughter, who had come home after eighteen months on the run.

  In the picture, Nickie's parents clung to each other near a podium. Moody wasn't in the foreground, wasn't announcing, so why was he there? And why was he the assistant to a number of consecutive governors regardless of political party? And, most of all, what the hell was he doing at a Maryland press conference?

  Finally, there was the photo, years later, of Moody announcing Nickie's transfer to Northridge PD. Coincidence? Duncan wasn't like Nickie. He counted on hunches. It wasn't that Nickie didn't believe in them, he knew, but she was a cop. She could only use what would hold up in court. He was most definitely not a cop. And for him, there were never coincidences.

  He stood as he saw it, thumping his feet on the ground as he did. Setting his tablet on his desk, he leaned in to get a better look, then zoomed in on Moody's wrist. There it was. How? What? How? The bracelet. Thurmond Moody, the personal assistant to the governor of New York State, wore the same bracelet found in an abandoned home in Henderson, Nevada.

  A dozen possibilities and connections ran through the red fog that quickly became his vision. Pressure filled his skull, and firecrackers seemed like they were exploding inches from his ears. He saw dust and blood, army fatigues and gaping wounds.

  No. He wouldn't let himself go back there today.

  He grabbed hold of his desk until his knuckles turned white. He shook his head three times hard, then woke up his desk computer. Quickly, he re-searched the image, zoomed to the center and printed. He went back and printed the images of the sick prick at the announcement of Nickie's transfer and of the day he stood in the back at her teenage coming home press conference.