by Marcia James
“Why didn’t you buy one of those Minis or better yet a clown car?” Dalton dissed her small car in an effort to make her smile. “Lime green is the perfect color for the circus.”
Suzi unlocked her economy car with a remote and opened the driver’s side door. “This car is plenty big. You’re just a jumbo-sized human.”
“I’d probably be more comfortable riding on the roof.” Dalton began the aching task of folding his six-four frame into the car’s passenger seat. “At least you could let me drive.”
“Sure, as soon as you let me drive that classic Mustang of yours,” Suzi shot back.
“In your dreams, Cho,” Dalton said, as she started the Honda’s four-cylinder engine. “You wouldn’t know what to do with that much horsepower.”
Suzi blew him an impressive raspberry and they drove in silence the short distance to the cemetery. Skirting a long line of parked police cruisers and unmarked cars, she pulled into an empty spot and turned off the engine. The quiet after the noise of the car was almost eerie.
Dalton stared through the windshield at the crowd gathering by the freshly dug grave. The reality of his friend’s death stabbed like an ice pick to his soul.
“Did you know I was supposed to go undercover at the club, not Jason?” he asked.
Suzi turned to look at him but Dalton couldn’t meet her eyes. “You mean the teenage runaways case?”
He nodded. “I…” Dalton cleared his throat and tried again. “I talked him into drawing straws for the assignment and now he’s dead.”
“Oh.” The compassion in that one word made his chest ache. “Bull, you can’t blame yourself.”
He twisted to face her, anger at himself warring with frustration at her attempt to assuage his guilt. “Then who am I supposed to blame? God? Captain Bennett? Jason, for letting himself be killed?”
Suzi didn’t react or look away from the pain he saw reflected in her eyes. Instead, she leaned toward him and spoke in a calm, clear voice. “I don’t know what you believe about God, Fate, predestination or karma,” Suzi began. “But I believe when a person’s time is up on Earth, it’s out of his hands.”
When he started to speak, she covered his mouth with her fingers. “Just shut up and let me finish,” Suzi ordered. “I believe it was Jason’s time to go and it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been eating a steak dinner at Morton’s, making love to one of those blondes,” she gestured to several women getting out of a nearby car, “or working a case at the Xecutive Branch. And you’re playing God if you think you could’ve prevented it.”
She slipped her hand off his mouth but continued to stare determinedly into his eyes. “Jason would be pissed at you for beating yourself up over this.” Suzi’s voice was now scratchy with emotion. “Besides, leaving you his cat was punishment enough, don’t you think?”
Dalton made a noise that came out half laugh, half groan. Suzi smiled and motioned toward the mourners across the winter-dead lawn. “C’mon, Bull. Let’s go say goodbye to Jason.”
Dalton got out of the cramped car, feeling as old as his disguise. He slowly rounded the car’s hood and linked arms with Suzi. Together they made their shuffling way to the grave.
Standing on the edge of the crowd, Dalton and Suzi scanned the faces for anyone suspicious. The minister murmured a few last words over the walnut casket, which was resting on the mechanism that would lower it into the earth. With an “amen”, the minister closed his bible and motioned for Captain Bennett to come forward. Their boss walked up to the casket and drew a sheet of paper out of his pocket.
“I said my piece at the church,” Bennett began, “but I have a few words here from Jason’s partner Dalton Cutter who couldn’t be here because of a case.”
Suzi squeezed Dalton’s hand in hers and he held on as if it were a lifeline.
“Jason Walters was my partner for six years and my best friend,” Bennett read Dalton’s typed words. “I trusted him with my life and he saved my sorry ass more than once.”
Many of the police officers laughed at that and the captain stopped reading until the noise died down.
“Jason was an upright guy—no graft, no slacking off and no drugs,” Bennett continued. “He was squeaky clean, if you don’t count his fondness for pretty women.”
This time a few watery female chuckles joined the laughs from the men.
“No one who knew Jason will believe he took the drugs that killed him,” Bennett read as several police officers nodded in agreement. “And when the Metro PD is done, that stain will be gone from his name. That’s all I wanted to say except, goodbye, Jason. I’ll never forget you.”
Captain Bennett folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Beside Dalton, he heard Suzi sniffling but couldn’t see her through the blur of his own tears. Jason was truly gone.
Dalton bowed his head and closed his eyes, ignoring the two tears that squeezed from under his lids. And there, standing at the grave, he vowed again to avenge his partner. I’ll get the bastards who did this, Jason. And I’ll make them pay.
The minister invited the mourners to approach the casket one last time, which many did. Several women laid a rose on the coffin before turning away. When it was their turn, they shuffled forward. Suzi pulled a delicate spray of blue flowers from her cavernous purse and placed it on the casket.
“Forget-me-nots,” she explained, and Dalton felt a bone-deep emptiness.
He led Suzi away from the coffin and they waited until the majority of the mourners had left. Then at a nod from the minister, the casket was lowered. Several groundsmen moved the funeral flowers from the church closer to the headstone while others filled in the grave.
One floral offering appeared out of place, almost cheery against the somber setting. Curious, Dalton walked over to the colorful bouquet. The plants in the vase looked like a mix of wildflowers, appealing and fresh among the serious funeral wreaths. Suzi came up beside him as Dalton reached for the card accompanying the arrangement.
Suzi looked over his shoulder and read the note aloud. “Your kindness and your memory live on. Love, Tori.”
“A dominatrix with a heart of gold,” Dalton said, the sarcasm strong to his own ears.
Suzi shook her head. “No, just another person whose life Jason touched. C’mon, Bull, let’s go get a double latte and toast Jason. Whadaya say?”
“Sure.” Dalton followed Suzi in a shambling gait. “But I get to drive that lime-colored lemon.”
“When pigs fly,” she said as a light snow began to fall.
* * * * *
Domino, still fuming from her phone call with her boss, shoved through the door of the Xecutive Branch women’s locker room. What was Sam Lowery thinking? It was bad enough she had to strut around as a dominatrix every day. Now she had the added embarrassment of toting Smokey, the drug-sniffing mini dog, to work at the club.
Stalking over to her assigned locker, Dom placed her purse and Smokey’s bag on the bench in front of it. A squeak from the bag dragged her out of her funk. It wasn’t the pooch’s fault she was stuck with him on this case. Dom unzipped the top of the tote and ruffled the wispy hair on the silly mutt’s head.
“Sorry, Smokey,” she crooned. “We’re in this farce together so we might as well make the best of it.”
The dog licked her hand, settling into a ball for a nap. Dom smiled. She wished Meyers were as amicable. Opening her locker, Domino hung up her coat and examined the outfit she’d picked from the club’s wardrobe room. The slinky black dress, which featured high side slits on the skirt, was cut low in the front and the back. There wasn’t much to the outfit but it was still less revealing than many of the club’s S&M clothes.
The locker room door opened and Ellen strode in. The dental-student dominatrix looked wind-burned and cold in a shapeless down jacket and leather boots.
“Hi,” Dom greeted her. “Walk from the dorm again?”
“Yeah.” The girl trudged over to her locker, which was three down from Domino’s. She ope
ned it and tossed her gloves and scarf on the top shelf. “Figured I could use the exercise. But, damn, it’s cold out there.”
As Ellen removed her winter coat, the unmistakable, sweetly pungent odor of marijuana wafted off her clothes. Domino noted the scent but made no mention of the dominatrix’s recreational drug use. As a DEA agent, she’d learned to ignore small-time users and focus on catching the drug traffickers. Apparently however, no one at the Virginia DEA office had bothered to inform Smokey of this selective enforcement policy.
The dog’s head poked out of the tote like a jack-in-the-box before he shoved the bag over onto its side with his front paws. Then as Dom grabbed for the mutt, Smokey skipped down the bench out of her reach and stopped next to Ellen. True to his training, the canine crime solver whined and lifted one paw toward the perp.
“What a cutie!” Ellen gushed as she shook the dog’s paw.
Smokey gave Dom a confused look over his shoulder that made her laugh. Most druggies didn’t pet and coo over the drug sniffer that ratted them out. Scooping up the toy hound in her hand, Domino snuggled him close to her chest. Under the guise of kissing his ear, she whispered “off,” the word that called the dog off the scent.
“This is Smokey, my sister’s Chinese Crested,” Dom explained. “I’m watching him for a couple weeks.”
“I love his Redskins jersey.” Ellen gently patted the trembling dog. “You should make him a little S&M outfit.”
Dom smiled then tried to appear concerned. “I was afraid I’d get in trouble bringing him to work.”
Ellen jerked off her boots and placed them on the floor of her locker. Then she pulled out her outfit for the evening, a merry widow corset that looked several sizes too small for her ample curves. The girl had a penchant for wearing clothes that shoved up her full chest until it practically brushed her chin. How her breasts remained inside the top of a corset was an aerodynamic miracle worthy of NASA research.
“I don’t think any of the staff will squeal on you,” Ellen said, “but I’d avoid Clyde Salvi and his nasty Doberman. That attack dog would eat Smokey in one bite.”
Domino had met the club’s unsmiling manager and his vicious canine companion during her job interview. Salvi looked like a mob enforcer—cold, compassionless, utterly without a conscience. The Doberman had bared his teeth at her, his feral eyes gleaming with hate. She’d definitely keep Smokey away from the predatory pair.
“Thanks for the warning.” Dom placed her pooch partner into his tote.
Smokey lay down with a sigh that sounded remarkably exasperated. Meyers had forgotten to give her any pet treats, which were used to reward Smokey for a job well done. Slipping a pretzel out of the munchie stash in her locker, Domino placed the snack near the dog’s nose. Smokey lifted his head to lick at the salt on the pretzel.
The locker room was heated but the February chill seemed to seep through the cinderblock walls. Dom and Ellen changed into their S&M clothes with haste as a local easy-listening station played over hidden speakers. Domino thought about the evening ahead. Would Dalton show up again? As much as she wanted to see him, she didn’t relish hurting or humiliating the man.
“Ellen,” Dom began and then faltered.
The girl looked up from the task of adjusting her breasts in the corset’s lacy cups.
“Did you ever have a client who didn’t fit the pattern?” Domino asked. “You know, someone who was different from your other clients and seemed out of place.”
The dominatrix started to shake her head but then caught herself. “Yeah, there was this one super-preppy guy who wasn’t at all submissive. Looked like he stepped off the cover of GQ. I remember him because he got really pissed off over some of the pain and discipline stuff.”
“Then why did he book a session?” Dom strapped on her patent leather high heels, grimacing as they pinched her toes.
“I asked him that exact question,” the dominatrix said. “He told me he’d lost a bet to some buddies. They were all members of the club but used this place for mattress parties more than anything else.” Ellen laughed. “I’ll never forget the nasty look he gave me when I handcuffed him and strung him up on the hook. I was pretty enthusiastic with the cat that night.” She winked.
Domino winced. Her coworker enjoyed meting out punishment and the cat o’ nine tails could be painful. A client who gave Ellen attitude would have trouble sitting down for a week.
“I wonder if that guy bet his friends on anything ever again?” Dom said, only half joking.
“Probably not.” Ellen chuckled, pulling on thigh-high boots that matched her corset. “You got an odd client?”
Domino thought of Dalton, his full lips drawn down in a frown, his cool blue eyes challenging her. “There’s this guy who looks like a linebacker—”
“Size doesn’t mean he isn’t submissive,” Ellen interrupted.
“I know. It’s just he didn’t seem to enjoy himself, you know, get off on the pain and such.” Dom hesitated, smoothing her black dress. “It made me feel bad topping him.”
“Hey, don’t go there, okay?” Ellen added some dangly earrings and a choker necklace to her ensemble. “For whatever reason, the guy’s paying to be topped. Angi had a client last summer who was researching a book on the S&M lifestyle. After two sessions, the wimp quit the club.” She snorted. “Nobody is forcing these guys to book sessions with us, you know.”
Domino stood up carefully on her spike heels, tugged down the dress’s hem and slipped on her mask. “I better get going. I want to make sure the room’s stocked before my first client.”
“What are you going to do with Smokey during your sessions?” Ellen peeked at the sleeping dog.
Domino stopped, surprised she’d forgotten the pooch. Dalton was definitely messing with her mind. “He’s well-behaved. I’ll put his tote behind the futon, I guess,” she said. “He’s not a puppy but I wouldn’t want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor mutt.”
Ellen smiled and waved goodbye. Domino closed her locker, picked up Smokey’s tote and left the room. Maybe, if her schedule wasn’t too busy, she’d get a chance to do a little reconnoitering. With her investigative skills, Smokey’s nose and a bit of luck, she might be able to close this case before she got bunions on her feet from the damn stiletto shoes. With a groan, she walked toward S&M Room Five.
Chapter Seven
Calvin Taylor sat in his government-issue, late-model sedan and watched General Joseph Mattingly drive into the private parking garage for the Xecutive Branch sex club. Shaking his head, the FBI agent put a checkmark next to the general’s name on the detailed chart he’d produced on his office computer. Although many of the high-ranking government and military men on the list were almost nightly visitors to the club, this Wednesday evening appointment was just the general’s second trip to the club in six days. Maybe, Calvin thought with tired sarcasm, the man should look into Viagra.
Tossing his clipboarded chart aside, Calvin stretched his limbs as far as the confines of the mid-size car would allow. His six-two frame felt accordioned and miserable. A week’s worth of cramped surveillance work was playing havoc with his thirty-eight-year-old body. He rolled his shoulders in a futile effort to ease the stiffness.
Calvin glanced again at the names on his chart. Man, he hated to admit it but his boss was right. The Xecutive Branch had to be the conduit for the steady trickle of government and military secrets finding their way to America’s enemies. Thanks to some unprecedented cooperation between the FBI and the CIA, the Bureau had developed a list of possible traitors—all men with access to vital information. Over half of the names on that list were men who frequented the sex club.
Calvin had been the unlucky agent tapped to investigate the Xecutive Branch. Absently, he rubbed his bad right knee. The college game injury that had sidelined him from a football career still gave him trouble, especially after long bouts of forced inactivity. And due to a week’s surveillance of the sex club, the joint was throbbing painfully.
With the help of an FBI computer hacker, Calvin had obtained a roster of the club’s personnel. Picking up the clipboard, he lifted the chart to check the employee list underneath. Quite a few staffers were foreign nationals—all attractive, young and female. And the majority of these worked in the club as masseuses. His boss suspected the women were using their charms to extract top-secret information from their customers. Then the women either passed the secrets to their governments or gave them to the club’s owner to sell to highest bidder. Either way, the United States lost.
As the lead agent on this case, Calvin dreaded the next logical step—infiltrating the club. He was prepared professionally. His papers were in order and his State Department top official cover story in place. But emotionally… He just had to convince his body to open the car door and step out. Why couldn’t his boss have picked one of the younger agents, a bachelor, for the job?
He looked down at his simple, gold wedding band, almost dwarfed by the size of his hand. Sure, technically a widower was a bachelor but Calvin still felt married despite losing his wife. In the three years since Pam had died of cancer, well-meaning friends had urged him to date again. But he’d stuck by his marriage vows. Now, thanks to his job, he was headed where no married man should go in his opinion. A sex club.
Calvin closed his eyes and sent up a silent apology to his late wife before removing his wedding band. It slipped off his finger with ease since he’d never regained the pounds he’d lost after Pam’s death. Tucking the ring into a zippered compartment in his briefcase, Calvin took a deep breath and opened the car door. He was here to do a job but he sure as hell wasn’t going to enjoy it.
* * * * *
Suzi stripped off her disposable latex gloves and washed her hands in the massage room’s bathroom for good measure. After four nights as a masseuse at the Xecutive Branch, she was surprised she hadn’t developed a latex allergy. At least she was increasing her upper body strength. The Korean-American detective smiled. Maybe she’d challenge Dalton to an arm-wrestling match the next time she saw him.
