by Marcia James
“Suzi’s super-duper, special massage is over.” She spoke close to his ear, sending a residual tremor through his muscles. “Don’t feel as if you have to hop off the table though. Just get up and dressed when you’re ready.”
As he tried to rally his muscles for the effort of sitting up, he heard her moving around the room. From the sounds, he assumed Suzi was preparing the room for her next client. When she turned on the faucet in the bathroom sink, Calvin forced himself out of his prone position and attempted to stand. His bum right knee threatened to buckle but he held onto the table until he felt steadier.
Except for one insistent part, his body resembled a wet noodle. Damn, where was the self-control he prided? Before Suzi could return from washing her hands, he closed the robe and tied the sash. Then taking cautious steps, he walked over to the dressing area and changed into his clothes.
Suzi hadn’t pursued his top-secret bait. Well, he’d just have to come back in a couple nights and give her a second chance. But that meant getting another massage. His hands stilled in the act of buttoning his shirt.
Calvin felt a tidal wave of guilt over the fact he’d even entered the sex club. Having another woman touch him, being turned on by that touch, was a betrayal of his dead wife. But his FBI job was all he had now. So he’d complete this assignment and move on to the next one.
Calvin finished buttoning his shirt and sat down to pull on his socks and shoes. He’d discover who was passing classified information to foreign governments and arrest them. If he had to visit Suzi—experience another incredible massage—to accomplish that goal, so be it. And with dogged determination, he ignored the wave of anticipation that shimmered through him at the thought of visiting the sexy masseuse again.
Chapter Eight
Suzi slid into the cracked vinyl booth and set her tray on the sticky tabletop. The smell of grease and cheap ketchup permeated the place. Why had she agreed to meet Dalton for lunch at this greasy spoon? Sure, the Catholic University area dive was well away from the precinct but the food was targeted toward students with a craving for saturated fat and mystery meat. The veggie submarine sandwich she’d chosen was the least offensive item on the menu.
She glanced at her watch. Dalton was late. Not surprising given the double homicide he and his temporary partner Howie Weinberg had been working since the weekend. They’d probably had only a couple of hours sleep a night since Saturday. Jason’s funeral was the only break Dalton had taken from the case.
Suzi took the lid off her Styrofoam cup of coffee. It wasn’t Starbucks. She stirred in powdered creamer until the coffee was mocha brown. The color reminded her of Calvin’s broad, muscular back, powerful arms, large hands…
Stop it. Suzi commanded herself to put all thoughts of her sinfully attractive customer out of her mind. But it was hopeless. She’d been daydreaming about the man since she’d seen him in a towel wrap the evening before. She’d admired his yummy body and then she’d had the great good fortune to run her hands all over that tempting flesh. It’d been the first time since she’d gone undercover at the club she’d forgotten to wear gloves while giving a massage. Suzi had almost been sorry—the operative word being “almost”—that he’d requested a straight massage without the “happy ending”.
She sipped the coffee and tried not to picture Calvin’s dark, serious eyes and full lips. With the amount of beefcake at the cop shop, she should’ve been used to virility on the hoof. But there’d been something different, something so appealing about her customer despite the unhappiness surrounding him like a shroud. His unwillingness to discuss his late wife was probably just the tip of a large, emotional iceberg.
Unwrapping her submarine sandwich, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. The edge of the lettuce was turning and the tomato slices looked mushy. Maybe on her way to the club she’d pick up a tofu pita from the vegan takeout on Pennsylvania Avenue. Or maybe she’d stop by the Korean barbecue on 25th before her shift started. Of course, there was always the tapas-to-go joint on Connecticut Avenue. Suzi made a face. Or maybe concentrating on food is just a way to distract myself from another kind of hunger.
Disgusted, she pushed away the sandwich and sighed. She would not break her promise to herself. The next man she slept with was going to be “the one”, her happily-ever-after guy. Calvin might be the hottest thing since peanut butter and jelly but the Suzi Cho moratorium on casual sex would prevail.
“What’s wrong?” Dalton’s voice had her jerking her head up in time to see him slide into the booth across from her. He set his tray on the table. “Find a cockroach masquerading as a mushroom in that sandwich?” he teased.
“Even D.C.’s insect life is giving this food a pass.” She grimaced toward the oily grilled cheese sandwich and fries on Dalton’s tray. “Of course, the joint does have a stellar view.”
Dalton glanced out the grimy window at the exhaust fumes partially obscuring the Burger King across the street. “Yeah, and I really like the interior design—particularly the fly strips by the takeout window,” he agreed with a laugh.
Suzi looked at the dangling, fly-studded sticky paper and lost whatever remained of her appetite. She pushed her plate farther away and gave Dalton the once-over. The dark circles under his eyes resembled bruises.
“Heard about the double homicide,” she said. “Any leads?”
“Better. We got the jerks who shot them.” Dalton gave her an abbreviated version of his last three days spent chasing down the killers of two street punks. Drug-related deaths like this double homicide were all too frequent in the nation’s capital.
“How’d Howie work out?” she asked, wondering what Dalton had thought about being partnered—even temporarily—with the wiry, irreverent detective.
Dalton shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “He’s a good cop.”
Suzi could almost hear what Dalton wasn’t saying, But he’s not Jason. As she watched, he took a big bite of his grease-shiny sandwich. It was plain he didn’t want to elaborate on Howie’s trial assignment as his partner. She sipped her coffee and let the silence lengthen. He’d bring up the sex club investigation when he was ready.
Thinking of the club brought her mind back to Calvin. Suzi glared into her coffee. Man, she had to start dating again. Someone nice, someone who might turn out to be her soul mate. Sure her customer was a nine point nine-nine on a scale of ten but she wasn’t working at the Xecutive Branch to meet guys. Still, there was something about Calvin…
“Earth to Cho.” Dalton’s words brought her out of her thoughts and Suzi looked up to see him staring at her.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about this customer I had at the club last night,” she explained. “He’s a widower who just wanted a straight massage.”
“Poor old coot is probably lonely,” Dalton said.
There was nothing “old coot” about Calvin. Suzi nodded however, deciding not to correct her friend’s assumption. But Dalton’s comment made her wonder if loneliness was the reason Calvin had chosen to join the club versus going to a licensed therapist for his massages.
“Speaking of the club, how’s it going?” he asked.
“I’ve got a good grasp on the masseuse job,” she punned.
While Dalton groaned, she took a document out of her backpack-style purse and handed it to him. He made an effort to wipe his slick fingers on the cheap napkins before taking it.
“Here’s a copy of my report to Captain Bennett,” she explained. “It includes a rough layout of the club’s interior and a list of the employees I’ve met so far.”
“Uh, have you met Mistress Bella?” he asked without looking up from the document.
Suzi suppressed a smile, amused by Dalton’s blatant interest in the dominatrix. It was such a departure from his love ’em and leave ’em ways. Since meeting the detective, she’d seen him with shapely airheads and cop groupies but never with a strong, intelligent woman. Thanks to Jason however, Suzi had learned Dalton wasn’t the shallow sex-hound he appeared. He’d eve
n been engaged once to a paralegal until the woman had informed him she was in love with a coworker. According to Jason, this hadn’t been the first time his partner had been screwed over by a female. But Dalton was determined it would be the last.
“Yes, I met your dominatrix,” Suzi said. “She introduced herself as Domino. But she likes to be called Dom for short. She seems really friendly.”
Dalton made a noncommittal noise and continued looking through her report. Grinning, she took a note out of her pocket and passed it across the table to him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Dom’s license plate number. Thought you could use it to track down her address.”
Excitement flickered in Dalton’s eyes for a second before he shuttered them. “Thanks. I’ll let you know what I find out. Anything else I can do for you?”
“The captain’s assigned a couple of rookies to research the employees but for now, he’s not having anyone but the owner Victor Xavier staked out.” She pointed to the report. “Once we get some background on the staff, you could check out what they’re up to before and after their club shifts.”
“Sounds good,” Dalton’s eyes were on the note with Mistress Bella’s plate number and not on the report.
Suzi coughed to cover a laugh. There was no doubt which of the club’s employees Dalton would be checking out first.
“Listen, I gotta get some real food before my shift so I better peel out.” Suzi slid across the booth and stood. “Promise me you’ll catch some Zs before diving into this club research.”
Dalton rolled his eyes. “Sure, Mom, and I promise not to eat glue or run with scissors.”
“Smart-ass.” Suzi grabbed his ear and twisted it until Dalton yelped. Laughing, she walked out of the greasy spoon.
* * * * *
Domino sat in the Burger King booth across from Meyers, who was filling her in on a crack cocaine case of hers he’d taken over when she’d gone undercover at the club. Drinking a large Coke, she tried to ignore the way he talked to her breasts instead of her face. She doubted he expected them to answer but Meyers couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. With a sigh, she wished yet again her boss had assigned a different agent as her partner, maybe someone with a modicum of respect for women.
She wasn’t wearing her dominatrix getup. The T-shirt and jeans she’d thrown on that morning were a little tighter than her standard office attire but the clothes didn’t warrant the type of scrutiny Meyers was giving them. She really hated it when guys—especially her male coworkers—couldn’t see past her body to her mind. Would she have to keep proving she was more than a set of double D cups until she was old and wrinkled? Of course, by the time she was old and wrinkled, she’d probably be a double D long. Dom frowned at the mental image.
She looked across the mustard-spotted table at the man who’d skated around sexual harassment charges for years. While some female agents had welcomed Meyers’ advances, Dom couldn’t have been less interested. It wasn’t that he was ugly, at least not on the outside. Tall and muscular, he had reddish hair and hazel eyes. But his personality thoroughly turned her off.
Meyers was wrapping up his report, still talking to Dom’s chest. If the burger joint table hadn’t hidden the man’s lower torso, she’d have been tempted to address all her conversation to his fly. The thought almost made her smile. But the jerk would probably be thrilled to have her check out his package.
“Where’s Smokey today?” Meyers asked, his gaze finally rising and meeting hers. “Has he sniffed out any bad guys?”
“He’s resting at my house. So far the DEA’s wonder dog has uncovered three recreational drug users on the club’s staff and a suspicious plate of brownies in the break room fridge.”
Her partner laughed, an unpleasant sound that grated on her nerves. “So, tell me about the Mistress Bella gig,” Meyers said. “I bet you look hot in leather.”
“I get to cause men a lot of pain and suffering,” Dom said, ignoring his leather remark. “What’s not to like?”
“You’re a laugh riot, Petracelli.”
“Actually, Mistress Bella is more of a scream but my tickle-fetish customers get a good laugh out of their sessions.”
Dom could tell her words had dragged Meyers’ thoughts away from his speculation on her sex club clothes. Now maybe she could get some information out of the horse’s ass.
“Listen, you’ve read my e-mailed reports on this case and there’s nothing new,” she stated, her voice cool and professional. “So what do you have for me?”
He frowned at her abrupt change in demeanor but answered. “Well, we think there might be a link between Victor Xavier and the Cabazone family. New York’s going through their wiretaps right now.”
Dominique considered Meyers’ news. The Cabazone crime family was synonymous with drug trafficking so a connection with the sex club owner was believable. The New York DEA office had been wiretapping the Cabazones for several years. A check of their phone transcripts just might provide a lead. Heck, Victor’s voice or that of one of his lackeys might be on the DEA’s phone recordings.
“The cops have Victor staked out.” Meyers rolled his eyes. The agent’s disdain for local law enforcement was well-known in her DEA field office.
“Makes sense,” she replied. “Jason Walters goes undercover at the club and suddenly ends up dead. It’s not surprising they’re checking up on the club’s owner.”
“Yeah, well, I bet Victor’s already made the cops. I doubt he’s too worried either.” Meyers swished a cold fry through a puddle of ketchup on his tray. “The guy has enough money to hire an army of crooked lawyers for the next twenty years. The cops won’t make anything stick to that asshole.”
“What are our guys doing while the police are watching Victor?” Dom asked.
“We’ve got the club’s loading dock under surveillance,” Meyers answered. “When we spot a suspicious shipment, we’ll page you.” The agent pushed an envelope across the table to her. “Here are several tracking devices. When we page you, check out the shipment with Smokey’s help and put one of these suckers in the box. We’ll track the drugs to their destination.”
Dom slipped the envelope into her purse and glanced idly around the fast-food restaurant. No one in the Burger King was paying her any attention but her senses suddenly hummed. She looked out the window and watched a man exit the Catholic U student lunch dive across the street. She only caught a glimpse of him before the tall, dark-haired man disappeared behind the row of delivery trucks double-parked down the block. Dalton?
Dom squeezed her eyes shut and wondered if this sighting were real or a wishful figment of her imagination. It’d been over a week since Dalton had been Mistress Bella’s first customer and she was still thinking about the guy. Damn. After this assignment was over, she was taking a singles’ cruise for some feel-good, no-strings-attached sexual gratification.
“Domino.”
She opened her eyes and looked into Meyers’ impatient face. Obviously, she’d missed something he’d said. “What?”
“Do you remember the pager code for a shipment arrival?”
“Sure. It’s 7734.”
Written out and turned upside down, 7734 spelled “hell”. It was an example of Meyers’ sophomoric humor but she had to admit it made an easy-to-remember code.
The agent nodded, satisfied. “That’s right. And speaking of hell, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Your boyfriend buying in to the hype and giving you a dozen red roses?”
Dom was used to her coworker’s fishing expeditions about her personal life but she had no intention of letting him know she was unattached. The agent had informed her long ago he’d like to add a little “hide the salami” to their working relationship. The suggestion was disgusting but she hadn’t complained about him to their boss. She wanted Sam Lowery to know she could handle her own problems. And if she couldn’t deal with one horny coworker, she probably wasn’t cut out for a job in law enforcement.
“Roses make me sneeze.” She gathered up her purse and coat. “I’m more of a luxury car type of girl myself. So if you see me driving a new Mercedes, it was a Valentine’s gift. I’m not on the take.”
Smiling at his confused expression, she stood and walked away. Let him think she had a rich boyfriend who bought her cars. Maybe he’d aim his breast-ogling, raunchy self at some other female. She imagined Meyers in a session with Ellen, the club’s most accomplished dominatrix. That turned her smile into a grin as she pushed through the front door of the restaurant. Humming “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”, Dom headed toward her car.
* * * * *
Winter night stakeouts sucked. Dalton rubbed his gloved hands together. No heat, no light, no music—just bone-chilling cold and no way to escape his thoughts. His bag of convenience store junk food held no appeal and he’d finished his thermos of coffee long ago. If only he could risk turning on the car’s engine for just five minutes. He’d been parked on this Arlington residential street for over an hour and his body was turning into a block of ice.
Where the hell was she? Dalton tilted his wrist until his watch caught the light of a nearby street lamp. Two a.m. The calendar window on the watch face read “Feb. 13”. He wasn’t particularly superstitious but thirteen had never been his favorite number. If his luck were bad, his quarry would stay out all night, leaving him with a frost-bitten butt and nothing to show for it.
Dominique Petracelli. Using the plate number Suzi’d supplied, Dalton had learned the full name and address of the mysterious Mistress Bella. Thanks to a computer problem at the Division of Motor Vehicles however, he hadn’t been able to pull up a copy of her license complete with photo. He still didn’t know what she looked like without her mask. Maybe tonight he’d rectify that.
Dalton glanced at the stone and stucco bungalow where Dominique lived. His grandmother would have called it “a cute starter home”, loving the sturdy 1950s architecture of the houses in the neighborhood. Mature trees lined the quiet street and embellishments, such as decorative house numbers and stone mailbox holders, attested to the pride of the homeowners.
