The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Holmes shook his head, pained.

  “You notice she’s got her eyes closed?”

  He nodded.

  “She’s trying her damnedest to pretend that’s you, sugar,” Sandy explained gently. “Hang in there. She’s comin’ back to you with a vengeance, and you’ll think you never had it so good when she does.”

  Holmes pressed his lips together to hide the smile. This woman has her own wellsprings of knowledge, and eyes in her head, he decided, permitting a small amount of relief. If I am to be here for any significant length of time, I might do well to cultivate her friendship, as a source of information in the lower strata of society.

  “Thank you, Sandy. I—”

  Skye broke the kiss, and Holmes immediately returned his attention to the monitor as she spoke.

  * * *

  “My, sugar, you’re feelin’ hot under the collar tonight.”

  “Aw, it’s this…thing,” Andrews frowned. “You know.”

  “That shit you been talkin’ about? Need to get it off your chest?”

  “It ain’t nothin’, Sandy. It’s just Pete wants me to contact our cousin in Canada now, through one of my friends back home, and I don’t wanna. I don’t need international shit breathin’ down my back, y’know, eh?”

  * * *

  “Is he from Canada?” Smith snapped at Sandy.

  “I dunno,” Sandy admitted, nonplused. “He never said so before, if he was.”

  “How the hell did we miss that?” Smith grumbled in intense annoyance. He scrambled to contact his associates; that information had not been flagged when the dossier on Andrews had been compiled. Seconds later he was sending out the message. Williams keyed the mike.

  “’Are you from Canada, sweetie?’” he breathed into the microphone. “’I didn’t know that.’”

  * * *

  “Why, are you from Canada, sweetie?” Skye asked in surprise. “I didn’t know that. That is so cool. I got me an international clientele.” She giggled.

  “Yeah, I am. I don’t wear my uniform around here, for obvious reasons, but Montreal’s where I grew up.” Andrews grinned, flushing in sheepish pleasure.

  “Ooo, they speak French there, don’t they? Do you speak French? I adore French,” she purred. “Say somethin’ in French.”

  * * *

  In the van, Holmes rolled his eyes in amusement. So did Williams.

  “Personally, I’d have thought she preferred a good old-fashioned English accent, over French,” Williams verbally poked Holmes with a grin. “Emphasis on ‘old-fashioned.’”

  “I have received no complaints,” Holmes dismissed the jibe airily with a nonchalant wave of his long thin hand. “Then again, should it ever come up, I am reasonably fluent in French, German, Italian, and several other languages…”

  Sandy giggled, and Holmes noted wistfully that it resembled Skye’s, as he returned his attention to the conversation being monitored.

  * * *

  Andrews’ grin grew wider, and he allowed his French-Canadian accent to emerge.

  “Mais oui. Aimes tu, Sandy? Will it turn you on, petit?”

  “Aw,” she murmured, as if disappointed, pouting. “Ben, baby, my period started today, an’ I’m crampin’ so bad, you couldn’t turn me on with a light switch,” Skye sighed, managing to avoid blushing. “I’m surprised I’m not bent double.”

  “Aw, pauvre petit,” Andrews offered gently, laying a light hand on her abdomen and rubbing softly in an attempt to soothe. “I’m sorry you’re feelin’ bad, baby.”

  “Well, you know what they say: This, too, shall pass,” she said, smirking at him. “Next week, look out.” They both laughed, and Skye added, “So do ya need ol’ Sandy to cuddle ya, while you get stuff off your chest?”

  “That’d be good, Sandy. Real good. Lie down and I’ll tell you, eh?”

  Perfect, Skye thought, stretching out on the bed and allowing Andrews to lie down beside her, pillowing his head between her breasts. He had pared down to his military-issue boxers—which meant he was now unarmed—and settled in. She began stroking his hair and face as the real Sandy had instructed, while Andrews talked.

  “What it amounts to is, Pete’s used up most of his other willing spooks and offed ‘em, and the rest are people he’s just using, you know? And that leaves good old cousin Ben, and not only am I tired of it, I’m worried somebody’s gonna catch on. I’m supposed t’ get a bundle out of it when he gets his hands on that fancy widget, or I’d have been out o’there a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, I know whatcha mean, sweetie,” Skye agreed. “It gets old, people takin’ advantage of ya, don’t it?”

  “It sure does. I’m sick of it.”

  “So who’s this dude up in Canada he wants ya t’ contact?”

  “Aw, there’s this business tycoon. He’s kinda a hard-nosed business type, but he’s Pete’s and my cousin. Closer to Pete than me, but still related. I think he’s been footin’ part o’ the little undercover stuff Pete’s been doing, as some kinda investment.”

  “But why would he wanna do that? I mean, I’m not much f’r politics’r nothin’, but us an’ Canada are pals, ain’t we?” Skye frowned, confused.

  “Oh, this got nothin’ to do with Canada, petit. This is all about personal power. ‘Sides, I’m not sure our cousin even knows exactly what he’s ‘invested’ in. I think Pete’s kinda kept that part to himself, an’…whadda the guys around here call it? Oh yeah. I think he’s been buffaloin’ our cousin.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pete’s got notions…well, you’d haveta understand this gadget we’re after, eh? It’s like some sorta crystal ball,” Andrews boasted as if he had a full understanding of the tesseract’s capabilities. “It can see anyplace, anytime in the whole history of the planet. Like, you could look back and know if your political opponent did somethin’ unethical, an’ you could publicly expose him, or you could…well, let’s just say you could get real rich in exchange for keepin’ your mouth shut. Or, you could look into the future an’ see what was gonna happen, then lay money on it—like a big horse race, or an election, or the stock market, or something, eh? And rake up. That sorta thing.”

  “Wow. That sounds like some doodad,” Skye offered, fighting hard to avoid wincing visibly at the enumeration of unethical ways to utilize her invention.

  “Oh, it is. Pete’s promised me a big ol’ chunk o’ change for doin’ this. Then, when my commission’s up, I’ll retire back to Toronto an’ either go to work for ‘em, or set myself up in business.”

  “You seem like such a nice man, sweetie. This is an awful big risk to take, just t’ make some bucks.”

  “It ain’t just to make money, an’ you know it, Sandy. How many times have I told you about that commanding ossifer of mine? I hate his guts. Sonuvabitch thinks he’s God’s gift to NORAD. And he ain’t even Canadian! I’m reportin’ to a bastard who’s got no right to be orderin’ me around like some grunt! I oughta…”

  Skye blinked, simply listening, as Andrews fairly spouted vitriol, laying out a twisted story of revenge for perceived wrongs.

  * * *

  Skye glanced at the clock by the bedside. It had been slightly over an hour, and Andrews had long since ceased discussing anything of import, moving on to carp about the way particular superior officers treated him.

  “Hey, sweetie,” she addressed Andrews, “I hate to do it to ya, but time’s up.”

  “Aw,” he said, disappointed. “I can pay for another hour; payday was yesterday. I was kinda hoping for some action tonight. I didn’t mean to talk you to death instead.”

  Andrews rolled over, pressing close and groping Skye’s breasts familiarly. When he started working his fingers inside the top of Skye’s merry widow, she caught his hand firmly.

  “Ben, sweetie, you know I’d love to. But I already told ya, I got cramps so bad it feels like my guts are gonna fall out. Besides, I got me a new procurer the other day—”

  “I didn’t know you worked with
a pimp,” Andrews remarked in surprise.

  “Like I said, he’s new. I had some trouble with a client last week, so I figured maybe it was a good idea. An’ he’s due to come by, pretty soon. In fact, I think he’s runnin’ a little late.”

  “He can wait,” Andrews said with a leer.

  “He’s not real patient. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  * * *

  Inside the van, Williams jerked off the headset at the words “new procurer” and scrambled to his feet, grabbing for the expensive jacket and hat draped over the driver’s seat.

  “That’s my cue,” he noted, exiting the van and heading for Sandy’s rooms.

  A pale Holmes leaned forward, watching the monitor.

  * * *

  “He can learn patience or go to hell,” Andrews growled in annoyance, slipping between English and French. “Je vieux un morceau de toi, dammit! Merde! I don’t care if you bleed all over le foutre chambre.” (I want a piece of you, dammit! Shit! I don’t care if you bleed all over the damn bedroom.)

  Suddenly he shoved his hand inside the left cup of Skye’s corset, scooping out her breast. Before she could react, he bent his head to the mound of flesh, and Skye cried out in pain as he bit the nipple brutally. Furious, she positioned her fingertips against his solar plexus and stiffened them, shoving as hard as she could. With a grunt and an exclamation of pain, he recoiled from the pressure-point trigger, instinctively rolling away from her as a knock sounded on the door. Skye tumbled off the opposite side of the bed from Andrews, facing him with a scowl as she tucked her wounded breast back inside her corset.

  “You HURT me,” she growled, then repeated the words she heard in her ear. “You know that’s against the rules.”

  “Sandy?” Williams’ Americanized voice sounded outside the door. “It’s Will. You there?”

  “Yeah, Will, I’m here,” she called, backing toward the door while never taking her eyes off Andrews. She opened it and Williams stepped inside. “I had a client, but he’s leaving now,” she added pointedly.

  “The hell I am,” Andrews muttered truculently.

  “You hurt me,” Skye repeated the words in her ear. “That’s against the rules. You know how this works. You’ve been coming to me long enough. You’ll be lucky if I let you come back at all, let alone next week. That was mean, Ben.”

  “He hurt you, Sandy?” Williams asked solicitously, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-two-inch height, plus stacked heels. Williams was not a small man, broad-shouldered to match his height, and he had dressed the part: He looked every inch the rich, powerful pimp watching out for his girl. “Do I need to…take care of him?” Williams squared his shoulders, put his gold-beringed fist in his palm, and stared Andrews down.

  “Nah, I’m goin,’” Andrews decided, sizing up the much larger man and concluding discretion was called for. He sighed and reached for his clothes, the fit of cruel rage going as quickly as it had come. “I got a little carried away, Sandy,” he noted, attempting an apology, as he got dressed. “You know I’ve been a good bo…uh, client.”

  “Yeah, I know, Ben. PROMISE me you’ll never do it again, though.”

  He looked at her, pleading for a long moment, then nodded, almost like a little boy being punished.

  “Okay. You’re nice, Sandy. Can I see you next week if I promise I’ll be good?”

  Skye paused, pretending to think, but in reality waiting for the answer in her ear.

  “Okay, Ben,” she finally gave reluctant acquiescence, and he left.

  Williams closed the door behind him and listened at the door to ensure Andrews had really left. Once he was convinced, Williams spun to Skye, who promptly dropped all attempts at characterization and leaned over, panting from the ache in her breast.

  “Are you all right? Do you need anything?” he asked urgently.

  “I need two things,” she confessed, grimacing in pain and wrapping her arms across her chest. “An ice pack, and to get the hell out of here.”

  * * *

  Both were provided rapidly. Smith stayed behind to de-bug the room and brief Sandy on follow-ups, while Williams loaded Holmes and Skye into a nondescript navy rental car parked beside the surveillance van. Skye was swathed in a wrap dress over the lingerie, and she and Holmes sprawled in the back seat, out of sight until they got well away from the scene. Holmes stayed on top of her, keeping her hidden, while tenderly holding a chemical cold pack to her injured chest. Williams drove straight for the Cimarron Springs Hotel, and when he arrived, took the vehicle through the loading door in the back and deep into the bowels of the hotel.

  Inside, several operatives took the car while Williams and Holmes shepherded Skye through now-familiar service corridors up to the saferoom. Once inside, a worried Williams seated Skye on the bed and crouched in front of her.

  “Now let me see,” he said urgently, reaching for the top of her dress.

  Holmes stiffened. But Skye recoiled in fear, wrapping her arms protectively across her chest. Williams froze.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, sincerely apologetic. He withdrew his hand and met her eyes. “I’m very, very sorry. Let me try this again. Dr. Chadwick, I need to examine your breast to make sure it wasn’t severely injured. May I please see it?”

  * * *

  Skye swallowed and looked up at Holmes. His grey eyes narrowed in pain at what he saw in her gaze: uncertainty, pleading, and an uncharacteristic need to be told what to do.

  “Everything is all right, Skye,” he murmured, encouraging. “Williams wants to help you. Let him.”

  “Okay,” Skye whispered, lowering her arms and nodding.

  Williams untied the wrap dress and opened it. Hesitant to force the damaged soft tissue from the bra cup cradling it, Williams glanced at Holmes.

  “Would either of you object if we removed…?”

  “It…it’s okay.” Skye swallowed again, but nodded.

  “Shall I just step out, while you do that?” Williams suggested. Skye gave him a grateful glance as he retreated to the other room.

  Skye stood and shrugged out of the dress, tossing it aside. Holmes moved behind her as she reached back, and he helped her unfasten and remove the merry widow, which no longer looked quite so appealing to either of them anymore. He hissed in sympathy at the bruising already evident on her breast, then repaired to the bathroom to get a clean bath sheet. Enveloping her in it—and offering a subtle hug into the bargain—he tied two opposite corners into a knot over her right shoulder, ensuring only the injured left breast was exposed.

  “There. That should do it. How do you…feel, my dear?” he asked quietly, with meaning that went beyond the physical.

  “Okay, I guess. Or as good as can be expected, under the circumstances.” Skye shrugged glumly. She sat back down on the foot of the bed. “Williams, I’m ready.”

  * * *

  Williams entered the room and crouched in front of Skye. His movements were unhurried, small, and gentle; the last thing he wanted to do was spook her again. He had donned a pair of latex examination gloves in order to provide a buffer between his hands and Skye’s skin, and now he delicately palpated the wounded tissue. Holmes stood close, saying nothing, but providing comfort to Skye by his near presence. After several minutes of intent scrutiny, Williams nodded.

  “Nothing appears crushed or seriously damaged, and no broken skin. He nipped it pretty hard, but he wasn’t actually trying to cause injury. You might have some blood or discharge from the nipple later, and we need to get more ice on it soon, but it appears to be only a nasty bruise.”

  “Good,” Skye murmured. “Of course it would be the same side that got shot, too.”

  “I’ll go get some cold packs, and we can begin the therapy,” Williams decided.

  “Take your time,” Skye informed him, standing. “There’s something I need to do first.”

  “What’s that?” Williams wondered, confused. “We need to get cold on it fairly quickly.”

  “I
need to take a shower,” Skye declared, headed for the bathroom.

  “Oh.” Williams glanced eloquently at Holmes: Both men instantly understood the import of that statement. “Okay. I’ll be back in about thirty or forty-five minutes. You kept a pack on it while we were in the car anyway. It’ll be okay.” He disappeared through the bedroom door as Skye closed the bathroom door.

  * * *

  Holmes stood alone in the bedroom, thinking. He remembered a case he had solved years ago, in which a young woman had been unconscionably violated. Her fiancé had rejected her as a result, and her family had come to Holmes in desperation to find the rapist. By the time Holmes had encountered her, the young lady was in a pitiable state, her skin raw, cracked and bleeding. Her mother privately explained she was continually bathing in an attempt to wash away the “soil” of the violent encounter and win back her lost love. It was not until Holmes caught the offender and he had been convicted and sentenced that the young woman finally began to improve. Absently, he wondered what had ever happened to her, and if her lover had returned. Somehow, he doubted it. As if it were her fault, he thought in disgust.

  After his own experience at Spice, Holmes had some idea what it felt like. When he’d gotten back to the ranch after that particular escapade, he’d taken a long, hot shower and reveled in it, feeling much better afterward. But then, he realized, he’d not been attacked, nor was anyone likely to attempt a sexual violation of his being. Holmes was not over-broad, but he was tall and strong, skilled at several martial arts, and tended to present a fairly imposing presence when he so chose.

  Then he glanced at the closed bathroom door. Skye is in there, and feels filthy and tainted, because someone did try to violate her. Making a decision, he slipped inside the bathroom.

  * * *

  The shower was already running, and Skye looked up in surprise, peering at him through the steam. The rest of her lingerie lay discarded heedlessly in a pile on the floor in the corner; her hair was down and the receiver and earpiece lay carefully on the vanity. She stood naked, in preparation to enter the shower.