5 comments/ 7862 views/ 2 favorites MJ 7A: Case of the Little Death Pt 1 By: madam_noe He came on the cusp of a hurricane one night in Honduras. A tropical storm was lashing the coast in preparation for the true destruction, threatening the crops, and though I hoped it would stay my deportation, I was assured by my jailers this was not the case. My flight out of possible mortal end into certain death was scheduled for the next afternoon. How had I, Marly Jackson, a PI from Chicago, ended up in a maximum security prison in Honduras? It was a long story in the making, and only one person left alive knew it almost as well as I did, and I waited for him. In my small cell I had a low cot, a table built into the wall with a metal chair, and a small toilet, the sink was in the tank. I was dressed in a grey dress, unflattering, and in the four months I'd been inside I'd lost even more weight and my hair had grown back to its former length and muddy brown color. For a long time I had lived as someone else but now I was stripped of it and Marly Jackson once more. My only contact with the outside world was when the small sliding door at the bottom of my cell door opened in the morning and evening for my meal. I wasn't allowed outside, not even for exercise, and my window, the size of a postcard showed the line of a desolate beach that would be perfect except it bordered on a godforsaken prison. He'd come and spent the last six nights with me, listening to my tale. How I ended up in a prison in Honduras awaiting extradition to the States for a date with a needle truly began in 1994, fourteen years earlier when I had agreed to help a fellow crooked cop pull a robbery. I hadn't known then it would lead to my downfall, so what I remember most about those intervening years was Michael Finnegan. He was the love of my life, the bane of my existence, and my former partner from my beat cop days in the Chicago police force and ever so much more. My visitor had listened for six nights to the stories of Finn in our time post-police force. He brought with him Belmont cigarettes and smuggled in a flask of whiskey the last two nights. My visitor was a priest and though this was confession from a lapsed, unconfirmed catholic convicted of now four murders, I thought he was softening to me. I was counting on it. The rapid instructions in Spanish came at precisely 8p.m. when the wind was howling and rain lashed the building, seeping in the window and soaking the toilet. I stood next to it in full view of the door, braced my palms on the slick wall, and spread my legs. The door opened with a clank and at long last light came. The power had been out since morning and the guard brought a torch with him he placed in a sconce on the wall by the desk. I was patted down, careless fat fingers examining my nipples and panties more thoroughly than any place I could hide a weapon and I gritted my teeth. One good thing about solitary was it cut down on fighting rape, but it sure as shit didn't stop the groping. The first and only time I'd fought it I'd nearly lost a couple of teeth. The fat fuck guard exchanged a few cautions with my visitor and the closed the door. I turned as the priest sat at the small desk chair, pulling his hood back. He was Franciscan, old-school, but unlike most of the priests I knew back home we was young, good looking, what as a kid I would have called father What-A-Waste. "Senora Javier," he said with a nod. Indeed I was legally Marly Javier these days, though a widow convicted of her husband's murder. Tonight was the tale explaining that on my last night in the sweaty, dirty, little country. "Padre," I said with the flawless Venezuelan accent I'd picked up in the last almost three years of living in South America. "I have the cigarettes," he said in perfect but accented English. He passed me the pack and I resisted the urge to kiss his hand, and just took one. He smoked as well and pulled one out, lighting mine then his and putting the lighter away. "I'm glad you've come back. I wasn't sure you would." "You promised me the story of how you came to be in this place tonight. Your earlier tales have been so fascinating how could I resist? Tell me your story and forgiveness is yours, my child." Having a man ten years my junior call me "my child" made me smile and I sat on the bed. I put out my empty dinner plate to use and ashtray and took a long pull. "Where did we leave off?" "You told me of your days on the police force, and how your partner Arthur Bowers talked you into robbing Mr. Alejandro Javier. You told me how an ex-lover, Eddie Harwood, killed a woman he was having an affair with, one he'd fathered a child with, and then an unknown man killed this Harwood. These are the murders you were convicted of in the States, yes?" I nodded. "Killing a pregnant woman...it's a death sentence where I come from." "And the only man who can clear you of these charges was a pimp named Alabaster whom you lost. This Arthur Bowers testified in court that you had committed the robbery and killed three people in California. Your lover, Mr. Finnegan took some cash from you to find Bowers, to kill him before he could testify, and then find this Alabaster. Do I have everything correct, senora?" I laughed hollowly. "That's how it happened but none of it was correct." "You were convicted of those murders while here, and now convicted of two murders in Honduras. This is the tale I want to know. You have admitted so many sins that when you claim your innocence in these crimes here, I find myself wanting to believe you." "Got a flask, padre?" He pulled one from his robes and passed it over. I unscrewed the top and took a deep swig. It was Jack, not the good stuff like I was used to, but I was half Irish and could drink gasoline in a pinch. "All right, padre, it started the day I met Luis Javier." And like that, I was back in Chicago three years earlier, unaware of what a dark twist my fate would take. *** I was going to have to run. It was a wet March day and I sat in my office and looked around. I'd been a PI for over ten years and all of it in this office. My building was small, a couple of retail shops below in front of the parking spots, above them and the spots were the offices; me, a dentist, and an ESL school. Most of my career had been spent on penny-ante cases and blackmailing cheating spouses but a few turns of good luck had given me black and white marble floors, antique 1920's furniture, and once a real George Tooker, my favorite artist. In worse times I'd had to sell it and a print hung in its place now. I had dozens of books, a great liquor cabinet, a pull out couch to sleep on and a full bathroom with a tiny washer and dryer crammed in by the sink. That afternoon I was meeting with a man who was going to get me out of the country and leave it all behind. There were those two murder charges against me for the shooting death of Eddie Harwood and his pregnant mistress Stormy Michaels on the backburner, but a grand jury was convening about the Bowers incident and I faced extradition to California for three more murders. Six months ago I'd given Finn, aka Michael Finnegan, one million in cash to kill Bowers and stop his testimony, then to find Alabaster, the man who could clear me of at least 2 murders. Alabaster and I had grown up in the dingy Pilsen neighborhood together, a historically bad neighborhood now being taken over by hipsters. Whereas a track scholarship got me to college Alabaster became a pimp and small time drug dealer. The bastard had always out-earned me, enough that he was somewhere in Europe, a free man. He'd been connected to Harwood, how I still had no idea, and he knew the truth; Harwood had killed his mistress Stormy and then some unknown man killed Harwood. Finn had kissed me senseless, taken the money, and I'd never heard from him again. His beautiful Mustang, a car I loved, was still parked in the garage below his empty luxury apartment in a brownstone on LSD. His only friend in the city, his former assistant Carlos had sworn time and time again he'd heard nothing and was worried. I believed him; under my fists and gun most people cracked but he hadn't changed his story. At best Finn was dead; at worst he'd betrayed me and left me to lose everything. I packed. Clothes mostly, holsters, guns, bullets, a few fake IDs I used time to time, and some books I loved. The computer I'd destroy when I knew I was leaving but I still had a while. Luis Javier was due in a few minutes. Luis was the younger brother of Alejandro Javier, the former head of the international Javier drug cartel. Luis was a Harvard educated lawyer and not part of the organization, but Bowers had fingered him for Alejandro's death. He had money, we had a common enemy, and so he'd been the one person I could turn to for help though we'd never met. A knock came at my door. I opened my suit jacket and undid the snap holding my gun in for a quick-draw not knowing what to expect. The man waiting outside my door was alone and surprising. Tall, slim, broad shouldered and dressed expensively he reminded me almost of Finn with his curly black hair, but this main was dusky-toned and his eyes looked black, they were so dark a brown. "Miss Jackson?" "In the flesh." He smiled wryly. "I am Luis Javier." His accent was a more flat American accent than mine with my Chicago A's. We shook hands and I showed him in, closed the door behind me. "Cop a squat, want a drink?" "Scotch, neat, if you have it." "I do," I said buoyantly. In my life anyone who could drink that at 2p.m. was all right in my book. I crossed to the bar as he sat and poured two, setting them on the desk before taking the chair behind it. "Thank you. I'll keep this quite brief as we need to move fast. I have no interest in my brother's affairs except this man, Arthur Bowers, who I know killed him is setting me up to take the fall. After your call I did some checking and I see he is a definite problem for you too." I nodded and knocked back a sip. "All true, a thorn in both our sides. You dropped the name Michael Finnegan...why?" "I understand you have quite the history with Mr. Finnegan," Luis said taking a gentlemanly sip of scotch. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, refusing to answer. He sighed. "Finnegan is in South America. For whatever reason he's been hitting my family's operations there, and I have reason to believe he's working with Arthur Bowers." I tried not to show what a punch to the gut that was. I wanted to call bullshit, but I didn't know this man yet. If he had reason to lie I couldn't figure it, but in my experience that meant little. "Why's that?" "I've been able to track Bowers to Caracas. He was there, Finnegan arrived, and then he disappeared. Finnegan went off the radar and then starts hitting our operations. My brother invested in Mr. Finnegan's company, he has no reason to target our operations, but Bowers has every reason, including a history of it." He said this pointedly. Yeah, back in '94 when Bowers and I had been detectives in homicide and he'd needed fast cash we'd hit a drug shipment with cash. That it had belonged to Alejandro Javier had been a most a major fuckup. "I cleared that with your brother. He got it all back." "And for that I have no reason to see you dead, Miss Jackson." I took a long pull of my cigarette and knocked back another sip. "Off to a great start then." "If you and wish to remain free we must leave the country. What I propose is this: we head to Caracas and find a Juanita Morales. She's the one woman who connects the two men." "The name sounds familiar." "She's cousin to an employee of Mr. Finnegan, a Carlos Morales." I stubbed out my cigarette. "He doesn't know about this." Luis smiled. "No, he doesn't." His distant smile was more chilling than any threat I'd ever heard from a drug dealer or kingpin. My opinion of lawyers simultaneously raised and lowered, and I knew better than to ask how he was certain. "All right, so we know where to go. When do we leave?" He held up his hand and crossed his legs at the knee. "Not so fast, miss Jackson. In exchange for financing our little flight and furnishing you with an untraceable identity, I ask two small favors. After you help me find Bowers and Finnegan, you eliminate them." I stood and crossed to the window. Bowers I could kill on a children's television program and never lose a minute of sleep, but Finn... "Time is short. I have word you will be arrested this very afternoon, Miss Jackson." Treat it like a case, I said to myself. Find Bowers, kill him, let Luis do it, doesn't matter. Find Finn and decide then. "A new foolproof ID and three million cash to start a new life. For that I find both these men and we deal with them." I turned to find he'd risen, and stood directly behind me. I stretched out my hand and he took it. "This had better work." "Nothing is guaranteed, Miss Jackson, but some chance is better than none." That those words had often been my motto is what made me begin to trust Luis Javier. *** We touched down in Caracas late the next night after a few detours. Numbly I'd watched the dark night passing, unable to sleep on the flight. Luis assured me my office had been torched, my computer gutted and the hard disks removed, destroyed elsewhere. I was done, no connections left to my old life. My mother had disappeared before I could walk and my dad had died when I was a kid, shot off duty in a robbery. My godmother was buried next to him and my godfather Buzz was dying in a hospice, delirious. I had gone to see him before Luis came and he hadn't recognized me, another stone in the wall around my heart. The last connection was the man I loved, the man I was planning to kill. We'd flown to Mexico City and there I'd had my hair cut to a pageboy and dyed black, and Luis had slicked his hair back. Both of us prone to suits we'd dumped our clothes for plain t-shirts and jeans and Luis donned prescription-less glasses, getting me brown colored contacts in my prescription without asking or taking me to a doctor. I could pass for Latina as long as I didn't speak. My Spanish was the Mexican variety and damn good, but my accent was a dead giveaway. In Caracas we arrived as Mexican national Luis Gonzales and his Canadian girlfriend Angela Meyers. Luis slipped so easily into a local accent it made me wonder. We didn't get a hotel, just rented a car and drove to the address we had for Juanita. The airport was 30 miles outside of town and the drive was easy, but lengthy. It gave us time to talk. "You ever kill anyone?" I asked as a starter, because my tact had always been likened to a Lovecraftian God at a Japanese tea ceremony. He nearly swerved off the road. "No." "How can you be sure it's the right thing to do?" "You saying they don't deserve it, after all they've done to us?" I pulled out a pack of Marlboros. I couldn't find Camels in Mexico but guessed I should alter my habits now that I had a new life. Find Arthur Bowers and kill him...great. Find Finn and...it depended. Then what? Three million was a good amount of money but it depended entirely on me trusting this man. "Tell me about yourself, Miss Jackson." I lit the cigarette and noticed his lingering glance on it. Hmm, I'd heard of smoking fetishes before but never met anyone with one. I didn't acknowledge it, just rolled down the window. "I was born and I ain't died yet. You?" "Most informative. I guess one could say the same for me." We'd read the files on one another. He knew damn well I was almost 35, was a former cop, a half-assed P.I., and Olympic drinker and a gun enthusiast. I'm sure somewhere in there it mentioned I held the world record for fucking the bad guy. His said he was thirty three, worked on celebrity cases, had no known connections to his brother's organization other than blood. He made bank on his own and had once been engaged to an aspiring actress who died in an accident on the 405 just a year prior. He pulled out is notebook with the address and directions as we hit the edge of Caracas proper. "I guess we'd better discuss what we'll say to Miss Morales." "Usually a gun says it all," I quipped and ashed out the window. My shorter hair felt strange and I knew I'd better get used to it soon. "Are you always this tough, Miss Jackson?" "It's Miss Meyers now, and yeah. When I was born they called in a diamond miner instead of a midwife." He smiled at that. We finished the drive in silence, me smoking and him glancing, to a part of town that wasn't as nice as downtown or the tourist beach side. Here it looked like Brooklyn in the 1910's, laundry hanging everywhere, kids half-dressed and playing in the streets, alleys crowded by women in scant clothes and young men with old eyes. We found a small house, built in the 80's it was faded yellow with a dilapidated fence and overgrown yard. It looked abandoned, with broken windows and the smell of rotted food wafting out on the afternoon sun. We parked and Luis set the car alarm. If I'd been able to bring a gun I would have flashed it at the teenagers eyeing the rented Camry but that was one trick harder than people thought to pull off in an airport. I'd been bluffing about shoving a gun in her face, hoping to surprise him when I used my fist instead. We walked to the front door and knocked. It swung open. "Shit," Luis cursed as we glanced around. We found graffiti and the place half-emptied; what hadn't been stolen had been trashed. The rotted food scent came from the fridge and in the basement we found lamination sheets but no machine, and rows and rows of gun racks empty. No blood, bodies, or signs of a struggle it looked like Juanita had abandoned her stock and wares. I glanced at the racks and machines. "Looks like a woman both Bowers and Finn would hit up separately, not necessarily together." "Only Miss Morales can answer that. How long you think she's been gone?" "Some time, hard to say exactly. Depending on how active local homeless and drug users are, I'd guess at least two months, by the food smells." He curled his fist and let it relax, breathing in carefully measured doses. "What next?" "We talk to the neighbors. How charming can you be? You sound native, better'n me." He smiled at me then, teeth event, straight, and perfectly white, the smile wide enough to show dimples. Yeah, he'd broken a few hearts in his day, so I jerked a nod and lead him outside. The neighbors to the east weren't home so we went to the ones to the west, Luis knocking loudly. In fluent Spanish so rapid I understood 80% of it, he asked the woman with a dangling cigarette and baby on the hip if she had known her neighbor. The woman glanced at me and I smiled, cooing at the baby. Faking maternal instinct went a long way with a mother. She replied that Juanita had been a dealer of many things and four months ago she had taken in a man, white, tall, and dark (fitting Finn's description to a T when she mentioned a tattoo on his forearm) who had stayed a couple of months. Juanita had left in the middle of the night and the man, presumably Finn, had left the next day. Luis was about to give up when I tried with my best attempt at a local accent if anyone else had stopped by. Her eyes said yes but she shook her head so I nudged Luis. He pulled off a bill, cien bolivares fuerte, close to a hundred bucks and passed it to her. She asked us to wait and left the inner door open, looking through papers on a small desk in the entryway. She came back and handed a card to Luis who glanced at it blankly and passed it to me. When I read the name I had to control myself and said thank you, turning to leave. Luis jogged after me as I lit a cigarette with shaky hands. MJ 7A: Case of the Little Death Pt 1 "What is it?" I passed back the card. "Arturo Delgado...that was a name Bowers used undercover in drug busts. His grandmother was Mexican, so with a tan and some hair dye, like me, he can pull it off. It's a local number." "Why are you smiling?" I stopped on the sidewalk and forced the smile down. "Bigger mystery. If Bowers was looking for Finn it means they weren't working together." "Au contraire. Perhaps Finn double crossed him. Seems to have a habit of doing that." Luis walked around the car. "Touché," was all I could mutter. Luis popped the locks and sighed. "Let's call him." I shook my head. "We need to be prepared. Scout a meeting location, know if anyone controls the area, get our hands on guns." He gave me a small smile of approval, like I was earning my fee, or was a dog who just shit on the disliked neighbors lawn. "I know just the place." He drove us to a neighborhood that was the transition from ghetto to tourist developments. The houses were small but the yards tidy and here kids played happily behind fences. There were no women lounging about smoking and waiting for johns, but a few of those hungry-eyed young men, only better dressed. Luis put through a call as we drove telling someone he was the big man, and he was coming. Big talk for an entertainment lawyer half a world away. We were met by a man with enough gold chains and tattoos he could have a great career as a rapper back home. He grinned, called me the boss' woman, told me I was beautiful, then blithely ignored me. Great to be in a world where tits downgraded you. Luis asked for guns and the young man was shocked he indicated me as well, but fetched some. A Smith & Wesson 9mm for me, and a Glock for Luis. Travel the world over and languages, currency, and customs changed, but guns were as constant as gas companies. Luis asked about a safe house with an eyebrow waggle, intimating we needed a place to screw. I lit another cigarette, itching for action, preferable to slap him for the act, but kept silent and let him get the directions. My partner declined to talk business, praised the rapper-wannabe, and we left. Back in the car I shifted my gun and sighed. "Sure you don't want any part of the family business?" He started the engine and laughed. "If the connections can get us guns and a place to lay low, I'll use it." Smart, I admitted, and didn't respond as we pulled out. We found a neighborhood bordering on the business district that had coffee shops and restaurants beneath office buildings, all controlled by his family. The safe house was a luxury apartment ten stories above the street. Further than I'd like but it helped. We checked it out and found a space that looked like s timeshare; full furnished everything in cream and neutral tones. Starved we picked up sandwiches from a restaurant below and coffee and a disposable cell phone. It was now seven a.m. and I wanted sleep but we had work to do. Upstairs we discussed the plan and then Luis called the number. Shockingly he was answered by an answering service and he left the message to call back regarding a job offer. Now we had to wait. We ate, did the necessary, and he let me take the bed and slept on the couch. We rose before dinner time and there was no response. "Mind if I smoke inside?" I asked when we'd cleaned up. "On one condition. If you find this strange and decline I won't ask again. Will you blow the smoke into my face?" I lit up without responding. He found an ashtray in a nearly-empty cupboard and sat next to me on the cream couch, our coffees still cooling on the table. I turned and leaned close, exhaling. He breathed it in and closed his eyes, moaning softly. He really did have good bones, showing in sharp contrast to his slicked back hair. With the fake black plastic-rimmed glasses he was one zoot suit away from a costume. He opened those dark eyes so close to my face and smiled slowly. "Very nice." I pulled back for another pull and feeling braver, cupped his chin and drew his face so close our lips almost touched. This smoke I let waft out slowly and he inhaled it deeply, shivering. He opened his eyes once more and gave me plenty of time to stop the kiss, but I couldn't. Stressed, disoriented in life, I wanted human touch, comfort, and that this was kink helped me to accept him without worry it would be seen as more than simple comfort. He kissed softly, hesitantly, with surprising shyness. He had the calm, confident, capable manner of a man used to taking charge but this reticence spoke volumes. We didn't know each other, didn't trust each other. Sickly, that only aroused me more. He reached for my cigarette and brought my hand down to the ashtray to stamp it out just as his tongue slid inside. My other hand slipped to one broad shoulder and stroked slowly. His hands returned and stole under my shirt, tugging down the cups of my bra and Luis pinched my nipples lightly, without warning. I gasped into his mouth and dug my nails into his arm and he chuckled. He shifted to his knees and then bent me back to lay on the cushions. He broke off to sit up and began unbuttoning his jeans to free the large bulge behind it. Sensing what he wanted I licked my lips, ready for a little fun, but suddenly the phone rang. We both cursed and reached for it before I remembered he was the one expecting the call back. "Si?" he said nearly panting. I flopped back down, horny as hell and disappointed, trying to will the blood back into my head to get ready for action. "When? When did you last? How does he pay. Yes, I can wait." He gave me a look that did not say he was happy. "I understand. Well, thank you," he said in flawless Spanish and hung up. Suddenly he cursed and threw the phone across the room. "She said they haven't been able to reach Arturo, the last time he called in was a month ago and the number is disconnected. He paid a year in advance in cash." "He was here with a working number as recent as a month ago. I'm good at what I do, I can work with this." It was almost visible the way he pulled his temper back in. "It's almost dinner time now, what can we do?" I smiled and pulled my t-shirt over my head. "I can think of a few things." "Shower. Now." He stood and helped me up, then put his hands on my waist and pushed me to the bathroom off the hall. I was content to let him start the show as long as I got a chance to be in command at some point. He stripped off my clothes, keeping his on, as the shower started. "Get in," he said roughly when I was naked. I slipped in and ducked my head under the water. Since the haircut the back of my neck had been itchy and this was heaven. Luis kept the curtain open, watching me. Well, a new kink was always promising. At long last he removed his shirt showing lean finely sculpted muscles. He was the kind of man who likely had a high class gym membership and a personal trainer and it showed. He reached behind me and wet his hands in the spray then grabbed the bar of soap. He tore off the wrapping and let it fall to the floor then sudded up his hands. "Come closer," he huskily intoned and I stepped from the spray. "Hold the shower head, both hands." I raised my arms above my head and saw he appreciated the lift of my breasts. Then those soapy hands began washing me, thoroughly. It wasn't sexual, it seemed almost medicinally clinical, but his erection never flagged. Everything was attended to with detachment, even as a soapy hand smoothed between my legs. "Spread wider," he said softly but briskly and I did. I was rewarded by a slick finger teasing over my clit and I gasped. He smiled, eyes riveted to his own hand, not meeting mine. He stroked and smoothed, teasing only, and it was so strangely arousing my toes curled and I leaned my hips into his hand, silently begging for more. His free hand then reached and grabbed the detachable shower head from where I grasped and pulled. I kept my grip on the holder and he trailed the water over my suds-covered body, teasing my nipples with it, almost tickling my stomach until he reached my pussy. I'd never masturbated with one before like I'd read in 70's novels, but when he turned it on full blast I wondered why I hadn't ever tried. He spread my lips and touched it close, the water pulsing now and I gasped. Luis laughed and my hands slipped, going for my breasts. "Back up!" he ordered and I clutched at it. It felt amazing, but was just a tease. I'd never reach orgasm this way but he didn't seem to care, and kept it moving back and forth, almost rubbing but not quite. At long last I was getting close, and I began to beg in a broken voice. Luis dropped the showerhead and jerked my body to face him standing outside the tub. He dropped to his knees and pressed his mouth to my pussy and formed a tight seal with his lips. He sucked and at the same time his tongue lightly flicked my clit. I came with a wail and grabbed the shower curtain rod, jerking it as I fought to stay standing. Luis brought his hands to my thighs to help me but did not stop his mouth and it kept coming in wave after wave of pleasure. I shook the rod and jerked, trying to get away from him as my clit became sensitive even as the orgasm continued but Luis kept fastened to me. Finally he pulled away as I was panting and gasping. He stood but quickly sat on the closed toilet and opened his pants, pulling that erection out. It was thick and curved, heavier at the top which was wet with precum. "Out," he ordered curtly and I stepped from the shower. I dripped water everywhere but didn't give a shit. I was lightheaded and still aroused and here was a chance to control him in one of my favorite ways. I knelt and he grabbed my head, forcing it to his crotch. I used my hands to stay my mouth, cupping his balls and fisting the base and began massaging both. Only when he growled did I lower my mouth and begin to suck. His balls were tight, he was close and the novelty almost did me in. We were fucking like kinky teenagers, and it struck me I hadn't bought any condoms and I doubted he had so this was our only option. He tasted salty and heady and I swirled my tongue around his head with every suck until he urged me faster. His hands fisted in my hair and he began to move me. I kept my hand fused to my mouth and sucked hard and soon he was making nearly helpless little pants and his balls were plastered to his body. Luis came with a groan and I swallowed it all, careful to gently suck it out and let go as soon as the spurts stopped. I lay my head on his denim-clad thigh panting, and he leaned back doing the same. "That was...distracting," he said. For once in recent memory I fucked, in a manner of speaking, a man other than Finn and it didn't feel wrong. I didn't feel hollow or guilty. I felt...intrigued. *** The good padre cleared his throat and I was snapped back to the present day. I realized I had a hand tracing the indent of my waist and had perhaps lingered too long on that part of the story. The Franciscan was blushing and I cleared my throat, asking for another cigarette. This time he passed me the lighter as well, moving stiffly enough I knew he was effected, and I smiled. "So what did you do to find this Bowers? Did you ever find him before he found you?" I lit the cigarette and passed back the lighter. "It was one dead end after another. I never knew Arthur to be smart when we worked together but apparently those ten years of living off the radar had taught him a few tricks. He paid cash, used disposable phones or temporary numbers. We never got closer than a month behind, after two months of looking. "Luis and I got an apartment together. He found someone to help him with papers and got his license in Caracas and opened up shop as a lawyer. Ironic as he was a felon on the run, but it worked. He grew his hair out, straightened it, and those glasses made superman into Clark Kent. "I kept looking but after two months turned to Finn. Juanita's neighbor said he'd been injured when he was staying there and so I checked with every area hospital. "All the while Luis and I grew closer. Maybe it was the bond we shared with a life on the run, maybe it was the fact we both had our kinks, maybe it was true love, but whatever it was I did fall in love with him." He frowned and passed me the flask. "Did you forget Finn?" I shook my head and took a swig. "You never forget your first love. Oh, I tried not to think of him that way, think of him as a case, but it was hard when I was living with a man who reminded me of him in almost every way but Finn's goofy sense of humor." And Luis had never learned, nor had I told him the one erotic trick Finn knew that drove me wild. Kind of hard to tell a man who proposed to you at a five tar restaurant how you needed a thumb in your ass to be truly happy during sex. "Finn had been shot, went to ground, it got infected. He checked into a hospital but something spooked him and he checked out and went to stay with Juanita Morales. Nothing suggested Bowers had been there other than once to buy a gun as Luis' man reported then once again looking for Finn when both Juanita and Finn had skipped town." "So what does a PI do in this situation?" "Actually, I retired." He raised his eyebrows and pulled out a cigarette, offering me one. I took it and he lit for me so I could take a deep pull and sit back. "I retired when Finn's trail disappeared, and Juanita's seemed to never exist. Luis and I grew closer and he asked me to marry him. "I loved him, all right, and by then I was truly Angela Meyers. I said yes and we got married in Caracas one year after we'd left the states. "It was all right. He worked the firm, low level cases, made good money, had more stashed away. I studied art in college and he worked some magic to get me a job as a curator at the Museum of Colonial Art. For almost a year we were the perfect couple. He hired other P.I.s to find Finn and Bowers, I had a fulfilling job, and we grew closer. It was all good until the night Luis came home late from work bedraggled. He told me he had to leave town for a case, packed enough for a week, kissed me, and left saying he'd explain it when he came back." "Where did he go?" "At first I assumed he was going with a mistress. Surprised? One reason I loved my husband was he, like me, didn't believe in monogamy. He had far more lovers than I did but he always gave me priority." "So he was with a lover?" "I thought so, and maybe that was why I was so receptive Erik Hamm when he arrived." "Who was this man?" I took another pull. "It's best left to the flow of the story." "Please, continue." *** It was a foggy night of the Pacheco when I spent my first night in Caracas alone and a knock came at the door of the townhouse. December and January were the coldest months in Caracas, a balmy 70 Fahrenheit, but peppered by fog called Pacheco by the locals. It was like the city dressed itself for a movie and the crime rates rose when anonymity was granted by the weather gods. So Luis who had left mysteriously the night before for a week had left me with guns and ammo, two things this girl valued more than diamonds. I might wear suits and work days at a museum but some things never change. I'd been eating dinner, fresh fish cooked by the maid we employed since domestic was one word that would never describe my husband or I. I grabbed my new Taurus from the hall table, checked the chamber and cartridge, turned off the safety, and put it in my left hand. I put on the chain and opened the door to the hall. The hall was common to our townhouse and the empty one next door Luis also rented to guarantee privacy. The outer door had a buzzer and only Luis, the maid, and I had a key. I opened the door to a man I didn't recognize. Tall, slim, Caucasian and blonde he had the razor-sharp bones of Germanic ancestry. He wore a suit, carried a briefcase, and looked tense. "Yes?" "Mrs. Gonzales?" "In the flesh," I said tersely in English. He seemed surprised. I tanned regularly, still dyed my hair black and wore those brown contacts. My Hungarian side was often interpreted as Hispanic. "I'm Erik Hamm, I work with your husband. Is he home? I have urgent news." "He's indisposed. What do you do for him?" He reached into his coat and pulled out an ID that said he was a P.I. Venezuela didn't license them and his said Argentina. "I'm an investigator, he paid me to find two people." "Hang on." I closed the door, slipped the gun under my suit jacket and undid the chain. I opened it wide and stepped to the side to let him in. He rushed past me with a nod, eyes taking in the townhouse. My husband, every the particular one, was obsessed with white. Everything was white from the carpet to my outfit to the pots and pans. Against it his black suit and shoes looked like coal. He saw my looking and fidgeted. "Should I remove them?" I shook my head. "I was eating dinner, join me in the dining room and you can tell me what this is about. Do you like white wine?" "Yes," he said with that trace of a German accent. I sat back at my plate and motioned to the place next to me at the round table. The maid had left two glasses out and set two places since I hadn't told her my husband was gone. I poured him a glass but did not offer food, instead returning to my lovely fish in wine sauce and sautéed potatoes. "So what is this news?" "I must confess Mrs. Gonzales, I lied." I raised a brow and swallowed my bite. "P.I.s usually do trying to gain access to a home." "The urgent news I gave your husband a few days ago and he left town without paying my fee." My heart stopped. This German man from Argentina had found Finn? Maybe Bowers? Maybe both? And Luis, who I'd come to trust had gone off alone to find them? "Who did you find?" "A man named Dujuan Hill, aka Alabaster." I slammed my fist on the white-laminated table making the plates and Hamm jump. "Where is he?" "I could not narrow down a location more specific than Paris but I spoke to him on the phone. I'd tracked an Arthur Bowers there but his trail went cold. I looked a bit more into your husband's past and, I apologize, yours, and discovered this Alabaster. I got a number for him in Paris. "When I spoke to him he claimed he knew nothing of Bowers but he wanted to speak to your husband. I gave your husband the number and then he took off, leaving on a flight to London last night." I stared at him levelly for a moment, set down my knife and fork and took out a soft pack of Belmonts from my jacket and shook one loose. "So what is it exactly you want?" I lit the cigarette and shimmied the gun into a better position. Shooting Hamm in the white dining room wasn't a great idea but if I had to, I would. "I was promised fifty thousand American for any information, one hundred more per each man I was paid to find, this Arthur bowers and a Michael Finnegan. I simply want my fifty thousand." "My husband will be back in one week. Surely you can wait." Hamm took a sip of wine. "I was given a paltry ten thousand up front. The problem is this has become my only case. I have a lead on this Michael Finnegan but I need more money to pursue it." My poor heart stuttered again and I had to wonder if at the ripe old age of 35 I was having a heart attack. "How good is this lead?" He leaned in close despite my exhalation of smoke. "As recent as four days." "How reliable?" "I understand you yourself worked as a detective. It's solid gold, as you Americans say." The way he casually dropped so much info on my real life made me wonder if this was a blackmail scheme. My husband and I were worth far more than $50,000 so it seemed a stretch. MJ 7A: Case of the Little Death Pt 1 "I'll make you a deal, Mr. Hamm. If we leave in the morning, you and I me, and follow this up, I will finance it all with the understanding this is a new agreement. The fifty thousand is between you and Luis, this is between you and I. I pay all expenses and if we find Finnegan I'll give you two hundred thousand to never mention it to Mr. Gonzales." He sat back and blinked. "How do I know you're good for it?" "The same way I know you're good." He smiled. "All right." "Be here, nine a.m. and I'll take care of the rest." I stood then and stubbed out the cigarette on my plate, my appetite dead. He rose with me but opened his briefcase on the table and pulled out a printout of a digital photo. "This was taken four days ago in a small town south of Santiago." Hamm passed it to me and shock rolled over me again. The photo was unmistakably Finn. Tall and rangy he was thinner, just as I was. I supposed life on the run meant hunger no matter how much money you had. He was tanned, his hair, last worn long, was cut brutally short into a buzzcut and he head a small trimmed beard. He wore aviator sunglasses and his crooked smile, his green tank top showing off those tattoos he was too stupid to cover. His arm was thrown around a young woman with the clothes and bearing of a whore and they were standing next to an open air jeep. Maybe I would kill him for fun. "Wait here," I said and set the paper down on the table. I left him and walked upstairs to my bedroom, removed the Miro print above the never-used fireplace and opened the safe. I counted out $10,000 U.S. and brought it back down bundled in hundreds by a bank. "Here, this is a free one-time payment to never ever mention this picture to my husband. Be here at nine sharp." He took the cash and put it in the case, locked it tight, then pulled it and straightened his suit. I walked him to the door and opened it. "Wear casual clothes tomorrow, but nothing touristy." He nodded and I watched him walk out the door. When he disappeared into the fog I went inside, took the photo to the white-enameled sink, and lit it on fire. When the flames licked towards my hand I dropped it and watched it burn to ashes. *** Not to malign other cultures, but in counties that had not experienced 9/11 and had governments less paranoid, stupidly so in many cases, it was easier to get a gun onto a plane. I'd risen early, called in to work to take a week's vacation, left a voicemail on Luis' phone that I was going to a spa with my one friend from work, a Canadian national named Tiffney. Then I went shopping and paid cash for casual clothes, nothing white. At nine Hamm arrived in worn jeans, dusty combat boots, and a t-shirt that looked like he wore it at the gym the pit stains were so fixed. I didn't ask how, but his short blonde hair was now pulled back into a ponytail and long. Which was the wig I couldn't say. I hadn't straightened my hair the way Luis like, left it to its natural wave but kept it black and I myself wore a plain blue long sleeved t-short and crisp dark jeans above cheap sneakers. I sported drug store sunglasses and plastic earrings, a far cry from the uniform my husband demanded. "Our tickets are waiting. Let's walk and catch a cab,' I said by way of greeting. We walked two miles away and found a taxi to the airport. I'd given them his name and for me one of the ones I'd brought from America that had sat unused in the safe. The flight to Santiago was quick and we barely spoke, preferring both to read. He had a novel in German and I stuck to the crappy in flight Spanish language magazines. We touched down and had a quick meal in the airport before renting a car under my name. Only once inside it did we finally talk. "Where am I going?" "Small settlement outside Molina." He passed me the directions written in a small notebook in precise, exact handwriting in English. These days I not only spoke Spanish, I found myself thinking in it so English was a bit jarring, but I shifted into first and directed the ancient Chevy towards the highway. He'd come prepared, the stereo was so old it took cassette tapes, and he popped in one that began to blare Iron Maiden. Harder rock than I liked he was bobbing his head so I only turned it down slightly and concentrated on driving. We had a 4 hour drive ahead of us and the thought was depressing as we made our slow way through traffic in the big city. I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. "So how did you find Finn?" Hamm pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and motioned for my lighter. I passed it over and he lit up before replying, passing the plastic lighter back. "He'd been hitting Javier operations and was injured. So I made a list of doctors I could find that were good, took cash, were discreet, near Javier operations, but didn't work for the family." Smart, damn smart, I thought but just nodded. "It lead to the last hit at Rancuga. Finnegan made off with two million pesos and the next place he could head to is Molina. He has about two weeks between hits and we're three days from the next. "I sent a man there and he got the photograph. Finnegan is hiding out in a small house, run by a local man name Castillo. He's not with the Javier family, runs woman, guns, local protection rackets. Finnegan sometimes hires local help for a cut." Hamm was good. Smart for his age, which I estimated to be just under thirty. "So how friendly is this Castillo?" "Not very, runs a gang mostly of the bastards spawned by his women. The plan was to rent a room, make some noise about opening up a business. He'd send a man around to get me for a meeting. Once inside Castillo's I plan to get Finnegan." "Would I make a good prospective business partner?" Hamm shook his head. "This is a world where women are objects. I'm sorry for that, Mrs. Gonzales." "Oh, for fuck's sake, you know who I am. Call me Marly, no one else does and I miss it." "Then call me Erik." That was all we said until we stopped for a late lunch. We stopped at a dingy little roadside diner and I had the Costillar de Chanco, baked spare ribs, and Hamm had Empanada di Pino, which admittedly to me sounded gross containing not only meat onions and olives, but raisins and hard boiled eggs. We shared a small bottle of good wine and freshened up in the rest room before leaving. Driving Highway 5 was an alien experience compared to much of the U.S. road system. No billboards, almost no tourist traps, just open scenery. No speed traps or patrols, lots of old cars, and people didn't drive like Americans who seemed to think every road was a Nascar race. Hamm showed hidden depths when we switched from Iron Maiden to The Who. When "Eminence Front" came on I just lit another cigarette and tried not react. We made Molina by dinnertime and decided the best place to start was another diner. I was full of meat and got a large empanada with cheese, and Hamm opted for a large bowl of chicken soup. Some recipes barely changed from one country to the next and wended up sharing, creating the Chilean equivalent to a grilled cheese and soup. Loudly we discussed settling there and opening up a business, but we kept the nature vague, even asking the tired waitress about good land outside of town. Obligingly she passed us a business card that identified Hector Castillo as a realtor. She also directed us to a small hotel nearby and when we arrived it was what I would have called a B&B; Hamm called it a filthy hostel for suckers. It was a small yellow house with a living room hastily converted to an office with a folding table and chair as a front desk. We paid forty pesos for the one room and found the master bedroom was it. Two other bedrooms had bunk beds and toys to match the kids playing noisily outside, the fourth had a double bed and was where the owners, two short, fat, but friendly people, slept. We unpacked and the wife, Mrs. Flores offered us drinks on the porch. We accepted and sat on the cracked wooden bench drinking tequila and orange juice from plastic cups watching the lovely view of a dusty yard and the drive. It took an hour but soon an old Buick with chrome rims and a booming bass pulled up. A young man in expensive sneakers, shorts, and a t-short with some Japanese cartoon on emerged. "You the German?" He asked Hamm by way of greeting. Hamm slid me his empty cup and stood, surreptitiously checking the gun at his back. "Ja." The young man spit. "Habla espanol?" "Pequino, my English is better,' Hamm replied, stepping down. "Mr. Castillo wants to meet you, heard you're looking for land," the boy said in perfect English with barely an accent deviation from American. "Come with me," he said, still leaning on the driver's side door. "I'll have him back in two hours," he finally acknowledged me. I pretended to barely understand and slowly nodded. He gave me a pausing look and then got in to unlock the passenger side for Hamm who raised an eyebrow, confused by my action. I watched them pull back out towards the road and hoped my ploy had worked. When they were gone, I went back inside to check my own guns, and waited. *** Everyone else was asleep so I waited on the ancient swing set. It was too low for me to swing, made for a child and not a woman with a high center of gravity like me, so I just kicked at the dust. Night had completely fallen and it barely cooled the dry hot summer weather. I still wasn't used to this in January and had overdressed so pushed my sleeves up and turned my head into the slight wind. That's when I heard the crunch of gravel and stood quickly, drawing my gun. He was there, in the flesh. Michael Finnegan. Thin, bearded, but it was him all right. The shocked look in those blue eyes reflected my own surprise. "You look so different," he said softly. "You need to cover those tattoos," I replied. He smiled. "Going to shoot me?" "Maybe. I'd like some answers first." He nodded and stepped closer, fully into the dim light off the garage. "And I'd like some too, but if I'm going to die I suppose it doesn't matter much." "Don't suppose it does." "Why don't we walk to that picnic table, sit down. Keep the gun on the seat next to you if you like, but let's have a smoke." I eyed the table and thought. He smiled wider. "Doesn't every condemned man get a last request?" I snorted. If Finn were facing a firing squad his last request would be a hot brunette who was good with knots and liked pole dancing. "You first," I motioned with the gun, trained on his chest. He kept his hands slightly up and turned his back on me, unaffected by the gun and walked to the table. He slung those long legs over the fixed seat and sat down. I followed and perched on the edge of the opposite seat so I could stand faster if I needed. I kept the gun by me, safety off, and fished out my smokes from my pocket. He never had his own, always bummed off me so I lit one and passed it to him. I was bound and determined to ignore she shiver that the brush of our fingers brought on and quickly pulled out another and lit it. "Start with the day you walked out of my office with two promises and a million in cash." "You heard Bowers was missing a month later, right?" I'd heard later, the FBI had kept quiet, but I just nodded and ashed on the ground. "I stole a car and drove all night to Miami. It took a couple of weeks but I found the house where Bowers was stashed. It was guarded by US Marshals, the bastard was in the witness protection program." I shifted, peering close to see if he showed any of his tells. It seemed to be the truth so I just nodded and he continued. "I went there one night two weeks later when I figured out the guard schedule. I went there to kill Bowers just as we agreed, but I wasn't alone. "Another man was there to kill him, and I recognized him. Fucker pulled his gun on me and I shot him defense. Harold Smith." My heart began pounding. The triggerman who'd killed Eddie Harwood, setting me up to take the blame, had presented himself to Finn and a good many others as a cop named Harold Smith. Finn nodded. "I didn't intend to kill him but when an assassin squeezes the trigger you don't think. I blew it; I killed him, and the marshals came running. I had to run. "I stuck around long enough to read they never ID'd him and it was an open case. I waited for another chance but the marshals were moving Bowers. Interestingly enough he ditched them at the airport. I found out he was going to Venezuela but I didn't dare call you or Carlos or anyone. I went down there and set about finding him. "My break came when I asked around where to buy a gun. The Name Juanita Gonzales came up and I remembered she was Carlos' cousin, so I went to see her. She sold me a good ID and a gun and told me Bowers had been there asking about Javier operations. "Seems Bowers has a hard-on for ripping off the Javiers." "Seems he's not alone. You've picked up a new kink, Finn." "It's Marty Smith now," he grinned at that, "and I'll explain that in a moment. Apparently he needed cash and after asking around found out he was collecting information on Javier operations that were high cash yet vulnerable. With Alejandro dead and all his generals in the U.S. the entire operation was weak, a perfect target. "I met up with Bowers one night and it was a shoot out. I got hit in the leg and he got away. I went to Juanita for help, she used to be a nurse, but it got infected, pretty bad. I went to a hospital but one night saw Bowers on the floor so I left. "Juanita cared for me for two months I spent delirious in her spare bedroom half out of my mind and fighting fever. When I came to I tried to call you but to my surprise you'd vanished into thin air." I shrugged noncommittally and took another puff. So did he. "Shortly after I woke up to find the remaining nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars gone along with Juanita's guns and other supplies. I split myself and with no recourse, decided to flush Bowers out." I smiled. "So hitting the Javier operations is waving a red flag in his face." Finn nodded. "I've been on the move, doing it ever since. I don't cover that tattoos because I'm not hiding; I want to be found. Worked with you, didn't it?" "Only because Hamm pieced it together. I won't bore you with detective jargon." I stubbed my cigarette out on the table an stretched, ignoring the way his eyes followed the movement. He took one last puff. "My turn. So that rock and ring on your hand...this guy Hamm, is it a cover?" "Hamm's a P.I. I met yesterday. My husband hired him." Finn went deadly still, like a night predator. "Husband?" "The man I loved disappeared with my safety fund and left me twisting in the wind on two murder charges, facing three more and drug and robbery charges. I went to someone for help and that's how I began a new life. He became part of it. "Did you think I was waiting for you, pining for you?" "Yeah." He narrowed his eyes. I snorted again. "Fat chance." "Do you love him?" "Yes." "Do you love him as much as you love me?" "Loved, past-tense, Finn." Now he snorted. "Give me privacy and five minutes, then say that." I raised a brow. "If it lasted longer than five minutes, maybe." It was a low blow. When it came to sex Finn didn't have any worries on that score, but I was backpedaling. The gun was teasingly close but then I remembered the kids upstairs and swore under my breath. "Aren't you going to ask about Harold Smith?" "I thought he was a dead issue." Finn grinned wider. "You've gotten more hard-boiled in the years." "Working with tourists will do that," I quipped and pulled out another cigarette. "I found out who hired Harold Smith, in other words who set you up." "Neat trick, that." Suddenly lights turned into the long drive and he scrambled off the fixed bench. "Meet me tomorrow at noon, the bridge over the river, street is K-12-J. Come alone." I glanced and realized it was Hamm and the kid. "Fine." Finn began stalking off to the shallow woods and stopped. "Who'd you marry?" I stood and tucked then in my front, dropping my shirt over it. "Luis Javier." I turned and didn't even look back to see how he took the news. *** Hamm was let go and nodded to the boy who backed out. "Well?" "Why didn't you show you spoke English? My cover was you're my wife. Strange you wouldn't speak English yet I do." "Thought perhaps I spoke German," I replied, lying. I knew when word got back there was a tall woman who didn't seem to fit with Hamm Finn might take notice, and indeed he did. "How did it go?" "Can I take a drag?" I nodded and passed him the cigarette. "Finish it, I've had enough for now." "Thanks. No sign of Finn but I dropped enough hints. Mostly talked business, I went with a story about a real hotel running tourism trips. He bought it but I should probably skip town by nightfall tomorrow or he'll want real cash." "I can swing some. Let's just wait and see what the day brings." He took the last drag. "You know your husband has a lot of lovers, right?" I sighed. "You wanna fuck me?" He stared at me like I'd announced I was the new president of Chile, then slowly nodded. I stepped closer and cupper his crotch. He was flying at half mast and decently sized. "All right, let's go inside." I started walking back to the house. He flicked the butt. "That easy?" I looked over my shoulder. "You sure seem so." He laughed and followed me in. In the bedroom I made him strip for me. He had a decent body, not gym honed, not too skinny, not fat. Average, something I hadn't had in a while and it was nice. He had a golden tone all over that matched the hair and complimented his green eyes. I leaned against the queen size bed and eyed him up and down. Decent dick, nice smile, good hands. Christ when had I become so detached? When you stopped being you, a distant voice said in my head. I squelched it and stood up. "C'mere." He was only an inch taller than me, handy when no one had to bend a neck to kiss. His kiss was soft, his lower lip plush, and he didn't touch me. My body came alive. Luis was a good lover but had hardcore kinks that never took a day off. He liked pure cleanliness and total control. No pain, nothing rough, but total control. I liked it rough more often than not and I didn't mind submitting so long as at some point I got to call the shots. With Luis I never did and that's why my other lovers were few and far between. In a machismo culture finding a man who got off on being treated like a glorified sex toy was surprisingly rare. I grabbed the back of his head and discovered the ponytail was real. I grabbed his ass and it was firm. "On the bed," I said when we pulled back. He pulled down the bedspread and sat after tossing a condom onto the nightstand. I dumped my gun on the dresser and ignored the raised eyebrow, then stripped efficiently. He turned on the bedside lamp so when naked I turned off the overhead. It was kind of a surprise, I found as I straddled his stomach, that for once I was the dark one and he was the pale one. A little fantasy of being an Amazon with a capture began to fill my head. I leaned down, gripping the headboard and he didn't need any more urging. His hands came up to cup my breasts, merely holding them aloft for his mouth. Closing my eyes, I arched my back and he teased me with hot breath and cool lips. Only when I growled slightly did I feel his tongue circle my nipples. I moaned and, encouraged, he began to suck. "Harder," I breathed out and his teeth joined. I began to skid my wet pussy along his stomach, teasing myself as he got rougher and rougher with the bites. I leaned on hand back and grabbed his dick, stroking it roughly. MJ 7A: Case of the Little Death Pt 1 He moaned against my skin, the vibrations thrilling. I thought briefly of Finn and rage filled me. I let go of his cock and grabbed the condom, ripping the package with my teeth. I climbed to the side to roll it on and he flexed his fists on the sheets. I straddled him again and slammed my body down. Without much preparation he felt bigger, wider, and I gasped. Finally Hamm showed initiative and his hands gripped my sides, forcing me back towards him so he could capture a breast in his mouth. I began to move, enjoying the feel of the hot night, the breeze from the open window, and the pleasantly pale man filling me. His mouth was hot, pulling, and I closed my eyes. God help me, it was Finn I imagined as my captive, bound and chained to a bed while I took him, knife to his throat. Pleasure built like a hot dark secret spreading inside me and I came to the peak biting my own lip to keep quiet. It was perfunctory but satisfying, and I came down to feel him thrusting from below. "Hell," I grumbled and rolled to the side, forcing him with me. We wrangled until he was on top and he laid across me, going for a kiss. I was still panting but locked lips and suddenly he began thrusting with far more force than I'd assumed he could. Christ, he was good. Any thoughts of other men slipped from my head as I gripped his taut arms and wrapped my legs around his ass. He pounded away and it was so sweetly, deliciously rough I had to kiss him hard to soften my cries. It wasn't enough so I slowly managed to work my hand between us and simply placed my fingertips on my clit. The fast motion of his body moved and I was there, lighting up like a rocket. This time he came with me, grunting almost a scream back at my cry, and he slammed so hard it sang through my cervix and forced me to the headboard. After five such thrusts he collapsed. Callously I pushed him off me and scooted to the edge of the bed. I stood and found my smokes in my jeans, pulled one out and it. Against the rules of the house but I didn't give a shit. I stood at the open window and contemplated opening the screen to ash out. That's when I saw the lone, dark figure at the edge of the trees. It was Finn and he stared up. "That was great," Hamm moaned. "Shut up," I said flippantly and stared back at Finn hard. The window was low and I knew I was completely visible from the thighs up and when we'd been on the bed Finn had probably gotten most of the show. I stroked a finger into the folds of my wet pussy and brought it to my mouth sucking deeply. Though I tasted latex and myself I smiled like a cat with cream. Finn slunk back into the trees and I turned back to Hamm. "We'll check out in the morning. I'll explain then." "What's going on?" "I know where to find Finn." He grinned and I grabbed a candle in a holder to use for an ashtray and sat on the edge of the bed. "Don't worry, you'll get your money." *** At noon exactly we pulled onto the little road. Southwest of town it skirted the rover but here crossed over a simple suspension bridge. Hamm parked the Chevy at the edge and Finn stood in the middle, no car in sight. Hamm and I scanned the horizon. No one else, and the only hiding spot was under the bridge. With a sheer drop-off to the river and no shoreline it didn't seem like a threat. "Got your gun?" Hamm nodded. "If he gets mine, looks like I'm deep trouble, or I give the signal, fire a warning shot above our heads but wait to shoot him unless I'm in real danger." "And the signal again?" I checked my gun and sighed. "I stamp my left foot twice." "Got it, just making sure." I sat back. Hamm hadn't gotten possessive or grabby but his mood was lighter, not a good sign. Hopefully this would be short and we'd part ways in Santiago, him $50,000 richer. "Showtime." I opened the door and walked out, wind howling down the wide river blowing my hair into my face. Having bangs these days helped, but only a little. My gun was in the back of my jeans, safety off. A damn fool thing to do but with what was likely to go down it was my best bet. I walked to the middle where he stood, wearing jeans and a shot black t-shirt. With the buzz cut, the beard, and big aviator sunglasses I might not have recognized him without Hamm's photograph. He turned to face me and crossed his arms. "You're married to Luis Javier and yet you're fucking the little German twerp who wants to open a hotel with Castillo's backing?" I turned to the car and back. "He's the P.I. who found you. Damn smart, actually." "So you're married to...Luis Javier," he ground out with soft force over the wind, "but fucking him?" "It's an open marriage, not complicated." He stepped closer. "Open marriage, huh?" I stepped back. "Closed for assholes." He smiled. "I asked you here because I had to be sure no one from the Javier operation could overhear us. Still want to know who sent Harold Smith to kill Eddie Harwood? Want to know who sat by and let you take the fall for it?" I pursed my lips, wondering if I could trust the name I was damn positive he'd say. "Your precious husband." I snorted. "Why should I trust you?" "Look it up. Luis Javier was a lawyer, only criminal case was defending a previous litigation client for his firm. Man was a former stuntman, bodyguard named Jovan Hakes. Look at his picture on the web and compare it to the unidentified man found shot outside a Miami government safe house. Jovan Hakes is Harold Smith. "Before he was a bodyguard he was a Ranger. Alejandro needed a clean assassin and his brother gave him one." "So it was Alejandro, the man you let invest in your porn company that killed Harwood. Why?" "Harwood was small time mob and suddenly he got the money to buy out the Purple Rose. You ever wonder how he got that?" I shrugged. "He ripped off Javier! You know who introduced them?" "I'll take Alabaster for five hundred, Alex." He smoothed his absent hair. "Damn right. That's why he was there that night. I'm damn sure this Hakes-Smith was supposed to get them both, and that's why Alabaster ran." "Could all be true, but it was still Alejandro's call." "He could have told you. You've been married how long?" "That's my business. Finn, you've been at this for some time. No sign of Bowers. You could have called me, chanced it, long before I left. Even now, if you looked hard enough after Luis you would have found me." It sounded whiny and I didn't want that so I pulled my gun. "Woah, Marly, you're going to shoot me because I didn't call?" "Every woman's fantasy," I quipped with a smile. He backed up, hands up, palms out. "Is this about the money? I can give you a million in thirty minutes, U.S. currency." "My husband's worth four million." I stepped forward, using the reflection in his glasses to keep an eye on the Chevy. "So it is that I didn't call." He took another step back, close to the rail. I stepped forward. "Something like that." "Marly..." "It's Angela, now." "Babe." He stepped back and hit the railing, looking at the forty foot drop. "Don't call me babe. I'm a married woman." "Hardly. Look, you need me to get Bowers." "No, I need you to stay in one place to flush out Bowers. The river will do nicely. With this current you'll wash up in San Rafel." He moved in a flash and drew his own gun. I saw in his glasses that Hamm was out, gun up. "Call off your dog." "Stay back, Hamm, I got this!" I yelled without looking. He stopped but kept the gun raised I saw in Finn's glasses. "If I shoot you, you'll go over, won't you?" I purred. His mouth opened and I saw he was sweating. It made me smile. Hamm moved and Finn jerked his gun to the side of my and squeezed off a shot. It made me jump and Hamm went flat on his stomach. A defensive move, he wasn't hit it seemed. I leaned in close to whisper into Finn's ear. He paled and I backed up a step. "See you on the other side." Then I pulled the trigger, and Finn went over the bridge into the cool water.