Authors: Radclyffe
“I…can…tell,” Catherine managed, her eyes losing focus as she struggled to prolong the pleasure. “Don’t…hurry.”
“Then stop touching…me…there,” Rebecca pleaded desperately, her hips lifting into Catherine’s hand.
They were both moaning, answering stroke for stroke and thrust for thrust in perfect synchrony. Catherine worked to hold back the surge of heat for another minute, wanting to sustain their union, wanting to come with her if she could, but the spasms were building. They filled each other, stoking the fires of passion, trembling on the edge of consummation, until at last Rebecca groaned, “N-no more…God…” and began to orgasm.
Catherine gloried in the sight of Rebecca coming until her own climax crashed through her. Then she convulsed, whimpering with the unexpected force of it, eyes shut tight, head thrown back, until finally she collapsed into Rebecca’s waiting arms.
*
When Rebecca stirred again, it was after midnight. She attempted to extricate herself from Catherine’s embrace without disturbing her.
“I’m awake,” Catherine said softly in the darkness, stroking the length of Rebecca’s long form. She wanted to keep her close but let her move slowly away until she was but a shadow. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
“I know how beautiful I feel with you,” was the quiet, intense reply. Rebecca sat up, brushing her fingers over Catherine’s cheek.
“Are you leaving?” Catherine asked, knowing instinctively that after such intimacy, the very solitary detective would withdraw. She struggled with the disappointment, the professional in her understanding, but the all too human side wondering when, if ever, Rebecca would trust what they had shared.
Trust me,
is what she really meant.
“It’s late
.
There are things I should have done earlier,” Rebecca replied evasively. She was as content in Catherine’s arms as she had ever been, but as her strength returned, so did the pull of the streets. How could she explain her restless need to immerse herself in the pulsing otherworld of the night? It was her domain, her reality, the reminder of who and what she was.
“Where are you going?” Catherine asked, sitting up now, too, saddened at the distance between them but determined to hide the feeling. Her body still throbbed with the aftermath of their lovemaking, and she wanted only to hold Rebecca until the morning. She would not have that tonight, perhaps not any night. It was a possibility she was not yet ready to face. Rebecca moved her too deeply, aroused desires too powerful, to think about that now. Her heart, her soul, had been marked by the searing intensity of Rebecca’s presence and, for the moment, her presence would have to be enough.
“I’m going to cruise through the Tenderloin
.
I’ve got contacts there. I’ll talk to people, listen to the rumors going around,” Rebecca said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Instantly, she was aware of the absence of Catherine’s touch. Her skin registered the loss. She was suddenly cold, although the night was warm.
“What are you looking for, Rebecca?” Catherine asked quietly, knowing that the answer she sought went deeper than the next few hours.
Rebecca pulled on her pants, looked around for her shirt, and answered absently, “News about Jeff…word about the rapist. You never know what’s out there.”
Catherine tried to absorb the realities of Rebecca’s life, wondering if she would ever truly be able to understand them. Who but another cop could appreciate the soul-numbing inhumanity that was an everyday occurrence in the world inhabited by this restless woman? She was willing to try, and she was determined not to allow Rebecca to shut her out.
Catherine started to rise. “Let me get you some coffee.”
“No. I don’t want you to get up.” Rebecca pushed her gently down, then leaned to kiss her. “I want you to stay here, where we were together, so I can think of you like this until I see you again.”
Wrapping her arms around Rebecca’s neck, Catherine returned her kiss. “All right,” she replied huskily.
You can’t possibly imagine how tender you are or you’d never let it show.
Because Rebecca had asked, Catherine remained in the dark, the bed growing cold, and listened to the detective move about in the other room. She didn’t sleep again until long after the outer door clicked shut.
Rebecca cruised slowly north on Thirteenth to Arch, the heart of the Tenderloin, with the top down on the Vette and jazz playing softly on the radio. Nightclubs, bars, adult bookstores, and seedy hotels were crowded together, all of them lit by garish neon signs, their doors standing open to offer glimpses of the entertainment inside. The sidewalks were crowded even at three a.m. with prostitutes, johns, pushers, pimps, junkies, and panhandlers—all the flotsam that society had cast out or forgotten. The prostitutes in their crotch-high, faux-leather skirts and tight, skimpy tops leaned against buildings or strolled languidly through the litter-strewn streets. Many Rebecca recognized by sight, more than a few by name. Arresting them was not her goal
—
they were no more criminals than the hungry who stole for food.
When citizens of the adjoining newly gentrified blocks complained that the undesirable activity was encroaching on their neighborhoods, the cops would round up some of the girls to placate city hall, knowing full well that the prostitutes would be back on the streets and plying their trade within hours. All the participants in the charade knew it was a futile gesture. Rebecca chose not to hassle the women but rather to keep an eye out for new faces, especially the very young. She always hoped to get to a few before the streets became the only way of life. Occasionally, she succeeded. Nevertheless, she was still a cop, and when she needed information, she used the resources at her disposal to get it.
She pulled over in front of a bar that sported a flashing yellow sign reading, “Girls!
Live Nude Girls!” She wondered absently if anyone besides her found that sign absurd. It wasn’t the bar she was interested in, but the thin blond stationed in front of it. The woman was about five foot five, heavily made up, with an expanse of leg showing that left little to the imagination. Her hair was bleached, in a punk cut, and she kept one eye on the cars cruising by as she talked with several other women. She might have been twenty, or twelve. When she saw Rebecca climb out of her car, her face twisted into a frown.
“Hiya, Sandy,” Rebecca said softly as she approached. The others in the group drifted quickly away.
“Jesus, Frye,” the girl hissed, looking quickly over her shoulder. “What are you trying to do to me? I’ll be poison to every john on the street tonight after this.”
“So you can get a good night’s sleep, then,” Rebecca said, turning so her back was to the building, keeping a watchful eye on the slowly moving traffic and passersby. She was alone, and it was no secret she was a cop. “I need to talk to you.”
“Is that all?” Sandy said with contempt. She’d had too much experience with cops who wanted more than just information to trust any of them.
Rebecca met her angry gaze evenly. “That’s all, right now.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Can we talk inside? You’re killing my business out here.”
Rebecca nodded and followed the girl into the dark bar, taking a table well away from the small platform where a woman did a tired bump and grind for the few patrons. Sandy signaled for a drink. Rebecca put a twenty on the table.
“So, what do you need,
Detective
?” Sandy asked in a bored voice. “I’m fresh out of discount blow jobs. Or are you going to pretend you’re not into that sort of thing?” She took a healthy swallow of her drink, scanning the bar for anyone she knew. It wasn’t good PR to be seen with a cop.
Rebecca ignored the taunt. “Two cops were killed the day before yesterday. What do you hear about it?”
Sandy rolled the shot glass in her hands and regarded Rebecca coolly. She didn’t actually dislike the good-looking cop; in fact, Frye was one of the few cops who didn’t harass the working girls. She’d even let Sandy out of the police van one night after a raid rather than bring her downtown for the empty exercise of booking. Still, Sandy didn’t want the detective to get the idea she was her private snitch or anything. And it didn’t help her reputation any to appear too chummy with the cops. There was something different about the tall, blond detective tonight, though. She seemed almost human, like she had feelings, like she was hurting.
You’re losing it, girl. Cops with feelings?
“There’s nothing going down that I’ve heard,” Sandy said finally, which was pretty much true. They’d all heard about the shooting, of course. Usually when something like that happened, it brought the whole police force down on them, like they were the source of all the city’s problems. Probably this cop was just the first of many.
“What about the chicken trade? Any new faces in town?”
Sandy snorted in disgust. She hated the child procurers and pornographers as much as she hated the pushers. Like most of her friends, she stayed clear of them. “Since that big bust six months ago, it’s been quiet. I heard there might be a new house open somewhere in a very ritzy location, but it isn’t down here.”
“Who’s running it?” Rebecca asked nonchalantly, hiding her surprise at the information. She had been instrumental in cleaning out half a dozen establishments supplying children for all types of amusement in the citywide crackdown to which Sandy referred. If they were up and running again, there had to be big money behind it.
Could that have been what Hogan was on to?
It would take an organization as big as the Zamora crime family to start up the kiddie industry again. It took money, muscle, and overseas connections, because much of the advertising and clientele was established through Internet sites in foreign countries. She hadn’t heard that the feds were looking into anything local, and she should have if anything serious was going on.
“No one knows, and that’s the truth. There’re more than a few people who’d like to find out.”
“Yeah,” Rebecca muttered in disgust. “Where there are kids, there’s money.” She looked at the young woman across from her, already cynical and hardened. There was nothing Rebecca could do to change her future, but maybe she could make a difference with a few of the really young ones. She pushed back her chair, leaving another twenty with the change on the table. “Thanks, Sandy. Keep your ears open
.
I’ll be back.”
“Hey, Frye,” Sandy called, pocketing the money quickly. “Who were the cops who got killed?”
“Just cops.”
Rebecca was still in the car when the sun came up, so she stopped at an all-night diner for breakfast before a quick detour to her apartment to shower and change clothes. The traffic was light, and her thoughts wandered, returning unbidden to memories of the previous night.
Just recalling the sound of Catherine’s voice made her skin burn. The
images
of Catherine threatened to unhinge her—images of passion; images of splendor and surrender and desire; images that promised to hold her captive for eternity. Being with Catherine had been physically exciting, more fulfilling than she had ever dreamed, and easily the most frightening thing she had ever experienced.
She was relieved when the station house appeared, and she pulled into the lot on squealing tires. Work was just what she needed to put Catherine Rawlings into perspective. It was too early for the day shift to arrive, and she walked unnoticed through the quiet halls. When she pushed open the door to Vice, she was astonished to see Watts at Jeff’s desk,
his
desk now, with a half-eaten pizza in front of him. She wasn’t certain, but she thought he was wearing the same suit as he’d had on the day before. He was the only one in the room.
He glanced her way, grunting a greeting as he reached for another slice of the now congealed pizza. “I was just going to call you, Sarge,” he said around a mouthful of crust slathered with thick tomato sauce and cheese.
“What could be so important at five thirty in the morning?” Rebecca commented, not really caring what Watts had to say. She couldn’t stand to see him sitting in Jeff’s chair. She noticed a stack of folders beside the desk. Her and Jeff’s open case files.
Could Watts actually be working?
“Thought you might like to read the morning paper,” he said, tossing the early-bird edition onto her desk. He went back to eating, munching the cold crust, his face expressionless as he watched her pick up the paper and glance at it without much interest. Then he saw her eyes darken, and he braced himself.
“What the
hell
is this,” she exploded, staring up from the headlines that proclaimed, “River Drive Rape Witness Found!” She regarded him in wordless astonishment, and he shook his head grimly.
“Read it. It’s very interesting,” he flatly intoned.
She began to read aloud, her voice tight and angry. “Sources reveal that a witness to the brutal rape of a college student on the River Drive last week may have been found.”
What followed was a sensationalized review of the previous two assaults, but it was the last paragraph that caused Rebecca to clench her fists in frustration. “Dr. Catherine Rawlings, a noted psychiatrist at the University Hospital declined comment, but unnamed sources confirm she is the primary physician of a patient who witnessed the most recent attack. The patient’s name has not yet been released, nor has a description of the assailant been made public.” The article finished with an indictment of the police for failing to keep the public informed.