Undercovers Detective Chapter two
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It was around eight pm, and my double-shift was about to end. We had been working overtime since the gangs had gone to war. Seven murders, in the last week alone. This city of angels was under siege.
My rookie partner of two weeks had asked me to join her for drinks at Chubby's tonight. Reluctantly, I’d agreed, but it went against my rules to date a fellow cop. In all honesty, even though I had earnestly tried, it was hard for me to refuse such a pretty face.
As partners, Alexia and I were extreme contrasts. For starters, she was a recent graduate from Berkeley with a degree in pre-law, unlike me that had joined the force out of high school. I had worked my way up the ranks from a beat cop and took the required courses for detective in night school.
Alex was very enthusiastic, as most rookies are when they’re right out of the Academy. She had shared that she decided to pursue a career in law enforcement rather than follow her father into corporate law. This had caused some tension in her family but she had graduated from the police academy—top of her class. That combined with her education landed her the gold shield of a detective while still a rookie.
The difference between us was physically blatant, also. She was only about five-foot five compared to my six-foot two. Alexia was extremely fit from her devotion to the gym and martial arts training. I do the minimum to pass my required physical agility tests. When I was young I had the same gung-ho desire as she did, but that faded along with my hair color.
I had reached the big Five-O in August and I was now a twenty-eight-year hardened veteran, third generation cop. My attitude had been cultivated by many years of dealing with criminals, scum bags, and losers. In a nut shell, I just didn’t give a damn anymore.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship and was openly unhappy about being assigned a female partner; I had my reasons. The first woman I had assigned as a partner... I married. That was a disaster from the very beginning. She thought I was some sort of mission and was convinced she would mold me into her image of “the perfect husband.” Well, she certainly had little luck with that! Except for the sex, we’d had little in common. Without going into the sordid details, we were divorced a year later, about eleven months too late.
Quite frankly, as a bachelor I didn’t feel lonely because l had all the company I needed: my dog, big screen TV, and a fridge full of beer.
oOo
Alex had only worked the first shift, so she had the day off while I filled in at the front desk. I needed the extra money because my mom was in the hospital. My expertise had always been in the homicide unit, where I preferred to work with dead people—you know… all that gory forensic stuff. The front desk was a crap job in comparison; you dealt with the same lowlifes’ day in and day out. Drunks puking, whores screaming, and addicts shaking from withdrawal—that was the typical day at the station. It didn’t take much time at this job to lose all hope for humanity.
After parking my ‘93 Chevy in the back lot of Chubby's Bar & Grill, I looked in the rear-view mirror at my two-day beard and thought about how I’d much rather be watching the tube at home. This was Laker night.
Fuck this, I thought, dialing Alex's number. I was hoping she’d already gone home.
"Hiya!" the voice answered. There was loud music blasting in the background.
"Hey, it’s Frank.”
“Who?”
“Frank!” I raised my voice a bit.
“Well, of course it’s you, silly! Your name popped up on my caller ID!” She laughed.
What a smart ass.
“Where are you at?" she asked.
"I just pulled into the parking lot. I’ll be right in."
"Hurry up, I've been here for hours."
I hung up and mumbled an expletive.
Chubby's was a local cop hangout that had been here since before I was born. I stood in front of the entrance and pushed hard to enter. Those doors had been sticking for as long as I could remember. Nothing had changed inside after all these years. It was a typical crowded Friday night. The jukebox was blaring, people were laughing and talking loudly, and a few were dancing and shooting pool.
On the walls there were pictures of retired cops. Over the bar there were photos of those that had been killed in the line of duty. We called it the hall of fame. One of them was my dad who died when I was seven. This was definitely not a place you'd want your picture mounted. I rarely hung out at Chubby’s for a lot of reasons. First, the joint was a dump that should have been torn down years ago. Then there was the issue that it was filled with cops. I saw more than enough of them during the day. Last but not least, I didn’t like paying three bucks for a dollar beer.
The room was a dense haze, even though it was against the law to smoke in California bars. I mean, what can you do? Call the cops? Nothing irritated my lungs worse than cigarette fumes. Unfortunately, I was guilty of having quite a nasty affair with those nicotine sticks once upon a time, but I've been clean eight years.
I scanned the crowded surroundings and looked for my partner, to no avail. Suddenly, someone shoved me from behind and I whirled around, only to find myself staring at a stunningly beautiful woman. She had long, flowing raven hair, and piercing blue eyes. Her tight, low-cut dress showed off her ample bosom and killer legs.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" she teased, flashing a pearly white smile.
After putting the voice together with the eyes, I realized that it was Alexia. I hadn't seen her out of her tweed suit. She’d also worn her hair up in a bun on duty. This was a stunning transformation.
"Damn!” I said in shock. “I didn't recognize you! You clean up nicely,” I added, staring down at her cleavage.
"Why, thank you.” She giggled as she took my arm and pulled me to the bar.
I knew she had more than enough to drink because she could hardly walk in those heels.
"What are you drinking?" she asked, leaning against the bar to steady herself.
"I'll buy," I offered, trying to be a gentleman. “One Bud and whatever the lady is drinking,” I told the bartender.
"Jack—double straight up,” Alex replied.
"You’re going to feel that in the morning," I warned, watching her gulp down her drink in a couple swallows. “I thought you said you don’t drink.”
“I don’t!” she smirked. "Come on, let's dance! This is my favorite song!" Her eyes lit up as she practically yanked me onto the dance floor.
"Whoa, hold up! I don't dance, and I think you've had enough to drink.” I pulled my arm away.
"You're no fun!" Alex glared at me, then half-staggered toward the dancing crowd, bumping into people along the way.
I noticed that she had enticed several men into dancing with her, all of whom were taking turns grinding against her and rubbing their crotches against her curvaceous bottom.
One of those men looked familiar to me… Mike: a sergeant from division. He was groping at her, trying to grab her tits. I had never liked him since we went to the academy together.
Shit, Alex! The guy’s a pervert. How can you let him touch you like that? I thought to myself. Just as I was about to rescue her, she turned around and punched the sergeant hard in the face.
"You bitch!" He grabbed her by the hair, making a fist and cocking it back.
Oh no you don’t, asshole… Over my dead body! I stepped in between them and pushed him away.
"What the fuck?" he shouted. Then he stepped toward me, throwing a big roundhouse right, but I blocked his swing and decked him with one punch to his eye.
"I don't need your help!” Alex screamed at me in outrage. “I can take care of myself!"
"Yeah, you’re doing a fine job of that," I replied sarcastically, pulling her away by her arm. Mike’s angry cussing echoed behind us.
"Take the bitch and get her out of here!" he yelled.
Everything in the bar came to a stop and all eyes were on Alex.
I pulled her to the door, despite her efforts to try and break free. She was shouting incoherently and was stumbling so badly she could barely walk. I felt her lean her weight on me as we made our way through the crowd toward the exit.
We left out the back and navigated our way to my car in the dark parking lot. I propped her against the fender while I unlocked the door. She kept mumbling something over and over about her hating me.
“Yeah, yeah, I love you too,” I replied to her drunken insults. After a few attempts, I maneuvered her into the passenger seat and buckled her in.
As soon as I got in the car, she started puking all over herself and my interior.
Fuck my life.
I had nothing to clean it up with. I could not believe so much could come out of such a small woman. She sagged back in her seat dead to the world.
Great, this is just perfect! This is exactly how I wanted to spend my night.
She hadn't brought her hand bag with her and I had no clue where she lived. So I turned on the ignition and drove to my place.
oOo
After arriving at my apartment, I noticed that she was still unconscious. Removing the seat belt, I shook her several times, but she didn’t respond.
“Alex? Alex!”
Resolving to lift her, I carried her up the steps to my place, while her arms dangled like a ragdoll. I found it amazing how much heavier a body felt as dead weight. It had been a while since I carried a woman across the threshold—certainly never in this situation.
Her long, dark hair sprawled out on my bed as soon as I gently placed her down. She was a vision of beauty. Impulsively, I caressed her cheek in almost a protective manner. She had a childlike innocence about her.
I tried to wake her once again, but she was totally asleep and stunk like a brewery. I couldn’t leave her lying in her own vomit, so I decided to clean her up. After assessing my options, I hesitantly unzipped her dress and pulled it off, throwing it in a heap on the floor. Next, I undid the puke drenched bra and added it to the pile. I found her car key wedged between her bosom and set it aside. Lastly, I finished by pulling off her panties.
I paused and stole a moment to just stare at this beauty lying on my bed. The moonlight coming through the window illuminated her ivory white skin. Her slim, athletic body would’ve caused any playboy bunny to be jealous. Her heavy breathing made the globes of her milky white breasts sway with the movement of her chest. Glancing down, I also noticed her private area was trimmed very closely—not shaved, but groomed.
What the fuck are you doing? This is your partner, for Christ's sake! I reprimanded myself. Reality had slapped me in the face.
I stripped off my own clothes down to my skivvies and carried Alex to the shower. The warm water flowing over her head jolted her into partial consciousness.
"Wha... What is this? What are you doing?"
"I'm cleaning the vomit off you."
"Uh... okay," she mumbled, drifting off once more while sagging in my arms.
I sat her on the drop down shower stool and pulled up her silky hair, rinsing it out carefully. Afterwards, I took a soapy wash cloth and washed her back, under her arms, and lower back. I hesitated only at those perfectly shaped breasts, and continued to wash her legs. Finally, I started washing her chest and scrubbing off the dried puke. Personally, I had never handled such perfection in my life. I was aroused, but focused. The object was to clean her, not to cop a feel. I scolded myself
With the cleaning finished, I toweled her well and carried her back to bed. I looked through my drawers to find something appropriate for her to wear and settled on my old Forty-Niners jersey and work-out shorts. Fortunately for her, the shorts had a drawstring, seeing how my waist is about twelve inches bigger.
Truthfully, I had undressed a few women in my time, but this was the very first one I had ever dressed. With Alex tucked in, I took her clothes and put them in my antiquated, apartment size washer. While she lay fast asleep, I grabbed a beer, turned on the Tonight Show, and plopped down in my recliner. Bandit, my Australian Shepherd jumped up in my lap before I turned out the light. My mind wandered and I began to think about how the captain had told us to get to know our rookie partners. Tonight I got to know mine really, really well.
It wasn't long before I nodded off to sleep.
oOo
"Wake the fuck up!"
A woman’s voice startled me into semi-consciousness.
"What the hell am I doing here and where the fuck are my clothes?"
I struggled to wake and looked up at Alex. "Jeez... don't get your panties in a bunch."
"Well, that might be hard to do since I can't seem to find my fucking panties!"
Looking at her with clearer eyes, I remembered the jersey I’d dressed her in last night.
"Who put these rags on me? And why in the hell am I at this dump of an apartment?"
“Dump?” I asked.
Bandit buried his nose in her crotch trying to sniff her privates. She swatted him away and said, “You fucking males are all the same! One sniff of pussy and you’re out of control.”
Who was I to argue with such wisdom?
"Well, before you tear my head off, let me answer your questions. You got shit faced last night and barfed all over yourself… and my interior. You are in my apartment. I undressed you, bathed you, and dressed you.”
“You did what?”
“I didn't think you'd want to sleep in your own vomit."
"Hold up, Frank. I want to know exactly what happened, now!” she demanded, crossing her arms and sternly staring at me.
"Calm down and sit here at the table," I said, tossing off the dirty laundry from the chair. "How do you want your coffee?" I poured her a mug full of my finest.
"Black and strong," Alex replied, putting her head in her hands. "What the hell happened? I don’t remember anything."
"You had quite a time last night! Basically, you got drunk and started a fight, got kicked out of the bar, puked yourself in my car, and then passed out. I carried you up two flights of stairs here and cleaned you up. I put your clothes in the washer and let you sleep it off. By the way, that’s a cute little rose you have on your butt."
"Pervert!" She glared at me. "Did I really get in a fight? With whom?"
"Sergeant Mike McNeal from division."
"Shit!" She stared at me in disbelief.
"You broke about a dozen regulations last night and punched a superior officer. Great first impression, Alex."
"What regulations did I break?"
“For starters… you’re supposed to have your badge and weapon with you at all times, you don’t leave them in your car. Then there’s the issue of public intoxication and assault…"
"My head feels like it’s in a fucking vice,” she groaned, rubbing her temples. "Where’s that fucking Johnny Cash music coming from?"
"My phone," I said, digging through my pants on the floor.
"You seriously need to change that ringtone."
I ignored her comment and answered the call.
"Yeah, this is Frank… okay...we'll be there ASAP." The conversation hardly lasted ten seconds. "We need to go now,” I said. “There's a high profile death in Beverly Hills”
"Crap! Frank, I can't go dressed like this."
"Your car key is on the nightstand, along with some aspirin. I'll drop you off at Chubby's so you can pick up your vehicle, go home and dress. I'll head to the crime scene. Just meet me there later,” I said, while pulling on my clothes.
"Give me my dress. I'd rather wear it wet. There's no way I' m going out in public in these rags."
I threw her the half-dried dress and then stood in shock as she stripped off the jersey and shorts and stood there in the buff.
"Damn, Alex!" I turned my face away and resisted temptation to stare.
"Really, Frank? Nothing you haven't already seen." There was a rustling movement, and I could see from my peripheral vision that she was pulling down the dress over her nakedness.
“Help me zip up." She walked over to me and turned around, exposing her back. My god, she really did have the body of a goddess.
I reached down and slowly, but carefully zipped up her dress. I tried to ignore the desires welling up in me as it touched her soft skin.
"Thank you." She turned around and met my eyes with a smirk. "You've stripped me down and dressed me up. That's quite the accomplishment."
"Not an accomplishment,” I said. “I’m fulfilling my duty. Partners cover for each other, so to speak.”
She let out a short little laugh and disappeared out of the kitchen while I stood there questioning my feelings.
oOo
There was no need to check the address, as there seemed to be an endless number of patrol cars leading my way to the crime scene. Rich people certainly attracted more attention, I thought as I flashed my badge to the uniformed cop guarding the entrance. Then I drove up the long driveway and around the three-tier fountain, parking directly behind the Coroner’s wagon. After climbing the entrance steps, I was greeted by a plain-clothed cop from the local precinct.
"What do we have here?" I asked.
He looked at the clipboard he was carrying. "Single white male, sixty-seven years old. Apparent suicide from a single gunshot to the head. His name was Victor Vanderhoff. He was a TV producer and director."
I took a quick scan around me and then said, "What the fuck are all these people doing contaminating my crime scene? Clear this area completely of non-essential personnel. And get those damn cameramen the hell off this property!"
I had entered through the ornate double entrance doors, ducking under the yellow caution tape. Sergeant Mike McNeal greeted me and I couldn’t help but notice the big bruise on his cheek from last night.
"Well, well! It is a small world," he said. "You can just go home, Frank. This one is a slam dunk; a simple suicide. I’ve already checked out the scene. No homicide here," he added, leading me down a hallway.
We entered the crime scene. It was a huge office for a personal home. There were large cherry bookcases around the walls, and custom mill-work windows. In the center of the room, there was a large, hand-carved desk and executive leather chair that contained the victim. He was slumped forward with a revolver in his right hand, revealing an obvious entrance wound in his forehead. From the power burns, he was shot at close range.
"Nice of you to join us,” the Sergeant said, looking past me. “A little hung over are we?”
When I turned around, I saw that Alex had arrived. She was dressed in a smart, grey, mid-length pencil skirt and a matching jacket, with her hair up in a bun—a stark contrast from the naked beauty that was sprawled out on my bed last night.
"What do we have here?" she asked me, examining the body.
I clued her in to the preliminary findings and that the unofficial cause of death was suicide. Alex then put her plastic gloves on and went to work taking samples, bagging up the revolver and dusting for finger prints.
"What is she doing?” Mike asked. “I told you it’s a suicide, plain and simple."
"Just back off and let her do her job," I replied.
After about a half hour, Alex approached me.
"Frank, this is no suicide. This is a homicide," she said in a low tone.
"What makes you come to this conclusion?"
"First of all, there’s almost no blood from the head wound on anything but the body itself. Then there are the dirty knees on his suit pants, and bruises around his wrists, indicating that he was restrained. Also, there are two empty casings in the revolver. How many times have you seen a suicide where the victim shot himself twice?"
"What do you make of two rounds being fired?" I asked.
"One shot to the head and a second after he was dead to put his fingerprints on the gun and powder residue on his hand. I noticed his watch was on his right wrist, indicating he was left handed—the gun was in his right hand. Lastly, I found this taped to the underside of the desk." She handed me a flash drive in a zip-lock bag.
"Good work! How do you think this all went down?"
Alex looked around the room. “Based on the lack of blood at the scene, he was killed at another location and brought back to his office to make it look like a suicide. I'm sure we can get our blood spatter analyst to confirm that. The dirty knees and bruised wrists indicate he was kneeling with his hands tied and was executed gangland style."
"What's the motive?"
"I don't have a clue," she sighed. "But I’d bet this has something to do with it." She took the flash drive back from me and inspected it, as if it was the key to solving this mystery.
Mike had seen her holding the flash drive and rushed over to try and take it from her.
“Don’t!” I said. “It’s evidence for a murder.”
He argued with me, still trying to push the suicide hypothesis. I told him it was a homicide and then queried him about why a division officer would be at a crime scene. I also restated that all non-essential personnel must vacate the premises and that included him.
oOo
After compiling our evidence and logging it in, we put together our report and took it to Captain Albert Greer. Alex was in awe of his reputation taught at the academy.
Greer was a heavy set black man with pitted skin nearing retirement. He wasn’t much to look at but he was all business and the best cop I’d ever known. My father trained him when he was a rookie and he was like family to me. Albert was personally devastated when my dad was shot in a bank shootout. It steeled his resolve to bring down the bad guys and that is exactly what he did. Albert was legendary in solving several high profile cases.
He studied our scenario of the murder carefully and asked if this was all we had. I told him there was more. I had it in a separate file and handed it to him. I told him I kept this file separate because of the sensitivity of what it contained. The file was an extensive investigation taken from Victor's flash drive.
Victor was making a documentary on the underground sex slave and prostitution trade in Los Angeles. He had compiled some very strong evidence implicating key criminals, politicians, judges, and even police officers. There was enough there to raise suspicion on many recognizable people, but not strong enough to go to court with. We needed more. Records from a single source was not prosecutable evidence.
Captain Greer suggested we keep the number of people that know this to a minimum. He locked the door and closed the blinds. Then he commenced to share with us some classified information. He said there was presently a joint investigation task force with the FBI focused on the expanding Russian Mafia and their ever increasing influence on the drug and prostitution trade in Los Angeles.
"Alex,” said Greer. “I’m going to ask you something I want you to think over before you respond.”
“What?” Alex looked troubled.
“Would you consider going undercover?" Greer asked.
"Me?” She seemed surprised as I was. “I have no experience…"
"That makes you the perfect candidate. You’re a fresh face, young, attractive, and from what I witnessed at Chubby's… very convincing."
"Convincing at what?" she scoffed.
"To pose as a high class call girl, of course. We need you to gain inside information on this cartel.”
"And if I say no?"
"First of all, let’s explore what happens if you say yes,” the captain replied. “If you do this, you’d help bring down some very bad people, and this might save a lot of girls from a life of sexual slavery. Last but not least, you'd be on the fast track for career advancement."
“I have absolutely no training whatsoever in undercover work.”
“We will pair you up with a long term operative who will be your instructor. Plus, Frank will be on the team as your intermediator.”
"Can I have some time to think this over?"
"Of course! I’ll give you forty-eight hours. If you have more questions, ask them in person. Don’t use the phone. From now on, all mention of this is classified. We need to move on with this as soon as possible."
To be continued.
Much thanks to Mina (sweetestSins) and Bethany Frasier for their edit.
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