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I want to send a HUGE amount of thanks to Carol Collins. Her words of encouragement helped me finish this first story, and her comments helped to improve it; she graciously shared her time and expertise with me for no reason other than to be nice. She also has given me the encouragement I needed to be "brave" enough to share it with the list. Thanks a thousand times over, Carol! Enough of my prattling . . . on with the story! ------------------------------------------------------------ Disclaimer: This story contains adult language, themes, and the like; it should be viewed only by those of legal age. All other usual disclaimers for stories sent to this newsgroup apply -- we already know them, so there's no reason to retype them here. Any resemblance to anyone, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental. Reposting on archival sites is permitted with the following provisions: (1) I am notified when such a posting is made, (2) this story may NOT be posted to any pay sites -- it is given freely and must remain free. Comments may be sent to: [email protected] Everything Old is New Again Copyright (C) 1998 by Chilli TNG Chapter I. My name is Bennet, Angela Bennet. My friends call me "Abby" (from my initials, I suppose); my enemies call me "Fuck You." But most people call me "Detective Bennet." For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a cop. I guess I felt that I had a "calling," and I was devoted to it. As I grew up, when other girls were reading teen magazines, I was reading textbooks on criminology. I was kind of a tomboy, I suppose -- given a choice between playing "house" or sports, I'd choose sports every time. I participated in every sport I could, and even began my own regimen of weight and aerobic training. I made the All-State team for every sport I was in eight years in a row -- four from high school, four from college. But I was a perfect example of "can't judge a book by its cover." I had been called "cute" as a child more times than I care to remember; as I matured, "cute" turned into "pretty," then into "lovely," then into "gorgeous." I didn't look like the "jock" type; based upon my looks, I should have been the kind who would "break a few hearts" instead of a "few asses" on the field. My hair was a dark auburn, which I always kept tied back in a pony tail. I was kind of an "early bloomer," as my mother used to say, and my breasts started developing when I was twelve. Genetics certainly played a part in my beauty, but I know that my devotion to exercise helped a great deal, too. I would have had a string of boyfriends a mile long, but I turned them all down -- while I had a few friends, both male and female, I never really dated, since my nights and weekends were reserved for studying and exercise. My figure, toned by years of exercise discipline, rivaled that of many models; I rejected three offers from "Playboy" magazine to appear in their annual "College Girls in Sports" issue, not because I'm a prude, mind you -- hell, I'm proud of my body and the fact that it is desirable -- but because I didn't want anything from my past to prevent me from achieving my career goal. I graduated in '18, at the top of my college class, with a double major in pre-law and criminology. I then applied to the police academy and was immediately accepted; I graduated as part of the infamous "Class of '19" . . . infamous for being the most decorated, most honored, and most promoted academy class in seventy years. Graduating classes frequently did something to celebrate and to bond themselves together; in prior years, this had been some kind of tattoo. Our class wanted to be different, though, so it was decided that we would all go bald. Someone else suggested that we should also grow beards. "What about the women?" someone called out. "We'll grow 'em, too," someone shouted back. So, all two hundred sixteen of us went out and shaved our heads; the women, plus a few of the men who weren't able to grow a decent beard, all had biogenetic modifications (or "BodMods," as the current slang goes) to enable us to grow beards. Most everyone also had BodMods done to remove their scalp hair, making them permanently bald. I didn't opt for this route, though, but I still keep my head shaved daily. Why? Because I like the look. I also don't grow a full beard any more; I prefer to wear instead what many male friends have called a "stunning" Vandyke -- I just shave the rest. Well, I hired on with the city as a patrol cop and served my time on a beat. I finally realized my life's calling when I was promoted to detective a year ago in '26. I'll be honest with you, the "Roaring Twenties" are a pretty shitty time to be a cop. But I'm not complaining . . . too much, at least. I like what I do; I may be pretty cynical, but I still believe that I can make a difference in the system. And luckily, most of the cops I work with believe the same thing. The police force wasn't always this way. Hell, before the turn of the century, most of the cops were on the take, or so I've been told. I was barely three at the Millenium, so I don't really know how things were then for certain. But some of the old-timers on the force -- the good ones, that is -- have told me, and I believe 'em. The so-called "Conservative Backlash" that occurred at the Millenium seems to have gotten the country back on track. This isn't the first time that such a policy swing has happened, though. These things run in cycles. Everything runs in cycles. Take for instance the new cycle of criminals. They've patterned themselves after the gangsters of the last "Roaring Twenties" but with a new twist -- instead of peddling prohibition booze like their predecessors, these twenty-first century gangsters deal in banned technology. Their influence on the culture has been most pervasive. But I doubt that I'm telling you anything you didn't already know. "So, Abby," I hear you think to yourself, "just what exactly are you trying to tell me?" I'm trying to record my thoughts about the last case I worked on. As it stands right now, it may be the last case I'll ever work on. For the past year, I've been trying to break up a gang led by someone I only know as "Da Boss." Yeah, I know -- original name. Well, what Da Boss lacked in an original name was more than made up for in his . . . interests. Weapons. Cutting-edge weapons. Weapons like the "Needle-nosed Tommy," a small, silent job that uses magnetic induction instead of exploding gasses to propel its projectiles; it fires tiny wire-like needles, up to a thousand per second, at speeds over 1000 meters per second. So far, there isn't a shielding strong enough to stop these damn things; I've seem 'em punch through a foot of concrete block and an inch of steel plating. Da Boss had other interests, too; diversification helped to ensure not only a steady cash flow but also helped to preserve secrecy and to insulate Da Boss from direct involvement in many of his gang's activities. Oh, he knew everything that was going on -- I'm certain of it -- but, for the most part, I didn't have any good links back to him. One area of interest that Da Boss had was in prostitution. Yes, even with our nation's more conservative, moral outlook, the world's oldest profession is still alive and well. And Da Boss controlled at least seventy-five percent of the city's hookers and pimps. His main lieutenant for prostitution was William "Slick Willie" Malloy, a smarmy little bastard who was my personal candidate for the Peter Principle Poster Boy -- you know, the old adage that everyone rises to their level of incompetence. Well, Slick Willie had risen to his, and I just happened to be on hand one night when he slipped up, and I arrested him. That night, there were only three of us in the interrogation room -- Slick Willie, me, and Kim Underwood, one of the department Espers. Kim was part of a pilot project to determine the value an Esper could have for the police department. I don't know why "they" needed a study to tell them this; all they needed to do was ask me or any of the other detectives or cops here and we'd have told them to hire a dozen more just like her. You see, having an Esper in the interrogation room with you was like having a lie detector, but one that actually worked and which couldn't be fooled. A good Esper agent "sees" into the perp's mind (at least, that's how Kim described it to me) and somehow is able to follow the perp's train of thought. My job was to ask questions that were leading enough to get the perp to think about the answer; then, even if they gave me a completely bogus answer, the Esper knew the real answer. Supposedly, it's human nature to think of the truth first before fabricating a lie, even for pathological liars. "All it takes is a nanosecond," Kim used to tell me. Well, I'd caught Slick Willie actually taking a payment from one of his pimps. To this day, I don't know why he was so blatantly open; I like to think that he just slipped up and let some of his incompetence show through, but I've had nightmares where he told me that Da Boss told him to let himself get arrested. Anyhow, Kim and I were questioning him. That is, I was questioning him; Kim was "seeing" him, and I was trying to follow Kim's signals to determine my next question. Let me tell you about Kim. I owe her at least that. She was beautiful, in every way you can imagine. Her face was sort of round, with elegantly thin eyebrows, a button nose, and sweetly curved lips. She wore little makeup, mainly because she didn't need to -- a hint of blush and a coral lip color were all I ever saw her wear. Her soft brown eyes twinkled when she smiled, which was often, unless we were working; outside of the interrogation room, she always had a smile on her pretty face. In the three months we'd been working together, I never found her in a bad mood, never heard her say one bad thing about anyone else, even the perps. Her long brown hair was always pulled back into a loose bun, which gave her a soft but professional look and imparted a sense of wisdom which belied her youthful twenty-two. She wore dark, business-type jackets and skirts, but their relative drabness simply highlighted her beauty. While at work, she was all business; but, in the few times that we got together outside of work, I learned that she had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh. She especially loved to hear dirty jokes, although I never heard her tell one herself. I'm proud that I got to work with her, but I'm even more proud that she considered me her friend. Slick Willie sat on a hard wood chair at one end of the table, a self-satisfying smirk plastered on his face. He actually seemed to enjoy the fact that he was sitting in front of two attractive women while he was dressed only in his underwear. Strip searches were standard practice, as were more high-tech scans. If he'd had more than a gram of metal on him, we'd have known about it. I could even tell you how many fillings he had in his teeth. But what I couldn't do was get a straight answer out of him. That's where Kim proved to be so useful. "Come on, Willie," I said. "If you'll just answer my questions like a good little boy, then we can all go home." "Fuck you," he spat back (see, I figured he knew my name). "What I wanna know is . . . why a fine-lookin' bitch like you went Kojill. Don'cha like men, baby?" I don't usually let perps get to me, but Willie had been stonewalling us both for the last four hours, and his crack about "Kojill," implying that I was a Lez, got the better of me and my temper just snapped for a second. "Sure, Willie," I taunted, "I like men. A lot. And if there were one here in the room, I'd show you." Willie started to stand at that point, but I flicked my cigar at him and said, "Nobody told you to stand up, asshole. Just tell me where I can find Da Boss and you can go." I heard Kim gasp slightly. As I turned to her, I could see that she was visibly shaken by what she'd "seen" from Willie. "Oh my Dear God, Abby," she said. "He knows. He . . . oh SHIT! He's got a gun!" It was the last thing Kim ever said. I heard a sound like a soda can bursting, then I stared in horror as I saw a tiny red dot form just below Kim's nose a split second before her head squished up and out and spattered its contents across the interrogation room mirror. As I turned, I saw Willie, still seated, pointing at Kim with his index finger. The very tip of his finger was missing. "Oh fuck," I thought to myself. "He's got implants." Willie lowered his index finger, then flipped me off with his middle one. "Goodbye, bitch," he spat as he pointed his finger at me. I froze. For a fraction of a second, I froze, waiting for the suddenness of nothingness to hit me as it had Kim. Then, in what seemed like slow-motion, Willie turned his hand and inserted the finger into his nostril. "NOOOOO!" I screamed as I leapt for him and tried to grab his hand, his wrist, his arm, something to keep him from killing himself. I almost succeeded. When the fingergun went off, I'd pulled his finger from his nose; the bullet -- a particularly nasty thing called a "buzzsaw" -- touched the tip of his nose, then ablated, ripped off his nose, all of the skin from his nose to the top of his head, and burst his eyes. Willie hit the ground, screaming. Blood was everywhere in the room by now. As he lay dying, I shook him by the shoulders and screamed "Who's Da Boss, Willie," over and over, until I could scream no more. Chapter II. "Bennet, there was nothing you could do. Those goddamn buzzsaws don't show up on our scans." "I should have had him cuffed, Lieutenant," I said quietly. "Bullshit; you know that's not standard procedure anymore, not with half the perps having hand BodMods that they can just pop off. Remember Ramone Sanchez?" "Yeah," I mumbled. Sanchez had been a detective here; a year ago, some badass BodModded perp had popped off his hand, slipped the cuffs, then used them to bash in Sanchez' skull. Ever since, we haven't bothered with cuffs in the interrogation room. "So get over it. Simmons and Whitehurst are in the interrogation room. Go give 'em a hand." I expected that from Lieutenant Moore. He's a great guy, but he's a real hardass when it comes to police work. He even looks like the typical hardass cop; 6'2" tall and wide, thick necked, thick armed, thick legged; he could probably bench-press a house. The only thing about Lieutenant Moore that wasn't thick was his mind -- he was a sharp detective and an astute administrator. He could probably shake off the death of a friend in five seconds, and I know that he expected me to do so, too, but I was having a pretty hard time doing so. Trying to do what he ordered, I stood up and started to walk to the interrogation room -- the murder scene. As I did, Moore did something that I didn't expect. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me back to face him. When he spoke, there was a subtle difference in his demeanor, and I could tell that I was talking to Thom Moore now, not Lieutenant Moore. "Abby," he said, a slightly sad smile on his face, his voice just a tad less gruff, "we've all lost someone. It's never easy, especially when that someone is also a friend." "Kim and I weren't really friends, Thom . . . ." I started to say, but he interrupted me. "Don't kid yourself, Abby. I know you two socialized from time to time; she never did that with any of the other detectives. And she kept requesting shifts where she could work with you." He paused, letting that sink in. "Maybe you didn't consider her a friend, but I know she considered you one of hers, and I'm sorry for your loss." Then, with just a blink of his eyelids, Thom Moore went back to being Lieutenant Moore. "Now get back to work." "Yes, sir," I said, his thoughts still reeling in my head. Marla Simmons, a petite, light-skinned black woman, and Stan Whitehurst, a thin, studious-looking man with thick glasses and a severely receding hairline, were from the Medical Examiner's office. Both were top-notch, seasoned professionals, and even they were taken aback by what they saw that night. "Jesus, Abby," Whitehurst said as he scooped up a pinkish-red blob and put it into a vial, "what a fuckin' mess. Those buzzsaws are a real bitch." "Yeah," I muttered, reliving the incident in my mind for the hundredth time. "Here, hold this a sec," he said as he handed me the vial containing what must have been some of Kim's brain. In a daze, I put the vial in my pocket. "I doubt she even knew what hit her," Simmons said as she completed the body outline on the floor. "You're wrong, Marla," I said, my voice bitter with remorse. "She knew. She was an Esper." "No shit," Whitehurst said. "Must not have been a good one; otherwise, she would have ducked." "Whitehurst, you son of a bitch," I growled as I drew my fist back and watched Whitehurst suddenly grow pale. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to bust him in the jaw. "Abby!" Simmons shouted. "He's not worth the suspension." I looked at Whitehurst -- glowered at him would be more appropriate a description -- then slowly lowered my fist to my side and unclenched it. "I'm gonna go clean out her locker," I said. "Call me if you need me." I heard Whitehurst mutter "Sorry, Abby," as I left the room and headed for the lockers. I found an empty copy paper box and went to Kim's locker. As I keyed in her combination, I chuckled to myself over the fact that I could remember her locker combo but not mine. A week after she started here, Kim had come in to the locker room and found me beating my locker with my fist, cursing a blue streak. She asked me what the problem was, and, when I told her that I couldn't remember my damn combo, she laughed her cute, lilting laugh, then asked me two questions. The first one was "What day is it?" As I started to answer, she quickly asked me, "What's your locker combo?" As she asked this, I got the strangest feeling that someone was standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. As I started to say "If I knew that, I wouldn't be beating on the door," she interrupted me before I got the fourth word out and told me my locker combo -- 27.81.44. "How did you know that?" I asked her. "You told me," she said with a smile. "When I asked you what it was, your mind flashed onto the combo. You knew it, even though you couldn't consciously access it. All I had to do was 'see' it for you." If I'd had any doubt as to an Esper's ability before, it went away completely then. I keyed in the combo and my door opened. "Fuck me to tears," I muttered to myself as I marveled at her abilities. "Any time," I heard Kim say, a mischievous grin on her face. As I started to tell Kim that I was strictly hetero, she interrupted me again. "You know," she said, "it's not fair that I know your combo and you don't know mine. Mine's 38.23.37 . . . the same as my measurements." My chuckle as I opened Kim's locker door hitched in my throat. The contents of her locker were pretty typical. Exercise clothes, toiletries, some prescriptions, her purse. I placed each of these items into the box. As I did so, I noticed something unusual about one of the prescription bottles. On the label, it had the name "Underwood, Kim" and nothing else. This struck me as odd, and I put the pills in my pocket to examine later. There was one other thing in Kim's locker -- a dark plastic bag. Inside the bag, I found a small, brightly wrapped package with an envelope attached to it. An envelope addressed to "Abby." Addressed to me. "God, Kim," I whispered to myself, "what did you do?" I sat down on the locker room bench and, with suddenly trembling fingers, opened the envelope. Inside was a birthday card. "Kim," I thought, "how in the hell did you know today was my birthday?" The front of the card was a photograph of a very impressive firework display (how had Kim known that I've loved fireworks since I was a little girl?). At the top of the card, it read: "On this, your special day . . . ." And, on the inside, it continued: ". . . I want you to know how much your friendship means to me. Happy Birthday!" And, underneath that, in Kim's delicate handwriting, was: "Abby, Thanks for being so nice to me; it's rare to find someone who doesn't mind being around someone who can read their mind. You are one SPECIAL lady. Love, Kim. P.S. These are so you don't always have to smoke those disgusting Doberman turds you call cigars." (Kim liked to kid me about my choice of cigars. The ones I smoked at work were the cheapest I could stand, mainly to piss off the perps, though I liked to relax at home or after hours with a much nicer cigar. And "turd" was the dirtiest word I ever heard Kim use. Up until an hour ago, that is.) I opened the package. It was a miniature humidor. Inside, there were five very nice, very expensive cigars. On one of them, there was a small note: "Abby, save this one for me, ok? We'll smoke it together sometime. Kim." It hit me then just how much I had meant to Kim. And I never even knew it. The tragedy of the situation overcame me, and I felt a large tear well up and over my lower eyelid, followed by another one, then another. Soon, I was sobbing. "Are you alright?" I heard from behind me as I felt a hand touch me lightly on the shoulder. "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" I shouted as I jerked away from the hand. I turned to see who was talking to me and found myself staring into the eyes of an angel. Not an actual, Bible-type angel with wings and a halo, but a vision of loveliness that I have yet to see equaled. She was tall, almost willowy. Her hair was honey blonde, wavy, and fell attractively around her shoulders and half-way down her back. Her cheekbones were high and elegant, her nose was petite, her full lips showed just a touch of sadness. Her eyes, though, were the most expressive part of her face; they were the deepest, most intense blue I have ever seen, and seemed to speak a language all their own. Her body was the perfect compliment to her beautiful face -- curvaceous and sexy as hell without being lewd. She was dressed in a fashion similar to the way Kim dressed -- dark jacket with matching skirt, moderately high heels, and a white blouse. "I am so sorry to bother you," she said as she extended her hand. "I'm Carly Taylor, with Esper Division. I've been assigned to help you investigate Kim Underwood's murder." Chapter III. As Carly and I walked out of the locker room, I noticed a dramatic change in the department. It was quiet, for starters, and there were at least a dozen dark jacketed, dark skirted, very attractive young women standing around the door to the interrogation room. As we approached, I saw Simmons and Whitehurst being escorted out of the room. "But this is our job," I heard Simmons complain to the woman to her right. "And you've done a fine job so far," she replied. "But all cases involving the death of an Esper agent are to be handled solely by Esper Division. Governor's orders." "We'll be certain to send Mr. Malloy's remains to you for autopsy," said another woman. "But what about Underwood?" Whitehurst said. "Miss Underwood is in our care now," said the first woman. "Now, do we have all of your notes and evidence?" "It's all there," Whitehurst grumbled, clearly upset about being pulled off the case. "Good," said the woman. "You may go now. And expect Mr. Malloy to be delivered within the hour." "The M.E. is going to hear about this," Simmons said. In reply, the two women who had escorted them out simply turned and walked back into the interrogation room, closing the door behind them. "Bennet, Taylor," I heard Lieutenant Moore shout from behind me. "My office. Now!" "His majesty belloweth," I said, managing a faint smile at Carly as we turned around and went into Moore's office. As I got to the door and saw who was inside, I thought to myself, "The shit's gonna hit the fan now." As I thought that, I again felt as though someone were staring at the back of my head, and I heard Carly mutter, just loud enough for me to hear, "I think you're right." Seated inside Lieutenant Moore's office were some major heavy hitters: Andrew McGee, our Governor, a suave-looking, middle-aged man with dark hair, graying at the temples, and just the hint of a belly, with a smile that made you instantly think of him as a friend, but with eyes that warned you to watch out for a knife in the back; Ramona Garriot, our Mayor, a thin, efficient-looking woman who dressed in styles far younger than she had any business to, and who was so positively anal that I suspected a lump of coal shoved up her ass would come back a diamond; John Brite, Chief of Police, a red-faced, balding, heavy-set man who looked as though he had been in shape at one time but now suffered from too many years of donuts and desk-jockey work, and who had a reputation for being ruthless in his pursuit of conquests, sexual or political. There was only one person I didn't recognize, an elegant-looking woman who appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, but I had a hunch that I knew who she was. Lieutenant Moore made the introductions. "And this," he said, gesturing towards the elegant woman, "is Dr. Marsha Miller . . . ." ". . . from Esper Division?" I finished for him. "Quite perceptive, Detective," Dr. Miller said as she stood to shake my hand. "Actually, I'm the founder and current director." Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Carly was trying to suppress a grin. "I told you she was quick," Lieutenant Moore said, a smile of pride almost showing on his face. "To the matter at hand. Dr. Miller is concerned that the shooting of Miss Underwood was actually a message from Da Boss to Esper Division." "I believe that Da Boss sees Esper Division as a threat," Dr. Miller continued. "A threat to his continued existence. Underwood's 'execution' was his way of telling us that we're getting too close. I will not be intimidated, however. I have assigned Miss Taylor to this task; she has been charged to help you, Detective, discover who Da Boss is and to help you shut him down. Permanently." Before I could say a word, Chief Brite interrupted. "I'm afraid that we can't allow that," he said. "Our standard policy is to investigate all homicides that occur within police buildings and to suspend all officers involved. The Mayor and I have discussed your request for special consideration in this matter, and have decided to refuse it. Therefore, in light of Detective Bennet's bungling of this investigation, I'm ordering her to be placed on immediate suspension, without pay, until Internal Affairs has had a chance to review the situation." The room erupted with a chorus of angry shouts from Dr. Miller and Lieutenant Moore, who was by far the louder of the two. "You can't do that," he bellowed. "That's not what we agreed to do." "Would you prefer to have her fired?" snapped the Chief. "I didn't call her in here to dismiss her!" Dr. Miller was equally vocal. "Chief Brite, this is wholly unacceptable. Madam Mayor, we agreed that Detective Bennet was the singularly _most_ qualified person for this assignment and that a waiver of policy was warranted, given the magnitude of the case. Governor McGee, I urge you to ask the Mayor and the Chief to _change their minds_." The way Dr. Miller said those last three words, I fully expected to see flames come shooting out of her mouth. Silence filled the room. Slowly, Governor McGee said, "As this is a city matter, I feel that I must defer to the wishes of the Chief and the Mayor, whether I agree with them or not." Spoken like a true politician. Mayor Garriot was little help, either. "Dr. Miller," she said, "at first, your request seemed reasonable. However, after further discussion with Chief Brite, we decided that no case warranted violation of accepted police policy. We have a number of detectives who can be assigned to this case, most of whom equal or surpass Miss Bennet. We will investigate this homicide, I assure you, but we will do so according to our policies." "What a bunch of weasels," I thought. Then I felt that strange feeling again and glanced quickly over my shoulder. No one was there, of course, but I did notice that Carly was again trying to suppress a grin. This irritated me a bit, since I certainly didn't find anything the least bit amusing about the situation and I couldn't understand why she did, either. "Lieutenant," said the Chief, "I suggest that you get on with the suspension." The edge in his voice left no doubt in my mind that Thom Moore would also be on the unemployment line if he so much as hinted that he disagreed. In response, Lieutenant Moore simply hung his head and dropped his massive shoulders in resignation. I was stunned. I sat there, totally dumbfounded. I knew that I had done nothing wrong. I also knew that Internal Affairs moved about as quickly as my arthritic Great-Aunt Audrey. Sure, I'd be back on the job, but long after any leads I would have followed had dried up and blown away. That meant that Da Boss would likely get away, and that no one would be held accountable for the death of Kim Underwood. "Goddamn it, Abby," Lieutenant Moore said, his face looking more dour than ever. "I hate to do this, but I need your badge and your piece." I stood and slowly pulled my badge and my holster from my belt, then handed them to Lieutenant Moore. "This isn't right, Thom," I said quietly. "I didn't do anything wrong." "I know," he said, "and I'm glad to hear you realize it, too." He put my badge and gun into a drawer. "These will be here when you are cleared." "Right," I whispered, then walked out of his office and back to the locker room. I gathered some things, put on my jacket, and headed towards the door. As I was leaving, I noticed that the meeting in Moore's office was breaking up. I hung back a bit, not wanting to encounter the Governor, Mayor, or the Chief, because I didn't want to find myself saying something I'd regret for the rest of my unemployment. "Detective?" I turned and saw Carly Taylor standing there, looking very apprehensive. "Yes, Miss Taylor?" "Oh, Detective, please call me Carly." "Then you're gonna have to call me Abby . . . I'm not certain I'm a detective any more." Carly then did something strange. She placed her hands on my shoulders and looked me squarely in the eyes. "Stop it!" she commanded. "Never doubt yourself. You have a tremendous gift. Kim saw it, and I see it, too." Then she kissed me, full on the lips. She took me so by surprised with this action that I responded with instinct and kissed her back. I had never had a lesbian thought before in my life, but there I was, kissing this absolutely beautiful woman, and I enjoyed it. Something about her touch, the way her lips caressed mine, felt so absolutely right. After a moment, she pulled back, a rosy blush on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, _Detective_. I really don't know what came over me." She paused for a moment and composed herself. "I'm really sorry about your suspension. I had no idea that was going to happen to you." "Neither did I," I replied. "Taylor," called Lieutenant Moore, interrupting our conversation. "My office. Now!" "You better go," I said. "Don't worry about me; this little 'vacation' will give me some time to visit with my friends Boomer and Jack." "Boomer?" Carly asked. "My German Shepherd." "And Jack?" "Daniels." Chapter IV. The next two days are kind of a blur. Not because I got drunk -- I didn't, by the way -- but because I was in shock, I guess. I was effectively on auto-pilot, only doing the barest minimum of things necessary to survive. I ran a lot. I ate when I got hungry, which wasn't very often. I smoked some cigars. Mostly, I cried for Kim. I reviewed Kim's death a thousand times in my mind. I examined my actions, her actions, even Slick Willie's actions. Had I missed something? Had I done something wrong? Had Kim? I thought about things I could have done differently. I normally don't play "what if" games, especially with myself; now, that was all I was doing. Every scenario ended the same way -- Kim getting a buzzsaw to the head, her brains splattering all over the walls and floor. Kim's brains. Jesus Christ on a bicycle! I still had a vial of Kim's brains! Whitehurst had handed it to me while he was working on the investigation before the Esper Division investigators arrived and took over. Not only that, but I had the mysterious prescription bottle I'd taken from Kim's locker. Could there be some clue about what happened in one of these items? Did their contents hold any answers for me? I had to find out. It was 5:30 in the morning when I called Marla Simmons, waking her out of a sound sleep. "Abby, what the hell time is it?" "Who gives a shit?" I replied. "I'm sorry; it's been a long night. Anyway, it's close enough to morning to be getting up. Marla, I need a favor." "Abby, are you alright?" Simmons asked. "Not really," I replied. "You heard I got suspended?" "Yeah, sorry. But, that's not what I meant. Are _you_ alright?" "I don't know. I've been playing Kim's death over and over in my mind . . ." "That's a sure-fire way to drive yourself crazy, Abby, and you sure as hell know better, too. You didn't do anything wrong, and you know it. If she were here, Kim would tell you the same thing." "She _is_ still here," I said, not elaborating. "What are you talking about?" "I've got a vial of her . . . blood, brains, I don't know what it is. Whitehurst handed it to me while you both were in the interrogation room." "I'll be there in thirty minutes," she said, then hung up the phone. I looked around my house and realized that it was a mess. I also realized that it couldn't be cleaned up in thirty minutes. So, I sat down and played "what if" for the thousand and first time. Kim still died. The sun was beginning to come up when I heard a knock on my door. I saw that it was Marla Simmons, looking as professional as ever. I let her in. "I don't know how you do it, Marla," I said, trying to sound chipper and upbeat. "You look great, not a hair out of place." "Jesus, Abby," she said, "you look like hell! How long has it been since you slept?" "Forty-eight, fifty hours, I guess." "You _need_ to get some sleep, Abby. You'll kill yourself this way." "Your point being?" "Goddamn it, Abby," Simmons shouted, "you're a professional. You are a _detective_. It's not just what you do, it's who you are. You need to get yourself under control. This behavior isn't helping anyone . . . especially Kim." I stared at Simmons for a moment. Her words rang true to me; hell, I'd used variations of them myself over the years. "Maybe you're right," I replied. I handed her the vial. "This is what you came here for." Simmons looked at that little vial as if it were the Holy Grail itself. "I can't believe we've got this," she said. "You have no idea just how pissed off I was when they yanked this investigation out from under me." She paused and thought about what she said. "Sorry, I think you _do_ have a pretty good idea." I just gave her a little half-smile. "I also got this," I said as I handed her the unlabelled pill bottle I'd taken from Kim's locker. "What is it?" she asked me as the examined one of the pills. "You tell me; the only identification on it is Kim's name and Esper Division." "I'll run some tests on these, too," she said. "Believe me, if there's anything here that can help, I'll let you know." "Keep it between you and me, alright?" "Why?" "That's my favor -- no one else is to know anything about what you find out. Something just doesn't feel right about this whole thing, and I prefer to deal with people I can trust." "Now _that_ sounds more like the Abby I know," Simmons said, her wide smile beaming. "The moment I know anything, I'll call." "Will you be able to keep Whitehurst out of this?" I asked. "No problem; he's still studying Slick Willie's corpse." "You've still got it?" I said, quite surprised at the news. "Whitehurst got the M.E. to hold up releasing the body for a few days to give him time to make a complete study of the blast pattern from the buzzsaw shell. Willie will be around for at least another day, and, well, you know how Stan gets about new wound pattern examinations." "Marla," I laughed, "Stan Whitehurst is a fuckin' ghoul." She laughed, too. "As long as he keeps doing the excellent work he's been doing, he could be eating leftover body parts and it would be alright with me." She got serious, though, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Abby, _please_ get some sleep." "I will," I lied. "I'll go lie down as soon as you leave." "Then I'm gone," she said, and she left. I did try to lie down, but, every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing Kim's pretty face explode into a shapeless mass of red and pink goo. I got back up and went out for a short five-mile jog. When I got back, I checked my answering machine for messages; there weren't any. I sat down and finally, mercifully, drifted off to sleep. Chapter V. A loud sound stirred me from my exhausted slumber. Still somewhat dazed, I instinctively reached to my side for my piece; when I encountered nothing but air, the events of the past two days came slamming back at me. A quick glance at the clock told me that it was past four; I'd been sleeping for over seven hours. The sound came again -- someone was knocking on my door. I got up to see who it was, and my heart fluttered a bit when I saw that it was Carly Taylor. I opened the door and let her in. "I'm sorry to come by unannounced," she began, then got a good look at me. A look of genuine concern came over her face. "Detective, are you ok?" I forced a smile. "Pretty good, considering almost no sleep since . . . ." I couldn't finish my thought. "Well, Detective, if you don't mind my saying so, you look like hell." I laughed at that. Carly smiled at my laughter. God, her smile was electric; it lit up her face and made her radiant. I went into the bathroom and took a look in the mirror. "You're right," I called to Carly, "I do look like hell." I had not shaved in nearly three days, and I had stubble all over my head and face; dark circles under my eyes pointed out how little sleep I'd really had. "Make yourself at home," I continued. "I'm gonna get cleaned up." "Alright," I heard her call back as I started up the shower. I showered quickly -- when you don't have any hair to wash, you can get in and out of a shower in a hurry -- patted myself dry, then wrapped my towel around my body. As I was getting ready to lather my head, Carly opened the door. "Sorry to interrupt," she said. "Yes?" I asked quizzically; I noticed that Carly was staring at my half-lathered scalp. "You've never seen a woman shave before?" "Her legs, yes," she said, "but never her head or face. Can I watch?" I laughed. "Sure, have a seat." As she came in, Boomer followed her and curled up at my feet. "I'm assuming this is Boomer," Carly said. "That's my boy," I said as Boomer wagged his tail. "Don't be upset if he's a little stand-offish to you; he's kind of a one-person dog." "Why Boomer?" she asked. "He used to be a police dog," I said as I began shaving my scalp. "Then, his name was Sarge. I was still a patrol officer at the time. We got a call to provide backup at a stakeout. Things went kind of downhill and we had to run down some of the perps. My partner and I were following one, when he chose to flee down a dead-end alley. We went in to get him, and Boomer followed us in. The perp drew on us and opened fire with explosive shells. My partner caught one in the chest; he died on the spot. I was certain I was next, but Boomer jumped at the perp just as he shot at me. The shell hit Boomer in his right rear leg and blew it off, but that gave me the moment I needed to get a bead on the perp and drop him." "My God," Carly said, engrossed both with my story and, apparently, with my skill with a razor. "Boomer was still alive, but was pretty messed up. The vets wanted to put him down, but I convinced them otherwise. Boomer was officially retired . . ." Boomer interrupted me with a bark. ". . . sorry Boomer, with honors, and I adopted him. And the new name just seemed appropriate." "He's only got three legs?" Carly asked. "I didn't even notice." "Ever watch a dog run?" I asked as I switched to shaving my face. "Well, a dog's really a three-legged animal with a spare. He can't run as fast as he used to, but he doesn't seem to notice the difference." "Does he fall over when he pees?" she asked with a giggle. I erupted with laughter and nearly nicked my cheek. "No," I finally choked out between laughs, "he's left-handed." That got us both laughing again. Once I had composed myself, I finished shaving and wiped away the remaining traces of lather. "Do you mind if I touch your head?" Carly asked, somewhat timidly. "I've never touched a bald woman's head before." "Be my guest," I said. She stood and lightly drew her fingertips over my freshly shaved scalp. My scalp is one of my erogenous zones, and Carly's touch was so incredibly erotic, I found myself again wanting her, even though such feelings went against my nature and morals -- I was brought up to believe that sex between two people was the ultimate show of love and respect for each other, but that those two people had to be of the opposite sex. "That feels so sexy," she said. I couldn't have agreed more. "Uh," I flustered, "let me get dressed, and then you can tell me why I have the honor of your visit." She drew her hand back quickly, blushing. "Sure." I went into my bedroom, dropped my towel, and started to pull on some panties. For some reason, I looked over my shoulder; Carly was standing in my doorway, staring at my firm breasts, my trim waist, my well-toned legs, my rounded bottom. "You're gorgeous," she whispered, then she closed the door between us. "This can't be happening," I thought. I slipped into a bra, then pulled on a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of shorts. I sat down on the bed and tried to sort things through. I decided to play dumb and ignore what I perceived as a pretty blatant come-on and just pretend that it hadn't happened; I wasn't going to _let_ anything happen; I was strictly Hetero. I had to squelch the little voice in the back of my head that whispered "are you really?" I steeled myself to this resolve, stood up, opened the door, and walked into my living room. The place was spotless. I couldn't believe my eyes. Garbage had been collected, my ashtrays had been emptied and washed, the dirty dishes had disappeared, probably into the dishwasher. The windows had even been washed. Carly was sitting at one end of my couch, looking nervous. "I hope you don't mind that I tidied up a bit," Carly said as I stared at the room in shock. "I knew that you'd had . . . other things on your mind." "I don't know what to say," I replied. "No, I don't mind, but you really didn't have to do this. How did you do this in so short a time?" "I know I didn't _have_ to," she said, "I _wanted_ to. And it goes pretty fast when you tackle only one thing at a time." I noticed a bit of dog fur on the carpet. "What, you didn't vacuum?" I joked, adding a big smile so Carly would know I was joking. She giggled. "I couldn't find it," she said. I sat down on the other end of the couch. It seemed as though Carly was going to ignore her little peek at me as well. "So what brought you here? I assume that it wasn't just to clean." "No," she said, still looking nervous. "I came to talk to you about the investigation. Sorry. It's got me pretty frustrated." "Don't apologize," I said. "I'll help in any way I can." Suddenly, I got a bad feeling. "Who are you working with? Please tell me it's not Floyd Ewing." Carly sighed. "How did you guess? Mayor Garriot recommended him personally." "No wonder you're frustrated. 'Fuck-up Floyd' couldn't find his dick if it were glued to his hand." "That's what Lieutenant Moore said. Oh, he said to say 'Hi' if I saw you . . . unofficially, of course." "Of course. What's Ewing been doing on the case?" "So far, we've interviewed eleven hookers and three pimps, all who work for, well, _used_ to work for Slick Willie. None of them know anything." "Has he talked with any of Willie's compatriots?" "Not yet. I don't even know if he plans to. He won't tell me anything. He acts as if I didn't have a brain. He may not realize that I do; I don't think his eyes have ever gotten higher than my tits. Is he always such a chauvinist?" I laughed as I lit a cigar. "He's the worst. But he's got connections; he knows the chief, and the mayor, somehow, and one or the other of them usually make certain that his little 'transgressions' get overlooked." "Eww," Carly said as she snatched my cigar away and stubbed it out. "Kim was right; those things do smell like Doberman shit." I figured that she was an anti-tobacco radical, but she surprised me. She opened her purse and pulled out two large, dark cigars and a lighter. "If you're going to smoke, smoke something decent," she said as she handed one of the cigars to me. I knew an expensive cigar when I saw one, and this stick had to have cost upwards of thirty dollars. I knew that I was in for a real treat, and I was, but my mistake had been in thinking that the treat was the cigar itself. Instead, I was treated to the most seductive, tantalizing display I had ever seen as Carly prepared her own cigar. As she moistened the end with her lips, I wished, for the first and only time in my life, that I had been born a man and had a dick around which she could wrap those talented lips. That thought promptly disappeared, though, as she delicately snipped off the extreme tip of her cigar, not with a cutter, but with her teeth; I noticed that her bite was perfect, too. When she began to light the end and to draw the smoke into her mouth, I was transfixed. Then, once lit, her first major draw on the cigar was deep; as she exhaled, she tilted her head back, exposing her long, slender neck. "Aren't you going to join me?" she said as she noticed that my cigar was still unlit. I caught up with her and discovered just how wonderful a truly good cigar could be. When I complimented her on her selection of cigars, she said "I have them rolled especially for me. I'll send you a box." Either Esper Division paid their people extremely well, or she had a lot of money in her family. We sat and chatted for awhile about the case. Carly described each interview she and Ewing had conducted, practically verbatim. She had an amazing memory and a terrific eye for detail. From what I could tell, she was completely right in her assessment of their progress in the case -- Ewing was leading them on a trail to nowhere. Also, I could tell that Carly's knowledge of police business and criminology was extensive. Carly looked down at her watch suddenly. "Detective," she said, "I need to ask you a favor, and I'll understand if you say 'No.' Will you accompany me to Kim Underwood's funeral? It starts in an hour." I felt my stomach tighten up. "I had no idea it was tonight; no one told me." "I figured as much. Please, though, come with me. It would have meant so much to Kim. She really liked you, you know? A lot." With a request like that, how could I refuse? "Sure," I said, standing up as I spoke. "Just let me change into something more appropriate." I went into my room and quickly changed into a conservative black dress, nylons, and heels. I applied some lipstick, blush, and eyeshadow, then grabbed my purse. Next to my purse was the small humidor that Kim had planned to give me for my birthday. I opened it, took out the cigar she had marked to save for her, and put it in my purse. "Ready when you are, Carly," I said, and we walked out the door. Chapter VI. Kim's funeral was pretty sedate, outside of the explosion. Oh, it wasn't a big explosion, but it got a number of the attendees upset. All it did to me was piss me off. Somehow, Da Boss learned about the funeral, where and when it was being held, and had a fruit basket delivered. A small charge had been secreted inside a watermelon; when it exploded, pink watermelon flesh went everywhere. I took a look at the card in the basket; it simply read "Don't fuck with me." "Da Boss," I thought to myself, "you picked the wrong people to piss off." As I thought this, I noticed several of the other mourners nodding their heads as though they were in agreement with my thoughts. The minister spoke briefly in eulogy of Kim. His words reinforced many of the things I had seen or had learned about Kim since her death, and that filled me with regret for not having learned them sooner. I was surprised that it was an open casket service. The mortician performed a miracle with Kim; she looked absolutely beautiful. I was also surprised that the only people attending her funeral, other than the minister and myself, were from Esper Division. Dr. Miller also spoke, praising Kim for her talent, her courage, and her devotion to Esper Division. Kim was the first Esper agent to die since the Division was started, and Dr. Miller was clearly upset. But she did get fired up as she talked about the pride that Kim had in working with the police department. When Dr. Miller sat down, the minister invited anyone who wished to share memories of Kim to come to the front and do so. For awhile, no one stood. Then, for reasons I'll never understand, I stood up. I walked, not to the pulpit, but to Kim's coffin. I opened my purse, removed the special cigar, and placed it under her pillow. "Save this for me sometime when I get to heaven," I whispered, then bent over and placed a gentle kiss on Kim's cold lips. No one saw or heard what I did. I walked over the pulpit. "I'm not really sure I belong here," I began. "You all knew Kim better than I did. Until two days ago, I only thought of Kim as an Esper. I admired her abilities, and she really helped me out a lot with my work. In the last few months, we found time to socialize occasionally. She had a terrific sense of humor, and an infectious laugh. But I didn't really take the time to 'know' her. "Not so with Kim. She knew things about me I doubt anyone else outside of my family knows. More importantly, she considered me her friend. I learned this two days ago, just after she died." I began to cry then. "I never got the chance to tell her that she was my friend, too." I was crying harder now. "I lost out being able to tell Kim that she was special," I wailed, then started screaming at the top of my lungs, "all because some son of a bitch wanted her out of his way! Da Boss, I'm gonna find you, I'm gonna find you and make you pay for what you've done!" Everything I said after that was unintelligible. The next thing I remember, Carly was at my side, tears running down her lovely cheeks. "Shhhhh," she whispered, "I'm here. It will be alright." She put her arm around my shoulders and led me, still bawling like a baby, out of the church and into her car. As we drove back to my house, Carly kept stroking my cheek, whispering to me that things would be alright. Slowly, I pulled myself together. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, Carly," I said, my voice quivering. "Not at all, Detective," she said, looking at me briefly. Tears were still flowing freely from her eyes. "That was the sweetest thing I've heard in a long time." As we got to my house, I turned to Carly. "I hate to do this to you," I began. "Anything I can do to help, Detective." "I don't have any tissue paper in the house, and I think we're both gonna need some." "I think you're right," she said. "Say no more. Go in, get comfortable, and I'll be back in a moment." I let myself in as Carly sped away. Boomer was happy to see me, as always, and demanded to be let outside immediately. As I closed the door behind him, I saw the light blinking on my answering machine. There was one message. "Abby," said the voice, "it's Marla. You are not gonna believe what I've found out." I was dialing her number before the machine finished the message. "Marla, it's Abby." "Jesus, Abby, where have you been? I called an hour ago." "I was at Kim Underwood's funeral. What have you got for me?" "You better sit down. Those pills? They're a combination of various female hormones." "So are birth control pills. So what?" "Not the same thing. But even so, you're right. The pills, by themselves, aren't that big a deal. The brain matter and blood? That's another story. There were a bunch of buzzsaw shards, so we now know for certain what killed her. But there's something wrong with the brains and blood. They're from a man." "From Slick Willie?" "Nope. I checked with Whitehurst to see if Willie's skull had been compromised. It hadn't. I ran the chromosome test myself three times, Abby. There's no doubt about it. Kim Underwood was a man." I sat in silence. "Hey Abby, you still there?" "Marla, forget you ever talked to me." "Forget I ever talked to who?" she kidded back. "I'm serious. Forget you talked to me, and forget the things you told me. And thanks." I hung up the phone, in more of a daze than ever. I went into my room and changed back into the shirt and shorts. A few moments later, I heard Carly's car in the driveway. I opened the door for her. "What the hell did you buy?" I asked. "All I asked for were some tissues? You must have ten bags of stuff here!" Carly began unpacking the bags, calling off items as she did. "Tissues, wine, cheese, some sour dough, more wine, more tissues, crackers, rocky road ice cream, caramel sauce, whipped cream, even more tissues, dog treats, candles, chips, onion dip, baby carrots, fresh strawberries." "But why?" I questioned as I let Boomer back in the house. "Because," Carly said, "tonight we're going to celebrate Kim Underwood's life the way she liked to celebrate -- with food, wine, and good friends." I noticed a tear roll down her cheek, so I opened the box of tissues and handed her one. "Sounds like a great idea to me. Listen, you're about my size; I set out some flop-around clothes for you in case you wanted to get comfortable, too." "A capital idea, Detective," she said, then disappeared into my bedroom. When she emerged, I was taken again by her beauty. She got down on her knees and called to Boomer. I fully expected him to ignore her; he takes a long time to warm up to strangers. But he ran right over to her, jumped up, put his paws on her shoulders, and gave her a hug. "Good boy," I heard her say as she buried her face in his neck, then I heard her start to cry quietly. "Boomer," I cried in mock irritation, "you traitor!" I waited a moment, then gently said, "Sometimes, fuzzy hugs are the best kind, aren't they?" then handed Carly a box of tissues. "Yes," she replied after composing herself. "I've always had a good relationship with dogs. Most Espers do. But Kim . . . Kim really loved dogs, did you know that?" "No," I replied, "I didn't. But I want to learn all about her. Tell me about Kim." I sat down on the floor and patted a spot next to me. Carly took the hint and sat down. "I met Kim seven years ago," Carly began. "I had just lost my parents in the shuttle disaster; her parents had just died in a car accident. We both found ourselves wards of the state. We hit it off immediately. We were alike in many ways, but dislike in many others. We both liked the same music, the same foods, most of the same subjects in school. "Kim was pretty shy; I am more outgoing. She loved comedies; I love cheesy horror films and action films. She was a brilliant student; I did alright in classes, but I really had to work my ass off to keep my grades up. "We discovered our Esper abilities by accident. In one of our classes, the teacher was trying to illustrate how tests used to be given to check for psychic ability. He picked me and Kim and we nailed it. Got every question right. Soon after that, we were contacted by Esper Division and found ourselves going to their schools. We got a great education, plus we received the specialized training necessary to enhance our talents." As the evening progressed, Carly relaxed a bit more, as did I. I'm sure that the wine had something to do with it, but I think that our talking about Kim did more. We ate and drank things that Kim loved; we even fed Boomer some dog treats that Kim liked to give to her friends' pets. We cheered Kim's accomplishments, laughed at her favorite jokes, and did everything we could to be certain that the influence Kim Underwood had on us and others in her short time on earth would not be forgotten. While we were laughing over one of Kim's jokes, Carly started to cry. "Oh God," she sobbed, "I feel so alone. Please, Detective, hold me?" I reached out to Carly and hugged her close. My nostrils filled themselves with her scent. As I whispered to her and soothingly stroked her soft blonde hair, I felt her, tentatively at first, begin to caress my left breast. She began to place tiny, gentle kisses along my shoulder, then moved up my neck, to my cheek. She started nibbling on my ear lobe, sending shudders of ecstasy down my spine. With a cry of anguish and rage, I pushed her away and quickly stood up. "Carly," I cried, "I'm so, so sorry, but I can't do this. You are the most stunning, sensual person I've ever met, and I'm flattered that you're interested in me, but I just can't. I'm not into women." Carly sobbed one time, then stood and turned away from me. "I understand," she said in a voice almost too quiet to hear. "Please don't hate me," I begged through the tears. "I need you as a friend. Right now, I need all the friends I can get; we both do." She stood there, her back to me, silent. She reached to her waist and pulled down her shorts and underwear, then stepped out of them. "Would this make a difference?" she said cautiously, then slowly turned to face me. She had a penis. "What . . . ?" I started to say. "Genetically, I am a man," Carly said in very even, calm tones, "and I find you the most fascinating, sexy, sensual woman I've ever known. Please, let me hold you, caress you, love you." What could I say? I ran into Carly's arms and kissed her passionately; it was as though I'd packed a lifetime of pent-up passion into that one kiss. I sensed her penis harden and press into my body. It felt glorious! I don't think that I'd ever been that turned on before in my life. Somehow, we made our way into the bedroom and onto my bed. Carly quickly dispensed with her top; she wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts were lovely. Her nipples were a bit tiny, but they were lovely, as well as hard, and I found out that they tasted wonderful. She helped me remove my clothes, then pulled back from me long enough to gaze at my nude body. "Remember earlier today when I told you that you were gorgeous?" she asked. "Yes," I replied, blushing with the compliment. "It was an understatement," she smiled. I lunged at her and smothered her with kisses. Carly was the most attentive, sensitive lover I've ever had, not that I've had that many to compare her to. She massaged every inch of my body, finding pleasure spots I never knew I had before. I orgasmed three times while she was nibbling on my nipples and stroking my scalp. Carly was like a virtuoso pianist, and I was her instrument; she played her magnum opus across my body. Or so I thought. All she'd really shown me was the first movement. She next turned her attention to my vagina. I was already dripping wet at this point and didn't know how much more I could endure. She began to knead my clit, sending wave after glorious wave of pleasure coursing through me, and I soon realized that I was going to reach sexual plateaus I'd never dreamed of before. Carly buried her face in my crotch, and I felt her tongue explore my outer lips, then my inner lips, then flick lightly across my engorged clit. I am a screamer, and my lungs certainly got a workout that night. And, as it turned out, being with a screamer turned Carly on even more. "You've teased me long enough," I purred. "I want to feel you inside me." Carly didn't have to be asked twice. She eased herself into my eager pussy. Her penis wasn't the biggest one I've ever seen, but it was certainly the most talented. Her strokes were even and steady and, even though I was totally wet and ready for her entry, she managed to impart a delightful amount of friction that got us both going. I squeezed my vaginal muscles against Carly's sweet cock with everything I could muster; she responded with a moan of pure lust and pleasure. I felt her begin to shudder, and then, with another of her sexy moans, she began to erupt into me. I came again, and the feeling was absolutely heavenly. I screamed so high a note that Boomer began to howl. That got us both laughing so hard that I feared one of us was going to be sick. It was the perfect way to end my most intense lovemaking session ever. We were both totally spent after our orgasms. Carly lied down next to me and hugged me close. I kissed her deeply and stared into her incredible blue eyes. "I love you, Carly," I whispered. "And I love you, Detective," she whispered back. "Why don't you call me Abby?" I asked her lazily. "Because," she replied, her eyes half closed, her voice soft and sexy, "in your inner soul, 'Detective' is who you are, not just what you are. Sometimes, you're Detective Bennet, sometimes you're Abby, but, to me, you're always 'Detective.' Think of it as a lover's nickname." "Then please, my love, call me 'Detective' all you wish," I said, then kissed her again. With that, Carly closed her eyes. Within moments, we were both asleep, curled up in each other's arms. Chapter VII. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that I felt exhilarated and refreshed. The next thing I noticed was the smell of roses. I turned to wake up Carly, but her side of my bed was empty and cold. A quick glance at the clock allayed my fears of abandonment; it was well after four in the afternoon, and she had been at work hours and hours ago. I got out of bed and stepped on something strange. I looked down and found rose petals scattered all around my bed with a trail of them leading to the door. My curiosity piqued