by John Flynn
When Kate returned to the Homicide Bureau, everyone in the room was staring at her. Jawara, Ramirez, and a couple of cops tried to catch her eye, but she looked straight ahead, and kept walking. She didn’t have anything to say. Clark eased his chair back and started to stand up, but Kate stared him down, trying to shut him up with a glance. The last thing she needed was Clark asking her a lot of questions for that famous notebook of his.
Still fuming, she walked back down the aisle towards her desk, a dozen eyes following behind her. She was pissed off. In fact, she was angry enough to take out her service pistol and shoot Captain Aguilar right between the eyes. Kate was beginning to understand the kind of anger and rage that might have driven a normal person to commit murder. She fought the urge to kill the assistant chief of police, and instead sat back down at her desk. Scribbled on one of the reports in blue ink was a note that read: “John’s Grill 8:30 J.”
Only then did Kate realize John Monroe was gone.
Chapter Eight
THE CLOUDS IN the night sky were rolling, swollen and purple, angry. Thunder rumbled loudly, while lightning flared. A storm was brewing.
Kate arrived at John’s Grill at eight-fifty, twenty minutes late for her late-night rendezvous. She moved through the darkened restaurant, taking care to keep to the bar side, out of sight of the kitchen and her friends behind the grill, looking for some sign of Monroe. The three rows of tables that ran the length of the restaurant were filled with patrons eating steaks, pasta, prime rib, Jack LaLanne’s salad, fresh seafood and rich desserts. Portraits of all the great detectives and movie stars who had played fictional detectives hung on the dimly-lit mahogany walls. Kate reached the end, and looked back at the open kitchen door. Seeing no one, she made yet another sweep. She had never seen the joint so crowded.
For those who truly appreciated San Francisco’s colorful brush with gangsters and gumshoes in the 1920s and 1930s, John’s Grill reflected the history, mystery and ambiance of those times like no other restaurant. In fact, the interior hadn’t changed since Dashiell Hammett nestled up to the bar and ordered “chops, baked potato and sliced tomato” for dinner. Even Hammett’s fictional detective Sam Spade ate there in The Maltese Falcon, while Brigid O’Shaughnessy and several Pinkerton Detectives discussed the “black bird” business over a bottle of fine wine. Famous people from every walk of life, including police detectives, sat down there to share a meal. On certain nights, John’s Grill hosted jazz festivals; on other nights, gourmet food was served; and still other nights, mystery parties. At all times, it was not hard to imagine why that one restaurant was such a popular destination for so many people. Kate almost expected Humphrey Bogart or Sidney Greenstreet to step out of the dark shadows and take on their fictional tough guy personas.
“Hey, Katie,” the bartender said as she passed by the bar a second time. “The usual? Wild Turkey bourbon with a beer chaser?”
Kate shook her head. “Has anyone been asking about me tonight?”
“That’s hard to say,” he replied. “Take a look around. We’ve been very busy.”
“That’s great for business,” she commented, and then, after an instant, added, “Do me a favor? Don’t mention that I was here.”
“Whatever you say, detective.”
Kate left the bar. She stood outside John’s Grill for a moment, trying to pull it all together. She wondered why he had bothered to leave a note about meeting her, and then had failed to show up. Or maybe he had simply given up when it appeared that she was a no-show.
The storm was intensifying, thunder constantly rumbling, lightning crackling, with alarming frequency. The rain then began to fall. Those first droplets hit her cheeks and made it appear like she was crying.
WHEN KATE returned home, she climbed into a hot shower to warm up, and let the soothing pulses of her Moen showerhead wash over her body like a delicate waterfall. The sensation felt so soft and comforting that she took both breasts in hand and held them, pinching her nipples, under the hot water. As she closed her eyes, Kate imagined a man holding her from behind. She took his hands in hers, and like a puppeteer, closed each index finger and thumb around her nipples tightly. She arched her back, pushing her breasts nearly to the showerhead. As she straightened her body, she felt his manhood swelling, pressing the cheeks of her ass against him. The feeling was electrifying as his cock grew longer and larger against her ass. She reached up to the removable showerhead and pulled it down to her crotch, the tiny pulses of water feeling like fingers touching her inner thighs as she spread her legs wide.
In her mind, the showerhead was now one of his huge, very masculine hands. She reached down, took it in hand, and began rubbing herself with it, soft at first, like darting fingers running along her pussy. She spread her legs wider and rolled her hips in response to the sensation that grew stronger and quickly intensified. Finally—no more delicate teasing—it was time to bring it on hard. Kate arched her back and ground down hard on the showerhead. She made little sounds of animal pleasure deep in her throat as she rubbed herself with his imaginary hand, and cried out.
She finally grew rigid as the orgasm overtook her. She lost control, furiously rubbing her crotch with the showerhead and desperately trying to hold the image of her handsome male lover in her head. Kate pinched each nipple hard with her free hand as she shook and bucked back and forth. As her orgasm reached its peak, she cried out, “Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Eager to comply, her fantasy lover pulled her down onto her hands and knees and plunged his rigid member into her from behind. The showerhead went flying out of her hands, spraying hot water as it swung back and forth. He pounded away like a sex machine, slapping against her ass with each thrust. Kate was hot, wet and tight, too tight for such a large cock, but she hungrily took more and more of it inside as she fantasized her fingers were his cock. Each thrust penetrated her delicate vagina as deep as it would go, driving her body forward with the force of a ramrod. She cried out again with each jab of his cock, but this time it was more of an oncoming charge as she twisted in delirious delight. He grabbed her hips and redoubled his speed, driving home his rigid member faster and faster. Her ass rose higher to meet his furious thrusts as he continued to pound away.
“You pussy is so tight,” he said, in a soft, dream-like voice. “You’re loving my cock in your tight pussy, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Fuck me. Oh, yes,” she cried, out loud.
His movements became faster and more rigid. His body seemed to break out in a sweat as she rubbed water on her back and ass from the swinging showerhead. He made one final thrust and pushed all the way into her. She felt his cock explode and shoot its load as her body quivered and shook with one final orgasm. Kate came close to blacking out with the force of it all, but John Monroe’s comforting eyes met hers as they both collapsed into each other’s arms.
After a moment of lying on the tiled floor of her shower stall, she opened her eyes to the spray of water. She looked around, and realized sadly that it had only been a fantasy.
She climbed to her feet, returned the showerhead to its station, and wrapped a towel around her head. She then stepped out of the shower and slipped on her favorite terrycloth robe, rubbing the pile of absorbent fabric up and down, trying very hard to imagine herself in the arms of a strong man. Now she regretted that she hadn’t made more of an effort to connect with Monroe at John’s Grill. She did not want to admit it, not even to herself, but she really missed him, and thought about him every minute he wasn’t there.
She moved into the living room of her small studio apartment, ready to settle down and catch up on her reading, when she heard a light tap on the door. She smiled knowingly, and untied the knot in her robe.
Kate opened the door, saying, “Well, I’m really pleased—”
Her heart leaped into her throat. Lenny was standing at the entrance, wearing his baseball cap and baggy pants. She
immediately pulled her robe closed and tried to slam the door in his face, but his fingers got in the way. He yelped like an animal that had gotten its paws snared in a trap, but still managed to pull his fingers free. She finally closed the door and stood with her back to it, shaking and trying to regain her sense of composure.
“Kate,” Lenny said sheepishly from the other side, “I don’t suppose I could talk with you for a minute.”
“It’s kind of late, Lenny,” she replied. “Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, I’m sorry. This really can’t wait.”
“Okay, just give me a minute,” she said, her hands trembling. She pulled her robe tight and tied the knot several times. She shook her head out of the towel and raked her fingers back through the knotted ends of her brown hair. Still flushed, she opened the door.
He entered her room, licking the beads of blood off his knuckles like a child licking wayward drops of maple syrup. She saw the pained look on his face.
“You’re bleeding. Let me get you a towel,” she cried, scurrying into the bathroom. She came back out with a wet hand towel and some bandages. “I’m really sorry. I thought you were someone else and I guess I just panicked.”
“That’s okay. It just looks worse than it is. Please don’t bother . . .” he started to say, but before he could get the words out of his mouth, she was already plying him with tender, loving care.
Kate dabbed the blood away with the cold, wet hand towel, then carefully wrapped a bandage around his bruised hand. He contorted his face in pain, but she was pretty sure none of his fingers were broken. The muscles and joints would most likely be sore, but she was convinced that he’d survive.
“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?” she asked at last.
“I’ve been thinking about that case of yours,” he replied, taking off his baseball cap and making himself comfortable on her couch that came from the Salvation Army Thrift Shop. “I’ve got a really good idea how we can catch your killer using the results of my research.”
“That’s a very nice offer, Lenny, but the SFPD really frowns on us working with amateur sleuths, particularly on cases of this importance,” she said, with one hand on her hip and the other one angling to the door. “Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
“No, no, no, wait,” said Provolone, leaning forward on the couch, the palms of both hands raised defensively in front of him. “Do you have an idea what I do, I mean, you know, for a job?”
Kate glared at him.
“You already know that I work at Northrop Grumman. Did you know that I design and build components for surveillance satellites that have commercial applications?”
“I figured you for a science geek,” she confessed, “but I had no idea that you were actually an aerospace engineer. I still don’t see how that qualifies you to play detective on the force.”
“Oh, well, when it comes to the force, I think you’ll find that I am already a Jedi knight,” he declared, voicing his best Alec Guinness impression.
“I had you pegged as a Star Wars fanboy,” she said with a bemused look, finally sitting down next to him.
“Science fiction fan,” he corrected her. Science fiction fans had long regarded San Francisco as a kind of mecca for their otherworldly devotion to the works of Clarke and Heinlein. A few miles to the North, in Marin County, George Lucas held sway over his Star Wars empire at the Skywalker Ranch, while spread throughout the City itself were various landmarks that were used in THX-1138, Star Trek-The Voyage Home, and other science fiction pictures. Thirty years earlier, Lenny would have been one of a few hundred misfits who were forced to cloister themselves in small, out-of-the-way hotels to discuss the esoteric doctrines of grokking, Vulcan mysticism and the force, in order to avoid intolerance and persecution. But now, thousands of fans gathered at the Moscone Center for the World Science Fiction Convention or Westercon to celebrate their mutual interest in all things sci-fi. In a city that had long welcomed gay and lesbian and transgendered individuals, the last minority, which included Lenny and others like him, had the freedom to live without fear of ridicule.
“I’ve seen some of the old science fiction movies on the Syfy Channel.”
“Remember the one when aliens come to Earth pretending to be our friends and accidentally leave behind a book titled To Serve Man, and it turns out to be a cookbook?” he asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
“That was always one of my favorites,” she lied.
“What were those aliens called?” he asked rhetorically, and then, just as quickly as it came to him, blurting it out: “Kanamits. That’s right. They were called Kanamits.”
“Kanamits. Yeah, that’s right. I always thought their name sounded like Cannibals,” she said, remembering. She found herself getting swept up in the enthusiasm of her late night visitor. “Now was that show part of The Outer Limits or The Twilight Zone?”
“The Twilight Zone.”
“Are you sure about that? It seems to me The Outer Limits had more scary aliens than The Twilight Zone.”
“Yeah, it was The Twilight Zone,” he replied. “In fact, the Kanamit was played by a young Richard Kiel who would later play a character named Jaws in two James Bond movies.”
She raised one eyebrow, brooding. “Perhaps you’re right, but the one that I remember the most was about aliens who build a machine that can track and monitor any person, anywhere, for any length of time,” Kate said. “I could really use a machine like that right now.”
“The machine was called an Outer Band Individuated Teletracer, and the episode which was called O.B.I.T. ran on The Outer Limits.”
“O.B.I.T. That’s right. Now I remember.”
Lenny was grinning from ear to ear. He must obviously think they were kindred spirits.
“I’m afraid the technology to launch a surveillance system like O.B.I.T. is still decades away,” he conceded, “and may require extensive reverse-engineering of alien technology to make a reality. But I may be able to provide a more practical solution to your dilemma.”
“What’s that, Lenny? A ride in one of the flying saucers at Area 51?” she quipped, teasing him.
“No. But what if I could task a surveillance satellite to track your killer? Would that interest you?” he replied, in all seriousness.
For an instant, Kate considered his words dispassionately as an interesting intellectual exercise. Then it dawned on her. She suspected that Lenny was doing some leg-pulling of his own.
“You almost had me going there, but what you’re talking about sounds more like science fiction than fact.”
“A few years ago, you might have been right.”
“All right, that’s enough kidding around,” she said, her patience wearing thin. She stood up, and walked over to her front door. “Perhaps it’s time for you to leave now, Lenny.”
“I wasn’t kidding around. I’m serious,” Provolone responded, climbing to his feet. “Let me ask you something. How many times a week do you use the GPS tracking system in your car?”
“Right now? Not that much. My car was impounded by the finance company, and I haven’t had enough money to get it out of hock.”
“What about your partner?”
“Lots,” she replied. “Frank and I are always using his GPS to find obscure addresses that we don’t know.”
“Anytime you use your GPS, or Global Positioning System, you are making use of a satellite to figure out your position and track the location of a specific address relative to that position,” he explained. “GPS is a satellite-based navigation system made up of a network of twenty-four satellites placed into orbit by the U.S. Department of Defense. It was originally intended for military applications, but in the 1980s, the government made the system available for civilian use.”
Kate shrugged. “I guess you’r
e right. I never thought about it that way.”
“Well, I’ve been working on the next generation of surveillance satellites at Northrop Grumman,” Lenny added. “After Katrina and its high body count, FEMA ordered a handful of satellites with thermal, photographic and electromagnetic imaging capabilities to track and hopefully prevent civilian casualties. The project is called NEMESIS, which is short for National Emergency Management Electronic Surveillance Intelligence Systems, and I’m one of two project directors. The last network satellite was launched about a week ago.”
Kate looked at him with astonishment. “Are you shitting me?”
“No, I’m being completely serious.”
“What kind of capabilities does your satellite network have?”
Lenny took a deep breath and signed. “I wish that I could tell you, but most of the information about NEMESIS is classified.”
“That figures,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“I can tell you the camera on board has a focal length of—” he started to say, then paused to reconsider his words for a civilian’s understanding. “Well, let’s just say, it can photograph a packet of cigarettes from three hundred miles up in space.”
“Christ! That’s powerful.”
“And the thermal imaging software can analyze the detailed optical spectrum of a green area in a photograph, and determine the difference between natural plant life and camouflage paint.”
“This is incredible technology. I’m just not certain how we can best employ this technology to catch my killer.”
Lenny winked at her. “I’ve got a few other goodies there that can track electromagnetic energy in the infrared, visible light and ultraviolet spectra. You know, the kind of information where a photograph is less important than the amount or type of energy expended.”
“Let me think about it. Okay?”
“You know, the more I get to know about you, Kate, the more I realize—”