by Lee Hurwitz
Hawkins suddenly twisted around to face Evelyn.
“I have no idea how long he might be gone. What kind of fun do you have in mind?”
“You’re a cop. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Damn.” Hawkins’ eyes started to dilate. He’s not bad looking, thought Evelyn, but so fucking dumb, I bet he doesn’t get much. Evelyn slowly unbuttoned the top button of the pink monstrosity he had picked out for her.
At thirty, Hawkins was a good-looking, athletic man. But Hi had told him that any thoughts that he had of going to bed with Evelyn were completely out of the question. Now she was asking him about sex. This assignment was getting more and more confusing.
“You ever do any d and s, Hawk?” Evelyn asked.
“D and what?”
“Dominance and submission. You know, get tied up?”
“Shit!” He was starting to get red in the face. This might be fun, Evelyn thought.
“My sister turned me on to it,” Evelyn said slowly. “Her and her boyfriend were really into it. So I let him tie me up? And she watched?” Evelyn unbuttoned the second button, giving him a little flash of boob. “And then after I was tied up, he tied her up. And I got so hot watching him tie her up, and me not being able to do anything about it! You know, since my wrists were tied to the chair, and my ankles were tied to the chair.” She unbuttoned the third button. Two more to go. “And then when she was all tied up? He tore off her shirt and started to play with her titties.” She opened the fourth button. “I got so hot that I came! And I couldn’t even touch myself!” She opened the last button and dropped the shirt.
“Shit!”
She stood up, primly almost, and folded the shift over the back of a chair. “Got your handcuffs?” she asked.
She had Hawkins’ right wrist cuffed to the radiator and his left wrist tied to a bedpost with a towel. She couldn’t find any way to tie up his legs but she doubted that he was going anywhere. Especially since she had his clothes.
“What happens now, Evelyn?” Hawkins asked. His eyes were full of hope.
“Now I gag you. Open your mouth.” She held out a washcloth.
Hawkins looked dubious. “That can’t be fun,” he said.
“I won’t tie it tight,” Evelyn said. “It won’t hurt.” She was telling the truth. The gag didn’t have to be tight to be effective. It just had to stop his tongue from working.
Evelyn tied the gag.
“Nah huut?” Hawkins asked enthusiastically.
Evelyn struggled against a wise-ass response. “Now I get dressed,” she said, slowly. She slipped into last night’s panties, and then reached around for the bra.
“Geh rest?” Hawkins seemed dismayed.
“That’s right,” Evelyn said in a patient voice, like a kindergarten teacher with an overexcited child. “We gotta set the scene. See, I come into this room and discover you.” She found her blouse, shrugged it on, buttoned it.
“Ah-hah.”
“Um-hum. And I walk in and say, ‘What’s this? A big strong policeman trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey? Naked?’” Where was her—there it was! She wrapped the skirt around her, buttoned it.
“Heehas, Ehahyn!”
“Jesus has nothing to do with it, dearie. And then I take out my whip…”
“Hih? Ha Hih?”
She decided she didn’t need her panty hose, but where the hell were her shoes? She wouldn’t last ten minutes on that highway in bare feet.
There they were! “It’ll be an imaginary whip, Hawk.” She slipped into her shoes, crushing the left heel. “Okay, I’ll come in from the outside. Give me about ten minutes.” A car drove into the parking lot. It was Hightower. Shit!
Instinctively, Evelyn reached for the deadbolt and closed the curtain.
“Ehayn?”
There was only one door and Hightower was heading toward it. There was a window, but it was right next to the door.
“Ehayn? Has hoein on?”
“It’s Hightower. He’s back.”
“Heeha, Ehayn! Hanhie he!”
“Shut up, you asshole!” Evelyn spat out, heedless now. Hawkins had to have a gun somewhere.
Hightower tried his key. The lock turned, but the door wouldn’t open. The deadbolt! But why would Hawkins deadbolt the door?
He knocked. “Hawk! Open up!”
Hightower stepped back, looked at the window. Had he closed the curtain? He couldn’t remember.
Could that numbskull have fallen asleep? “Hawkins!” he cried out again. If Hawk had fallen asleep Evelyn was surely gone. But if she had left why would the door be locked?
Hightower started to pound on the door. “Open up,” he cried. What if Evelyn had found Hawkins’ gun and killed him? Or what if they fought and Hawkins had killed her. Or, worse…
What if they were having sex?
Hightower had the image of some fucking cracker clerk breaking in on them with the master key, seeing Evelyn and Hawkins going at it on the bed, and spraying them all with sub-machine-gun fire. Dropping his packages, he pounded the door, and then put his shoulder to it. The door didn’t budge.
“Stand back,” Hightower yelled. He took his .32 out and aimed it at the lock. “Nobody has to get hurt.”
“Don’t shoot!” he heard Evelyn shout. “I’ll let you in.” She unlocked the door and backed away as Hightower marched into the room.
He took in the scene. Evelyn was fully dressed. Hawkins was naked, tied to the bed, with a gag in his mouth.
“Hat hih het he hup,” Hawkins said.
“Sit down, Evelyn,” Hightower said, glancing once at the woman. He walked over to Hawkins. “The bitch set you up, huh?”
“Hat’s hight.”
Hightower slapped him, hard, with an open palm. “First, Hawkins, you are an idiot. That’s number one. Second, never, I repeat never, refer to Miss Boone as a bitch. You’re the bitch. That’s twice she made a fool out of you. Sit down, Miss Boone. I’m not done with you yet.”
Evelyn, who had briefly entertained the insane hope that she could make a dash for it while Hightower was preoccupied with Hawkins, went over to the small nightstand.
“Do you know I went all the way to Atlanta for you?” he said, still looking at Hawkins. “Were you aware of what I got for you?” If he were to be absolutely honest he’d recognize that it was Mayor Watson, and not he, who had purchased her champagne and garments. But it wasn’t a point he felt comfortable making.
Evelyn looked at the open doorway. There seemed to be a pile of bland-looking clothes and a couple of bags. “Cool,” she said.
“I got us breakfast.” Hightower gave Hawkins one last look, and then turned to Evelyn.
“It’s not the Ritz, but…I assume you like lobster?”
“I love lobster!” Evelyn said. “May I…?” she pointed to the insulation packs.
“No, you may not.” Hightower stepped between Evelyn and the open door. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.” Locking Evelyn in his gaze, he stepped into the doorway, swooped up the packages, and closed the door. He draped the clothing over his left arm and held it out toward Evelyn. “I hope this will be adequate for our journey,” he said.
Evelyn took it from him. There sure was some expensive shit there. Georgio Armani, Bill Blass…“It’s beautiful,” she cooed, even though in truth it was not her style. “I can’t wait to try it on.” That much, at least, was true; Evelyn hated wearing yesterday’s sweat.
“And for breakfast, in addition to lobster, would you like some filet mignon?” There was steak and lobster in this bag! This was insane!
“And to drink…” Hightower reached into the other pack and pulled out a bottle of iced Dom Perignon!
“Oh, I imagine…” Evelyn said. She went to the bathroom and returned with three plastic cups, all washed. “A little…” Hightower filled her cup to the top, and then his own.
“Don’t we want to give some to…” She gestured at Hawkins, still tied up. She had forgot
ten his name.
“No, Evelyn, I do not,” Hightower replied. His fury was immaculate, Evelyn thought. “He was asleep at his post. That’s treason in this man’s army, Ms. Boone.”
“Hoaa, Hi,” Hawkins moaned.
Evelyn smiled. She felt incredibly coquettish. “He’s just a lonely guy, Mr. Hightower,” she said. “You can understand that, can’t you?”
Hightower looked at her. “You think I should let him go?”
“We can’t eat all this food by ourselves,” she replied.
Hightower hesitated. In a sense, this was his fault. He had underestimated Evelyn. He knew Hawkins’ limitations. Evelyn had already outwitted him once.
He walked over to Hawkins. “If I let you go will you act like somebody with a three-digit IQ?”
“Hure, Hi.” Hawkins looked at him with the eyes of a puppy who had been caught peeing on the living room rug.
Hightower untied the gag—Hawkins spit it out immediately—and then unlocked the handcuff, using his own key. It was an open secret among cops that one set of keys would unlock every handcuff in the world.
“God, Hi, I’m sorry, she just…”
“Not one word about Miss Boone.” Hightower concentrated on Hawkins’ left wrist, which Evelyn had neatly affixed with some sort of complicated double-hitch. “You got yourself in this mess.”
“I’m sorry, Hi,” Hawkins repeated, miserable.
“How long you been a cop?” Hightower asked. He slapped the final tie away from Hawkins’ wrist. “Maybe long enough to learn not to play tie-me-up with a suspect? Where you’re the one getting tied up?”
“A suspect?” Evelyn said from behind the lobster. “What am I suspected of?”
Hightower stared at Hawkins. “Let’s eat,” he said.
The three of them tore into the nine hundred dollar breakfast. This kidnapping’s hungry work, Hightower thought. He watched Hawkins shoot down a glass of Dom Perignon, and then another.
“This is good, Hi!” he said.
Evelyn seemed to agree with him. She was almost done with her second glass as Hawkins was pouring his third. For his own part, Hightower could take it or leave it alone. He had never had champagne before. The closest he had come was Champale, the malt liquor. This was better but not something he would spend a hundred thirty of his own bucks for.
“Hi?” Hawkins had finished up his steak and was nearly done with his lobster. There was a fine mist of egg, potato, and bacon pieces around his plate. He was almost done with his fifth glass of champagne, and there was no more left in his bottle. “I’m feeling a little under the weather. With my watch and all. Mind if I took a little nap now?”
Plus you’re drunk now, Hightower thought. Aloud he said, “Go on. You’ve done enough damage.”
Soon Hawkins was stretched out on the near bed, the site of his recent humiliation, snoring gently. “What do you think you were doing?” Hightower asked Evelyn.
“I was escaping,” she said, sitting up straight and looking him in the eye. “I was trying to get out of the clutches of two supposed officers of the law…”
“Not this morning,” Hightower said. “I know what you were doing this morning. I’m asking what you were doing in the Mayor’s office.”
“Oh.” Evelyn looked away and was silent.
“See, the way I figure it,” Hightower continued, “I know you weren’t the cleaning lady. And you didn’t look like you were dressed to be part of a threesome. So my question is, what was Evelyn Boone doing in the Office of the Mayor of the District of Columbia at 9:00 p.m. when the Mayor thought he was alone with his girlfriend?”
Evelyn said nothing.
“You don’t have to tell me. I can guess. See, the point is, Evelyn, I know you’re not some plaster saint. You have to deal, just like the rest of us. More champagne?”
Evelyn held out her plastic cup. Hightower filled it to the rim. She could have the rest of his bottle, he decided.
“I was sent here to kill you. You know that, don’t you? The people who sent me out here want you dead. Last night, when you and your friend walked out the door, I was ten feet away from your car. I had a gun. I could have shot you both.”
It was too much for Evelyn. What had she done? She was a subcontractor, for God’s sake. Stone wanted her to look at that bid. And if Stone wanted her to look at that bid, how could the Mayor have objected? That was all she was doing. And now she was going to die! She was going to be fed rich food and then slaughtered like an animal! And she was only thirty-four! Evelyn started to cry.
Hightower was at her side immediately. “I’m not that kind of man,” he said, kneeling next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. “I’m a decent man. I know why they sent me. But I’ve come up with a better idea. And I know I can sell it to the Mayor.”
Instinctively, Evelyn found her way out. Her arms circled around Hightower’s muscular chest. “What idea?” she asked between sobs.
“Well, you’re going to have to help me,” Hightower replied. “First, you’re going to have to name your price. It might be a job, DC has thousands of them, good-paying jobs too, civil service protection, seventy, eighty thousand a year, you don’t have to work too hard…look at Stone...and they all belong to the Mayor. If he says you’re in, you’re in. Or it might be contracts. The mayor hands out hundreds of contracts, no bidding, no nothing. He’s like Jesus Christ appointing the apostles. He points at you and bingo, you’ve got a million-dollar contract. And you’ve got it for as long as Wendell Watson, Jr., is in office. Which at this point is going to be, like, forever. So the first thing you’d have to do is name your price, as long as it’s reasonable.
“And then the second thing you would have to do is to promise never, never to say what you saw in that office. Never say anything about Sharon Scott, never say anything about her clobbering the Mayor, never say anything about me saving his life. And it would be easy to convince the Mayor that you would keep your word because you would be invested in the Mayor’s success, and he would realize you had no motivation to blow him in.”
Evelyn looked at him through her tears. “The Mayor would accept this?” she asked.
“He has to,” Hightower replied. “He owes me. I saved his life.”
Evelyn looked at Hightower’s earnest face, and the realization struck her like a blast of air conditioning on a hot day. He’s in love with me. She looked at his earnest face, his nostrils flaring in and out, his eyes half-closed. She felt the pumping of his heart, and she glanced down at his pants. As she suspected, he was erect. And for the first moment since she saw him in that restaurant, she began to feel hope.
“I know you could kill me,” she said, softly.
“I could,” Hightower said. His voice sounded raw, and he sounded wounded. Evelyn made a decision.
“You’re right about me not being a plaster saint. I’m a woman.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m a woman, and...” She looked down and away from him and slipped out of her shoes. She splayed her toes, making it look like an unconscious gesture. “And danger excites me.” She looked at Hightower. He was breathing more quickly now.
She decided to go with the story that had worked so well with Hawkins. “What I was doing with that boy over there, I was doing to escape. At the same time, I was remembering.”
“Remembering about tying somebody up?”
“Remembering about being tied up.” The story Evelyn had told Hawkins and was about to tell Hightower had never really happened. She read it in a romance novel she bought at an airport. “My sister was into dominance games and I wanted to know what that was all about.” She lowered her voice and Hightower leaned in. She leaned in too.
She told him the story. “Was it that good?” Hightower asked.
“Three times,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and blushed. That was a good skill to have, the ability to blush on command.
“And that was what you were thinking about when you tied Hawkins up?” He en
gulfed her hand in his.
Evelyn closed her eyes and nodded. “The only thing I could think about, until you pulled up, was should I leave before or after?”
Hightower had put his other hand on her shoulder. His eyes were huge. “And now?” he whispered.
“He’s like a block of wood compared to you.” She nuzzled his neck and went in for the close. “We still have the key to the second room, haven’t we?” she asked.
Wendell Watson was in the second hour of what promised to be an all-day meeting with the top staff of his Child Protective Services Agency. The reason they were meeting, of course, was that the Agency wasn’t protecting any children. They were at the moment discussing the gruesome details surrounding the discovery of a little boy whose body was chained to his bed in one of the City’s ten thousand foster homes. It was the third child found dead in a DC foster home this year.
The bureaucrats were deeply into their excuse-making and blame-shifting strategies, and in another five minutes, Watson was sure, they’d be deciding that it was the kid’s fault. Retirement had never looked so good.
So he was secretly pleased when his secretary strode into the room, even though he had given orders that he was not to be interrupted. “Sergeant Hightower is on the line,” she whispered.
Watson frowned. Hightower’s instructions were to use his Aaron Moore alias. Why was he calling under his own name? Still, since it meant that Evelyn Boone was dead, he’d take the call.
One of the Child Protective servicers was rattling on. “Of course, we can’t ignore the fact that these special needs children present tremendous challenges to our foster parents…”
Watson stood up. “Please continue your discussion,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
Watson took Hightower’s call in his private office. “Well, hello, Sergeant,” he said, forcing a smile into his voice. “How is your vacation?”
“I wanted to thank you for that book.” Watson heard the tension in the policeman’s voice.
“What book is that, Sergeant?”
“The Shakespeare book.”
“Titus Andronicus.”
“Yes. It was perfect. Except for one thing.”