Vice

by Teagan Kade

  I look into the depths of her dilated eyes, questions washing over me in waves.

  She’s got you by the balls.

  And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GRACE

  I considered having Hunter enter the precinct separately but fuck it. This is the twenty-first century last time I checked.

  Are you fucking falling for this guy?

  I’ve dated before, sure, but Hunter’s the first guy I can see myself settling with, whatever the hell that means. It’s certainly not a comfy three-bedder in the ’burbs with a gaggle of tiny tots.

  His package alone is magical, to say nothing of his no-bullshit manner. That is something I can appreciate—a classic man who knows what he wants and how to treat a lady.

  You’re calling yourself a lady?

  Yeah, that one’s a bit of a stretch.

  I notice Hunter struggling to contain his smile as he walks beside me. “Feeling pretty good about yourself, aren’t you, Beckett?” I tease.

  “It was a long, hard night, Detective Siddell, but I feel progress was made.”

  One of the guys from Larceny looks on suspiciously at the charade. “Morning, Spencer.” I smile.

  “What the hell’s got you so rosy, Siddell?” he says to my back.

  “A good night’s rest,” I call back, winking at Hunter.

  We come into my office.

  “Close the door,” I tell him.

  “So you can have your wicked way with me on the desk?” he replies. “Kinky, but I’m down.”

  I take a seat at my computer. “Another time. For now, we’ve got actual work to do. There’s probably ten-thousand emails here about the Doyle thing. You noticed the Captain’s a no-show?”

  Hunter takes a seat in front of desk. “I don’t know if a day or two off the job necessarily means someone’s caught up in a murder conspiracy.”

  I lean forward. “I’ve worked here for five years. You know how many days the Captain’s taken off in that period?” I close my thumb and forefinger together to make a zero.

  “Damn.”

  I lean back, quietly pleased at the soft ache between my legs. “That’s right, which means something is up, and it’s not that beautiful cock of yours.”

  Hunter looks down. “Beautiful? I was thinking something more alpha, like ‘majestic’ or ‘epic’?”

  “How about ‘mine’?” I suggest, unable to stop the flood or hormones that makes me want to close those blinds, lose my pants and go to town on that thing.

  Dream on, sister.

  “Now, I continue, I do know a nefarious way or two we could find out where El Capitan is, but I’m not sure if I’m willing to risk life and limb to dial up those measures just yet.”

  Hunter stretches out in the chair. His huge frame looks ridiculous in it. “So what do you suggest we do? Sit here and play tiddlywinks? Solitaire?”

  “First things first, we’ve got to get the paperwork in for Doyle and his cumwads, because if the Captain does show and it’s not in… Well, I could head on down to the local Chuck E. Cheese’s if I wanted that kind of aural torture.”

  Hunter’s right eyebrow twitches in amusement, the light shading of stubble highlighting his smirk. “You don’t like kids?”

  “Tiny drunk adults, you mean? Full of snot and germs and god knows how many types of diseases. If I wanted to be slobbered on all day, I’d buy a dog, thanks.”

  Hunter whistles. “That’s so weird. I totally had you pegged as a maternal type.”

  I spin the computer screen around and hand him the keyboard. “How about you stop with the shade and start putting those magical fingers of yours to practice.”

  He smiles seductively. “Your wish is my command.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HUNTER

  I’m sitting across the table wondering how in hell any girl can look so sexy eating a Danny’s hot dog, but Grace’s pulling it off. Her tongue snakes out to lick a spot of mustard off her wrist.

  She stops, eyes flicking up to me. “What?”

  I can’t stop smiling. It’s been a while since those muscles got a workout. “You’re cute. That’s all.”

  She places the dog down. “Cute?” she laughs. “I’ve been called many things, Beckett. “’Cute’ is not among them. In fact, it tends to be another four-letter word starting with ‘C.’”

  “Calm?” I offer.

  She shrugs. “When the situation calls for it.”

  “And when it doesn’t?”

  “I take my lead from Maximus Decimus Meridius and unleash hell.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “Oh, you will… You or your balls.”

  “Baby,” I wink, “you can play with my balls any time you want.”

  “I don’t think you’ve quite worked out what I define as ‘play,’ have you?”

  “Speaking of which, what is our next play? We can’t keep running around with our dicks out hoping for Lady Luck to shine down on us.”

  “Speak for yourself.” She dabs her mouth with a napkin before speaking again. It’s been a long morning dealing with the fallout from Doyle and his crew. I thought the paperwork in LA was bad...

  “I say we apply pressure to the only lead we have,” continues Grace.

  “The other prostitute at the hotel.”

  “We call them hookers around here, but yeah. Why, you got a better idea?”

  I don’t. I’m not exactly looking forward to another trip to The Baxter, but if it offers us somewhere to direct ourselves, it’s worth a shot. Besides, the sooner we can wrap this up the sooner we can celebrate.

  Grace pops the last of her hot dog into her mouth, standing and mumbling. “Well, you going to sit there pondering world peace or we are doing this shit?”

  Boy, are you in trouble.

  I stand. “Lead the way, Detective.”

  *

  The hotel turns out to be a bust. We ask around hoping for the name of Rachel’s last client, but none of the girls seem to have any idea. I doubt half of them know what day of the week it is.

  We’ve been at this an hour and it’s clearly taking a toll. Grace slumps against the hallway wall, slamming her closed fist against the brick. “Jesus. Just a name. That’s all we need. It’s not like we’re asking for the hiding place of the Holy Grail here.”

  “Was that an Indiana Jones reference?”

  Even that doesn’t elicit a response. “It’s a ‘I’m fucking pissed off right now given we’re fuck out of options’ reference.”

  “We’ll work it out.”

  She scoffs, folding her arms. “Said every single person ever who hasn’t.”

  It’s deflating. I get that. This was our last lead. Without this I’m not sure what we’re going to do, but I don’t want to admit defeat either. I never called it quits on the field, even with a second on the clock. In that hospital, so easy to lose hope, I forged the fuck on. Giving up is not the Beckett way, or at least it didn’t used to be.

  We’re both standing in quiet contemplation when the elevator chimes at the end of the hallway.

  We stare at it simultaneously for no other reason than it’s the only thing alive around here.

  The doors open and a man steps out with his hands in his pockets, his head hung in the typical swagger of a lowlife drug…

  “Hey,” I whisper to Grace, “is that…?”

  The guy’s head comes up and he spots us, freezing on the spot.

  “Maurice,” Grace finishes, a widespread smile finally finding its way onto her face.

  Maurice turns and bolts back into the elevator, managing to squeeze his skeletal frame through the doors just as they close.

  Grace starts to run, pointing upwards. “You go up. I’ll go down.”

  Yes, please.

  And try as I might, I can’t shake the memory from blotting out all else—her lips, her soft moaning.

  Come on. Back to work.

  We come into
the stairwell and Grace hammers down the stairs while I pump upwards, my legs burning from the effort. There are only two floors to his hotel, no possible way he makes it out of here, but when I reach the roof and find it empty, I become strangely concerned.

  I come to the edge of the roof and peer over in time to see Maurice running out from the rear door across the courtyard. If he makes it to the main road…

  I spot Grace sprinting out from the side. “There!” I shout, pointing.

  She spins and starts to run for him. For a second, I don’t think she’s going to make it, but she does.

  Poor bastard doesn’t even see her coming… or her foot, rather.

  She kicks him so hard he’s sent clear off his feet, catapulting into the pool. The subsequent splash washes wetly against the far wall.

  By the time I make it downstairs, Grace is standing at the edge of the pool with her hands on her hips.

  “I’m fucking drowning!” Maurice screams. “Help me!”

  He thrashes around uselessly, completely unaware he could probably stand up the pool’s so shallow.

  “What do you think?” Grace asks me, shouting across the pool. “Should we let this asshole drown or fish him out?”

  I cross my own arms, playing along. “Beats me, Detective.”

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know,” Maurice blubbers, head bobbing under momentarily. “Anything. Just get me the fuck out of here.”

  Grace nods and I take the pool net, extending it so Maurice can take hold. I drag him in, Grace waiting with the handcuffs as we haul him out. “A talking fish. Now I have seen it all.” She spins him around and shoves him forward. “Let’s go, Nemo.”

  *

  It reeks of chlorine in the interrogation room, though Maurice did dry out somewhat in the back to the cruiser.

  Grace is seated in front of him. I stand at the back of the room, leaning against the wall next to the window.

  “So, talk,” she says.

  Maurice spits on the table. “Fuck you, fucking bitch pig puta.”

  It’s quite the attitude swing.

  Grace swivels to me, nodding. “’Bitch pig. Bitch pig bitch’? If my Spanish is correct. That’s a new one, though I believe the correct term is ‘gilt,’ or ‘sow’ if I’ve popped out a few piglets. And I haven’t, if you’re wondering.” She lifts herself off the seat, showing Maurice her backside. “Not with an ass like this.”

  Maurice grins, his grill showing. “Baby, I’d fuck that ass so hard you’d be shitting cum for weeks.”

  Charming.

  I go to move, but Grace raises a hand to ward me off.

  “So, you liked being fucked in the ass, do you?”

  His head drops to his shoulder. “Bitch, you can peg me any day of the week.”

  Grace takes out her weapon, holding the butt of it. “How about this? You want me to peg you with Chewie here or simply clobber you over the head a few times with it?”

  His eyes flick to the corner of the room. “Big Brother’s watching, bitch. You ain’t gonna do shit.”

  I almost expect Grace to jump across the table and pistol-whip him, but she holsters her weapon. “You’re right. I’m going to leave that up to the Jersey twins in lock-up. You know, where you’re headed for possession given what we found in your pockets there.”

  He goes as white as the paper cup before him. His mouth opens, but he’s not going to talk. No, he’s scared of something else, something even worse. I see it in his eyes.

  Grace sees it too, standing. “We’re done here.”

  Outside the room, I draw her into a corner. “Now what?”

  Her cell buzzes. She takes it out, smiling down at the screen. “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  GRACE

  We’re in a tiny room on the basement level of the precinct, more matchbox than office. A skinny guy with whalebone glasses swivels in his Harmen Miller chair to face us. In his hand is Maurice’s cell. We retrieved it from the swimming pool along with a soggy eight ball and wad of cash. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much from it, but the grin on Tim the Toolman’s face tells me we’ve struck gold.

  I lean up against his desk, a wall of computer screens at my back. “So, Specialist Electronics Sensei, tell me what you found once you wrung this thing out a little.”

  Tim ignores Hunter and swivels back to his keyboard, bringing up a file on screen. I squint to make it out. “What’s this? A takeaway order?”

  Tim’s smile doesn’t drop. “Looks a client list, actually.”

  He’s right. Tim probably think it’s a list of customers, perhaps suppliers or others in the ring, but when I see the name ‘Ruby’ at the top in bold, I know what we’re looking at is far more valuable.

  Hunter’s onto it, leaning over Tim’s shoulder to read. “It’s Rachel’s client list.”

  I nod. “Looks like.” I run down the names until I hit the bottom and one name that stands out—the Captain’s, Rachel’s very last client. “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  I place my hand on Tim’s shoulder and squeeze for emphasis. “Have you told anyone else about this? The Captain, any of the others?”

  “The Captain?” laughs Tim, surprisingly outspoken for a weedy, nerdy type. “Fuck him. You know he made me work a double last week, no extra cream on top?”

  I know Tim’s had the hots for me forever. I lean down so he can get a nice eyeful of my cleavage because I really don’t want him opening his mouth and screwing this up. “This is between us, yes? If anyone asks, you couldn’t recover anything, right?”

  “Of course.” He winks, eyes dropping.

  Gag. Twenty-first century be damned. Sometimes you’ve got to use every asset at your disposal, no matter how distasteful.

  I stand upright. “Can you put that list on a flash drive for me?”

  He opens his drawer and takes out a USB drive shaped to look like an actual thumb. It would be kind of morbid anywhere else. He plugs it in and with two taps he’s done, handing the ‘thumb’ drive over.

  “And there are no copies on your machine or the servers?” I ask.

  “Clean as a whistle in a washing machine.”

  I lean down and give Tim a peck on a cheek, enough to see a flash of visible anger shift across Hunter’s face. It’s sort of turning me on knowing he’s jealous, and over poor, wouldn’t-know-his-dick-from-a-doorknob Tim of all people.

  I slide the drive into my back pocket as we stand outside. “I’ll make that call, see if we can hunt down the Cap and wrap this shit-storm up.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” says Hunter. He’s wearing a black Henley today and it’s doing miraculous things to that body.

  I head out to the docking bay where I’m sure I won’t be disturbed, and punch in a number, bringing my cell to my ear.

  “Tony, it’s Grace.”

  “Siddell?”

  “The one and only,” I reply. “How’s life with the Feds treating you?”

  Stifled laughter follows. “There’s nothing treat-like about it. I’ll be balls-deep in reports until the Second Coming drinking shitty, recycled-sewerage coffee while dreaming about the Bahamas.”

  “About the same as the NYPD then.”

  “But you’re not calling to discuss coffee, are you?”

  “I need a favor.”

  A sigh. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “But not everyone saved your ass back at the Academy, did they? How the hell did you even get that on video, with your ankles behind her head like that?”

  An ever more pronounced sigh follows. “Fine, fine. Spit it out.”

  “I need a hit on Captain Lewis Johnson, New York Ninth Precinct.”

  “Jesus, Grace.”

  “A quickie. That’s all I’m asking.”

  A beat of laughter. “You know what your answer was when I asked that question five years ago?”

  I remember it well. “My idea of ‘quick’ isn’t ten seconds.”

  “Brutal.”

  “Please?”
/>
  “Well, since you asked nicely…”

  I hear keys being tapped.

  I wait.

  “Ah,” comes Tony’s voice, “seems your captain is MIA, and you’re not the only one looking for him.”

  “Who else?”

  “Beats me. Higher than my paygrade, believe it or not.”

  “You’ll let me know if he pops up?”

  “Anything for you,” he answers sarcastically.

  “I owe you.”

  “Doesn’t everyone. Wait,” he says.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s there.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Ninth precinct, right now.”

  I spin on the spot, looking around, but I can’t see the Captain anywhere. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Somewhere in the middle? Signal’s in and out, sorry.”

  “Thanks again.” I hang up and run back over to Hunter. “He’s here.”

  Hunter lowers his voice. “The Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  Hunter looks around. “I don’t see him.”

  I place my hand against Hunter’s chest before we enter the precinct. Fuck me it’s firm, a veritable vein of marble. I don’t know why I do it, but it’s comforting—grounding in a way I’m not used to.

  He looks down. “What are you doing?”

  I spot what’s-his-name on the front desk and jog over. Poor guy’s had a thing for me for years. His eyes fall immediately to my aforementioned assets. Jesus. Guys see the hint of a boob and they damn near drop half their brain cells. “Detective Siddell, what can, w— what can I do for you?” he stutters.

  I place my elbows on the desk. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Captain?”

  The desk sergeant leans back, finally finding my eyes. “Saw him heading down to the cages.”

  “The cages? When?”

  He shrugs nonchalantly. “Fifteen minutes ago, maybe? He slipped in real quiet-like. Probably looking to bust some ass. You know how he likes it old-school.”

  “For sure,” I reply, my mind racing. I wave Hunter over.

  “So, ah,” the desk sergeant starts, and I know what’s coming, “you wouldn’t want to go out some time, would you? There’s this great place on…”

  Hunter comes up to my side, the desk sergeant sliding him a suspicious look.