Sworn to Protect

by A K August

  "You got it, boss!" She said cheekily.

  "Boss, huh? How about a little sexual harassment in the workplace?"

  I reached for her, but she squirmed away. Standing before me, she tried to look serious. "I have rights, you know." She spouted her hands on her hips.

  "I don't disagree." I moved closer to her and she took a step back. 'You have the right to remain naked."

  She giggled. "Oh? What else, do tell." She was already unbuttoning her shirt, angling her way to the bedroom.

  "Any clothes you choose to wear may be removed by me at any time." She stopped working the buttons, holding her hands up in surrender.

  I took over on the buttons. "Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"

  "Are you an officer of the court?" She cocked her head, looking me up and down.

  "Yes, ma'am." I deadpanned.

  "Are you going to arrest me now?" She teased.

  I squared my shoulders and gave her my best tough cop look. "Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"

  She studied me for a moment before answering. "Yes, sir."

  "Good. I have to strip search you now." I tossed Katie over my shoulder and carried her to the bedroom, where I proceeded to make good on my duties as an officer of the court.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  KATIE

  I switched the clothes into the dryer and then topped my coffee off before returning to the den. Anthony suggested I take over his desk, since I was at my computer all day, either working on my doc or combing through surveillance footage Anthony had been able to procure.

  I resisted. It was his house. I couldn't, I didn't want to, but I needed a better setup and more space. It made sense. Now it was like a home base for me. I had three monitors in front of me, two tied to my computer, and the doc I was working on, the other connected to Anthony's laptop, where I scrolled through the footage and files on the case. I had established a Bluetooth connection between the two computers, so if the surveillance footage was degraded, I could quickly shoot it over and use my robust programs to clean it up.

  I tried not to dwell on how comfortable I was in Anthony's home or how easy it was being with him, sharing space, or much I enjoyed knowing I'd see him every evening for dinner and our time together after. It was too hard to think about how temporary this was. We'd been thrown together, the attraction borne from the intensity of the situation and the fact Anthony was gorgeous, but when the necessity ended, I would need to move home. I'd want to be home, I know it, in my four walls, where I controlled my life, my projects, the men I let into my world, under my terms. That is what worked for me. Had for many years. What Anthony wanted, I never had.

  The mantra should have emboldened me, help me persevere through this unbelievable situation, but instead, it made me sad. Another reason I tried not to dwell. I didn't have time to sort through that. I didn't want to analyze it, afraid that I'd discover I didn't want to leave this behind, leave him behind when all was said and done.

  I shook off the psychodrama playing in my head and opened the link Anthony had just forwarded himself. This was the tenth camera he'd found and looked to be from the coffee shop about a block away from the hotel. I remember I stopped there before my interview with Colby to get a couple of drinks for us. I pinged Anthony back through his email, suggesting that he also acquire the footage from three hours prior, just in case someone was loitering in the shop, scoping out the hotel.

  Five minutes later, I got a smiling emoji with an additional link. I scrolled through the later video first, knowing the exact timeframe I would be looking at, and watched it a few times, first at normal speed, noting a couple of possibilities, then slowing down to get a better image. None of the people passing in front of the camera for the fifteen minutes after the killer left the hotel matched.

  Next, I loaded the video from earlier and watched for me entering the shop. I recognized the trusty blue windbreaker I wore for most of my shoots. It was lightweight and large on me, which meant I could wear sweaters on colder days, but it had a lot of pockets, critical for organization when you're on the clock. I carried everything in that jacket: a small first aid kit, tape and gels for the lights, back up batteries, and extra pens. That coat saved my bacon many times.

  I watched as I entered the shop and noted the time so I could cue it up for Anthony if he wanted to see it later. I observed the people entering and exiting the coffee shop after me, none looking familiar. Then I noted the time again when I exited five minutes later carrying two large coffees. This time I focused on anyone exiting the shop after me and almost choked on a piece of toast when I saw him. His back was to the camera as he turned right, following me about thirty seconds after I'd left. He was walking casually, in no hurry, but keeping pace with most of the people around him, blending in. I was fascinated and continued to watch until he exited frame.

  I went back through the footage before I first entered the store until I saw him entering frame, coming toward the shop, his head dipped low. Nearly forty-five minutes before I arrived. He waited in that store for forty-five minutes. Waiting for me. Did he know I would stop and get coffee? How did he know I would pass the shop?

  I thought back to the day, my schedule before the shoot. I went to the office first thing that morning for an all-hands meeting that the CEO, Mark Tennyson, had called the previous day. It was unusual to have all-hands meetings as it stopped everyone's day. Usually, we met in teams; then, the team leaders met to crosscheck with each other. Criterion Partners was a diversified company. Unless there were top tier personnel changes, there wasn't a reason to have everyone in one meeting. Rumors circulated that they were replacing the CFO. It was no secret that Will Gregson did not get along with Tennyson. They had a few verbal shouting matches within earshot of the assistants who were eager to share that Gregson accused Tennyson of taking money from the company. But Criterion had an Advisory Board to report to and so far the CEO and CFO remained employed adversaries.

  I brought my gear for the shoot with me; not sure how long the meeting would last. Turned out to be short. Tennyson acknowledged a banner year for sales and increased visibility on our client list. We were going to get bonuses to show his appreciation for the hard work. Gregson stood next to Tennyson, his lips pursed like he was itching to chime in but was following orders to say silent.

  With a little extra time, I hung out at the office and visited with the team, checking to see if there was anything I could shoot for them while I had the gear out. But we'd already covered most of that earlier, so I walked away from the office without anything new. Though, looking back, my route from the office to the hotel put me walking right past the coffee shop. If I'd gone to the interview from my home, I would have taken the Metro to Gallery Place and walked three blocks to the hotel, approaching from the North side, opposite the coffee shop. And since I would've passed a 7-Eleven, I would've ducked in there for waters instead of getting coffee. The coffee shop had been an impulse stop, convenient.

  Was it a coincidence? Could he have been in there biding his time? Just waiting? It couldn't be connected to Criterion; no one there knew I'd snagged the interview with Colby. Last I mentioned the interview I was holding out for Senator Hart. And I'd been burned by the Senator once, when he'd agreed to an interview then bailed at the last minute, citing conflict getting called to the Hill for a vote. I was supposed to get a couple of quotes from the Senator relating to other projects with my team, and I got reamed when I returned to the office without the interview. I didn't want to over-promise, so I didn't mention this interview in case Colby canceled. But I'd asked questions that could be useful to the rest of the team, so I didn't feel bad for withholding.

  It had to be a coincidence. The killer must have found out where Colby would be and positioned ahead of time. Coming out behind me, just coincidence. Why was it, every time I said 'coincidence' I got a stomachache?

  I was still looking at the back of the killer's head, but I now knew
where he was. I looked at the map I'd put up on the wall. It included five square blocks around the hotel and was littered with tacks representing the cameras we'd found. A couple of tacks had small post-it notes attached. Those represented camera locations, but we hadn't located the source of the footage yet. I used a black sharpie and put an arrow in front of the coffee shop, pointing toward the hotel, adding a time, my first mark on the map indicating a sighting of our killer. His path from the coffee shop to the hotel would take him past two cameras we had the footage: a surveillance camera on an ATM and a graphic design shop with a video doorbell. The ATM footage caught our killer walking past, but his head was turned away, clearly avoiding the camera. However, I got lucky with the graphic design company.

  When Anthony approached Outlook Graphics about their video doorbell, they rolled their eyes, saying it was the best and worst thing they've ever gotten. Their company was on the second floor, and they kept the door to the street locked since they couldn't monitor who came and went. The problem was, this version of video doorbell recorded anytime there was movement in front of the camera, so basically, it recorded all day long. And when it recorded, the owners got a ping to their phones, alerting them someone was as the door. Their phones were continually pinging. They turned the ringer off and wanted to replace the video device with a different model, one that would trigger only when the doorbell rang, but they hadn't made the switch yet. Since there were so many files, they gave Anthony the login to the cloud account that stored the footage.

  We had weeks of files available, and now I had a specific time where I could look. Cueing up the data for the day and time I wanted, I clicked play and watched closely everyone who passed in front of the camera. I saw the killer enter frame, checking his watch. A profile shot, not good enough. I yelled at the screen, frustrated as I saw him continue past the camera, almost exiting the frame. Just then, he turned toward the door. A split second later, he was gone. I sat up and stepped back through the footage, hoping that I'd have one clean frame, after he turned his head, before he disappeared. Just one frame was all I needed. When I paused on the clean image, his face clearly visible, I started jumping in my seat.

  This was Pulitzer material. Being a part of the hunt for a killer, myself hunted, yet helping to identify and track him down. I knew I couldn't release anything now; not only could it put me in danger, but it would hurt the case. But I couldn't wait to tell this story.

  I copied the file with the killer's image to Anthony's desktop and screen-grabbed the image to a separate file. Then checked my watch. 4:30 pm. If it were a quiet day, Anthony would be home in less than an hour. I wanted to call him, email him, something. It was one thing to send file links and cryptic messages through Anthony's account, but I didn't know what would happen if the wrong person found the image. I had to wait for Anthony to get home.

  We should have developed a code, I laughed, feeling very much like a spy.

  ◆◆◆

  I couldn't concentrate on my work, so I did another load of laundry, vacuumed the floor, and dusted the flat surfaces before deciding I should start dinner; if nothing else to keep me occupied before I broke down and called Anthony.

  Finally, I heard the key in the lock and his telltale entry. Messenger bag hits the floor, shoes off, put on the shelf in shoe closet in entryway, Anthony quietly walking down the hall. He'd started doing this about a week after we'd come back to DC. He'd enter quietly, sneaking up to the den and watch me work until I noticed him. A couple of times, I was upstairs, putting away clothes or going through paint swatches on the guest room that he wanted to redecorate. He'd change tactics, and instead of just watching, he'd sneak up on me and pepper my neck with kisses.

  This was my time to get him, since he'd naturally turn toward the den, expecting me to be at my computer, putting his back to the kitchen. It was an open floor plan, so the kitchen was separated from the other common areas by a long prep counter. I stood with my back against the pantry door, opposite the prep counter, expecting Anthony to pass me any second. When he didn't come around the corner, I wondered if I misgauged the time it took to walk from the foyer. I waited longer until I assumed he either went upstairs or I misheard and he hadn't come home yet.

  When I stuck my head around the corner to peek, I squealed as Anthony scooped me up and pelted me with his kisses. Laughing, I clasped my hands around his face and brought my lips down to his. When he pounced on my lips, a current zapped through me, tingling my toes, and I moaned.

  He pulled back an eternity later. "I missed you."

  I smiled and waited for my heart to calm. "Hi, welcome home."

  His hands were roving over my back and cupped my ass, but I pushed away.

  "As much as I like the attention cowboy, I have dinner started and I don't want it to burn."

  Reluctantly, he released me and followed me into the kitchen. "What's for dinner?"

  "Spaghetti." It was one of only three recipes I knew I could cook with consistent results. Crockpot stew was another I'd learned from my Dad and Anthony had taught me how to make stroganoff, which was becoming a favorite.

  I pulled out fixings for a salad as Anthony shrugged out of his suit coat then took position to chop the vegetables for the salad while I washed the lettuce.

  "Sure you don't want me to chop those while you change?" I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow as he picked up the chef's knife. "I value your extremities more than a little grease on my suit, baby. No way am I letting you near this knife unless absolutely necessary." He leaned over and kissed me before returning to his task.

  I should be offended that he didn't want me using his BIG knife. I should be horrified that he exuded his caveman mentality, protecting me. The feminist in me should want to prove to him that I could cut vegetables just as well as he could. But I felt none of those things. I secretly loved it when he took charge because he didn't do it often and he never told me I couldn't do something. And when he turned those emerald eyes my way and called me 'baby' I was mush. And my knife skills sucked, I knew it.

  I should hate it all, but I didn't.

  I got a couple of bowls out of the cabinet and went back to washing the lettuce. And since he surprised me with his entry yet again, I at least had one surprise left up my sleeve. I waited until Anthony set the knife down, valuing his digits as much as he did mine, before blurting it out.

  "So, I found a shot of the killer's face today."

  He turned to me sharply. "What?"

  I nodded. "Off the graphic design video doorbell. A fluke. He didn't know it was there and I think he was turning away from someone or something in the street. Just a single frame, another beat, and it would have missed him."

  His mouth was agape and he leaned against the back counter, stunned.

  "Wanna see what our killer looks like?"

  He was already pushing off the counter, turning me from the hips and smacking my ass to prod me forward. I giggled and bounced into the den, clicking open the still frame I pulled from the video.

  Anthony rounded the corner of the desk and looked at the screen, his eyes drawing to slits. He stared at the screen a beat longer, "this is the killer?"

  "Yeah. Now what? Can we run him through the FBI databases to get an ID?"

  Anthony stared at the screen another moment before breaking his focus and stuttering a reply. "Uh, yeah, we could probably do that, but might make more sense to use the DC Police database, in case someone is monitoring the FBI searches."

  "Okay. So tomorrow, we may get a name?"

  "Yep." He turned his attention away from the screen.

  "You're amazing, Katie. You know that?"

  I smiled and spent the rest of the evening enjoying dinner and a movie with Anthony. After tomorrow, things might look way different and I wanted to cherish this in case it was the last.

  The next morning it was the usual routine, Anthony got up after nuzzling my neck to wake me. I let him continue to believe he was my wake up call even though my int
ernal clock had me waking up at seven in the morning like clockwork most of my life.

  I'm not sure when that started, I think it was over one summer when I was ten or eleven. Annie and I liked to go down to National Harbor, where there was a lovely boardwalk and a little strip of sand off the Potomac River. You didn't want to swim in the Potomac, everyone knew that, but the beach was beautiful, and you could catch the water taxi to Alexandria or Georgetown and walk around. The beach was small, though, so if you wanted a spot, you had to get there early. And on the Metro, it took almost an hour. So we had to be up at dawn and packed for the day with PB&J's and chips.

  Ever since, my eyes pop open at seven a.m. and I'm awake. Unless I'm hung-over, then my eyes are open, but the rest of me screams and yells. Anthony's alarm goes off at 7:15, so I relish the 15 minutes, wrapped in his arms, secure, protected, loved.

  I fell off the cliff days ago. I stopped fighting it. I loved Anthony. I knew he liked me a lot. He kept telling me in his words, in his smiles, his touches. He was always touching me; reminding me he was there.

  But we were living in the moment and that moment was about to end, maybe not today, but soon. Once we had an ID on the killer, things would escalate and our cushy bubble would burst. I would hold tight to every moment I could until then.

  At 7:15 I closed my eyes and waited as Anthony reached over and turned off the alarm, then rolled back to spoon me, his hands roaming up my thigh, over my hips to circle my waist, pulling me closer, his head buried in my neck, breathing me in before kissing me. "Good morning."

  I rolled to my back and smiled at his hazy eyes, clouded over with sleep. "Good morning."

  He gave me one more peck before rolling out of bed and jumping in the shower. I threw on a robe and padded down to the kitchen to start the coffee, before joining him in the shower to take care of his morning wood and my insatiable lust for this perfect man.

  We dressed and drank our coffee from Adirondack chairs in the backyard before Anthony set off for the office, a jump drive with the still frame of our killer in his pocket.