Red Silk Scarf (2 page)

           
A powerful urge to get even provoked
Cassidy to push harder.
 
Squaring her
shoulders, chin raised a notch as if her pert little nose was enough to
challenge his strength, despite a mind screaming, “Come on make my day, asshole,”
thankfully Cassidy’s vocal chords chose a wiser course.
 
“Obviously, you think God died and left you
his throne.
 
You have steal balls calling
me a trollop, for thinking you're better than me.”
 

Regardless of the
urge to intervene, Mark wasn't stupid enough to position himself between the
pair, especially considering that Cassidy was pressing her breasts against
Patrick's chest throughout her verbal lashing. “Leave it to a cop to make
things sound so easy.
 
You wear a badge,
a club, and a gun on your hip.
 
You have
a safe place to lay your head at night.
 
There are thousands of us who don’t.”
 
Mercy, mercy, her Brady tongue was on a roll and way out of control,
“DeMarco pays for my place, knows my every move, if the killer doesn't get me,
he will, nice choice, huh?
 
Dammit, he
was mad enough to kill me this time.
 
If
you hadn't come along . . .”
 

           
Wanting to shift the necessary parts
that could have retracted her last statement, Cassidy heard loud, and clear the
slamming of the trap door.
  
Catching her
lip between teeth barely halted the exasperated scream bubbling and struggling
for release.
 
Having just proved him
right had plastered a look of dominance and superb gratification on Sullivan’s
face.
 
The scorpion had caught her in his
trap.
           
     

           
All too self-righteously, “Precisely
my point,” his, lips puffed warmly against her skin, while his wagging finger
barely missed her chin.

What nerve he had
shaking his finger in her face, Cassidy thought, her grinding teeth the only
thing that kept her from biting it off.
 
There was threat in those anxious startling blue eyes, and teeth
flashing white in a disarmingly attractive face as he brusquely instructed,
“Now you either get your ass back on the streets or in the patrol car.
 
Make your choice.”

Apparently thinking
the extra inch or two might offer advantage; anger rolling in suffocating waves
raised Cassidy to her tiptoes. “You have nothing on me, cop.
 
No proof that I am what you believe I am.
 
You can't . . .”

           
Choice hell, Sullivan's long vice
like fingers overlapping when encircling her arm left one foot barely touching
the ground.
  
In spite of the painful
contraction of her chest brought on by a slight spasm of fear, Cassidy’s mind
rumbled.
 
Who did Sullivan think he was
man handling her?
 
What kind of cop was
he?
 
Obviously, one who had no respect
for the opposite sex, she concluded.

A police officer
for ten years, single, thirty-six, residing with a mother and divorced sister,
Patrick Sullivan was either, gay, a womanizer or a male chauvinist pig,
possibly all three, she stewed.
 
Whoever
he was, unknowingly he’d stepped into an invisible noose, and instantly prime
suspect followed his name in Cassidy’s mental black book.
    

Deliberating
Patrick's way with women tugged Mark's expression into a smirk.
 
His friend never ceased to display his
typical “Mean Bastard Shell.”
 
Over the
years, Mark was the only one capable of, penetrating Patrick's disguise where
beneath was pure heroic guts filled with the sweetest honey. Fighting a grin
pleading to stretch his mouth beyond its capabilities, his eyes ricocheted from
his partner to Cassidy and back again.
 
As impossible as it seemed, unsuspectingly Patrick was enjoying scanning
the luscious body before them.
 
In fact,
Mark guessed Patrick was enjoying the view too much to his liking, the reason
for the anger moving the air like a gust of wind.

Releasing her arm
brought Cassidy’s foot back to the pavement.
 
Words were not necessary, at the end of Patrick's extended arm a pointed
finger and eyes spitting fire demanded she move toward the car.
 
While Cassidy reluctantly complied, Mark
fought hysterics as Patrick fixed his glare on the exotic shapely body moving
in front of them.
 
One thing was certain,
Mark thought, unlike so many others, this evening had been far from dull and
uneventful.

Unable to soothe
the arm hurting from Sullivan's grip, Cassidy seethed to herself, “What an
arrogant son of a bitch,” meanwhile reluctantly wondering if it was the
throbbing pain in her arm, or the heat of his touch irritatingly
remaining.
 

Desperately calling
upon the walk practiced for weeks, a short gait that made her hips sway like a
swing in the wind, made Cassidy despise the women who purposely walked in such
a manner.
  
Was it because men enjoyed
it, she sputtered inwardly.
 
A stupid
question, unmistakable was the penetrating heat from two sets of eyes zeroing
in on her ass.
 
Not only was the effort
it took feigning such a walk ridiculous and exhausting, but depleting her
nerves.
 
Or, was it Sullivan’s picture
still filling her mind that said from the time she first laid eyes on it, he
was going to be a challenging opponent.
  
    
  
         

Reaching his
partners side, Mark could no longer wait to satisfy his curiosity, “What, in
hell, is wrong with you tonight?”
 
The
fact that he was on the opposite side of the car enabled Mark to hear only part
of Patrick's explanation.
 

“If you need to
ask, you don't know me very well.
 
Good
God man, there's no moon tonight and. . . .” the remaining explanation cut off
by Cassidy and Patrick slamming doors so loudly the noise threatened to pop
Mark’s ear drums.
 

Quick reflexes were
all that saved Cassidy's face from colliding with the cage in front of her when
Sullivan’s polished shoe stomped on the accelerator sending the patrol car
screeching backwards into the street.
 
Instinct along with a twist of her wrist warned Cassidy the night had
only just begun.
   

CHAPTER 2

Like most major
cities in the United States, the drug and prostitution crisis in Los Angeles
had reached an all-time high.
   
Further
challenging the already overburdened police force, during the past four months
one prostitute a month had been brutally raped and strangled, the only clue, a
red silk scarf.
 
Thorough research of the
evidence spelled out “Serial killer,” the straw capable of breaking L.A.’s law
enforcements back.

Examining the
victim's pictures in front of her peers, thankfully Cassidy managed to
camouflage the emotions screeching across her heart.
 
A professionalism that disintegrated the
instant she entered the private confines of the ladies room where she sincerely
believed the toilet basin would remain affixed to her head.

Attempting to
regain a resemblance of normality, splashing cold water on her face helped to
somewhat numb the experience.
 
Straightening her attire, she fluffed varying lengths of wispy hair,
auburn strands that caught the sun and swung back into place with the slightest
movement, her attempts trivial actions that did nothing to stall the rambling
mind sorting and cataloging known facts about the killer.
 

What kind of
maniac would commit such heinous acts?
 
A
maniac hell, he was brilliant.
 
Although
the murders took place in various sections of L.A., the killer was brazen
enough to commit the crimes at a time when heavily patrolled.
 
Adding to the mystery, though well known by
the officers assigned to the districts, the victims suspiciously lacked the
normal lengthy list of prostitution arrests.
 

Dumb, not
likely.
 
If the victim's business
associates knew anything at all, they weren't talking.
 
They knew which side to butter their bread,
not only were they paid but also protected against arrest for their sexual
favors.
 
Withholding information wasn’t
due to their fear of pimps, but their fear of the police.
 

Phenomenal was
the number of officers, on the take, involved with drugs and eliciting sexual
favors.
 
Two years ago, Internal Affairs
geared up to expose those involved.
 
To
date the small number of undercover agents available for the assignment were
unable to make a dent in the problem.
 
Sorrowfully, some had added their names to the list.
 
It was obvious the officers, whether or not
they were personally involved, had banned together and Cassidy had to admit
what man was crazy enough to jeopardize his life on L.A.'s streets, expose a
partner or friend relied upon daily to save their life?
 
Therefore, it mattered little that L.A.’s
serial killer might be a cop.

No one had a
feasible plan or seemed ready or willing to get involved, no one except Cassidy
Ilene Brady the only female Brady stouthearted enough to follow in the
footsteps of four generations that had dedicated their life to law
enforcement.
  
Pride, courage and
perseverance flowed in Cassidy’s blood.
 
Taught and encouraged by the best the time was long overdue to prove her
worthy of the heritage.
   

In tune with the
world, secretly keeping abreast of the murders she dissected the evidence and
developed a plan.
 
A carefully thought
out scheme she intended to pursue with or without her father and brothers
approval.
 
Not that Cassidy disrespected
their opinion; on the contrary, more than anything she craved their support and
approval.
 

Like a flash,
memories came of the far from amiable night of confrontation.
 
Her family had plenty to say.
  
Lectures that she was out of her league went
ignored.
 
Knowing Cassidy would pursue
her dangerous plan, at three a.m. in the morning exhausted and frustrated they
reluctantly surrendered.
 

The next day
Cassidy contacted the L.A. Internal Affairs Department to offer her undercover
services.
 
Not only was she unknown on
the West Coast, but possessed the ability, intelligence and guts.
 
Adding to the package all too nicely, she was
beautiful and had a model perfect figure.
 
Now the ball was in her court.
 

Surviving weeks
of intense training provided the encouragement Cassidy needed.
 
Tonight, as the newest undercover team
member, rudely introduced she was to L.A.'s dark side.
  
It wasn’t until actually walking L.A.
streets at night, observing hookers on their turf and facing Pinkert and
Sullivan that she began questioning her grit to follow through.
 
Especially now when she suspected Pinkert and
Sullivan were among those officers involved.
 

 
While they patrolled the streets, Mark turned
frequently to offer Cassidy what a naive woman might believe to be an innocent
smile accompanied by a reassuring wink.
 
Brady’s weren’t fools.
 
He was
outright flirting in a manner that clearly worked with the opposite sex.
 
Classified by her as a “Playboy,” Cassidy
wondered if he had written her name in his imaginary black book.
 
Little did it matter that Mark boasted titles
of “Married with children,” they did not necessarily exempt him from drugs,
prostitution, or murder.
 
Quite possibly,
she had scored.
 

Sullivan, on the other
hand, seemed oblivious to her presence; his eyes busy combing the streets, his
ears tuned to the scanner.
 
Sitting tall
and proud, his presence was extremely foreboding.
 
Stolen glances through the rear view mirror
apprised her, his face lacked the normal laugh lines for someone his age.
 
In conclusion, Sullivan was a serious man,
possibly, too serious, maybe after ten years he was teetering on the edge.
 

If so, why was
his record squeaky clean?
  
Then again,
what woman could fight off such a giant of a man?
 
What woman, in her right mind, would?
 
Preposterous reflections she quickly
smothered.
 
Emotions could not stray on
this assignment.
 
She was up to her neck
and then some.
 
Most importantly, the
Brady name was at stake.