Slave to Love (37 page)

***

The interview—or whatever you wanted to call it—went fairly well. Bobby was there, and the lieutenant, of course, and he insisted a union rep also be present as an observer.

In answering the L.T.’s questions, she just told the truth.

Basically.

Okay, maybe she changed a few insignificant details. Such as why Mick was chasing her around her apartment that night Roger called in a domestic on them. They didn’t need to know
all
the gory details. Just that she and McGraw enjoyed a healthy and imaginative sexual relationship.

Which was a huge violation of departmental policy, she acknowledged. There was a big rule about commanding officers not having sex with subordinates. Sexual harassment. It was a good rule, and she understood it perfectly. But she and Mick were different.

She managed to talk Fredrickson into believing they’d started their affair only because they were both trying to get an edge on the Teddie Killer and his victimology. Which was actually true. Pretty much. They would never have slept together in the first place if it hadn’t been for the case. They wouldn’t have been thrown together like they were, wouldn’t ever have had the opportunity.

Unless, of course, Mick had happened upon her alone in the parking garage late one night. Or she’d caught him taking covert pictures of her...

But Fredrickson didn’t need to know the extent of their fantasies about each other. The fact remained, it was the unusual nature of the case that had led to their relationship as it now existed. That much was absolutely true.

The lieutenant understood that. And he accepted it when she assured him pursuing their affair had been a mutual decision. Not sexual harassment on either part. Including their more...outrageous activities.

Still, when he reminded her if she continued her liaison with Mick she had no chance of transferring to Homicide, she took a deep breath to stave off her blinding disappointment.

“I’m afraid it’s one or the other,” the L.T. said.

“I understand the policy,” she said unhappily. How could she ever make that choice? Mick or her life’s goal? Luckily he didn’t ask. Besides, right now the only thing that mattered was getting the bad guy. Everything else could wait.

“Of course, the question may be moot,” Fredrickson continued with a sigh. “If Detective McGraw’s brought up on charges, his career in law enforcement is over.”

“Even if he’s innocent?” she pointedly asked.

“No. Not if he’s completely acquitted and exonerated.” The L.T. gazed at her searchingly. “You still think he’s not the killer.” He wasn’t asking, it was a statement.

She nodded. “I don’t have a death wish, Lieutenant. If I thought there was any possibility it could be him, trust me, I’d say so.”

“What about the evidence? Do you really think it’s a frame job?” He gazed at her intently, obviously taking her opinion seriously.

“I do.”

“But the condom wrapper...” Fredrickson drummed his fingers on the table. “How could the killer have gotten hold of something so personal?”

“Maybe the killer’s a woman,” she suggested wryly. “An ex-lover with a grudge?” The image of Mick’s former partner drifted through her mind. An attractive thought. Not.

All three men lifted their eyebrows skeptically.

“No, me neither,” she admitted. “I don’t know...unless...”

“What?”

“It may not mean anything, but... Well, Mick is always very careful about using protection. But the thing is, the next morning I never find any wrappers. Not in the wastebasket, or anywhere. He must gather them up and take them with him.”

“So...?”

“So, maybe one fell out of his pocket on the way home. Or maybe he disposes of them in a trash can outside his apartment. Or...well, you get the idea.”

Fredrickson nodded. “Yeah. I’m surprised he didn’t mention that. I’ll ask him about it.”

“And another thing,” she said, warming to her subject. “Those silk scarves. When I saw a couple at his place, he told me about buying them.”

Fredrickson glanced up. “He did?”

“He said they were on sale at Rasheed’s, and he liked the color. Rasheed’s is just down the street from his apartment.”

“When was this?”

She thought back. “The first time I saw one was Thursday, the day before Dr. Rawlings reported discovering the fibers. I didn’t ask Mick about the scarves until later. But he didn’t try to lie or hide them or anything, which one might expect if he was guilty of strangling women with them.”

“I suppose so,” the lieutenant said, mulling it over.

“Lieutenant, get a warrant and search his apartment. The only epithelials you’ll find on those scarves will be mine.” On an inspiration, she dug in her purse, producing the key to his apartment, which she still had. She plunked it onto the table. “Better yet, just go get the scarves and have Maria run them. They’re in a red gym bag in his spare room.”

The L.T. regarded her for a long moment, then reached out and slid the key back to her. “That won’t be necessary. I’m the first to admit the evidence against Detective McGraw is all circumstantial, and certainly equivocal.”

“In other words, it won’t hold up in court. Which is why you haven’t arrested him.”

Fredrickson’s eyes narrowed. “Before I take a step like arresting one of my own men I need to be one-hundred-percent convinced of his guilt. Your firm belief in his innocence is enough to make me hold off for now. After all, you have the most to lose if he’s not.”

He had no idea.

“I know I’m right. And after tonight everyone else will, too. Bobby’s going to get the real killer.”

“Which you think is Smythe.”

“I’m praying it is.”

“But?”

It still bothered her that the Teddie Murders were so similar to the way Mick’s mother was killed. And then there was that damned photo of his mother in that white one-piece....

“Has anyone looked at Mick’s father for this?”

Instead of the incredulity she expected, both Bobby and the L.T. regarded her with mild surprise. They glanced at each other guiltily, then Bobby said, “As a matter of fact, we have.”

“Agent Woodruff pointed us in that direction several days ago,” Lt. Fredrickson said. “Naturally we kept Mick out of the loop.”

“And?”

“The father has an alibi for one of the nights in question.”

“It holds up?”

“We’re still checking it out, but so far, yeah.”

“Damn.” Disappointment sifted through her.

“There’s something else, though,” Bobby said. “We confirmed a different connection today.”

“Between?”

“The father and Smythe.”

“What is it?”

“They shared a cell in Corcoran prison.”   

***

The rest of the interview went by in a blur.

They’d shared a cell!

This was unbelievable! If Smythe and daddy McGraw had discussed their crimes in detail with each other... They held such similarities, it gave plausible reason why Smythe’s fantasy might have evolved and escalated to include murder, and therefore why he killed in exactly the way he did. Not to mention an explanation for specifically implicating Mick in the process as a scapegoat. Mick had, after all, turned in and testified against his father, who was bent on revenge. Wasn’t that what Mick had said last night at Brimstone?

“Have you told Mick about the connection?” she asked Bobby after they’d left the lieutenant’s office and were walking down the hall.

He shook his head. “Didn’t have to. He was the one to suggest checking on it.”

Caro glanced at Mick’s partner and best friend. “Strange. He never said anything to me.”

“He wouldn’t. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s never once mentioned his father. But he’s been pretty grim about this case from the very beginning. Like he took every aspect of it very personally. I’ve never seen him so obsessed about anything.” He sliced her a look and grinned. “Well, at least until you joined the task force.”

She halted as Bobby leaned over the water fountain to take a drink. “Look. I know you promised Mick you wouldn’t take me to the Tether Club tonight, but—”

“Oh, no,” he interrupted, wiping his mouth. “Don’t even try.”

“I need to be at that party, Bobby. Surely you must see that.”

He held up a hand. “No. I agree with Mick. It’s too dangerous for you.”

She bristled. “But not for you and Cody.”

He had the grace to flush. “Caro, we are both seasoned veterans in Homicide. Your experience is limited at best. It has nothing to do with your gender, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Yeah. She believed that.

“Bobby, the killer is not looking for a man. He’s looking for a
couple
. What if he goes off with someone else and two innocent people end up dead? Is that what you want?”

He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “It wouldn’t work. Smythe knows you and Mick are an item. He won’t go for you and me, or you and Cody.”

“You don’t know that. It depends on what his trigger is. If he’s looking for specific behavior from a committed couple, no. But if it’s something else, say, something visual or verbal, or a specific aspect of our interaction with
him
, we could be okay. I don’t know. Agent Woodruff would have better insight.”

Bobby sighed. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask him. He was called away earlier, on another case up in Oregon.”

“Great.”

They had arrived at the task force room where she still had the daily report to get out.

“Bobby,” she said with her hand on the door knob, “I’m going to that party tonight. I have the mansion’s address and the password for the gatekeeper, so there’s no way you can stop me.” She met his scowl with equanimity. “The only question is, will you pick me up, or am I going in alone?”

Chapter 25

Caro stayed at the station as long as possible that evening doing paperwork—and avoiding going home. Just after eight o’clock she broke down and decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. Bobby had said he and Cody would pick her up between 10:30 and 11:00 p.m..

She had to prepare herself. Mostly mentally. She hadn’t forgotten about the Tether Club’s dress code. Or why she was going.

She had a killer to catch. Both her and Mick’s careers depended on it. Maybe even his freedom.

Unfortunately, to have a chance at success she had to get naked. Not that she’d told Bobby or Cody that little detail.

The Teddie Killer hunted Master/slave couples. To have a prayer of luring him into the open, she had to play the part of a slave, regardless of who played her Master. And regardless of her feelings about going naked in a crowded room. Her being naked might even be part of the killer’s trigger. Didn’t he always kill after this party?

Roger was watering the geraniums on his front porch when she pulled into the driveway. Before she even got out of the car he sent her a really evil glare, turned on a heel and stalked through the door to his half of the duplex, slamming it loudly. Guess the reporters must have been ugly to him last night. And their articles about her had probably shocked the socks off him.

Too bad. Caro was fine with what she’d become over the past week—finally letting loose all those uncomfortable needs she’d carried hidden inside for as long as she could remember. If that didn’t suit someone else’s narrow so-called moral code, it couldn’t be helped. The only person’s opinion she cared about was Mick’s. And he liked her this way.

She had to save him.

What would her life be worth if they put Mick in jail, never to touch her or fill her again? Never to love her?

She didn’t even want to think about it.

She tossed her purse onto the sofa and went straight to the wet bar to pour herself a drink. A nice glass of wine might settle her nerves.

The bottle clattered against the glass as she poured it, and some of the ruby liquid sloshed onto the counter. Her hands shook as she lifted the wine to her lips and took a long sip.

She was going to have to walk into the Tether Club tonight with Bobby and Cody, without a stitch of clothing on
.

Oh, God.

Could she do it? Could she really face dozens of strangers staring at every inch of her body? Worse, men she knew and worked with...men she knew were already attracted to her? Cody had come right out and asked Mick to share her last night at Brimstone. And Bobby...

Well, Bobby had been a gentleman this afternoon, but how would he react to her nudity, especially after Mick had supposedly gifted her to him? Would he tell Cody? Would they—

Best not think about it.
She had no choice
.

To clear the man she loved, she must do this. And do it convincingly. Convincingly enough to trap a vicious murderer at his own game. Whatever she had to do, she would.

God help her.

She missed Mick desperately. She needed him, needed his strength to help her get through this. She wondered where he was now. Several times she’d tried calling his apartment, his cell phone, and had gotten no answer at either.

Maybe they’d already arrested him? Surely Bobby would have told her if they had.

Was it possible Mick was on his way to the party, despite Chief Trujillo’s express command forbidding it? No. She didn’t think Mick would disobey the chief. Not when he wouldn’t even defend himself against this stupid accusation.

Caro wasn’t disobeying the chief, just the lieutenant. Big difference. Besides, the way she saw it, if she didn’t catch the Teddie Killer she could kiss her career good-bye, anyway. Without a big win in this case, her behavior with Mick would no doubt land her back in Traffic for about three hundred years—if it didn’t get her fired outright.

Mick would be furious to know she was going to the mansion tonight when he’d repeatedly demanded she not go. But despite their serious game of sexual Dominance and submission, he did not own her. She made her own decisions. In this, she would not give him power over her. He might be willing to throw away his career and years of his life by stepping away from their undercover operation, but she wasn’t. She loved her job too much. She loved
him
too much.

She was going to get the Teddie Killer, or die trying.

Walking to the bedroom, she removed her suit and hung it up in the closet, then took off everything else, too. She stared at her bare body in the vanity mirror.

Heart thumping wildly, she tried to imagine walking into a roomful of men like this.

Shoes
, the guy had said. She could wear shoes. She slipped on her black fuck-me pumps and considered her reflection again.

Shit, this was even worse. Now she looked like a stripper.

Well, except for—

Suddenly it came back to her, the personal details from the female victims Mick had mentioned that first night he’d arrived at her apartment and they’d gone over the autopsies. The women all had wax jobs. At the time it had seemed like just a strange coincidence—after all, how could the killer have known such intimate details before he chose his victims? Now she knew.

She exhaled resignedly. And her, never having had so much as a bikini wax. She grabbed her wine and went into the bathroom, closing the door firmly. Then she locked it for good measure. It was too late to buy wax now, but she had a pretty good shaver and lots of new blades.

Now all she had to figure out was how to stop her hands from shaking long enough to do the deed.

***

After getting out of the Z, Mick made a last minute adjustment to his silk tie, hefted his red kit bag in his left hand, walked up the marble steps to the ornate front door of the private mansion where the party was being held, and knocked sharply.

It was opened immediately by a tall, refined-looking older man who might pass for a butler on some old BBC series.

“Looking for beeswax candles,” Mick said, using the password Caro had given him yesterday.

The butler glanced behind him. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah,” Mick said edgily, and handed him ten crisp hundred-dollar bills.
For now
.

Taking them, the butler stepped back and swept his hand toward the foyer. “Welcome to The Tether Club. You may put your bag here until you need it.” He indicated a large Victorian-style piece of furniture that took up an entire wall of the foyer.

A dozen or so other kit bags already occupied the shelves. Many Doms took their kit with them everywhere, and none would think of coming to an Event without it. Carrying a kit separated the serious participant from the spectators, of which there were also always plenty. The times Mick had attended this type of party he’d mostly been an observer himself, so he knew they were welcomed; spectators heightened the pleasure of those who were scening.

Mick nodded and stowed his bag on a high shelf, already aware of numerous eyes on him, sizing him up. He’d come alone, with a kit, which meant he was there to find a partner and play.

He ignored an approaching woman and jogged down the three steps from the foyer into the library, where the bar and hors d’oeuvres were set up. Drinking was a no-no if you were into anything other than watching—the point with bondage scenes was not to give true pain, but pleasure-pain, and to do that you must perceive where the subtle line between them lay. Mick definitely needed all his faculties intact tonight. But he was so furious, he needed a drink even more.

Bobby had called an hour ago and told him Caro insisted on coming. Short of trumping up charges and putting her in jail there was no way they’d stop her, Bobby had said.

It shouldn’t have surprised Mick that Bobby and Cody had caved. They’d both been sniffing around her all week like two junkyard dogs. He’d hoped she’d be sensible. Prayed she’d obey him and stay away. But in his gut he’d known better. He’d taught her well. The activities at The Tether Club wouldn’t scare her, and she wanted to be in Homicide badly enough that the danger wouldn’t either.

Now she’d be right in the middle of the unrestrained sex, the rampant temptation, the uncontrollable danger. And dead center in the killer’s crosshairs.

Tamping down his ire, Mick accepted a glass of champagne from a nude bar slave and wandered out to survey the rest of the mansion’s first floor.

It was huge and open, a generous contemporary floor-plan with lots of blond wood that winked in the semi-darkness, and even more glass. A series of low steps telescoped the room down to a black marble fireplace and the two-story floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows flanking it. The house was situated high up on Gold Hill at the foot of the San Gabriel mountains; the view outside was spectacular. The lights of the whole valley below and two or three beyond sparkled like fistfuls of diamonds strewn across the forest-green landscape. The sinuous red and white curves of the 210 and San Berdoo freeways snaked along in the distance, always packed, always moving.

Music played in the dimly lighted room, hard rock, loud enough to hear, but not too loud to stifle conversation or mask the tantalizing sounds of whips snapping and chains rattling. Even now, moans drifted down from the upstairs bedrooms where the serious bondage equipment would be located. Scattered about here on the first floor were more modest apparati, sleek restraining devices deliberately designed to blend in with the rest of the contemporary furniture, and meant to deliver a jolt of explicitness to an otherwise mundane party setting.

The collection of stylishly-dressed people might have been at any upscale gathering, except for the ones with no clothes on. Seven or eight slaves stood with their Masters, naked but for collars and high heels. Because this was a MaleDom/femsub party, the slaves were all women. One was buckled to an armchair by her wrists and ankles, her legs spread just enough to see between them, being discreetly observed or outright ogled by the single men chatting around her. One was casually fondling her breast.

It was still fairly early—not even midnight. The novelty would wear off as the night went on. As more participants paired off and started having sex, as more clothed women were claimed by a man and placed in bondage, more of them would be stripped of their fancy dresses.

Mick usually liked this stage best. He enjoyed the visual shock of seeing a lone, naked woman standing in the midst of a group of men in tuxedos. Everyone was still on their best behavior, trying to impress each other. They hadn’t gotten loud, or greedy for their pleasure. That stage had its charms, too, but Mick liked the edge of anticipation of the early hours best.

Usually.

Tonight, however, he had no appreciation for the erotic undercurrents. He was too angry at Caro for her disobedience. Too disquieted by what was to go down here later. Too worried that it would all go to hell.

Where the fuck was she?

A rush of cool air from the foyer drew his attention. He turned, saw a couple enter the front door. The butler helped the woman off with her coat. Her bare skin shimmered gold with some kind of tinted body oil that matched her gold slave collar. The men below let out a collective “Ahhh.”

Her Master escorted her to the top foyer step leading to the main rooms, and announced, “This is slave sara. She enjoys being taken from behind.” He paused meaningfully and men all around examined her with calculation in their eyes. She lowered hers. Those familiar with the routine knew it was an open invitation to all; first-timers would soon realize it.

A private bondage party was nothing like Brimstone. Brimstone was pure entertainment, a kinky floorshow put on for the titillation of people afraid or unwilling to go further than arousal. At Brimstone, actual sex was forbidden. At the Tether Club, sex was expected and encouraged on all levels. Male Domination and female bondage was the theme, the way to get you there. But sex was the ultimate goal, one way or another.

The Master said, “Turn around, sara,” and she did. “Bend over,” he ordered, and again she did, showing her plump ass to the crowd. The man slapped it, eliciting a small cry from her. Then he unzipped his trousers, quickly slid on a condom, stepped behind and penetrated her. The crowd watched raptly. After a few hard pumps, he pulled out and zipped up. Then he took her hand, led her down the low steps to a narrow, padded pommel horse in the big room. He made her bend over it at the waist, then fastened her ankles and wrists to cuffs provided low down on the supports. She was forced to stand there with her legs spread, doubled over the padded frame, her ass tipped up and her sex accessible to all.