Big Guns Out of Uniform (27 page)

I remembered learning in college that when a baby first looks into its mother's face, there is an instant connection. Something about the mother being a mirror of that child's self, and that mirror in some way defines what it means to exist. I would argue that it also first defines what it means to love. I think that was the hardest part for me, losing that connection, and it wasn't till I looked down at her hand clasped in mine weeks later that I found a measure of peace. They were my mother's hands, wrinkled and tiny, filled with love.

“You okay?” Marshall asked, jerking my attention back to him.

“Yeah,” I said. “Why don't you get the box marked 2000. I took a picture of a bunch of tattooed freaks that year.”

“Should be interestin',” was his only comment. He didn't know the half of it.

 

T
HREE O'CLOCK ROLLED
around before either of us had found anything, though we'd spent a good part of the time fucking rather than working. The first bout had started innocently enough. He'd pulled a 3x5-inch print out of the box he was looking through and told me he wanted to keep it.

It was a black-and-white shot of a woman sitting cross-legged on a mat, stark naked and smiling brightly. She looked familiar, but I didn't recognize her.

“Why?” I asked.

He looked at me kinda funny and took the picture back. “Because I want a nekkid picture of you and I like your smile in this one.”

“Okay,” I said quickly, but he caught on.

“You don't recognize yourself, either, do you?”

“Nope,” I said offhandedly, but he wasn't buying my nonchalance. He caught me by the back of the neck and pulled me to him, kissing me roughly.

“My poor baby,” he murmured. “Sweet girl.” And then he began kissing my face. My eyelids, cheeks, the tips of my nose, my chin, all got the same reverent attention. He pushed me down on my back and slid his hands under the man's button-down shirt I wore, catching the top of my panties and pulling them down my legs. I tried to help, unbuttoning the top button of my shirt before he pushed my hands under my head and told me to keep them there.

He shoved the boxers down, spread my legs, and took me. I was already wet. Wet just from sitting near him while he was half-naked, wet from the sound of his voice, and the tenderness of his touch.

He rode me gently, abrading my back on the hardwood floor as his thrusts moved me back and forth. I trembled, lifting my chest toward him. He obliged, sliding his hands under my shoulder blades and lifting me up. I let my head drop back, my fingers laced tightly behind my neck as he suckled me through the fabric of my shirt.

It felt as if he did me for hours, so tirelessly, so carefully did he work me. My orgasm caught me by surprise. One minute I was just enjoying the feel of him inside me, running himself over all my secret places, and then I was biting my lip and whimpering in pleasure as my body convulsed and shuddered around him. My climax brought his own, jerking his hips into me spasmodically.

“Damn woman, you're going to kill me,” he said into my neck.

I stretched under him, lifting one knee and hooking it on his hip. Rubbing against him, I murmured, “You'll die a happy man,” and he groaned and proceeded to take me again, at some point lifting one of my legs over his shoulder while the other rode high on his hip. I'd never been so grateful to the yoga classes that kept me flexible and strong. I wasn't sure I'd be able to walk otherwise.

He helped me load up my car with camera equipment. I would have to hurry to get everything set up when I got there, though I wouldn't even begin shooting until sunset, which didn't start until about eight
P.M.
this time of year. I'd been allowed to take light readings about the same time the week before, so I had some idea of what to set my equipment for.

He'd made me get his clothes out of his truck, a pair of old jeans and a white T-shirt that I'd lifted to my face and sniffed as I brought them back to the house. It smelled like laundry soap and the warm, musky scent of his body.

He called Stevens again, but his partner still hadn't found anything, so he asked me if I would mind if he stayed and kept looking through my files while I was gone. I said no, I wouldn't mind, and it was the truth, though I was surprised that I was so comfortable letting him invade my space. God knows he'd invaded my body.

I gave him my spare key in case he needed to leave and left him standing in the doorway wearing nothing but his jeans, waving my white undies at me like a flag before going back in the house.
Dirty man,
I thought happily, and drove away with my body tingling and a smile on my face.

I
've always loved driving on the freeway in San Diego. Everyone goes like ninety miles an hour and the weather is usually nice enough to roll down the windows. The traffic could suck, though, especially on the I-5. It was even worse than usual that day and it took me a while to figure out why: the Del Mar fair. I'd forgotten about it. The traffic always caused a backup that hung around for hours. I twitched impatiently, wanting to get the photos done and get back home so I could screw my detective's brains out.

A half hour later I was passing the fairgrounds, looking at the brightly lit rides.
I could take him there,
I thought, remembering that I had free tickets. I used to enter my photographs in the competitions there in high school, and now gave a lot of money in scholarships to the winners. As one of the contributors, I got complimentary passes every season.

I hadn't gone in a long time. Almost two years, not since my friend Sara had been stationed in San Diego. I smiled, remembering that night. I loved Sara, but even I had to admit that she was a slut. A beloved one, but a slut nonetheless.

We'd been drinking quite a bit beforehand. My little sister had driven us with a bunch of her high school friends, making us promise to leave when she called us. We'd agreed, though I think both of us secretly intended to find other accommodations for the evening.

I have to give Sara credit. She found them in record time: twins, tall, gorgeous, and from the look in their eyes, more than willing to give her a go. I had doubts at first; they were carnies after all, though they seemed reasonably clean, but when Sara pulled me aside and whispered that they were hung like horses, I laughed and told her to take her time.

I waited in a lawn chair outside their brightly painted trailer in the staff parking lot while she entertained the boys. I thought about asking if I could photograph them after the sex marathon was finished. I'd never shot twins before, but I didn't have my tripod and the ick factor was a little too high since they would have just taken a dip in my best friend.

She fucked them until the park closed. I had to bang on the door like a madwoman to get their attention. One of the guys opened it, stark naked, and asked if I wanted a go.

I declined politely and shouted for Sara to get her butt outside. She came out ten minutes later, kissing and petting each of the boys, a Cheshire-cat grin stretching her face. We hurried to meet my irate sister in the parking lot. She'd been waiting for an hour, calling frantically on my cell phone, which I'd forgotten to charge. I apologized, and Sara gave her the giant pink panther George (or was it Willie?) had given her as a farewell token. She took it, but made me promise to tell our mother it was my fault she was late getting back. I promised and we got in the backseat. Two of my sister's friends were in there, staring at us like we were insane.

I laughed at the memory, coming back to myself, and thought wickedly that maybe it was my turn to get laid at the Del Mar fair.

I was fifteen minutes late getting to the lighthouse. It was gorgeous, white, and shining. I'd read up a little on its history. It'd been built in either the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century (I couldn't remember), but was shut down shortly after. The designers hadn't considered its position very well, and its guiding light was more often than not blocked by low fog.

It was privately owned, though there were public tours in and out during the day. The best part of the interior was the great full-length windows looking out over the ocean. The models I'd chosen for the photographs were four women: a great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, and daughter. All gorgeous, stately, green-eyed brunettes. I'd met them while having dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, which they owned and ran together.

I didn't expect them for another hour, but I still hurried to set up my equipment. I thought maybe I would try to get some shots of them on the beach as well, just for shits and giggles.

They arrived in a blue Ford Escort, laughing and singing as they got out of the car. The youngest, Lena, spotted me first, giving me a hug and a water bottle full of sangria, which explained the rosy glow to their cheeks and the bright smiles on their faces.

I smiled in return, enjoying them as I did so few people. They were such a happy, laughing family, but I think I liked them mostly because their features were so similar. Only their ages marked the gaps between them, and I felt strangely that when I spoke with one, I spoke with them all. It took the pressure off me to separate them as individuals, and something in me sighed and relaxed.

I photographed two of them hugging each other and smiling while the others lounged naked nearby. They were my priestesses, my goddesses of love and beauty. I took several rolls of photographs in different poses while the sun sank slowly in the sky. I asked the women if they wanted some shots on the beach as well, which I'd made sure was private property, so we wouldn't get in trouble.

The two youngest women squealed in delight at the idea and ran for the stairs. I took my Nikon, loaded with color film this time, and walked more sedately down the steps with Rosa and her daughter, Isabel, following behind me.

The two younger women were already splashing in the shallow water, naked and frolicking like nymphs. I snapped a picture quickly, at a high enough shutter speed to freeze the droplets of water sparkling gold against the orange and red sky.

When the light got too low, I stopped and let the camera hang around my neck. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the feel of the wind in my hair.

Rosa spoke next to me, her eyes on her children. “You bring your man, eat dinner with us.”

I nodded, smiling at her, not asking how she knew I was with someone. It probably showed on my face.

She turned to me then, reaching up with her gnarled hands to cup my cheeks. “This hurt in you,” she said, and waited for me to nod my understanding, “this hurt is not everything. Is not so deep that it touched your heart. Understand,
cara?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I whispered, and wanted to cry.

“Good,” she said briskly, and dropped her arms. “Come, children,” she called out, loudly for such an old woman, “we go now.”

I stayed on the beach for a while after they left, letting the sound of the surf roll in my ears and wash away all my worries, then I got up and went to collect my stuff before the lighthouse keeper arrived to lock up.

T
he drive home seemed to take forever. I didn't relax until I turned down my street and saw that Marshall's truck was still in my driveway, though he had moved it in front of my garage door for some reason. I parked my car beside it and jumped out with only my purse and my camera bag. I figured I'd get him to move the car with all the camera equipment into the garage later.

It was about eight-thirty. Too late to go out on a weeknight, but I didn't care. I wanted food and his body, and I didn't particularly care what order I got them in. I thought he should've been able to look through everything by now, which meant that either he'd found something, or I was probably wrong about seeing the tattoo before. At any rate, he was all mine, and I was looking forward to enjoying him.

The first thing I noticed was the heavenly smells emanating from the back of the house. He was grilling. I could see him through the French doors that opened out onto my back porch. He was still barefoot and shirtless, wearing only the holey jeans he'd had on before.

He'd put on my Elvis's greatest hits CD, and I could've sworn from the motion of his head that he was singing along to “All Shook Up.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and walked quietly through the living room and the French door he'd left wide open.

I slid my arms around his back, and he stilled, craning his neck around to look back at me.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, twisting to drop a kiss on my lips. I kissed him back, gripping the belt loops on the back of his jeans.

We broke away and I smiled at him. “Hello, handsome. Don't you know better than to let people sneak up on you?”

“You can sneak up on me anytime.”

“You heard my car, didn't you?” I said suspiciously.

He grinned and turned back to the grill, humming again.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, I can't be too annoyed with you. You might not feed me.”

“Are you hungry, then?”

“Starved.”

“Good, you can start the greens.”

“I have to cook?” I pouted, and he looked at me again.

“God, I love it when you do that,” he said, yanking me into him and nipping my lower lip. I squealed and tried to nip him in return.

“The greens, woman, or no meat for you,” he ordered, pushing me away, and went back to expertly flipping sauce-covered chicken pieces with a pair of tongs.

“Okay,” I said with a heavy sigh, “but can you move my car into the garage later? It's got all my equipment inside it.”

“Sure,” he said. “How was the shoot?”

Was it me, or did he sound deliberately casual?
“It was great,” I said, a little confused. “I'll tell you about it while we eat.”

“Okay,” he replied with what I thought was a decided lack of enthusiasm.

I didn't know what his problem was. I thought he would've loved to see those four naked women set against a panoramic backdrop of the ocean. I know they would've enjoyed his attention.

“How long till they're ready?” I wanted to know.

“ 'Bout fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Cool,” I replied, and went back in the house.

I pulled a box of butter beans out of the freezer, hoping that was the kind of “greens” my Southern boy meant. I certainly didn't have collard greens or okra handy; there just wasn't much of a market for it in Southern California.
What a shocker.

I thought corn bread would be good, too, so I got out the cast-iron pans my grandmother had given me and pulled out a box of instant corn bread mix.

I put on a white chef's apron that my sister had painted a dragon on and given to me on my birthday last year. I didn't take her choice of beasts as a comment on my character, but I probably should have.

It was as I was wrapping the ties around my middle that I remembered Marshall's comment to me the other night. His fantasy was to come into the kitchen and find me wearing nothing but an apron. I thought about that for a second, flushing a little at the idea of it, and carefully turned off the stove.

I set the apron aside and quickly undressed, folding my clothes and setting them aside on a far counter. I put the apron back on, tying it around my waist. I could feel my cheeks heating. I felt exposed, vulnerable, almost silly, but I was wet, too, and my thighs trembled where I held them pressed together.

I took a couple deep breaths, wanting to appear nonchalant, and got the milk out so I could start mixing the corn bread batter. I was pouring the thick yellow liquid into the pan when I heard him closing the French doors.

I finished pouring, counting his footsteps as he walked through the living room. I set the bowl in the sink and turned on the water, taking a long time to do it, watching as the bowl slowly filled, knowing that he was going to come through the kitchen door any second and see the perky round cheeks of my ass. I hoped he didn't drop the chickens.

He did, but they mostly stayed on the baking sheet that he'd used to carry them. I heard the clatter as the pan hit the floor, and I took a quick peek over my shoulder.

“Holy shit,” he said, and I turned back to the sink, biting my tongue.

There was a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of the running water and the remix of “A Little Less Conversation” playing in the living room. The next thing I knew, two hard, hot hands were on me, and I gripped the edge of the counter in anticipation.

“Spread your legs.”

I whimpered and did as he asked, widening my stance. He gripped my hips and tilted me toward him.

“Witch,” he said gruffly, and I pressed backward, into the hard hot strength of him.

I heard the sound of a zipper and then a shuffle as the heavy denim of his jeans fell to the floor. I felt him moving behind me, the heat of his body replacing the coolness of the air against my feverish flesh.

There was a gentle rubbing and then the hard pressure of him against the entrance to my body. He rubbed himself against the wet slickness, making me gasp with pleasure, then he pushed inside, spreading me, filling me as I clenched around him. I whimpered, and he pressed deeper, gripping my left hip while his right hand slid around to my front to touch me there. His chest heaved like a bellows and the motion moved him gently inside me.

“You okay, baby, can you take me harder?” he asked, rubbing circles on my clit with a callused fingertip to convince me.

“Yes,” I gasped, and he slid out, then in again, harder, working me with his fingers from the front.

He hunched over me, letting go of my hip and bracing himself with a hand on the counter next to mine, and I knew he was about to fuck me in earnest. I could feel his legs shaking behind me and guessed he was on the edge of his control.

He thrust faster, pounding inside me and making me gasp and bend my elbows forward till I was almost kissing the countertop. He did it again. And again. Ramming his hard flesh into me with merciless intensity, the hand between my legs rubbing faster and faster.

“I can't last much longer, Deborah, take it,” he growled in my ear.

He didn't have to. I thrust my hips back against him and came so hard that I was afraid the clamp of my muscles had bruised him.

He groaned and jerked against me, and I felt the individual pulses of his climax as he came inside me.

We were both sweaty and breathing heavily, his body still braced over mine. I felt as if I'd just run a marathon; my knees were shaking and I felt light-headed. He pulled out of me gently, and I gasped as the feeling made my body clench in pleasure again.

He noticed, hugging me from behind, one hard arm curving just over my collarbone. I laid a kiss on the hairy, muscled expanse, feeling safe and protected, though I'm sure we looked ridiculous, him with his pants around his ankles and me in nothing but an apron.

He let me go, running his hands over me like he couldn't get used to the feel of me. I looked over my shoulder at him, wanting to smile, but feeling strangely unsettled. I told him I wanted to change and escaped into my room to change into one of my yoga outfits, hemp pants and a cotton tank.

He was stirring the butter beans on the stove when I came in. He'd put his jeans back on and rescued the tray with the chickens.

“I was going to bring it to you in bed,” he said, and kissed me when I tilted my face up to him.

“That's okay, I wanted to talk to you.”

“You can make the iced tea.”

“Okay,” I said, and opened the drawer with my collection of tea. I had a lot of herbal, green, and European teas, but I kept a stash of good old Lipton handy for barbeques.

I took out the basket on my Mr. Coffee and began washing it while he watched me curiously. Once it was clean, I put the tea bags in and put it back in the machine.

“What in Sam Hill are you doing?”

I blinked at him, then laughed, forgetting that not everyone used their coffee machine to make tea. “My mom always made it this way. She said it tastes better.”

“Doesn't it taste like coffee?”

“Not that I've ever noticed.”

“I'm not gonna hold my breath.”

“You'll like it,” I promised, pouring in a carafe of cool water and listening to the hiss and spit as it brewed. “So, did you find anything?”

“Nope. And Stevens turned up zilch on the tattoo parlors he called and visited, but he pretty much stayed in the North County and that tattoo could have been done in Hong Kong for all we know.”

Since my best friend had gotten a tattoo of a giant bullfrog on her ass while visiting Hong Kong, I could pretty much attest to the truth of that statement.

“So I guess it's pretty much on hold until I remember why it's familiar or something else turns up.”

“Yep. Nobody's gonna get in a dither over a John Doe unless someone claims him, or other bodies with the same MO start showing up.”

“Do you think that's likely?” I asked, interested in learning the way he thought. All the other cops respected him; some of them looked at him with something akin to awe.

“No, something about it felt personal, you know, and sloppy. Like a fight that got out of hand.”

“Why strip him naked, then?”

“I considered that. Blood gets everywhere. It could be the killer was just trying to clean up the mess, but honestly, I think he was naked when he got shot.”

“But there would have been blood all over him,” I argued.

“Not if the killer washed it off. Did you smell the body when you were taking pictures?”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “Gross, we're going to eat soon, you know.”

He laughed. “Not that smell. It was faint, but the man had been washed with perfumed soap, like that purple stuff you have in your tub. The guys will never let me live it down if I go in there tomorrow reeking of flowers.”

“So go home and shower first,” I said, not at all surprised to learn that he intended to spend the night with me.

“So…” I extemporized, hopping up on the counter and picking up a drumstick from the tray next to me, “he and someone else, probably a woman, got into an argument, and that person shot him in fury. He or she panicked, washed off all the blood, and carted the body off to the lagoon to dump it.”

“Something like that. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. The only problem is, that guy was pretty tall, and dead weight is the heaviest kind. Most women wouldn't be able to haul him anywhere.”

“So, it was probably either a man, or a woman who had some help,” I guessed. “That's creepy.”

“What is?”

“The idea that there might be people willing to help someone haul off a dead body. And why dump it there? That's a pretty public place. Those weird guys are always fishing off the highway.”

“I don't have any idea why they chose that spot, but any number of people will help a murderer cover up a crime, mostly family, friends, or lovers. Some do it out of loyalty, others perversion, but I think most people usually help because they think in some weird way that if they get rid of the evidence, then the crime never happened.”

“I can understand that,” I said, thinking of some of the rape victims I'd seen down at the station.

“Fortunately for us, those same people usually crack under the strain and tell everything they know.”

I toasted him with my half-eaten drumstick. “Here's to mental breakdowns and the secrets they reveal.”

He grunted and opened the oven to check on the corn bread. A hot rush of sweet corn-scented air hit me and I breathed in deep.

“It's done. Where are your pot holders?”

“In the drawer next to the stove.”

He pulled out the heavy pan and cut the corn bread into even, pie-shaped slices. I watched him over his shoulder until he told me to sit down before I drove him batshit.