Unfair Advantage
folder
Original - Misc › -Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
33
Views:
3,591
Reviews:
66
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
Original - Misc › -Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
33
Views:
3,591
Reviews:
66
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Chapter Fifteen
* Sorry for the delay. Holidays and the excitement of the Readers\' Poll had me in their clutches.
For details about the contest and my standings, check my profile or website.
http://original.adult-fanfiction.org/authors.php?no=1296848371
http://www.freewebs.com/kristinadalton/index.htm
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brand watched the press conference. Only because he’d accidentally seen the eleven o’clock news the night before and heard about it. He’d known it would happen eventually. The little announcement didn’t tell Brand anything he didn’t already know. They had no idea where to look or who for.
He did smile about the psychic thing. They must have gotten desperate.
Roarke parked six blocks away because he didn’t know if he could find a spot closer. He ran up two, over four. Her building looked like an island among a sea of people. Not just the gathered crowd, but bottlenecked pedestrian and street traffic. Roarke showed his shield, received an escort through a service entrance, down the hall to her first floor apartment. The officers had forced the crowd out of the building, secured the area behind to prevent another wave trying to gain access via the courtyard.
He knocked on her door. “Miss Richards, It’s Detective Larkin.”
She opened for him, then closed and locked several security measures behind them. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”
“We didn’t hear about it until the conference had started.” He noted the bewildered, almost frightened expression. “Some New York based gossip magazine caught Channel Six’s teaser yesterday and spent all evening and half the night putting together a special addition.”
“About me?” She glanced into her bedroom as the puppy barked in there. “What could cause this reaction?”
“Apparently they tricked Sharon Allen into thinking they were law enforcement and conducted a phone interview.”
“Oh my God.” What little color remained in her face drained.
“We’ve got officers investigating possible charges against them. But, it seems they were pretty slick. They didn’t actually identify themselves as NYPD, they sort of let her think it. She assumed it, they state they did correct her once. The tape they have confirms it but we have no way of knowing if they edited. A copy was sent to an analyst. We’ll know something in a week or so.”
Dani closed her eyes briefly. “All this because of what happened with Michael?”
He hated she had to hear, but preferred telling her himself. “Mrs. Allen told them where she heard about you. They know about your finding that girl. The article also includes thirteen allegedly documented testimonies from other people for whom you’ve done everything from find kidnapped kids, to bring a man, freshly killed in a car wreck, back from the dead.”
“They believe that?”
“Evidently about a hundred and half or so do.” Maybe more. It might get worse if any religious groups took offense.
“Those other things,” her gaze flew to the door as masculine voices raised, “are lies.”
Roarke walked to check it out. He had to force himself to remain cool, centered. Without a clamp on his emotions, he’d kick ass indiscriminately in her defense. “We can’t do much. You could file a civil suit.” Keeping the chain up, he opened the door a crack.
Officer Johnson was just walking up the hall. “Detective, there’s a delivery crew from a furniture company here.”
From behind Roarke, Dani said, “I’m expecting them.”
“Let them through, Johnson.” Roarke turned to her. Iron resolve kept him from going to her, pulling her head to his chest and swearing he’d make this right. “Let’s get your stuff in here while Fielding’s en route, then we’ll talk game plan.”
Dave waited until after ten, called his Uncle Raymond’s office downtown.
Raymond’s very sexy and capable secretary answered. “Belarus Technical Industries, Miss Aurora Billings speaking, how may I assist you?”
This little stunt would earn an Oscar. “This’s David, Raymond’s nephew, did he get on that nine-twenty flight?”
“Yes, he did. Is there something I do for you?”
“I really needed to catch him. Any chance he took a later flight, or missed that one?”
“I’m sorry, but no. He called me from the plane before take off. He should have his cell back on within an hour. Do you have it?”
Dave grinned, kept his tone innocent. “Yeah, I do. I just won’t bother him with this. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Have a wonderful day.”
I will, he thought, hanging up the phone.
Dave waited for the upstairs maids to finish and join the rest of the staff for lunch. At the entrance to his uncle’s suite, Dave punched in the code. 4-5-1-0-7-8-3-4. The door unlocked and the keypad readout scrolled ‘disarmed’ in caps. Easy.
The room set up as the computer lab lie dark and quiet. Dave had anticipated that, took the slender flashlight from a pocket of his painter pants, and switched it on. The yellow-white beam cut the dark. Heavy curtains covered the windows. Scents of warm vinyl, closed room and something he didn’t care to examine taunted his nose. A tangle of snaking cords crossed the floor from several baseboard mounted power strips. Orange light switches on them glowed. A huge desk with flanking tables stood on the far wall.
Dave stepped into the room with a considerable sense of having done more than violate his uncle’s privacy. He went over, pulled back the captain-style desk chair and sat. Dave inhaled, blew out a long breath and tapped the ’wake’ button on the custom keyboard.
The CPU hummed to life.
Dave cut the flashlight, dropped it back into his pant pocket.
Light flooded the monitor, displayed a wallpaper version of a Margaret Burke-White. Dave began poking with caution. Several security measures that recorded activity required some tricky temporary disabling. On a hunch, Dave checked a bit deeper, discovered a program to record the functions of the other software. It proved tougher to get around.
Raymond’s DSL connection required a simple button push to bring up the net. Dave did some heavy thinking before he touched another key. On his own online setup, he’d rigged a dozen traps and snares. So, he treated this as if it held the same.
Old hacks, like clichés, stuck because they remained applicable.
A thrill pierced him. “I am so in.”
The password for email posed no challenge. Mary-Frances. The name of his uncle’s bride of less than a year, who died of a miscarriage, perishing with their unborn infant.
Dave suffered a stab of sympathy. His uncle must have endured terrible grief. Yeah, twenty-five years ago. But, Uncle Raymond had taken him as a burden. A reminder of the unborn child, that he’d never tried to make into his ideal. Nor pressured him to act more like a son.
Guilt at having invaded this space made him back out of everything he’d entered. Whatever his uncle retreated into here to do, well, uncle’s business. Porn sites, chat rooms. Whatever.
Dave put the admirably righteous setup back as he’d found it and into sleep mode. He rose from the chair, turned and tripped. He hit the floor, heard a noise and raised his arms in protection. A small digital camcorder perched atop a slender-legged tripod struck him lightly. Dave caught the camera as it bounced from its perch. He felt his finger depress a button. An unmistakable hum of function occurred along with a light.
Dave untangled himself, righted the equipment. The flip out view screen of the recorder showed a stunning image. A young guy cut open. Blood running, guts hanging out.
More shocked and disturbed than he’d felt guilty moments before, he concentrated on returning all to order. That done, he got the hell out of Dodge.
Mayan returned to the pink suite she occupied in the huge, four-story, east Sixty-third Street historic mansion. She had brought a chilled bottle of Mumm champagne and a glass up with her. Mind fuzzy with lack of sleep, she undressed. Taking the wine and glass with her, she ran a hot bath, added a few drops of tea tree oil and put the bottle on the floor beside.
She poured a glass, stepped into the water. Mayan leaned back, wet her hair, then scooted back to recline against the slanted back.
Thoughts of Him struck her like a fist. She smelled his skin, tasted it. Felt the ripple of brawn so ready beneath it’s silky-rough surface.
The glass trembled in her hand, she sipped some Mumm. Its crisp dryness refreshed her palate. It did not drive away the taste of him.
She tried to relax.
Mayan drank the champagne, washed her hair. She put in deep conditioner, scrubbed with a sugar and fruit acid compound. After she’d finished, she moved into the shower, rinsed and stepped out. A careful pat dry preceded an all over application of a four percent glycolic acid lotion. She dabbed a Swiss eye cream on with her ring fingers, took the glass and open Mumm into her bedroom.
She’d barely wrapped a robe around her when Julia knocked, announced herself, “It’s just me, darling.”
“Come in.”
Julia closed the door to assure privacy. “How is it with you, my sunflower?”
Mayan sank into one of the twin deeply padded chintz chairs. “Nothing a magnum of champagne won’t fix.”
Her friend perched gracefully in the other. “Truly?”
“What do think?” Mayan took a long swallow.
“When will you see him again?’
“We he calls.” Something in her ached unexpectedly. Having no one else to distract her made the emotions more exposed. It caused their time together to echo something more real.
At least, for her.
“You must try to guard yourself,” Julia cautioned. The kindness of her tone did not soften the blow of the words. “It is a rarity for a man to change the sort of arrangement that works entirely in his favor.”
Dani collected her composure, called the concierge to obtain a copy of the gossip magazine, Tattle Tales. As the delivery men arranged furniture, rolled out rugs, hung art work, she called a reputable attorney who handled the kind of case she suddenly stared in the face. She had the magazine couriered to William Winthrop II, Esquire’s park Avenue office, along with a copy of the taped conversation with Sharon Allen.
Feeling more in control, she accompanied Buddy into the courtyard. He sniffed and circled within the fence, stopping frequently to growl. She pushed her mind from the problems of the moment to the larger concern. The one responsible for the killings.
Her mind tumbled over courses of action before she remembered the wild card yet to come into play. Courage screwed to the sticking place, Dani called her puppy, entered through the French doors. Confidence began to twine reluctant tendrils of empowerment through her. Palpable vines girding bone and sinew.
Roarke and Fielding stood in the kitchen exchanging conversation. Their heads turned at her entrance.
She signed the work and delivery receipts for her things, tipped the crew and let them out. Then she walked into the kitchen, met first Fielding’s gaze, then Roarke’s. Her belly fluttered from the crash-like impact.
“Detectives,” she announced, “there’s a ghost in an alley that has answers. Let’s go get them.”
For details about the contest and my standings, check my profile or website.
http://original.adult-fanfiction.org/authors.php?no=1296848371
http://www.freewebs.com/kristinadalton/index.htm
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Brand watched the press conference. Only because he’d accidentally seen the eleven o’clock news the night before and heard about it. He’d known it would happen eventually. The little announcement didn’t tell Brand anything he didn’t already know. They had no idea where to look or who for.
He did smile about the psychic thing. They must have gotten desperate.
Roarke parked six blocks away because he didn’t know if he could find a spot closer. He ran up two, over four. Her building looked like an island among a sea of people. Not just the gathered crowd, but bottlenecked pedestrian and street traffic. Roarke showed his shield, received an escort through a service entrance, down the hall to her first floor apartment. The officers had forced the crowd out of the building, secured the area behind to prevent another wave trying to gain access via the courtyard.
He knocked on her door. “Miss Richards, It’s Detective Larkin.”
She opened for him, then closed and locked several security measures behind them. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”
“We didn’t hear about it until the conference had started.” He noted the bewildered, almost frightened expression. “Some New York based gossip magazine caught Channel Six’s teaser yesterday and spent all evening and half the night putting together a special addition.”
“About me?” She glanced into her bedroom as the puppy barked in there. “What could cause this reaction?”
“Apparently they tricked Sharon Allen into thinking they were law enforcement and conducted a phone interview.”
“Oh my God.” What little color remained in her face drained.
“We’ve got officers investigating possible charges against them. But, it seems they were pretty slick. They didn’t actually identify themselves as NYPD, they sort of let her think it. She assumed it, they state they did correct her once. The tape they have confirms it but we have no way of knowing if they edited. A copy was sent to an analyst. We’ll know something in a week or so.”
Dani closed her eyes briefly. “All this because of what happened with Michael?”
He hated she had to hear, but preferred telling her himself. “Mrs. Allen told them where she heard about you. They know about your finding that girl. The article also includes thirteen allegedly documented testimonies from other people for whom you’ve done everything from find kidnapped kids, to bring a man, freshly killed in a car wreck, back from the dead.”
“They believe that?”
“Evidently about a hundred and half or so do.” Maybe more. It might get worse if any religious groups took offense.
“Those other things,” her gaze flew to the door as masculine voices raised, “are lies.”
Roarke walked to check it out. He had to force himself to remain cool, centered. Without a clamp on his emotions, he’d kick ass indiscriminately in her defense. “We can’t do much. You could file a civil suit.” Keeping the chain up, he opened the door a crack.
Officer Johnson was just walking up the hall. “Detective, there’s a delivery crew from a furniture company here.”
From behind Roarke, Dani said, “I’m expecting them.”
“Let them through, Johnson.” Roarke turned to her. Iron resolve kept him from going to her, pulling her head to his chest and swearing he’d make this right. “Let’s get your stuff in here while Fielding’s en route, then we’ll talk game plan.”
Dave waited until after ten, called his Uncle Raymond’s office downtown.
Raymond’s very sexy and capable secretary answered. “Belarus Technical Industries, Miss Aurora Billings speaking, how may I assist you?”
This little stunt would earn an Oscar. “This’s David, Raymond’s nephew, did he get on that nine-twenty flight?”
“Yes, he did. Is there something I do for you?”
“I really needed to catch him. Any chance he took a later flight, or missed that one?”
“I’m sorry, but no. He called me from the plane before take off. He should have his cell back on within an hour. Do you have it?”
Dave grinned, kept his tone innocent. “Yeah, I do. I just won’t bother him with this. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Have a wonderful day.”
I will, he thought, hanging up the phone.
Dave waited for the upstairs maids to finish and join the rest of the staff for lunch. At the entrance to his uncle’s suite, Dave punched in the code. 4-5-1-0-7-8-3-4. The door unlocked and the keypad readout scrolled ‘disarmed’ in caps. Easy.
The room set up as the computer lab lie dark and quiet. Dave had anticipated that, took the slender flashlight from a pocket of his painter pants, and switched it on. The yellow-white beam cut the dark. Heavy curtains covered the windows. Scents of warm vinyl, closed room and something he didn’t care to examine taunted his nose. A tangle of snaking cords crossed the floor from several baseboard mounted power strips. Orange light switches on them glowed. A huge desk with flanking tables stood on the far wall.
Dave stepped into the room with a considerable sense of having done more than violate his uncle’s privacy. He went over, pulled back the captain-style desk chair and sat. Dave inhaled, blew out a long breath and tapped the ’wake’ button on the custom keyboard.
The CPU hummed to life.
Dave cut the flashlight, dropped it back into his pant pocket.
Light flooded the monitor, displayed a wallpaper version of a Margaret Burke-White. Dave began poking with caution. Several security measures that recorded activity required some tricky temporary disabling. On a hunch, Dave checked a bit deeper, discovered a program to record the functions of the other software. It proved tougher to get around.
Raymond’s DSL connection required a simple button push to bring up the net. Dave did some heavy thinking before he touched another key. On his own online setup, he’d rigged a dozen traps and snares. So, he treated this as if it held the same.
Old hacks, like clichés, stuck because they remained applicable.
A thrill pierced him. “I am so in.”
The password for email posed no challenge. Mary-Frances. The name of his uncle’s bride of less than a year, who died of a miscarriage, perishing with their unborn infant.
Dave suffered a stab of sympathy. His uncle must have endured terrible grief. Yeah, twenty-five years ago. But, Uncle Raymond had taken him as a burden. A reminder of the unborn child, that he’d never tried to make into his ideal. Nor pressured him to act more like a son.
Guilt at having invaded this space made him back out of everything he’d entered. Whatever his uncle retreated into here to do, well, uncle’s business. Porn sites, chat rooms. Whatever.
Dave put the admirably righteous setup back as he’d found it and into sleep mode. He rose from the chair, turned and tripped. He hit the floor, heard a noise and raised his arms in protection. A small digital camcorder perched atop a slender-legged tripod struck him lightly. Dave caught the camera as it bounced from its perch. He felt his finger depress a button. An unmistakable hum of function occurred along with a light.
Dave untangled himself, righted the equipment. The flip out view screen of the recorder showed a stunning image. A young guy cut open. Blood running, guts hanging out.
More shocked and disturbed than he’d felt guilty moments before, he concentrated on returning all to order. That done, he got the hell out of Dodge.
Mayan returned to the pink suite she occupied in the huge, four-story, east Sixty-third Street historic mansion. She had brought a chilled bottle of Mumm champagne and a glass up with her. Mind fuzzy with lack of sleep, she undressed. Taking the wine and glass with her, she ran a hot bath, added a few drops of tea tree oil and put the bottle on the floor beside.
She poured a glass, stepped into the water. Mayan leaned back, wet her hair, then scooted back to recline against the slanted back.
Thoughts of Him struck her like a fist. She smelled his skin, tasted it. Felt the ripple of brawn so ready beneath it’s silky-rough surface.
The glass trembled in her hand, she sipped some Mumm. Its crisp dryness refreshed her palate. It did not drive away the taste of him.
She tried to relax.
Mayan drank the champagne, washed her hair. She put in deep conditioner, scrubbed with a sugar and fruit acid compound. After she’d finished, she moved into the shower, rinsed and stepped out. A careful pat dry preceded an all over application of a four percent glycolic acid lotion. She dabbed a Swiss eye cream on with her ring fingers, took the glass and open Mumm into her bedroom.
She’d barely wrapped a robe around her when Julia knocked, announced herself, “It’s just me, darling.”
“Come in.”
Julia closed the door to assure privacy. “How is it with you, my sunflower?”
Mayan sank into one of the twin deeply padded chintz chairs. “Nothing a magnum of champagne won’t fix.”
Her friend perched gracefully in the other. “Truly?”
“What do think?” Mayan took a long swallow.
“When will you see him again?’
“We he calls.” Something in her ached unexpectedly. Having no one else to distract her made the emotions more exposed. It caused their time together to echo something more real.
At least, for her.
“You must try to guard yourself,” Julia cautioned. The kindness of her tone did not soften the blow of the words. “It is a rarity for a man to change the sort of arrangement that works entirely in his favor.”
Dani collected her composure, called the concierge to obtain a copy of the gossip magazine, Tattle Tales. As the delivery men arranged furniture, rolled out rugs, hung art work, she called a reputable attorney who handled the kind of case she suddenly stared in the face. She had the magazine couriered to William Winthrop II, Esquire’s park Avenue office, along with a copy of the taped conversation with Sharon Allen.
Feeling more in control, she accompanied Buddy into the courtyard. He sniffed and circled within the fence, stopping frequently to growl. She pushed her mind from the problems of the moment to the larger concern. The one responsible for the killings.
Her mind tumbled over courses of action before she remembered the wild card yet to come into play. Courage screwed to the sticking place, Dani called her puppy, entered through the French doors. Confidence began to twine reluctant tendrils of empowerment through her. Palpable vines girding bone and sinew.
Roarke and Fielding stood in the kitchen exchanging conversation. Their heads turned at her entrance.
She signed the work and delivery receipts for her things, tipped the crew and let them out. Then she walked into the kitchen, met first Fielding’s gaze, then Roarke’s. Her belly fluttered from the crash-like impact.
“Detectives,” she announced, “there’s a ghost in an alley that has answers. Let’s go get them.”