Murder at the House

c.h.a.p.t.e.r. t.w.o

“Can you explain to me why a murder suspect knows not only who the primary is before she herself knows, but that he’s calling the damn shots?” I clenched my fists and imagined that the mysterious sender of the letter had his or her neck firmly encircled by my fingers. “That arrogant son-of-a-bitch, leaving a letter on my personal desk! I should haul all their asses into Interview for – “

My superior raised his hand in warning, eyes narrowed in response to my near-tirade. “Don’t even think about it, Burkhart.”

I stared at him, incredulously. He was lounging in his chair, radiating the all-American good boy with his dirty blonde hair and light eyes. He’d come from wealth and never let anyone he considered beneath him forget that, such as me. He disliked being challenged by a Hispanic woman, no matter what class she came from. I’d come from a comfortable background, but all he saw was the fact that my skin was quite a few shades darker than his. I’d always known he was a racist, sexist, self-centered pig, but… “What, are you all bought and paid for, too? I’m shocked. Did they wrap you up in a nice, shiny, pink bow, too?”

The tips of his ears turned red and blotches of color surfaces along his cheekbone and he leaned over his desk, locking eyes onto mine. “Look, Burkhart. If you double this Department’s funding, you don’t even have half of the House’s profits. This isn’t an ordinary case, and I was hoping you’d remain professional and you’d solve this high-profile case quickly, quietly, and efficiently.”

Which, interpreted, means: “If you don’t shut the fuck up and do the job, you won’t have a job.” I didn’t need the translation done for me, which my superior knew. So I nodded stiffly, and only let out a hiss of breath when he reached into his top drawer and handed me another envelope with the same heavy paper and my name written in a cursive script in the blood-red ink.

• • •

It was about twelve hours later that I found myself walking down Eighth, my head down against the vicious onslaught of rain. Because it complemented my mood perfectly, I didn’t care.

It was fifteen minutes before I was supposed to meet the person, and mentally I ran over the instructions in the second letter. It had been far different from the first, and I figured it had come from another person. For one, it was written in an entirely different handwriting. Secondly, it did not have the underlying arrogance and threat that the first one had held. Rather, it was a bit absent-minded, and simply asked that I not be late, dress plain, and bring absolutely nothing with me.

Hence, when I stepped into the busy Café and folded my umbrella, all I had was what I wore. A simple dark blue T-shirt, plain black skirt that reached my knees, and an old hoodie from my college days weren’t suspicious at all. I received barely a cursory glance from others in the room before I was already ignored and forgotten.

A waiter came up to me and gave me a polite smile. I’d forgotten that there was also a restaurant, and since I’d been just standing there, he probably wondered what I wanted. “Can I help you, Ma’am?”

I shook my head. “I’m supposed to meet a… friend here.”

There was a small flicker in his muddy brown eyes; a sudden look of knowing that had me automatically taking a step back and reevaluating. Tall – taller than me. At five foot six, I wasn’t exactly short, but he seemed to be at least six feet. Plain brown hair, an angular face, and a physique that told me that he was most likely stronger than I was. As if sensing my sudden wariness, he relaxed and asked quietly, “Ms. Anastasia Burkhart?”

“Yes,” I respond warily.

He gave a small bow and extended his arm out to me. A bit bewildered, I settled my hand awkwardly in the crook of his elbow, and with a speed and grace that few come by naturally, he swept me through the throngs of people towards the back of the room. There were a series of doors, some obviously restrooms, others with the appearance of storage closets. Deftly pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, he selected one, opened a door, and ushered me inside.

Looking around, I realized that we were in a long, narrow hallway. When the man closed the door, all sound was shut off except for my soft breathing. I certainly couldn’t hear his.

“You understand that by coming here, you must do what you’re told to ensure our privacy, correct?”

“Yes, I know. I did read the second letter,” I answered coolly. “Are you one of the… founders?”

He didn’t answer me, but led me down the hallway through another door. Then another. And another, until I was so disoriented and lost that I had absolutely no sense of direction or depth, time or distance. With a shudder, I realized that it was exactly his intentions.

He led me through another door, and I expected another hallway, as the last score of doors had revealed. But instead, it was pitch black. I hesitated, not wanting to step though, when a firm hand pushed me in. I stumbled in with a small, choked off cry, and the door shut behind me. I froze, hoping to catch a small sound. I sensed his presence, but where, I could not say.

Suddenly, his voice was hovering near my ear. “There is a wall to your left. Please brace your hands against it.”

I blinked. “I’m not wearing a weapon.” But, remembering that I had to obey, I did as I was told, feeling helpless in the familiar stance.

His tone brooked no argument. “Our safety is paramount, and it would not be the first time that concealed objects have been brought in.” With a deftness that told me his eyes had somehow adjusted to the inky surroundings, he ran his hands down my arms, then across my neck, sliding his fingers along my scalp. His strong fingers gently but firmly rubbed across every square centimeter, and I felt my skin prickle.

This is definitely not my version of frisking.

His hands moved away, and then – to my shock – they slid under my shirt. I jolted, and his hands tightened in warning. My face was heating up as drew his hands up and down my spine, fanning across my shoulder blades. He raked down to the base of my spine with the barest hint of nail, and my spine arched involuntarily. As if he didn’t notice, his finger dipped into my belly button, and traveled up until each hand was cradling a breast.

My ragged breathing sounded unnaturally harsh and discordant in the eerie silence of the room. He wasn’t moving his hands, but I knew my nipples were hard and aching for his touch – a squeeze, a pinch, a mere passing of a calloused finger. After what seemed like hours, though it was probably a minute or so, he dropped to s squat behind me, the wonderful warmth of his hands gone. I bit back the moan and concentrated on keeping still; a fine trembling had started in the muscles of my arm.

Abruptly, the heat was back as his hands encircled my ankles, and he carefully ran his hands up my legs, turning his hands inwards as he neared the juncture of my thighs. The muscles there tightened, but I didn’t try to close my legs. His fingers easily slid up my skirt, and I felt the material bunch around my waist as it was moved out of his way. One finger brushed against my underwear, and I knew he could feel the dampness. He paused, and then drew back. “I believe you when you say you have nothing concealed.”

Damn him. He sounded as cold as an iceberg and as collected as he’d been since the beginning. Me? I was still trying to catch my breath, I had disturbingly graphic images hooting through my head, and the trembling had gone from my arms to my legs. “Then why did you do it?”

“To see if you would subside when told,” he answered curtly, and with a firm hand on my arm, he led me through the darkness with confidence as I gnashed my teeth silently at what I perceived as an insult. Is this the treatment I could expect? This degrading, insulting, and incredibly talented son-of-a-bitch… I shook my head, hard. It wasn’t good when a half hour into the assignment, a pair of (exceptionally) brilliant hands proved I was over my head. Quite frankly, I had no clue as to what the hell I was getting myself into.