| Lesbian: Lusty Liaisons: The Pearl Detective - Part 1: Harlem Nights (2/4) |
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Jesus, but the guy stank of day old sweat; his skin had a greasy sheen, which matched his greying pallour to a tee. His clothes always looked like he'd slept in them, crumpled and stained with whatever it was he'd eaten lately. We got to the vehicle bay, jumped in the one that had been allocated to us at the beginning of the shift. A black Crown Vic, held together by rust and goodwill. I put it into drive and we kangarooed 300 feet down the road before it decided to level out and play along with us. The windows were broken, and the blower was stuck on 'hot' so, for the silent 20-minute drive over to the crime scene, we were basted in our own juices like oven-roasted chickens. When we reached the alley it was bathed in the surreal blue neon of the attending cop cars. The coroner’s van pulled in behind us and Montague and Pepper, two scenes of crime officers walked over from their vehicle. I nodded a hello at the colleagues before heading over to the tape and the officer standing guard, trying to keep nosey onlookers from getting too good a view. I reached him in five strides, my I.D. ready in my hand to flash at the attending officer. ”You Brinks?” I asked, even though I'd already caught site of his name badge. He nodded, sneering at me - something I'd grown used to in the highly charged sexist environment in which I worked. “Ok, what have we got?” I asked, stepping under the tape stretched across the mouth of the alley. ”Female. Caucasian. Early to mid twenties. Five-five, five-six. I recognise her as one of the streetwalkers. Can't recall her name, but she's owned by a pimp — Johnny Lo' — he owns half the girls in this neighbourhood. Body was called in shortly after three, found by one of her stable-mates. She's with Lowen and Crawley in their unit over there.” He stopped, half turned, and nodded his head in the direction of the entrance. It was then I caught sight of the figure in the window. Naked flesh, moving quickly out of sight. I made a note of the position of the apartment before turning my attention back to Brinks. We were six feet away from the kill spot when he paused again, mid flow — his hand rested on my arm. He looked me up and down my tailored form, his eyes resting on my suede, low-heeled boots. Once again a sneer formed and he looked up to meet my eye. “It's a blood bath back there. You're going to get your pretty boots mussed up, lady.” Glancing back along the alley, at the various colleagues picking their way tentatively toward us, I leaned in toward him, my lips actually brushing against his ear as I spoke. “Listen up, you cheap fuck — speak to me like that again, and I swear I'll shoot you where you stand. Now take your fucking hand off me and back the fuck away.” I straightened up, my tall frame allowing me to meet his glare head on. His hand dropped away from my arm, and he physically stepped back two paces, mentally four or five. I stood back to let Montague and Pepper pass, watching as they booted up, waiting for Lou to catch up, which, when he eventually did, he spent another five minutes puffing and panting, getting his breath back. The proverbial handkerchief mopping his sweating brow. When I was |
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