4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Aaron

"H oly fucking shit," I mumble, turning my head and covering my mouth with my forearm. You never really get used to the smell.

"Yeah, that's pretty much the reaction every person that's come in has had," Detective Coleson says, waving his hands around the room. He straightens his tie like one does when a superior walks into a room. "The smell was bad for a few days before the landlady let herself in and found him."

I usually let the detectives do their job while I do mine, but violent deaths in a county outside of a large city require press conferences. I need to know what's going on before I make an ass of myself on TV. Unfortunately, I'm the guy they interview.

Coleson looks like he rolled out of bed to report to the crime scene. His suit is rumpled like he'd already thrown it in the hamper after work and threw it on after he got the call. His dark salt and pepper hair is mussed around the bangs, and he has bags under his eyes. He's been working the George Cannon case around the clock with zero results. Nobody saw anyone coming or going from Cannon's place and there's no DNA evidence left. Whoever cut up Cannon didn't knick themselves in the process. They used Cannon's own Sawzall to cut him up. There are no prints in sight. No hair. Coleson only has some fibers that are denim and cotton blends. Nothing that every citizen in the county doesn't already have in their closet.

Coleson's been living on coffee and adrenaline. Now there's another one. Two murders within a week, and we usually get two a year in the county.

As far as I can tell, we're looking for a bald ghost that covers its footprints and wears gloves.

"Think it's related to Cannon?"

He shrugs and chews on the toothpick in his mouth before adjusting his suit jacket, smoothing it for wrinkles. "They were killed differently. This guy was killed by blunt force trauma. No cutting up major parts. No slit throat. Maybe. I just don't know."

"What do we know so far?"

Coleson waves me into the dining room, and I'm careful to walk directly behind him to reduce the number of footsteps in the area. Forensics is already working the room and has little place card holders on the carpet where they've found evidence, whether it be fabric fibers or footsteps that don't match the victim's footprint. The carpet is plush in the dining room, a thick blanket of white with blood splashed in the center like a work of art at a gallery opening. The blood is reddish-brown, obviously congealing from air exposure over several days.

"Victim is Justin Hammons. Age thirty-one. No family. Foster kid growing up. The footprints are the landlady's as far as we can tell. She's giving us the shoes she was wearing when she found him so we can compare. So far, any footprints in the carpet are small."

"Like the landlady's. Any matching a man's size?"

"Not yet." He hands me a jar of vapor rub, and I dab it under my nose, the secret weapon of first responders to death scenes the world over.

"Any ex-wives or angry girlfriends?" I look around the place. The carpet is nice, and the dining room table screams money. A couple lines of cocaine are cut on a corner of the glass table. "Hookers?"

"We can't find anything. The neighbors say he has women coming and going. We looked through his laptop in the living room. We're taking that for evidence. Let me tell you, this guy's real fucked up." He takes the toothpick out of his mouth and points it at the victim behind the table on the floor. "Total asshole, if you ask me."

Walking around the table, I find Justin Hammons staring at his ceiling fan with wide eyes. "Fucked up how?" I ask. I bend down and examine the Caucasian man whose skin is now navy blue. A fly lands on his ear as I watch.

"Incel from what I can see. He posted a lot on social media about a woman's place. Rape fantasy shit on his computer. Some porn I don't want to tell you about since you have two little girls."

I remove a tongue depressor from my pocket. Careful not to hurt forensic research, I lift the man's chin to look at his throat, making sure there are no cuts there.

Not even a shaving nick.

"So, you were a piece of shit in life, huh?" I ask more to myself. Fuck knows Justin Hammons isn't answering. I can't decide if I care, given the contents of his laptop.

"Any connection to Cannon that you can think of?"

Coleson chuckles. "Cannon was middle-aged, and this guy is in his early thirties. Probably not beers on weekends friends. The only connection they have is that nobody knows exactly what their respective jobs were."

I turn to Coleson, squinting. "Both unemployed?"

He shrugs. "This place screams money and so did Cannon's. It's possible they did something unsavory under the table."

"Hm," I hum, thinking and looking around the room. "What did you say the cause of death was?"

"Blunt force trauma on the back of the head."

"Forced entry?"

"Nope. Either he knew the attacker or he left his door unlocked."

"Was it locked when the landlady came in to check?" I ask, still squatting on the floor. Something scratches at my brain.

"I'll check. She's still pretty upset and incoherent. We're getting her calm first."

"Do we have files on these guys for anything?"

"Cannon was clean. This guy had a rap sheet a mile long but it was for petty shit. Nothing that would result in serving substantial time. Domestic violence about ten years ago, resulting in a restraining order. He got it for knocking around a girlfriend. One incident of shoplifting that resulted in probation. Assault charges that were dropped after a bar brawl. Suspended license for unpaid tickets. Possession of marijuana before it was legal. He got community service for that one since it was a first drug offense."

"Enough shit that he couldn't get a regular job that requires a background check, though." I look back through the doorway into the living room. Leather furniture. A gold watch on the coffee table. "Definitely getting paid for something."

I stand up and walk back into the living room, and Coleson follows at my heels. I stop at the coffee table and look at the watch. It's gold Rolex. "This was personal."

"Why do you think that?" Coleson asks.

"They killed him but left some valuable shit. You can rule out him being surprised by a robber."

Coleson scratches something on his pad and takes a picture of the watch with his phone. He puts it back in his pocket. "Do you have any thoughts?" he asks. "I'm at a loss on this and Cannon. No DNA evidence means I have to actually pound pavement and start finding people that want to talk. Other than a frazzled landlady, I don't know where to start. No boss to interview. No family."

"I have no idea, but Deputy Mitchell said you found a paper in Cannon's office that had ties to Murphy Beckett. Let's start there and see if this guy did business with Beckett too."

***

I close my eyes and run my hands through her hair as she wraps those familiar lips around my dick and takes long pulls from me that make my toes curl inside my shoes. "It just bothers me that it's two murders in my county over such a short amount of time."

Lucy comes off my cock, and I look down at her. Her hair is wild and mussed. Her lipstick is bright red and smeared around her mouth. The red smidge she left on my dick reminds me of the red on my dick after I took her virginity, and my heart clenches in my chest. Will I ever get this woman out of my system?

"You'll figure it out, Aaron. You're a smart guy."

"It's not my job to figure it out. I have detectives for that. Coleson can take the lead, and I've got great deputies like Mitchell to do a lot of the grunt work. It just makes me look like an idiot to the press and to the public since I'm the face guy."

She takes a long lick up my dick and grips the base, jerking me as she presses whisper kisses to my thighs. I wonder how many clients she kisses. "The public loves you. Sheriff is an elected position. It wasn't even close last election."

"Yeah, it may be this next time with all this shit."

"I'll vote for you."

I smile at her and almost cry at how beautiful she is and how much it means to me that she's willing to show up at a polling station and check a box with my name on it. I affectionately run my hand through her hair, enjoying the feel of it in my fingers.

"Are you worried about keeping your job?" she asks.

A chuckle comes out of my chest. "Yeah, Lucy, I am. I've already lost so much."

She stops jerking my dick and presses a kiss to my knee before crawling up my body. Her face is an inch from mine. We haven't been this intimate in years. Her eyes flick to the door, probably worried her douche cousin's bouncers will come in and catch us doing more than blow jobs. She leans her forehead against mine, and I wrap my arms around her. I know there's supposed to be no touching in a strip club, but how do I not touch her? We're mostly alone except for the unlocked door. I just want a moment.

One moment to be present with her. I want a moment with the first girl I loved. The first girl I fucked. The girl sitting on my lap because she knows I lost her years ago before losing my wife. I came here for comfort, and she's giving it to me.

I was a stupid kid when I left her, and I'll do anything to get her back. It's why I show up here. Sure, I get sucked off when she feels like it, but I'm here for her. If we did nothing but sit like this with our arms around each other, I'd pay hundreds of dollars. I'd make it rain on her in the club every night. I know damn well that I'm going to go home, take my shirt off, and put it over my face just to breathe the scent she'll leave on it.

"Can we have this again?" I ask. "Just this, Lucy. No worries about the past. I know I have kids now, but sometimes I look at them and wish they were yours." I close my eyes in shame. "Don't ever tell anyone I said that. That stays between us, and I'll take it to my grave."

She buries her head in my neck and inhales like she's reacquainting herself with my scent. I run my hand up her spine, letting her do whatever she wants. Her nose nuzzles my jaw, and I rub my own face against whatever skin of hers I can reach. She's warm…so warm.

"That ship has sailed, Aaron. You don't want me now. Look at my life."

"I don't care about the dancing, Lucy. If you'll be my girl again, you won't have to spend another night on the pole anyway. I'll take care of you, and that doesn't mean you being kept in my house like it's a dungeon. I'll help you get a job. Skills. You can go back to school if you want."

She pulls back and looks at me. She's a foot from my face, and her breath is warm and sweet like she had a piece of candy before she came in to suck my dick. She runs her index finger down my nose. "There are circumstances right now that mean I can't be with you the way you want."

"Why?" I whine. I sound like a boy who was just turned down for the school dance.

She slides back down my body and hums a little as she takes my cock back into her mouth. "It's just the way it has to be. You'll thank me later. You should focus on the girls now. Your family. I'll always be here to play."

I squeeze my eyes shut and blink away tears. Here I am, laying my heart bare to this woman, and she denies me.

But it's hard to be annoyed when your dick is getting sucked.

"I just wish I could connect this bullshit to Murphy Beckett, you know?" I ask to the void. I don't expect her to answer. I sure don't expect her to suddenly stop sucking.

Lucy's eyes furrow together and she comes off my cock. She looks up at me and tilts her head. "Murphy Beckett?"

I sit up straight and tilt her chin up to me. "Lucy, do you know that name?" She bites her lip and looks away, but I catch her face and make her look at me. "Sweetheart, how do you know him?"

"He comes in once or twice a week. Usually during the day when I work."

My stomach turns and hot anger moves up my spine. "Is he cruel to you?"

She looks away, clearly not comfortable meeting my eyes. "He makes demands of some of the girls. I've heard stories."

An idea hits me. "Lucy, does he ever come in with other men or like to talk while he's here?"