The Justice Seeker

By TJ Bennett

A story about truth, justice, and the inter-dimensional way of life.

[Excerpt]

L.A.P.D. Detective Shannan Nova did a slow strut through the erotica-themed dance club on Sunset Boulevard.  The sparkly hobo bag dangling from her shoulder clunked its solid weight against her waist.  Her bag held everything she needed for a night on the town: lipstick, mascara, and a .45 caliber Smith & Wesson semi-automatic.  Still, if this stakeout didn't bring results soon, she really would have to reconsider her disguise.  The black wig she'd thrown over her own auburn hair made her scalp itch.  Her breasts, mashed and lifted high by a Wonderbra, had long ago gone numb, right along with her feet encased in wedge-heeled sandals.  She liked her midriff-baring halter-top, though.  It kept her cool in the stifling confines of the club, and the red sequins shimmered whenever she moved.  She enjoyed the bling, though she'd never admit it to anybody but herself.  Wouldn't fit in with her "tough cop" mojo.

She tugged hard on the hem of the short leather skirt currently crawling up her butt, then swirled a virgin Daiquiri drink in her other hand, keeping time with the hip-hop music blaring from the speakers overhead.  The DJ appeared to be as high as the bottle service fees for the club Shannan and her team had under surveillance.  She'd pass a tip on to Narcotics later, but the DJ wasn't her current assignment.

 "No luck?"  Detective Mark Reilly's voice murmured in her ear where she'd camouflaged an earpiece amidst her dangling jewelry.  She could barely hear him over the music, but she resisted pressing the earpiece closer with her finger; it would be a dead giveaway to anyone watching that she was wired. 

She gave a slight shake of her head.  "No," she murmured loud enough for the tiny microphone concealed in a fake lip ring to pick up.

She looked over to one of the four full bars located throughout the club.  Mark's rangy form sat hunched over a beer, his blue eyes catching hers in the mirror behind the bar counter.  He'd spoken into the small, flat microphone hidden in his palm.  From his vantage point, he kept an eye on the couples of every gender combination grinding and swaying on the raised platforms set around the club.  It was fetish night, and the patrons were dressed in everything from spiked bustiers to Catholic schoolgirl skirts and ankle socks. 

Mark winked, keeping an eye on her progress while she worked the room.  She glanced behind her, mentally marking the location of the other two police officers in the nightclub who had disguised themselves as a gay couple in patent leather fetish gear.  They sat in a darkened corner at one of the airport-lounge style tables, nursing specialty vodkas out of narrow, beveled glasses.  She let her gaze skim past them, but not before noting how the burly Lewis held the leash to the smaller Johnson's dog collar, all the while gazing around with a bored pout and occasionally buffing his painted black nails.  She doubted Lewis and Johnson would ever live this down back at the station, but right now, they seemed to be having fun with their covers. 

Most cops were frustrated actors, she decided, especially in Los Angeles.

Mark's voice sounded in her ear again.  "Hey, what about that big dude by the front door?  Get any feel from him?"

She snorted lightly and spoke without moving her lips, much.  "Other than the one he copped while I was walking away, no.  I'm gonna make another pass through the room again, see what I pick up." 

"Watch yourself," Mark murmured.

She understood why.  Her undercover "party girl" disguise had elicited plenty of offers so far, but not the one she wanted.  If she'd been working Vice, she could have finished up two hours ago and booked her quota of suspects for the month.  With the number of indecent proposals she'd received, and the big bucks attached to the offers, she was toying with the idea of switching professions.  The fringe benefits might not be so great, but she'd pay off her mortgage in a couple of years.  She smiled inwardly, then grew serious.

She was looking for a murderer, not a john, and tonight she was the bait.

A movement caught her attention in her peripheral vision; she turned her head.  And stared. 

The most beautiful man she'd ever seen was staring back at her. 

Her stride faltered, and for a moment, she just stopped, all brain activity ceasing, her eyes widening in astonishment.  He stood stock-still, towering over the other dancers on the floor who flowed around him like a river around a boulder while he watched her, his expression hard and hungry.  He was power, and shadow, and strength, and she couldn't tear her gaze away from him.  The pull of something potent arced between them.  His dark eyes narrowed; lust, anger, and yes, disgust emanated from him as his gaze made its way down her body and back up again.  She felt as though he were stripping her with that look, imagining her naked and writhing beneath him.  Which made sense, given that she practically had an invisible "For Sale" sign strapped to her chest. 

Someone jostled her from behind, bringing her back to her senses, and she blinked.

It struck her then.  The hunk fit the description of a man who'd been at the same club as two of the victims, though no one had known who he was.  Abruptly, she remembered her cover and forced herself to start strutting again, instinctively adding an extra hitch to her get-along to keep his attention.  Not that she needed any help in that direction.  The guy couldn't seem to take his eyes off her.

She mentally compared the description of the killer to the man across from her.  He was supposed to be tall, imposing, handsome as hell, a man who drew the eye when he walked into a room.  With this guy's long thighs and hot eyes, she could easily see how he might persuade a woman to take him home on first sight.  Even though witnesses hadn't been able to pick him out of a mug book, and they hadn't hit yet on the artist sketch, she had no doubt they'd catch the killer they were looking for, hopefully before he poisoned and eviscerated another woman. 

The half-dozen victims all fit the same pattern.  Sexually aggressive, barhopping party gals who liked to pick up the night's lay in a local club, but who had gotten more than they bargained for.  Therefore, that's what Shannan had become for the third night in a row.

Maybe this would be her lucky night after all. 

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