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======================================================== The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by this type of material, please do not read any further. ======================================================== "Double Cross" A Frank Stern Mystery (c) 1999 by DG (dionysian1@hotmail.com) Chapter One ----------- Everyone has a hobby, and mine happens to be voyeurism. Over the years I've built up quite an extensive collection of pictures of unsuspecting women and couples in compromising or revealing positions. Some I took in my capacity as a private detective, most were just for fun. It's a dangerous hobby - that's part of the attraction, of course - and I've gotten myself into some pretty sticky situations and even been arrested once or twice. Embarrassing, but no big deal. Until recently, that is. I took some pictures a few weeks ago, some nice topless pictures on a public beach, and those pictures very nearly got me killed. Thinking back on it now makes me feel queasy inside and short of breath. It would have been a stupid, shitty way to go. Anyway, it's a long story, and I better start at the beginning if I'm going to get it all down right. I'm not going to change any of the facts, though God knows some of the facts make me look pretty bad. I'm the first to admit I'm not the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and I've already admitted to being a sexual voyeur, but I'm not a liar. I was between cases at the time, a situation I find myself in all too often, and I had spent the morning moving furniture to make the rent. I was on the freeway, heading back to my apartment for lunch, when my cell phone rang. I reached behind me and fumbled through the mess of packing straps, tools, and boxes that litter the back of my van, finally coming up with the phone. "Frank Stern." "Frankie, there you are. It's Vic. Got a hot one for you, buddy. I'd take it myself, but I gotta meet my parole officer in twenty minutes. So naturally I thought of you." Vic is a fellow voyeur, a lot more hard core than I am. That's not why he's on parole though - he's a burglar by trade, and a bad one. "So what's the story?" I asked. "Two words for you, Frank: Claire Ingleford." "No kidding, really?" "Yep. She's on Sparkle Beach right now, catching some rays with her world-famous hooters on full display." "As seen in Playboy magazine." "You got it. So whattya say?" At the moment I was heading east, away from Sparkle Beach. It would take me at least half an hour to get there, by which time the show would probably be over. I was tired and hungry, and I had another moving job scheduled for this afternoon. But this was Claire Ingleford, star of the prime-time drama "LA West," voted "TV's Sexiest Vixen" by People magazine two years running. Not that I'm a big fan of the show, but the fact that she's a celebrity does add to the attraction. "I'm all over it, Vic. Wish me luck." I disconnected the phone and cut across two lanes of traffic toward the next exit. Such is the pull of the voyeur. I made it in twenty-five minutes flat, and this time I was lucky. Claire Ingleford was still there. Sparkle Beach is one of the less crowded public beaches, since it's no good for swimming or surfing. The waterline is littered with jagged rocks, and the incoming waves throw up fountains of salty spray, often creating rainbows or glittering sheets of luminescence. Sparkle Beach is also known for another kind of glitter - celebrities. The unwritten rules here are no autograph requests, no gushing conversation, and absolutely no cameras. I always followed the first two. After taking off my shirt and pulling a faded Dodgers cap down low over my eyes, I wandered along the beach, scanning my eyes back and forth. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for: a loose circle of people standing around trying to look like they weren't gawking. I wandered over and joined the group, and got my first look at Claire Ingleford in real life. She was sitting on a chaise lounge under a big multicolored beach umbrella, and despite the overcast weather she was wearing sunglasses and a straw hat and had her nose painted white with zinc oxide. Next to her was a big, tan man with dark, curly hair. They were both reading magazines, pretending to be oblivious to the dozen or so gaping onlookers. They were sitting only about ten yards from the waterline, which was clever positioning, because anyone who tried to linger in front of them to get a better view would get wet from the spray. But you could still see plenty from the side. Claire was wearing only the bottom half of a bikini, and I could see the firm round curve of her left breast extending out past her upper arm. I had my little Olympus cupped in my hand, covered with a folded towel, and I slid the shutter open with my thumb and aimed it by feel. I snapped off a few shots, the towel muffling the snap and whine of the motors. Some dolt yelled out "Claire, you're beautiful!" She looked up from her magazine and smiled briefly. This caused a bit of a titter from the onlookers. Claire has a distinctive smile - the corners of her mouth turn up sharply, exposing her upper teeth and giving her an almost feral look. Jack Nicholson smiles the same way. When Claire's bad-girl character on "LA West" smiles at someone, it's like a Mafia don giving the kiss of death. With any luck, that smile would now be part of my personal collection. As I worked my way along the perimeter, taking pictures as I went, a throaty voice called out "Claire, how about standing up for a second?" This was greeted by some nervous laughter. The Sparkle Beach privacy conventions were obviously going to be no match for a topless tv star who had recently posed for Playboy, and I figured I had only a few minutes left, if that. I decided to cut between Claire and the ocean, spray be damned, to get some frontal shots. But just as I was about to go for it, Claire and her companion stood up. I shot a rapid-fire series of shots as she took off her hat and shook out her glossy brown hair and then raised her arms up over her head in a languorous stretch. A few people clapped and whistled, and I didn't blame them. Claire Ingleford has a truly first-class rack: firm, grapefruit-sized breasts capped with pink areola the size of silver dollars and large, pouting nipples. With her arms raised over her head and her back arched you'd swear they were fake, but then when she relaxes and moves around you can see they're all-natural. The rest of her isn't bad, either, although she was shorter than I had imagined, maybe five-four or five. I was in nirvana for thirty seconds or so, as Claire turned this way and that, taking off her sandals, folding her towel, putting away her magazine. It was like she was posing just for me, and I fired off shot after glorious shot. Then two things happened at once. Claire and her male companion started walking directly toward me, and I ran out of film. The automatic rewind seemed as loud as a chain saw, and I swore under my breath and wrapped the towel more firmly around the little camera. They passed within a few feet of me, holding hands, and then they waded into the light surf. I could hear Claire laughing and shrieking, and I figured they must be frolicking and splashing, but I was on my knees in the sand, desperately fumbling with the Olympus, trying to get the old roll out and a new roll in. "Hey, what do you think you're doing? You're not supposed to be taking pictures on this beach." A middle-aged woman was looking down at me indignantly from behind a huge pair of sunglasses. She was wearing one of those modest one-piece bathing suits with the little ruffle-skirt around the middle, and she was holding a Judith Krantz novel. I got the impression she would just love to see a pervert like me strung up from the nearest lifeguard tower. I gave her a cold stare, and said "Ma'am, I'm with the FBI. I'm going to have to ask you to step back and allow me to conduct my business." She gave me a disbelieving look, but didn't say anything else. Bold-faced lies like that can be surprisingly effective, if all you need to do is buy a little time. The new film loaded, I got to my feet and rejoined the crowd, the middle-aged woman following behind. Claire was standing knee-deep in the water with her back to ocean, her legs spread to brace herself against the waves. Her oiled body was beaded with glistening drops of water, and the cold Pacific had tightened her skin and made her nipples even more prominent. A wave crashed into her at waist level, and seawater gushed up her back and over her head. She let out a little shriek of surprise, and then she shook her head back and forth like a dog, her thick, wet hair whipping around her head. Her breasts swung and wobbled enticingly. "Jesus, this water is freezing!" she said. "We can tell," said one wit. At this, Claire crossed her arms over her chest and turned around. Then she looked back over her shoulder at the crowd of people, as if noticing for the first time that she and her boyfriend weren't alone. I suddenly realized that I wasn't taking pictures, and I snapped a few shots. "Are you all staring at me?" said Claire. Her eyes were wide and innocent. It was sort of a silly performance, but I was enjoying it anyway. She turned around and put her hands on her hips, and thrust her chest out provocatively. I remembered a very similar shot from the Playboy spread that came out last year. I took another quick shot and then decided to work my way closer. "I really shouldn't be doing this," said Claire with a smile. Her tone was conversational, but her voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. "I have a movie opening in a few weeks, a serious big-budget movie, and the producers told me to behave myself." "Are there nude scenes?" asked someone. It sounded like the same guy who had asked her to stand up. Claire chuckled, not put out at all. "Of course. We shot some very steamy love scenes, but I'm not sure how much ended up in the movie. They told me it would be tasteful, but I'm kind of worried that they'll show too much. I guess we'll all have to go to the theaters and find out. The title is "Wishing Her Life Away," and it has Alec Baldwin and Gene Hackman in it too." Just as she finished her little plug, a big wave smacked her in the back, knocking her forward onto her hands and knees. As her dark- haired companion helped her back to her feet, I got some nice unposed shots of her breasts swinging and swaying. The rush of water had driven her bathing suit into the cleft between her buttocks, turning it into a thong, and this had exposed the rose tattoo on her shapely left buttock. I got a shot of that before the man straightened out her suit for her. Claire was laughing at the little pratfall, but the man seemed to be upset, and they exchanged a few private words. "OK, everyone, I've got to get going," said Claire. "Don't tell the Warner Brothers people I've been running around half-naked, OK? I'll get in big trouble." Yeah, right. As they started walking back towards their umbrella, there was a little round of applause from the crowd, which had grown to maybe forty people. The applause seemed appropriate, since the whole thing had the flavor of a staged event. I wondered if it was a publicity stunt to promote the movie, but the lack of any media seemed to preclude that. Just as the clapping died down, the woman with the Judith Krantz novel called out "Miss Ingleford, that tall thin man right in front of you has been taking pictures of you all along. I just thought you should know." There was a moment of truly dreadful silence. I looked around, as if trying to spot the shmuck with the camera. A lot of people were looking right back at me. "Who? Who's got a camera?" It was the boyfriend, and he sounded very angry. I started to melt back into the crowd. "That man right there in the baseball cap! He's got it hidden under that towel." She was pointing right at me, and a tight circle of curious people formed around me, marking me as clearly as if I had a target painted on my chest. I decided that a graceful exit wasn't going to be in the cards. I barged right between a young couple holding hands, wove through the rest of the crowd like a tailback, and broke into the clear, heading back toward the parking lot at a sprint. Once you make the decision to run for it, the best thing to do is go all out. People are rarely willing to chase after someone on foot, and a sudden cheetah-like explosion will get you out of a variety of unpleasant situations. I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the boyfriend giving determined and athletic chase, his jaw locked with effort and his bare feet kicking up little sprays of sand. There are exceptions to every rule, and they are what make life interesting. My loosely-tied sneakers were sloshing around uncomfortably on my feet, and I knew the boyfriend was gaining on me. But the parking lot was in sight, and I still had a good lead. I put my head down and concentrated on maintaining my form over the last fifty yards or so. I hurdled the low cement wall separating the beach from the parking lot, and made a beeline for my van. I had left the van unlocked for this very reason, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for my crafty foresight as I wrestled the rusty door open and slid inside. I fumbled the key into the ignition and started it up, and wasted no time heading for the exit. In the side mirror I saw the aggrieved escort picking his way gingerly along the hot asphalt, staring angrily at me. I resisted the impulse to thumb my nose. Back on the freeway, I cranked up the radio and wailed along with the Stones as they complained about the Honkytonk Blues. The brief, heart-pounding chase had sent a cleansing flood of adrenaline through my body, temporarily washing away the malaise and irritation that had dogged me for the past few weeks. I patted the little cylinder of film in my pocket like a druggie who has just scored a week's worth of his favorite potion. I showed up at my afternoon moving job right on time, and for once everything went smoothly. A old guy with a giant china cabinet in his dining room, a hideous old piece in ink-dark mahogany with ornate carvings of stags and boars all along the top. Probably worth at least ten grand. The thing had been looming against that dining room wall for something like forty years, but now the owner was moving into a smaller place and putting it up for auction. The brawny meatheads from Atlas movers had told the guy it was all one piece, and that he'd have to call in a specialist mover. So I show up with my partner, a wily Italian guy by the name of Alonzo, and we see right away that unless they built the house around the thing, it has to come apart. Alonzo knows his furniture, and he remembers that these old German cabinets have a special inside attachment holding them together. He takes out a few drawers, pokes around with a flashlight and a screwdriver, and ten minutes later we have the thing in two pieces and the job is a piece of cake. There's a moral there somewhere, but damned if I know what it is. * This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story requires the written permission of the author.* Comments are welcome. DG dionysian1@hotmail.com DG's story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm ======================================================== The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by this type of material, please do not read any further. ======================================================== "Double Cross" A Frank Stern Mystery (c) 1999 by DG (dionysian1@hotmail.com) Chapter Two ----------- By the time I got home it was after seven, and I was famished. I live in Jasmine Heights, in a one-bedroom apartment. It's a nice building, all brick with a swimming pool in the courtyard, with sixteen units in all. I live in one of the garden apartments, which is a polite way of saying the basement. I really can't afford to live here the way things have been going the past couple years, but I hate to move now that I've got the darkroom set up. I made myself a sloppy ham and cheese sandwich and ate it in front of the computer while I checked my email. Six messages with words like "Opportunity," "$$$," and "Cash" in the header that I deleted unread. I get a kick out of the ones hawking bulk email programs - it's like trying to sell guns by going around shooting people. A message from Vic asking if anything happened on Sparkle Beach. I composed a reply, hitting the highlights, and then I went into my cozy bathroom and took a shower. The anticipation of developing the pictures of Claire was making my skin tingle. As I toweled off after the shower, the damp terrycloth rubbing across my cock sent a shock of pleasure through my body, and I had an overwhelming urge to jerk off. On the theory that self-deprivation was good for me, I put on a loose pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and then I took the roll of film into the darkroom. I built the darkroom myself, by walling off a corner of the living room with fiberboard paneling. The hardest part was the plumbing. I had to break into the living-room wall and tap into the cold water pipe which heads to the bathroom. The building manager wasn't too thrilled when he found out, but since I'm already in the basement I can't flood anyone but myself, and he let it go. I closed the door behind me, and for a split second before I turned on the dim red light I was in absolute darkness. The inside space is about eight feet by six, and most of that is taken up by a row of sinks, metal shelves for supplies, and a big developing table. It's kind of cozy in there, with the dim lighting, the burbling flow of water in the sinks, and the familiar smell of the chemicals. I often spend hours in there fooling around with negatives, losing track of the time as I try to get the perfect print. Then I come stumbling out, disoriented and blinking against the sudden light, like a submariner surfacing and opening the hatch after a long cruise. I turned on the little radio to a classic rock station, keeping the volume low, and got to work. First I quickly make a set of small working prints, skipping only the frames that were completely out of focus or misaimed. Then I turned on the light and spent a few minutes going through them, marking where I would crop and picking out the best shots for enlargement. Usually when I shoot a roll under such difficult conditions there will only be a few decent shots, but out of the twenty-two frames of Claire Ingleford fifteen were of usable quality. I winnowed that down to eleven by eliminating repeats, and then turned off the light. An hour later I had about a dozen good-quality five-by-seven prints hanging from the drying clips on the outside wall of the darkroom. I sat on the couch with a beer in my hand and gazed at them fondly. The little Olympus has a terrific autofocus, and all the shots were crisp and clear. Claire turning in her chaise with a smile on her face, one breast exposed. Claire with her back arched and her hands over her head, her breasts thrust out proudly as she stretched. A close-up from the side, as she walked by me toward the beach, with her large nipple outlined against the blue water. A door slammed on the other side of the courtyard, a sound I had been unconsciously listening for. I went to the kitchen window and looked out. Sure enough, the lights had gone on in Gerri's apartment. Gerri Imbasi is a woman I did a favor for a while back, and we're now on good terms, if not exactly close friends. I don't think Gerri has friends. She's a stunning African woman, an immigrant from Liberia. She's a call girl, and a very expensive one. I could never afford a date with her at her going rate, but I get a sort of discount service. I called her up and invited her over, telling her I had some pictures to show her. Gerri has an improbable voyeuristic streak, and enjoys my collection almost as much as I do. She walked into my kitchen a few minutes later without knocking, dressed casually in white jeans and a tight yellow top. Gerri is six feet tall, with long, slim legs, a firm round ass, and small high breasts which are always braless. Her skin is the color of milk chocolate. I would describe her face as exotic rather than beautiful, but that's just a matter of taste. She was wearing gold sandals with two-inch heels, which put her almost eye-to-eye with me. "Hello Frank." She gave me a cool smile and went over to the refrigerator and took out a diet coke. "Busy day?" I asked. "No, not really. The ad executive took me out to dinner, and then he got called back to the office before I could earn my money." Gerri has four or five regular clients. There's the managing partner, the rock musician, the rich young playboy, and the ad executive, who is her least favorite. There's also the private dick, I guess, although I don't really pay enough to be considered a client. "Lucky you," I said. "I suppose. So you have some new pictures?" "Yep. Took them this afternoon on Sparkle Beach." She walked by me into the living room, and I followed her, catching a faint whiff of her musky perfume. She went over to the pictures drying on the darkroom wall and studied them carefully for a few minutes without comment, her hands on her hips. I fondled myself discreetly through my shorts as I watched her. "She's beautiful," she said finally, in her precise, faintly- accented English. "Very nice breasts. They are real. But she is just sunbathing, yes? Not very exciting. I can see this every day in the changing room at the gym." "Yeah, but I can't." She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I see your point. But you sounded so excited about these pictures..." "Doesn't she look familiar?" I prodded. Gerri turned back to the pictures and then her eyes got wide. "Oh! Of course...this is the one from that tv show - the one who is always doing mean things to her employees. I would have known, but she has the sun cream on her nose. She is very well known. What is her name?" "Claire Ingleford." "Yes. OK, Frank, you are right. These are good pictures. You don't usually get pictures of famous people." "Right, I don't really do celebrities. They have professional photographers stalking them, not to mention fans, so they're usually pretty wary. I'd rather just get regular people doing nasty things, anyway. But this one fell into my lap." "It would be nice if she was sucking this other man's cock instead of just walking around. But the pictures are very good. Nice and sharp." She took a sip of her diet coke, and gave me a look of faint amusement. I took my hand out of my pocket, cleared my throat, and said "So how would you like to make twenty dollars the hard way?" She shook her head. "Such a charming man. Such a way with the ladies." I felt myself flush. Gerri always makes it difficult for me. She knows I'm nervous around her, and I think she's enjoys the feeling. Or maybe she figures if she doesn't needle me a little, I'd be bugging her all the time. "If it's a bad time..." "No, it's not a bad time. Come over in ten minutes, all right?" "OK, great." I knocked on her back door eleven minutes later. Gerri had changed into cotton shorts, a tank top, and sneakers. She had a small tattoo on her upper arm, a geometric shape that was barely visible against her dark skin. "Going to exercise?" I asked. "Yes. I am going to ride the bicycle for a while. Make yourself comfortable, I'll be right with you." From the inside, it's hard to believe Gerri's apartment is in the same building as mine. Her kitchen is spotless and shiny, with a noticeable lack of any sort of cooking equipment. The living and dining rooms are also neat and clean, not to mention well decorated. I've never seen the bedroom, but I imagine it's the same way. The hardwood floors have been recently refinished, and they gleam with polish. Mine look like a hockey game has been played on them. The couch and chairs are in matching white leather. African art hangs on the walls. An incense candle is always burning, giving off some sort of pleasant scent, sandalwood maybe. I stood waiting in the living room, watching the muted television, which was tuned to CNN. Stock quotes flowed along under an attractive older woman in a business suit. My cock was rigid and pulsing, but I forced myself not to touch it. Gerri came back in and spread a large towel on the couch. I took off my shoes and socks, and then slowly took off my shirt and then my shorts. It isn't necessary that I be completely naked, but I consider it part of the experience. There is something faintly humiliating but very erotic about being naked in the presence of a fully dressed woman who is going to stay that way. I lay down on the couch and watched Gerri as she moved a small rug next to the couch and then kneeled on it. "You have a nice cock, Frank. It has a very nice shape." "Thanks," I said, looking down at my organ. It's a little longer and a little thinner than average, and very straight. At the moment the head was dark red and swollen, and a drop of clear liquid was beaded at the tip. Gerri took a clear bottle of oil and poured a thin stream into her hand. Then she poured some directly onto my cock and balls, and the faint tickle of it made me suck in my breath and clench my stomach. She worked the oil in gently with her long fingers, spending a long time on my balls before finally taking my shaft in her hand. She stroked the shaft, squeezing it firmly and moving it around in slow circles, but avoiding the head. She could make me come in about three seconds by just rubbing the head of my cock, but she didn't. I looked up at her, and felt an overwhelming surge of desire. I wanted to do unspeakably nasty things to her, to lick every crevice of her body. Somehow I remained still. "Are you thinking about Claire Ingleford?" She had moved up over me and was slowly pulling my slippery cock upward through her fists, one fist at a time, like she was pulling weeds out of a garden. "No. Well, yes." I was now. "She has lovely breasts." "Her nipples are incredible," I said. "I'd love to suck on them, bite them." "Hmm, I bet you would. I might even enjoy that too." Gerri is mildly bisexual. She occasionally participates in threesomes with very rich, very lucky men who like their women two at a time. God, I wish I was rich. She smiled as if she knew what I was thinking. "All right...I want you to close your eyes." I complied. "Claire Ingleford is kneeling between your legs, leaning forward with her breasts hanging on either side of your cock." Gerri's voice was smooth and lilting in my ear. She was massaging my cock between the palms of her hands, and it did feel a little like breasts. "She pushes her breasts together around your cock, and you start sliding in and out of her cleavage." I was getting close now. She was rubbing and squeezing the head of my cock, and the semen was starting to move north. I thought about the way Claire's breasts had swung from side to side as she leaned over in the ocean, and a little groan escaped me. "Keep going," I muttered. "Don't stop." "All right, Frank," she said solicitously. "Gerri is not a tease." She suddenly started to stroke me full-bore, her hand pumping up and down rapidly with a lighter pressure. I let out a long moan and then came like a geyser, bucking my hips up into the air. When it was finally over, I lay there panting, my body a boneless mass of jello. I felt quite literally drained, as if my balls had pumped themselves dry. I've slept with a lot of women in a lot of ways (usually paying for it, in case you think I'm bragging), and a hand job from Gerri is the only thing that leaves me this way. Gerri went to the kitchen and returned with a warm washcloth. She cleaned me gently and thoroughly, removing all the semen and oil. "Thank you," I said, when she was done. "You're incredible. If you can do that with your hands, it's scary to think what you can do with your mouth and your pussy." She shrugged. "It is a skill, like playing the piano, or juggling. And also you have to understand the human nature a little. To know what will work at the certain moment, you know?" "I guess. Don't ruin it for me by getting all clinical. It would be like finding out how the magician saws the lady in half." I put my clothes on, expecting to leave. Gerri usually disappeared at this point, as if afraid I might want to cuddle or something. But today she sat next to me on the couch and watched me thoughtfully as I put on my shoes. "Frank, how old are you?" "Thirty-four. Why?" "Don't you think you should have a relationship? Have a girl friend, I mean?" "Wait, I thought you were my girlfriend." "Very funny. You could have a girlfriend, Frank. You are tall and you have a nice face. It would be better if you lifted weights, of course, but still..." This sudden maternal interest in my personal life was way out of character. "Gerri, what exactly are you getting at?" She shrugged and crossed her long slim legs. "You and I, we are all alone. Sometimes it is nice, sometimes not so nice, right?" "Aha." "What do you mean, aha?" "I mean, aha, this isn't about me, it's about you." She looked embarrassed. "OK, yes, it is about me. Today one of my clients asked me to marry him." "Really? Which one, the managing partner?" I knew he was her favorite. "Yes. He even bought me a diamond ring, but I didn't take it. I told him I would think about it." "Do you love him?" "Do I love him?" She smiled warily, as if afraid I was joking. "No. I am not big for love. But he is a nice man, and he likes me a lot. And he is very rich." "Sounds like a match made in heaven," I said, standing up. "Gerri, I'm the last person in the world who should be giving relationship advice. But I think it would be very weird getting married to a guy who has been paying you thousands of dollars to tie him up and spank him for the past two years." She walked me to the back door. "Yes, that is what I think too. Also, he has a wife and children." "That's another factor to consider." * This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story requires the written permission of the author.* Comments are welcome. DG dionysian1@hotmail.com DG's story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm ======================================================== The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by this type of material, please do not read any further. ======================================================== "Double Cross" A Frank Stern Mystery (c) 1999 by DG (dionysian1@hotmail.com) Chapter Three ------------- The next morning I got up late and ran some errands on the way to my office. I work out of a small windowless room that is part of a dry cleaning establishment in a strip mall. The rent is minimal, but I still have problems paying it. It's really just a place to have an answering machine and to meet with clients. I could easily work out of my apartment, but people expect a detective to have an office. I parked my van and bought a big cup of regular drip coffee at the Starbuck's and took it with me to the Busy Bee dry cleaners. Mr. Han, the chinese proprietor, was sitting behind the cash register like a statue. I said hello and he lifted one hand without changing expression. I'm not sure he fully appreciates the romance and excitement of having a genuine private eye on his premises. To get to my office, you go through the doorway at the left of the front counter and then turn right down a narrow hallway that ends in a fire exit at the back of the building My office is on the left, halfway down the hall. The solid wooden door says "Frank Stern, Licensed Private Detective," in gold stick-on letters. Otherwise it could easily be mistaken for a supply closet. The inside is pretty drab. A huge, battered wood desk with drawers that stick, two dusty metal file cabinets, a few old chairs. I do have a decent computer, which looks out of place. The answering machine was flashing one message, which is more than I get on most mornings. I punched the message button and dropped into my swivel chair. Ten seconds later I was back on my feet and heading out the door, my coffee left steaming on the desk. It was from Larry, the manager of my apartment building - someone had just broken into my apartment. It only took me fifteen minutes to get back home, but it seemed like forever. I don't have renter's insurance, and I have a lot of stuff in my apartment. It seemed quite likely that this was going to be a very costly morning. Larry was standing at the head of the little staircase that leads down to my back door. He's a short, round guy who I've never seen wearing a shirt. He looked up at me with a scowl and said "Gerri called me a little while ago. Said she saw a guy leaving your apartment, looked kinda suspicious. I went over, saw the door was busted. I didn't call the cops yet." He scratched a hairy armpit and glared at me, as if it was my fault that someone had broken down my door. I didn't let the glare bother me. Building managers always look at tenants that way, otherwise they get bugged constantly about fixing things. "Let's go take a look, see what's missing," I said, trying to breath evenly. I went down the stairs and looked at the door, which was ajar. Judging from the splinters around the lock, it had been forced open with a prybar. With a feeling of dread, I pushed it open and went inside. My first impression wasn't a good one. My place had been tossed, and it had been done roughly, by someone in a hurry. The floors were covered with books, CDs, cushions, and whatever else had been on my shelves and in my drawers. "Motherfucker," said Larry. "They really messed the place up." "Thanks for the observation." I picked my way through the debris and went into the bedroom. I have a safe in the back of my closet which contains my picture collection and other miscellaneous small valuables. It had been discovered, but was undamaged. I went back to the living room. Larry was putting the couch cushions back. "Your tv and VCR and stereo are all still here," he said. "Not busted or anything." I nodded. It was starting to look like it wasn't too bad. It's not like I have an expensive art collection or a drawer full of jewelry. Then I remembered the pictures of Claire Ingleford, which I had rather foolishly left on the coffee table. "Shit. You see any pictures around? Five by sevens of a topless brunette?" Larry knows about my hobby, so he took this in stride. "Nope. Think they got nicked?" "Probably." I went into the darkroom and turned on the light. It was also in complete disarray. My expensive enlarger was tipped over on it its side, and I felt a stab of fresh anger. It didn't take long to figure out that the negatives of Claire Ingleford had also been stolen. "I guess a thief sees a stack of topless pictures, he's gonna grab them," said Larry. "Human nature." "Makes sense," I agreed. I didn't mention that the negatives were also missing, which made less sense for a burglar to bother with. I started putting the darkroom back in order, and Larry went back to straightening up the living room. Despite the scowl and gruff attitude, he's not a bad guy. An hour later the place was almost presentable, which is to say it looked better than it did before the break-in. "So what's the damage?" asked Larry. "A Nikon camera body and a pair of binoculars," I said. "Plus the pictures. That's all I can say for sure." "Coulda been worse. Gerri said the guy wasn't carrying anything big. Some balls, busting into a place in the middle of the morning." "Did Gerri get a good look at him?" "Nope. Said he was on the big side, was dressed pretty nice. He had a hat, and she didn't see his face." I chewed on that for a few seconds. Larry said "So you wanna call the cops?" "What do you think?" He shrugged. "What they do is come out, poke around for a while, ask you a bunch of stupid questions, make you fill out a buncha forms, and then tell you to put on a stronger lock. It ain't like they're gonna catch the guy or get your stuff back. On the other hand, if you want your insurance to pay for the camera and binocs, you gotta file a report." "I don't have insurance. Forget the police. Maybe I'll look into it myself." "Hey, there you go. You gotcher self a new case. Lemme know if I can help - I'd love to see you catch the bastard." I nodded numbly, the utter futility of launching a one-man investigation into an apartment break-in washing over me. If I was serious, I should have dusted around for fingerprints before Larry and I straightened up. The feeling of helplessness and anger that accompanies a gross violation of one's personal space was keeping me from thinking straight. "You OK?" "Yeah, I'm fine." "I'll get your door fixed today. I'll see if I can put on something that doesn't pry open so easy. We got insurance that covers that sorta thing." "Great. Thanks, Larry." He patted me on the back in an awkward gesture of brotherhood and waddled away. I decided I might as well head back to the office. On my way, I remembered something that had been nagging at me since I discovered the pictures were missing. I had never developed the second roll of film, the one that had shots of Claire frolicking in the ocean. I knew those pictures wouldn't be as good as the other ones, but now they would be better than nothing. The film was still in the little Olympus, which I hadn't seen in my apartment, and for a bad moment I thought that it must have been stolen. Then I reached behind me and found it on a folded blanket where I had hastily tossed it during my ignomius retreat from Sparkle Beach. I was feeling a little more cheerful as I parked in the strip mall for the second time that day. Exercising more caution than usual, I took the camera with me rather than leaving it in the van. It was already past one, and I stopped at the Subway for a turkey sub to go. It's actually pretty convenient working in a strip mall. I ate the sub at my desk, washing it down with the tepid Starbuck's coffee, and pondered the break-in. I was going to have to become more security conscious, maybe install an alarm. I allowed myself to luxuriate in a Charles Bronson fantasy of a silent alarm that would allow me to show up at my apartment with a baseball bat and a pair of pruning shears while a burglary was in progress. Then I forced myself to get real. The fact that the negatives had been taken from the darkroom seemed very odd. You can't really see what's on negatives unless you hold them up to the light and squint hard or load them into the lightbox, and I had a hard time imagining a nervous burglar who was ransacking the place for valuables bothering to do that. My gut instinct was telling me that it wasn't a random burglary at all, but that someone had broken in just to get the pictures. The problem with this scenario is that it's just the sort of paranoid fantasy that a down-and-out private eye would cook up in his head to give himself something to do. I decided I would run it by someone who would give me an unbiased opinion. Like maybe Gerri. My cock twitched at the thought. As it turned out, that wasn't necessary. I was scanning through some newsgroups on the computer when my warning buzzer went off, informing me that someone had opened the door at the other end of the little corridor that led to my office. I installed the circuit to give me a little warning when I'm going to have a visitor. Sort of a nice private-eye touch, I think. It gives me just enough time to sweep a pile of diamonds off the desktop into a drawer, or to make sure my gun is loaded and in my shoulder holster, that sort of thing. More realistically, it gives me a chance to zip up and put on the screen saver. This time I just spent the extra ten seconds trying to guess who it might be. I didn't even get close, although I might have if I had trusted my gut a little more. I opened the door in response to the sharp knock and found myself facing a beautiful dark-haired woman wearing a baseball cap and expensive-looking sunglasses. It was Claire Ingleford. "Come on in," I said, after gaping for a moment. "Have a seat." To my relief, my voice didn't quaver or break. I sat back down in my chair and she took the straight-back chair across from the desk. We stared at each other coldly for several seconds. The fact that she was here confirmed beyond a doubt that she was behind the break-in, and celebrity or no, I was pissed. Not so pissed that I couldn't appreciate her looks, however. She was dressed simply in black slacks and a silver silk shirt that clung enticingly to her breasts. The top three buttons were undone, exposing a few inches of smooth tan cleavage. She took off her cap and sunglasses, put the sunglasses in the cap, and set them next to her chair, staring at me all the while. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of dark green, and very wide. With her makeup on and her hair pulled back, she was much more recognizable than she had been on the beach. She wasn't quite a classic beauty, but the little imperfections in her features only enhanced her powerful sex appeal. Her face was a smidgen too wide, which made her look playful and catlike. Her lower lip was maybe a fraction too full, which just added to her sensuality. Finally the silence began to seem ridiculous. "Claire Ingleford, the actress, right?" She nodded. "Would you be surprised to hear that I recognize you too, Mr. Stern?" "I can't imagine from where." "Sparkle Beach. Yesterday afternoon you were taking pictures of me, sneaking around with a little camera hidden under a towel. Enrico chased you off and got your license plate." Nothing like getting right to the point. I didn't want to confirm this directly, but it seemed childish to deny it. "Enrico - he would be your friend the burglar?" "I don't know what your talking about," she said, with a complete lack of conviction. We stared at each other again. This time it was Claire who broke the silence. "I want to buy back the pictures. I'll give you two thousand dollars for the negatives and any prints you've already made. And if you're stalking me, I want you to stop immediately." "I'm not stalking you." She shrugged. "Then you won't have any problem leaving me alone in the future." I noticed she was tapping her foot nervously against the leg of the chair. She seemed to be very tightly wound, as if she was holding herself together by force of will. It took a certain amount of guts to show up alone at the office of a creep who had been sneaking pictures of her, I had to give her that. "I did have the pictures at one point," I said. "But they were stolen out of my apartment this morning. If I'd known that someone was willing to pay two grand for them, I guess I would have been more careful." I wanted her to admit, at least indirectly, that she was behind the break-in. What I really wanted to know was why she was so anxious to get the pictures. "All right, lets stop playing games," she said. "We both know some of the pictures are still in your possession. The ones of me in the water." I nodded. "OK, no more games. Do you mind if I ask why you're so anxious to have the pictures?" "Not that it's any of your business, Mr. Stern, but I don't want to see them in a sleazy tabloid. I'm trying to clean up my image. But don't get any ideas about raising the price. Two thousand dollars is more than fair." It hadn't occurred to me that a tabloid would be interested. But since the pictures were taken while she was cavorting in public, it would be perfectly legal to publish them. "You posed in Playboy six months ago. How is this any different?" I could see her jaw muscles working as she gritted her teeth. "It's complicated. It has to do with my movie deal. And it's really none of your business." "All right, forget I asked. I don't have the pictures here in my office, but I can get them to you by tomorrow." Actually they were in the camera which was sitting on the desk right in front of her, but there was no way I was turning over the film before I had a chance to look at it myself. "I want them as soon as possible. I don't want you shopping around for a better offer, showing them to everyone in town in the process." She was deliberately trying to annoy me, and I tried not to let my irritation show. "If we strike a deal for the pictures, then you'll have my word that I won't do that. If that's not enough, I can give you a signed contract for the pictures." I opened a file drawer and took out a blank contract with my letterhead. "If I break a contract you can complain to the state and get my license revoked." She waved the back of her hand at the contract. "Forget that. Can you get me the negatives and pictures by tonight? Say ten or eleven?" "Yes. The price is two thousand dollars cash plus a Nikon 3800 camera body and a pair of 8x10 binoculars." She looked genuinely confused. "It's OK if they're used," I added. "It's just that the camera is hard to replace, and has sentimental value." Comprehension dawned. "He didn't." "Oh yes, he did. He also left my apartment looking like the inside of a dumpster." "Oh fuck, did he really? If that's true, I'm sorry." She sounded sincere, and I suspected Enrico was going to experience a sudden decrease in nookie. Poor guy. She said "I'll see what I can do. If I can't recover those items, will you accept an extra five hundred instead?" "All right." "Then we have a deal." She stood up and held out a card with a Beverly Hills address hand-printed on it. "Bring them by tonight." I stood up and as I took the card, I couldn't resist peeking into her cleavage. I caught a glimpse of a full curve of breast and black lace trim. It hit home that I was standing a few feet away from a famous actress and sex symbol, and I was suddenly star struck. "I'm looking forward to seeing your movie, Ms. Ingleford. What was the name of it again?" She gave me a tight smile. "Wishing Her Life Away." I nodded knowingly, as if the title had been on the tip of my tongue. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. She put on her hat and sunglasses and said "So you're really a private detective?" "That's right - Frank Stern, P.I., at your service. If there's ever anything you need help with, just let me know." She looked around my shabby office with an expression of emasculating disdain. "Sure. If I lose a cat or something, maybe I'll give you call. See you tonight." She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her. I cupped my balls at the door and said "Bite me." It didn't make me feel much better. I paced around the office, trying to think. It had been quite a day, and it was still only early afternoon. Eventually a few synapses managed to fire, and I went to the computer and looked up the number for a guy I know at the Enquirer. I don't think you'll be surprised to hear that they have a lot of voyeurs on their staff. He answered on the first ring. "Chuck Werner, what have you got for me?" His voice sounded like he was gargling gravel chips, the result of getting punched in the throat some years ago. "Chuck, it's Frank Stern. How's it going?" "Frank, good to hear from you. Heard about that mess you got yourself into last month- you lookin' to borrow money for bail?" He laughed, and I held the phone away from my ear until he was finished. "No, the charges were dropped." "Great, great. So what can I do you for?" "I'm trying to get an idea of how much some pictures might be worth. Let's say I had topless shots of a well-known tv actress. Close-up and sharp, and taken on a public beach so no legal problems." "We might be able to use that. You don't want to tell me who?" "Sorry." "No, that's OK. Would you say this goes against her reputation? Like is this going to surprise people?" "No, she's posed nude in the past. Great tits." "Hmm. See, we have to block off the nipples for our rag. So it would just be like her in a bathing suit. If the fact that she's topless isn't a shocker, like with a princess or something, it's not a huge deal. We might put a shot like that in our 'Celebrities about Town' section. That would pay from two to four hunnert bucks." "OK, that's sort of what I figured. Thanks, Chuck." "You bet." I sat on the edge of my desk and reviewed the situation for a few minutes. Obviously I would take the two thousand. I would have taken it even if I could sell the pictures to a tabloid for more. I do have some scruples, and my strict personal rule against exploiting the people I take pictures of lets me sleep better at night. But Claire Ingleford had no way of knowing that, and she had clearly made a highball offer. The question was why. I didn't find her explanation particularly convincing, to say the least. My thoughts were interrupted when the warning buzzer sounded again. This time I used the extra ten seconds to stash the little Olympus with its valuable cargo in a hiding place I have behind one of the file cabinets. No knock came, so after a minute I opened the door. A clean-cut young man wearing a blue uniform was standing there, his knuckles raised as if in mid-knock. I suspected he had been listening at my door. "Are you Frank Stern?" he asked politely. I admitted it. "Sergeant Martinez, fourth precinct." He flashed his shield at me. "Come on in, Martinez," I said reluctantly. Fourth precinct cops weren't my favorite people in the world. He shook his head. "Actually, they want to talk to you back at the station. I'm supposed to drive you over right now." * This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story requires the written permission of the author.* Comments are welcome. DG dionysian1@hotmail.com DG's story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm ======================================================== The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by this type of material, please do not read any further. ======================================================== "Double Cross" A Frank Stern Mystery (c) 1999 by DG (dionysian1@hotmail.com) Chapter Four ------------ I followed Sergeant Martinez out of the Busy Bee dry cleaners and into the bright sunlight. I had briefly considered refusing to cooperate, but you just can't win that game, especially if you're a private dick. Besides, I was curious to know what they wanted. I got into the passenger side of the white Ford LTD, which was easily recognizable as a police car without the decals and light bar. They still haven't quite figured out the plainclothes/undercover thing yet when it comes to cars. "Who exactly wants to talk to me?" I asked as we pulled out of the lot. "Detectives Rank and Callahan." "Wonderful. So Rank has nothing better to do than to stake out my office. What sort of lame excuse did he give for hassling me?" Martinez gave me an apologetic glance. "I'm really not supposed to say anything." "So Tina Callahan made detective?" I asked. "Yep. Just last month." He gave me a sidelong look. "Say, you got busted a few months back, didn't you?" "Who, me?" "Yeah, I remember hearing about something. A private dick busted for indecent." "Stop playing around Martinez. I know everyone in the Fourth is aware of all the details. Thanks to my buddy Barry Rank." A grin appeared on his face, which he quickly smothered. "I got Rank's side of the story, yeah. I wouldn't mind getting your side." I sighed. "There's not much to tell. I was on the job, working an adultery case. I had the wife's lover's house staked out, and I hit paydirt. They were going at it in the bedroom with the light on and the shade up six inches or so. I was taking pictures from my car from about twenty yards away. Then I got greedy and decided to go in for some closeups." "Uh-huh. Rank didn't mention you were working a case." "I'm not surprised. Anyway, it just wasn't my night. A beat cop had spotted my van parked on the street in a nice area and run my plates. When it came up as me, Rank drove out himself, snuck up on me, took pictures, and then arrested me for trespassing." "And indecent." "That came later, when the lover understandably decided not to press charges." Martinez shook his head. "Between you and me, I think it was shitty what he did with those pictures." I didn't say anything. Rank had caught me dead to rights with my dick in my hand under the bedroom window, and had taken Polaroids. That much I couldn't really fault. But then he had put the Polaroids up on a bulletin board over his desk, complete with my name and a funny caption contest that everyone was encouraged to participate in. My face was flushed just thinking about it. The fact that he had been forced to drop the indecent exposure charges because of the stunt had been a very small consolation. "If it makes you feel any better, he got an official reprimand," Martinez told me. "Didn't do his career much good." I hadn't known that. In a sense it was bad news. guys like Barry Rank never blame themselves for anything bad that happens to them. Now he would have it in for me even worse than before. Martinez pulled into the precinct house and stopped in front of the entrance. "I'm just droppin' you off, Stern. See ya later." I got out and walked into the modern brick building. Tina Callahan spotted me from her desk and waved me over. I had dealt with her a few times over the past few years, and we were on friendly terms. She was a petite woman about my age, with light blonde hair and eyebrows and Nordic features. She was very sharp and very ambitious, and I wasn't surprised to hear that she had been promoted. She and Rank were an odd couple indeed. "Hello Frank." She stood up and shook my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Thanks for coming in. Let's go somewhere we can talk." She led me down the hall to a pleasant, brightly-lit room with comfortable chairs arranged around a formica table. This was where they questioned witnesses and took complaints - suspects were interviewed in slightly more grim surroundings. Although I hadn't done anything illegal recently, I was still relieved. I took a seat and eyed Tina as she sat down next to me and carefully arranged her short skirt. She had very nice legs. In fact, she was more attractive than I had remembered, having seen her only in uniform before now. "Congratulations on your promotion, Detective." "Thanks. The best part is getting out of that ugly uniform," she said with a smile, as if reading my mind. "How's business these days?" "Picking up a little. I'm keeping afloat. So what's up?" She glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Barry should be here any minute. Why don't we wait." "So you and Rank are partners." She nodded, not meeting my eyes. "Yeah. You know, you don't get to pick who you work with when you first make detective." That was a pretty clear statement of what she thought of Rank, and I had to grin. I found myself wondering whether Tina Callahan had contributed to the caption contest. Rank walked in, carrying stack of folders. He's a thickset, jowly man in his fifties, with a nose like a potato. He was wearing a wrinkled brown suit and a stained tie. His macho persona surrounded him like cheap cologne. He made an ominous show of closing and locking the door, and then he leaned his back against the wall and said "How's my favorite pervert?" I saw Tina cringe out of the corner of my eye. I didn't say anything. "Let's get started," said Tina, her voice neutral and businesslike. "Stern, a woman named Claire Ingleford, a well known actress, was seen entering your office inside the Busy Bee dry cleaners about an hour ago. We're interested in finding out what why she was there." "To discuss a business matter." "Don't play games with us, Stern," said Rank. "What did she want?" I said "Are you aware that as a licensed private investigator, I'm not required to divulge private information about a client unless you show due cause?" "We're aware of that," said Tina quickly, before Rank could say anything. "Had Claire Ingleford been your client previous to today?" "No." "Had you ever met her before today?" "No." I was skating on thin ice, but telling the truth. "Bullshit," said Rank. You're telling me this famous tv star just waltzed into your grimy little office and hired you out of the blue?" "I was pretty surprised when she knocked on my door, I'll tell you that much." Tina smiled. "I'll bet. Can you give us some idea of the nature of her case?" I shifted uncomfortably on my chair, unsure of what to do. If I told them the truth, I ran the risk of having the undeveloped film of Claire confiscated by the police. Bye-bye to the two grand. On the other hand, I could get in big trouble by holding out. I had an uneasy suspicion that Claire had complained to the police about my taking pictures of her, in which case they knew everything. "You put me in a difficult position, legally speaking," I said. Rank let out a snort, which I ignored. "If you could tell me why you're interested in the activities of Ms. Ingleford, that would be very helpful. For example, if I knew she was a suspect in a criminal investigation, that would untie my hands and let me cooperate." The suggestion that Claire was a criminal suspect was meant to be a bit of ridiculous hyperbole, but to my surprise Tina and Rank exchanged a serious look. "All right," said Tina. "A man named George Cahn was found shot and killed in his home outside San Diego yesterday. Mr. Cahn was a well-known producer of adult movies. He was also Claire Ingleford's ex-husband." I knew that spouses and ex-spouses were always potential suspects in murder cases. Suspecting Claire seemed a little far-fetched, but the police liked to cover all the bases. "So the San Diego police asked you to keep an eye on Claire for a few days, see if she did anything suspicious," I said. "Right," said Rank. It was first remotely civil thing he had said to me. I realized that although it was good police procedure, the fact that they were tailing a well-known actress who wasn't an official suspect wouldn't make for good publicity. Rank must be eating his guts out with curiosity over how I was involved. "Why are you smiling?" asked Tina. "When your boy Martinez showed up right after Claire Ingleford left, I figured you guys must have been watching me. It never occurred to me that you might have been following her." Rank said "We got better things to do than follow you around waiting for you to jerk off." "Jesus, Barry," said Tina, giving him an annoyed look. I had a sudden thought. "You said Cahn was killed yesterday, right? When?" Tina opened a folder and said "In the middle of the day. The body was discovered at 2 pm, and he had been dead for maybe an hour." "In that case, I can tell you that Claire Ingleford didn't do it. I saw her here in LA at about that time." "Did you now," said Rank. "Where was that, exactly?" "Sparkle Beach." They exchanged a significant look. "I guess you heard that story before," I observed. "That's what she told the San Diego police when they called her to tell her ex-husband had been killed," said Tina. "We haven't been able to find an eyewitness yet, though. Until now, I guess." "Sorry to rain on your parade, but I definitely saw her on Sparkle Beach at about 1 pm yesterday. So did dozens of other people." "I guess that settles it, then," said Tina with a shrug. "Hang on," said Rank. "That don't explain why she was at Stern's office. Maybe she was hiring him to be her alibi." This was so idiotic that Tina turned away from Rank to hide a smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were out to get me, Detective Rank." My tone was light, but I was worried. I didn't see how I was going to be able to avoid mentioning the pictures, now that they had bearing on a murder investigation. To my surprise, Tina said "At this point, I don't think we can ask Mr. Stern to violate his client's privacy. Claire Ingleford can't really be considered a suspect any longer." This hung in the air for a moment, and I held my breath. Rank scowled at Tina and finally mumbled something under his breath and left the room, slamming the door behind him. "Thanks," I said. She gave me a wry smile. "Come on, I'll give you a ride back to your office." I followed her out to a side lot surrounded by a chain-link fence, and we got into another Ford LTD, this one blue. The interior was hot from sitting in the sun, and we rolled the windows all the way down. I said "As long as I'm your new best friend, maybe you could fix some parking tickets for me?" She laughed. "How much money did I just save you? I want half." I had to smile. "So you know?" "I talked to some people on Sparkle Beach this morning. A couple people told me they heard a guy was taking pictures of Claire yesterday, and ended up getting chased away. Then she shows up at your office." "OK, but why did you protect me back there?" "First of all, because Barry Rank is an asshole." "No argument there." We were on the highway now, and she was weaving expertly in and out of traffic, sitting very straight on the seat to see over the dash. I could see the muscles flexing in her right leg as she worked the pedals, and I decided that Tina Callahan was probably a lot stronger than she appeared at first glance. I noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring, although I was pretty sure she had been wearing one last time I had seen her. "What you may not know about Rank," she continued, "is that he's lazy. You didn't hear that from me, of course. This isn't our case, we're just helping out the San Diego people. So despite the fact that it's a juicy murder case with the potential for credit all around, he can't be bothered to put in any extra effort. Rank was out sick yesterday, and I worked up a whole plan on how we could attack the case. But this morning he gives me a whole speech about how we should just stay out of the way, let the San Diego guys handle it." "I'd think Rank would jump at the chance to break a big case." Tina shook her head. "No, he's just counting the days until he can retire with his pension. He's got this bodyguard thing going on the side - he hangs out with Hollywood has-beens like Edward Burke and Rod Steiger, telling them cop stories and making them feel important. Rank told me these guys don't even get recognized anymore in public, but they still like to move around with a bodyguard - an ego thing." "I see. So you're going to look into Cahn's murder on your own?" She shot me an appraising glance. "I'm not going to get anywhere on my own. I've got a full caseload, and people looking over my shoulder. But if you're working for Claire, maybe we could help each other out. Share information, I mean." "Ah. That explains the ride. I was starting to wonder if you were trying to pick me up." "Stern, if I ever try to pick you up, you'll know it right away." "I'll remember that. Anyway, I'm not working for Claire, I'm just selling her the pictures. Why on earth would she hire me? If she's involved in the case in some way she needs a lawyer, not a P.I." "I guess I see your point. Are you going to see her again?" "Tonight. I'm supposed to bring the pictures by and collect." She thought this over for a little while. As we pulled into the lot in front of my office, she said "Can you make a copy of the pictures for me?" "Sure." "Also, I want to hear how your meeting with her goes tonight. Can you call me afterwards? I'm in the book." I got out of the car and shut the door. Through the open window, I said "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?" She gave me a sunny smile. "Take it easy, Frank." "Yeah, you too. Thanks for the ride, Detective." * This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story requires the written permission of the author.* Comments are welcome. DG dionysian1@hotmail.com DG's story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm ======================================================== The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by this type of material, please do not read any further. ======================================================== "Double Cross" A Frank Stern Mystery (c) 1999 by DG (dionysian1@hotmail.com) Chapter Five ------------ I went into my office to collect the camera with the pictures of Claire, and then I headed straight home. There was a note from Larry on the back door, telling me that he had installed a new lock and left the keys in my mailbox. I opened the door and examined the lock. It looked strong enough to stop a charging rhino. I went into the darkroom straight away and started working on the negatives. After all that had happened, I was worried that they might not come out, like maybe I had misloaded the film while hastily loading it on the beach. But they were fine. Out of ten shots, six were decent. I made three sets of 4 by 6 prints: one for me, one for Tina Callahan, and one for Claire, since she would be assuming that I had developed the film already. I spent some time making enlargements of the best shots, but my heart wasn't in it. I was thinking about all that had happened today, and worrying about my two grand. It occurred to me that I might be putting myself in danger tonight. I could easily imagine Enrico showing up instead of Claire and beating me senseless. I decided to bring along my gun. By the time I showered and ate dinner it was after nine, and I decided to leave. I had dressed up a little more than usual, in tan slacks, loafers, and a open-necked linen shirt. I told myself that I needed to wear the loose slacks to make sure I could quickly get the small automatic out of the ankle holster. But when I found myself slapping on Drakkar Noir, I had to admit it was bothering me that Claire Ingleford thought I was a complete loser. Not that dressing nicely or smelling good was likely to change that. Claire lived up in the rocky hills overlooking the Valley, and I almost got lost more than once on the narrow, winding roads that connect the homes of people rich enough to escape the humdrum smog- ridden existence below. Her address was a small house set well back from the road that couldn't have been worth more than two or three million. I backed into the driveway and then got out and spent a few minutes watching the house. The place was lit up by outside floodlights, but there was no activity that I could see. I finally walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Claire answered the door herself. She was dressed casually in stylishly torn jeans and a halter top, and was barefoot. Her thick hair was piled on top of her head and held in place with clips. Not wasting any time, she said "Do you have the pictures?" I held up a manila envelope. "OK, come on in." She closed the door behind me and led me into the living room. It was of modest proportions but was elaborately furnished and decorated. I didn't much care for her taste. What made the room special was the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a pool and beyond that the skyline of LA shimmering in the humid night air. "I was just having a snack. Help yourself." She gestured toward a plate of crackers covered with some kind of pink spread. "Thanks." I took one and popped it in my mouth. It was awful. "Can I see the pictures?" I handed her the envelope. She opened it and took out the stack of prints, and thumbed through them carefully. Then she held the negatives up to a floor lamp and spent a few minutes studying those. "Naturally you made some extra prints for yourself," she said finally. "You don't have to admit it. All I ask is that you keep them to yourself." "Noted and logged." "Wait here and I'll get your money." She went out of the room and came back moments later with a white envelope. She also had my Nikon and binoculars. I pretended to be happy to see them, although I had actually been hoping for the extra five hundred. "I got these back for you," she said. "Enrico says to tell you he's sorry." I thought I saw a little twinkle in her eye at that. I opened the envelope and riffled through the stack of hundreds with my thumb. Then I casually put the envelope in the breast pocket of my jacket. I said "By the way, my condolences on the death of your ex- husband." She looked up sharply. "How did you hear about that?" "I hear things," I said vaguely. I had no intention of mentioning my unscheduled visit to the police station. "It's just sort of funny that you would mention it. Actually, one of the reasons I need the pictures is that..." She looked flustered. "Yes?" "The police seem to think I might be involved. As it happened, George was killed at about the time I was on the beach yesterday. The pictures you took can confirm that." "So I'm providing your alibi." I chuckled at the irony of it all. She walked over to the big picture window and stared out moodily at the City of Angels. I used the opportunity to stare moodily at her body. Her ass looked good enough to eat, and she wasn't wearing anything under the halter top. Finally she said "Are you a good detective, Mr. Stern?" "The best." "Really?" "Well, no. But I'm quite competent. Why, did your cat run away?" She turned her head and looked at me through narrowed eyes, then returned her gaze to the window. "That was a mean-spirited comment, and I apologize. I haven't been myself." "Understandable. For what it's worth, I apologize for taking those pictures." "Oh hell, I was flattered. Mr. Stern, would you describe yourself as completely law-abiding? By the book, and all that?" "No," I said carefully. "I've never thought of myself that way." "I've never hired a detective before." My heart jumped. "Most people haven't had the pleasure." She turned around and said "I have a problem, and I need some help from someone who can be discreet. Are you interested? I was interested. I declined her offer of another cracker, and accepted her offer of something to drink. She got a couple of bottles of Coors Light out of the fridge and brought them over. I sat down in a yellow leather armchair, and she curled up across from me on the matching couch, tucking her legs underneath her in a position I couldn't get into without yoga lessons. "Let me give you some background first," she said. "I came to Hollywood when I was seventeen. That was...jeez, twelve years ago. I ran away from home. Ever since I was a little girl all I wanted to do was be an actress. Of course things didn't work out right away. I had to do some unpleasant things to survive, and one of those things was porn movies." "I've heard rumors about that." "Well, they're true. I made about a dozen of them between 1986 and 1987, mostly small parts. Toward the end I did a few where I was one of the stars, and if George Cahn hadn't come along I might have made that my career. In those days George specialized in low-budget R-rated features with a lot of nudity, what they used to call B- movies. We met when I was just nineteen, and he started giving me parts in his movies. I'm sure he did it just so he could sleep with me, but I turned out to be a pretty decent actress, so it worked out well for both of us. We got married, and George took over my career. One of the things he did that I'll always be grateful for - maybe the only thing - is buy the rights to the last two porn movies I starred in before they were released." "So they were never released?" "Right. He destroyed all the existing copies. Or at least he said he did." She leaned down to pick up her beer, giving me a long, delicious look at her breasts. She took a dainty swig and then gave me another thrill as she set the bottle back down. "But you think he kept copies?" I prompted. I was starting to see where this was headed. "I know he did. George and I divorced five years ago, just about the time my tv career was starting to take off. He was very resentful of my success, especially since his own career as a director and producer was on the skids. He went into making adult movies, which was a humiliating career move for him, even though it turned out to be a great decision from a financial point of view." "I'm familiar with his name in that regard." She looked faintly amused. "Are you an adult movie buff, then?" "I suppose you could say that." "Yeah, well, who isn't. At least you're not ashamed to admit it. Anyway, stories have gotten back to me for the past few years about wild parties at George Cahn's house where he would show those movies with me in them. The ones that were supposedly destroyed. I can't say it surprised me that he kept copies." "And now that he's dead, you're worried about those tapes falling into the wrong hands?" "Exactly. I know it must seem selfish and cold-hearted. Believe me, I hope the police find out who killed him. But I need to think about my career. I need someone to find those tapes and return them to me, and do it quietly. I'll pay you your going rate for your time and expenses, and I'll give you a fifty thousand dollar bonus if you're successful." I tried to force the image of a briefcase full of bills out of my head. "I have a few questions." "Go ahead." "Would these tapes really be so damaging? They can't be released without your permission, since Cahn bought the rights. And they were made, what, ten years ago? The public is pretty forgiving about that sort of thing. Your an actress, not a politician." She looked uncomfortable. "These tapes are a lot more explicit than my earlier films. Or at least my own activities in them are. Specifically, there's one that features a lot of lesbian sex. I'm sure you know how it goes. video clips show up on the internet, and everyone in the country gets to take a peek. And maybe copies of the tape get passed around, like with Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. I guess it wouldn't hurt my tv career. The assholes who write "LA West" would probably work it into the show. But it would kill my movie career before it even starts. Not to mention the humiliation." I could only imagine how pictures of Claire Ingleford eating pussy would capture the imagination of America. I said "OK, second question: do you think it's possible that George Cahn's murder is related to these tapes?" She looked surprised. "God, I hope not. That never occurred to me. I guess it's possible, in which case I'm really fucked." She worried at a fingernail as she thought about it. Finally she shook her head. "I don't see that being likely. But I don't know much about what George was up to lately. Basically, I was hoping that he kept the tapes in a safe place somewhere in his house. I was thinking you could get in somehow and find them. That's why I asked you if you might do something sort of illegal." I chewed that over. George Cahn's house was a crime scene, of course - the location of an unsolved murder, unless the San Diego police had made an arrest. It would be off limits to anyone but the police. But it wouldn't be impossible to get in and search it. It would be risky, but for a chance at fifty big ones it might be worth it. "It's possible that the police have already collected the tapes as evidence," I said, thinking out loud. "He's probably got a million porno tapes in his house. And these tapes wouldn't have my name on them. I hope not, anyway. Also, my suspicion is that he had them hidden somewhere. George was always big on hiding things." "If the police searched Cahn's place carefully and found them hidden away somewhere, I imagine they would have impounded them on the theory that they must be important if Cahn hid them." "Shit." "Yeah, that wouldn't be good." "Would the police be discreet about something like that?" I thought about the Polaroids of me tacked up over Barry Rank's desk. "Hard to say. They wouldn't post pictures on the internet. But it would be hard to get the tapes back from them." I finished my beer, and set the empty bottle on a coaster. It sounded like there was a good chance the tapes were in Cahn's house. The possibility of making fifty grand was making my hands sweat, but I didn't want to appear too eager. I said "If the tapes were well-hidden, maybe the police didn't find them. So let's assume they're there. If they aren't, things get more complicated, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it." "Agreed." We discussed specifics for a few minutes. There would be no paperwork connecting us, and if I was caught in Cahn's house Claire would deny any involvement. Claire gave me another three thousand dollars in cash as a retainer. Apparently she didn't believe in keeping her money in the bank. As she opened the front door to let me out, she said "I hope I don't regret this." I gave her a reassuring smile. "I can't guarantee I'll recover the tapes. But you can trust me to keep to our agreement if I do." She moistened her lips and put her hand on my upper arm. Then she moved against me so that her right breast was pressed gently against my forearm, just below the elbow. Looking up into my eyes, she said "Stern, if you bring me those tapes, I'll give you an extra reward above and beyond the fifty thousand. Something a lot more personal." Time seemed to stand still. I was completely aware of the pressure of each one of her fingers, and of the faint mixture of smells of her, and above all of the warm, loose weight of her breast separated from my skin by a thin layer of fabric. I'm quite sure she knew the effect she was having on me, and that she was enjoying my reaction. Finally I cleared my throat and said "You're quite a motivator, Ms. Ingleford." "Claire." "All right, Claire. Like I said, I'll do my best." She gave me a knowing smile and shut the door behind me. * This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story requires the written permission of the author.* Comments are welcome. DG dionysian1@hotmail.com DG's story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm ======================================================== The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by this type of material, please do not read any further. ======================================================== "Double Cross" A Frank Stern Mystery (c) 1999 by DG (dionysian1@hotmail.com) Chapter Six ----------- As I drove back to Jasmine Heights, I found myself thinking as much about Detetctive Tina Callahan as I did about Claire Ingleford. I had promised to report back to her on my visit, but now I had to think things through. Claire really was my official client now, which meant I wasn't supposed to discuss her case. On the other hand, Tina could potentially help me out, especially if the San Diego police had already collected the tapes in question. On the third hand, Tina had a really great set of legs, and didn't seem to think I was pond scum. When I got back to my place, I looked up Tina's number in the phone book and dialed it. "Hello?" "Hey, it's Frank Stern. Did you still want to talk about my visit with Claire?" "Sure, why not. Did you get your money?" "Yep." "Good for you. How did she seem? Nervous, excited?" "She hired me, Tina. I'm working for her now." "What! Really? To do what? Track down her ex-husbands killer?" She let out a high-pitched laugh.. "You don't think I'm qualified?" "Well, come on Stern, no offense, but..." "Never mind. She hired me on different matter. That's where it gets awkward, my discussing it with you." "You know, I looked up your address - you live pretty close to me. Can we get together and talk about this?" "Sure. I can give you the pictures I promised you." She named a bar I knew of but had never been in: Harry's Lounge, on Recondido. She was waiting in a booth when I got there. It really wasn't my kind of place - quiet and chilly, with lots of leather and walnut, and not a lap dancer in sight - but it was nice enough. Tina had a drink in front of her, and when she saw me coming she signaled the bartender. Since I was flush for once, I splurged and ordered a Bombay gin and tonic. "So...detective to the stars, eh?" I slid in across from her. "Right. I see a whole new niche opening up." I handed her an envelope with the pictures. She opened it and sifted through the prints, chewing on her lower lip. I took the opportunity to look at her closely. Her fine white-blond hair was cut short, a practical style made feminine by soft bangs. Cool blue eyes, a strong nose that probably had been in her family for generations. Her skin was fine-grained and smooth. I knew she had to be at least thirty, but she looked young enough to get carded. She was wearing a thin white sweater that hugged her small breasts. My drink came, and I tossed back half. It was strong and delicious. "Nice tits," commented Tina. "Oh, hey, cute tattoo. This guy with her, he's the one who chased you away?" "Yep. She referred to him later as Enrico. I get the feeling he comes running when Claire snaps her fingers." She closed up the envelope. "You know, you're not in any of these." "I left out the one where I dropped the camera on my foot and it went off in my face." "Really?" "No, not really. I took the pictures, why would I be in any of them?" "It's just that anyone could have taken these shots, right? I mean, we've tracked down several people who recognized Claire, but all we have for the photographer is a vague description. You can't really prove it was you, can you?" "But why would I need to..." She was laughing silently, her shoulders shaking. I asked "How many drinks have you had?" "A few, but that's not the problem. The previous line of questioning is courtesy of the tortured mind of Barry Rank. He's got a theory. He doesn't come up with many original ideas, so he's pretty proud of it. According to my brilliant partner, Claire hired you to kill her ex-husband. To set up an alibi for both of you, you had someone with a passing resemblance to you take pictures of her on Sparkle Beach while you were in San Diego committing the murder. When she showed up at your office earlier today, it was to pay you for whacking Cahn, and to make sure you had your stories straight." I finished my drink in one long swallow and signaled for another. "The old voyeur detective lookalike trick, eh?" "Just for the record, I don't believe it's possible. Could you blow a hole in it for me?" The bartender brought another round. Tina was drinking whiskey sours, and she started by eating the cherry, sliding it delicately off the toothpick with her small white teeth and then chewing it thoughtfully as she waited for me to respond. "I was working here in LA both before and after. Moving furniture, with a partner." But I was working out the timing in my head, and I wasn't really sure if it was impossible for me to have pulled off a quick hit in San Diego. "I don't think it's going to come to anything unless Rank turns up some solid evidence. The thing is, your continued association with Claire Ingleford is going to look suspicious to him. If he finds out." "You mean, it will give him an excuse to keep hassling me. He can't really think I did it." "Probably not. Anyway, consider yourself warned. Just remember you didn't hear it from me." "Thanks, Tina." "Now, let's talk about your meeting with Claire." "I see. My back has been scratched, and now I have to scratch yours." She smiled, taking no offense. "If you want to put it that way." I gave her an abbreviated description of what had taken place, leaving out Claire's pep talk at the end and reducing the bonus to ten thousand in case I ended up having to split it with Tina. She stirred her drink thoughtfully. "I'm sure the San Diego police would be interested to hear this." "They haven't solved the case yet, I take it?" She shook her head. "Here's what they have, or at least what they've told me. Cahn was discovered with a single gunshot wound to the chest, not self-inflicted. He was lying on his bed, partially nude. He had had sexual intercourse recently. Apparently Cahn had a long-standing habit of taking recreational lunch breaks back at his house with porn actresses. As a director, he could pretty much take his pick. So one of them killed him after sex, or maybe he was killed later by an intruder. No one has come forward and admitted to sleeping with him that day." "Interesting. Any motive?" "Not yet. Seems like Cahn was pretty well-liked within the industry. These tapes you're talking about might be the motive." "Was the place searched?" "Yep. Score one for you. It was messed up pretty good, like someone had gone through in a big hurry looking for valuables. You thinking maybe whoever killed him was looking for the tapes?" "I'm not working on any assumptions," I said. "Except the assumption that ten grand will keep me solvent for months." In fact, fifty grand in tax-free income would keep me afloat a lot longer than that. "Well, all I can say is that Claire Ingleford would be a tempting suspect if she didn't have an airtight alibi. Lots of motive, with this porno tape thing." I nodded. "True. Maybe she hired some thug to kill Cahn and get the tape back, but the guy couldn't find it." "Possible. That would be pretty stupid of her, though. A hired hit man would roll over on her for sure if he was caught. The risk would far outweigh any potential benefit." "Claire doesn't strike me as stupid. But this is beside the point as far as I'm concerned. I'm not trying to crack the case, I'm just trying to recover the tapes." She gave me a playful smile. "And how are you planning to do that? Put in an official request to search Cahn's house?" "Yeah, right. You wouldn't rat me out, would you?" This was an obvious opening for her to ask for a cut of the "ten grand" bonus. I was pleased in more ways than one when she shook her head and said "You better be careful, Stern. You get caught in Cahn's house, you'll lose your license and maybe even do a little time. Not to mention, Rank could fit it nicely into his pet theory." "A UFO could be sighted over the Hollywood sign, and Rank would work it into his theory." She snorted a quick laugh, then held up her hand. "Let's drop it. I gotta work with the guy, so I better not get too carried away with this." "Speaking of which, how'd you manage to get bumped up to detective?" "Several factors, I guess. Being a woman doesn't hurt, to be perfectly honest. I got lucky on a drug bust, got some good pub for the department and my picture ended up in the paper. Funny the way things go sometimes. My marriage was imploding just when my career was looking up." "I thought you used to wear a ring." "For three lovely, magical years. Getting married was a really stupid idea." "In general, or to your ex-husband?" "Both." "But at least you're not bitter." "Right, that's the important thing." She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back, causing her nipples to poke at the fabric of her sweater. At the same time, she turned her head to the side to examine something behind the bar. It was a pretty obvious invitation to stare, so I did. When I go into one of the strip joints where I'm a regular, I get this sort of thing lot. In that case, there's no mystery at the motivation - I'm known as a guy with a wad of small bills burning a hole in his pocket. Claire Ingleford's motivation for rubbing up against me like a cat in heat was also pretty clear - extra incentive to find the tapes and stick to our deal. But what Tina wanted from me was harder to figure. She turned her head back to me with a little smile that seemed to be asking me if I liked what I saw. "You ever been married, Stern?" "Not even close." "That's right, you're a little different, aren't you?" She gestured at the envelope with the pictures of Claire. "What's with the hobby?" Normally the question would give me hives, especially coming from a woman I was trying to flirt with. But three high-octane gin and tonics had dulled my sense of shame. I said "It combines my love of photography, my sincere admiration for the female form, and the thrill of the chase." She laughed longer and harder than the comment deserved. Two little spots of color had appeared high on her cheeks. "You're pretty funny, Frank. You know, you make women laugh like that, you'll get yourself a ball and chain before you know it." I smiled modestly. She looked me in the eye and asked "You wanna get out of here?" I swallowed hard. When you get used to paying for sex, you forget that women occasionally enjoy doing it for free. It had been a long time since I had done it this way. I said "Sure - I saw an all-night bowling alley nearby. You bowl?" She giggled. "No, do you? "God no." Her foot rubbed my calf, then moved up toward my thigh. My leg twitched spastically, and I pushed down on my knee to hold it in place. "Do I make you nervous, Frank?" "Don't be silly." I drained my drink. There was more left than I had realized, and it went down the wrong tube, almost giving me a coughing fit. I stood up, and with watering eyes I dug my new thick roll out of my pocket, peeled off a hundred dollar bill, and gave it to the bartender. He nodded appreciatively, but made no move to get change. I made a mental note to stay away from money pits like Harry's in the future. As we walked out together, we both noticed our height differential and laughed. I was easily a foot taller. "I should have worn my platform heels." "I think I prefer looking down at you. Does loads for my self confidence." "Uh huh. Listen, I'm kinda tipsy. Can you drive me home?" She was leaning against me, her hip pressed against my thigh. "When you see my wheels," I said, pointing to the white panel van with bald tires, "you may not even want to leave the parking lot." She laughed heartily again, making me feel like I was on a roll. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was wondering why this was happening, but I didn't really care. She lived less than a mile away, and she led me inside her small, neat townhouse by the hand. She tossed her purse on the kitchen table and said "Do you want a drink?" "No thanks." "Good. Neither do I." She came into my arms, reaching up on tiptoes, and I gathered her in and pressed my lips down on hers. She kissed me hard for a few seconds, then her mouth softened and opened. She tasted faintly of whisky and maraschino cherries, and her body felt lean and firm in my arms. "Give me two minutes," she whispered in my ear. "The bedroom is that way." She disappeared into the bathroom. Her bedroom was crowded with exercise equipment, the bed jammed into one corner like an afterthought. Someone once said that you can find out all you need to know about a person by looking at their bookshelf. The one next to the bed was filled with hard-boiled crime fiction and manuals on advanced police techniques, with a few relationship self-help books lurking near the bottom. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it off, then kicked off my shoes and socks. I started to unbuckle my pants, then wondered if I would look too eager and buckled them again. I heard soft footsteps behind me, and I turned around. Tina stood facing me, completely naked, her arms held loosely at her sides and her feet slightly apart. Her body was firm and trim, with small, pert breasts and narrow hips. She looked athletic, fit, and confident. I didn't feel like any of those things. "What's the matter, you never seen a naked woman before?" "You look great," I said. I tried to keep my eyes from straying to the little fluff of blonde hair at her pubis. I knew I should be doing something, taking control of the situation, but I just stood there, feeling indecisive. My hands were sweaty and ice-cold, and I had this mental image of Tina yelping and recoiling in disgust when I touched her. "You look nervous," she said. "What's the matter, am I coming on too strong?" She went over to the bed and sat on the edge, cr |