Sweet Nod

Sweet Nod

By Tammy Whaley

Copyright 2012 by Tammy Whaley

Published by Tammy Whaley at Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to Sharon

Other Books by Tammy Whaley:

Serial Justice

Coming Soon:

Serial Vengeance

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Prologue

The man tied to the bed was dead and didn’t know it. He was laying spread eagle on the iron four poster bed with a ball gag in his mouth and his flagpole was standing at attention. More like a flag stump, but it was what it was. His heart was pounding in his chest as the promise of what the woman would do to him grew. She had been in the bathroom for a long time, hopefully she hadn’t left him like this.

A trickle of sweat rolled down his brow, toward his ear. God, he could just see the headlines if a maid found him like this tomorrow morning. Conservative State Senator found in local hotel bondage scene. Any future bid for the White House would end there. He’d lose it all, the ugly rich wife, the pretty little mistress, the free golf vacations to the Caymans. The minute the story hit the stands he’d have maybe thirty-six hours to clean out his accounts and get out of the country.

When the door to the bathroom opened, he breathed a sigh of relief underneath the ball gag. The woman had put on a leather mask and taken off everything else. In her right hand she held an old fashioned bullwhip that she was casually swinging back and forth. Picking up the remote control to the television with her left hand, she turned on the TV and tuned it to an erotic movie. She turned up the volume on the set to a barely acceptable level. Although, anyone that used this hotel probably wouldn’t complain.

The Senator writhed on the bed in anticipation of the games to come. Slowly the woman ran the whip across his skin, allowing him to take in the scent of the fine braided leather. Teasingly she lashed out, causing a small, pleasurable sting. Shivers ran down the man’s spine as he awaited her next move. Slowly the woman built him up just to the edge. Finally, when he was certain he could take no more, she straddled him, grabbed a pillow and placed it over his face.

At first he thought it was just an extension of the games they were playing; a kind of autoerotic asphyxiation. Then, when she failed to lift the pillow, he knew it was real. Struggling against his bonds, he bucked and twisted, trying to get away from the pillow that was so effectively blocking his airway. Finally, he began praying. Begging God to forgive him. Promising he would do anything and everything if only he was allowed to live. Suddenly, like someone flipped a switch, he was calm. He thought about how in the old vacuum tube television sets the picture would fade down to one point of light before extinguishing when turned off. That was what he was experiencing now. The light shrank to the size of a pinpoint and then faded to black.

The woman returned to the bathroom and dressed. Using a towel, she wiped down every surface she had touched. Leaving the bullwhip on the bed she scanned the room for anything she may have unintentionally dropped. Now that the kill was done, she was exhausted. She had just one more task before leaving. Removing a tape covered strip of plastic, she carefully placed the plastic against the door jamb at the room’s entrance. She rubbed lightly, then put the tape back onto the plastic and placed it into her pocket. Satisfied with a job well done, she exited into the cool spring Cleveland night.

Chapter 1

Ginny O’Mally had been the caretaker for the Riverside cemetery for fifteen years, since her husband, the previous caretaker, had taken a header into an open grave and broke his neck. She would’ve felt bad for him, but the mean bastard was coming home from a three day drunk when he had his accident. Since she had done most of the work for him anyway, the company let her take his job. Most people backed away from working in a place filled with the dead, but not Ginny. She liked her job. She tended the graves, mowed the grass and directed loved ones to the proper gravesite. It was quiet and she set her own pace for doing things. Most days you didn’t have to talk to another person. You could just do your job and go on.

Driving the lawn mower between the rows of tombstones, Ginny found her thoughts drifting, not landing on any one particular subject. The hum of the mower, the cool morning air and the warm sun beating down on her face worked together to put her into a Zen-like state. If running over a rock hadn’t caused enough racket to bring her out of her reverie, she would have mowed right over the girl’s outstretched leg. Swerving, she bumped into a large marble gravestone on her left, overcorrected and hit the one just inches from the girl, on her right. Finally she straightened the mower and cut the engine.

Hands shaking as she pictured what could have happened, Ginny sat for a few minutes to calm down. Climbing off the mower she warily approached the body lying behind the tombstone. The girl was pale and skinny, splayed out on her back. Ginny didn’t want to touch her, but she needed to check for a pulse. Nudging the woman with a toe, she yelled, Hey! and received no response.

Reaching down with her right hand and touching the woman’s neck, she jumped back three feet when the woman’s eyes opened. Arrgh! Ginny screamed.

What, where am I? the woman asked.

R-r-riverside cemetery. Ginny replied.

Oh. the girl replied, reaching out to lightly touch the gravestone at her head.

What are you doing here? Ginny demanded, more annoyed than scared now.

I’m before she could answer a cell phone rang. Holding up a finger, the woman took a phone out of the inner pocket of her brown leather jacket and tapped the screen. This is Sweet.

After listening for a minute she replied, Yeah, I know where that is. Look I need you to come get me. I’m at the cemetery.

The voice on the other end of the line got loud enough for Ginny to hear. The girl cut her off, Just come get me, I’ll wait by the front gate. pushing herself to her feet, Sweet brushed the freshly mown grass off of her clothing and said to Ginny, Sorry about that. I am usually out of here before you come through in the morning.

Waiting in front of the double iron gates at the entrance to the cemetery, Sweet did a quick self-check. Gun, check. Handcuffs, check. Pepper spray, back up gun, knife, check. Unzipping an inner pocket of her coat, she inventoried its contents. Confirming she had everything she needed, she smoothed out her clothes just as an unmarked police car pulled to a stop beside her. Climbing in, smiling at the female Detective, she said, Hey.

Jesus Sweet, you look like hell. What are the other cops gonna think?

Slipping the chain attached to her badge case over her head, she replied, I’ll just tell them I’m undercover.

Yeah, way under. Just stay out of sight of the press. Shit, what are you doing? You need to stop hanging out with the dead and come back to the living. It’s been almost two years now, you’ve got to go on.

Staring out the window at nothing, Sweet leaned her head against the cool glass, tuning out Shelby. As the sun burned off the morning haze hanging over the lake, she felt a bout of nausea grab her. Uh oh, not a good thing. She had not taken her morning dose of medicine and her body was revolting in protest. She should have told Shelby she would meet her at the crime scene; it was just, she wasn’t sure where she had parked her car. It had to be around the cemetery somewhere, she just didn’t know where.

Hey, are you listening to me? Shelby asked.

No, not really. What’d you say?

I said this case is going to cause a record shit storm. Senator Thompson was about as conservative as you can get. Hell he was pushing hard to have all the sex shops closed down. Now here he is, dead in a roach motel with a fake dick shoved up his ass. Even if he died of a heart attack the vultures are going to feed.

He had to be seventy if he was a day. What was he doing playing sex games in a pay by the hour joint?

That’s the Viagra generation for you.

As Shelby pulled into the parking lot of the motel, Sweet could see that she hadn’t been exaggerating about the vultures. She counted no less than four news vans and a good thirty people crowding the sawhorse barricade manned by two uniforms. She knew this hotel. If you wanted to find trouble, you could find it here; cheap. Flashing her badge, she walked around the line toward room 61. Ignoring the shouting press, she signed in with the tech at the door, donned shoe protectors and gloves from the proffered boxes and entered the room.

If you looked up sleazy in the dictionary, there was a picture of this room. Heavy red velvet curtains covered the stained and broken blinds. An old bulky television set sat on a dresser placed directly across from the queen sized bed. A burn scarred nightstand sat next to bed holding a desk lamp and a corded telephone. On the bed lay the late great Republican Senator from the state of Ohio, Shepherd Thompson.

God she hoped these crime scene photos didn’t leak. The esteemed Senator was naked, on his back in the center of the bed. He was spread eagle, velvet ties securing his hands and feet to the corners of the bed. The smell of death filled the small room; that ripe smell of early decay. Clenching her teeth, Sweet entered the room despite the protest from her already nauseous stomach.

A stained recliner sat at an angle in the corner of the room. A suit of clothes, neatly folded, were piled on the seat of the chair. A pair of very expensive leather shoes had been placed next to the chair. Fighting off the urge to run outside and throw up in front of the press, Sweet asked, Where’s his car?

Don’t know. According to the wife, he left this morning riding in the back seat of his black Cadillac. His usual driver, Kevin, chauffeured him to his local office. We’re still trying to contact him.

Great, tell me the late Senator was having a fling with his male driver. The press will eat this up. Sweet said, shaking her head.

If so, Kevin was a tall blond in a short mini dress and high heels.

So they play dress up. Where’d you get the description?

The desk clerk said they came in together around 9 a.m. She waited by the door while he got the room.

Where’s this clerk now? Sweet asked as she moved around the bed, taking in the scene.

I sent him home.

You what?

Look Sweet, the guy had been here all night. We couldn’t find you. I took his statement and sent him home. You’re not the only one that can interrogate a witness, you know.

Get me his address, I’m going to want to talk to him.

What? You think I missed something? Shelby asked sharply.

You know how I am. I just like to look the witness in the eye and question them.

Fuck it! If we weren’t cousins I’d be insulted.

You’re insulted anyway. I can tell. You have your pouty face on. Sweet smiled to show she was teasing.

Fine. Have it your way.

Turning to the crime scene tech photographing the room, Sweet asked, Have you done the dresser yet?

Pulling the lollipop out of his mouth, Jake answered, Yeah. We took the pictures, dusted for prints. It’s safe to handle and bag.

Sweet held a hand out to Shelby. Shelby handed her a red striped plastic evidence bag. Using a pen, Sweet moved the objects around on the dresser. A man is screwing around with a hooker; does he leave his wallet, watch and cell phone lying out in the open on the dresser?

Who said it was a hooker?

This is the kind of hotel you bring a hooker to. Not a mistress.

Maybe it was a regular deal. You know, every Monday morning at nine he schedules a little bondage and discipline session.

Some people just play golf. No. This doesn’t feel like a regular thing. Something’s off. Did the clerk say the Senator had been here before? When her cousin didn’t reply, she asked, Shelby? You did ask if he’d been here before, right?

Shelby’s face reddened, Um, we were kinda in a hurry to get the scene secured. I kinda forgot to ask.

The other cops in the room looked at anything but Shelby. Sweet maintained her cool. Yeah, I understand. We’ll ask him during the follow up.

The air in the room changed as Captain Terry Prentiss chose that moment to enter the crime scene. The tall, broad shouldered Captain filled the tiny space. Sweet swore he polished his bald head to get that shine. What’s it look like, Sweet.

Definitely murder. She replied, using her pen to open the Senator’s wallet.

You can’t say that! The coroner hasn’t even checked him yet. Hell, until the doctor says so, he ain’t even officially dead. Shelby said.

Ignoring Shelby, he asked, Why do you say that?

Petechia on the face and eyes suggests death by asphyxiation. Plus, there’s a perfect imprint of his face on the pillow. Sweet pointed to the pillow lying on the bed next to the Senator.

Huh. Robbery?

Not unless the perpetrator was after something other than money. He’s got a five hundred dollar phone, a twenty thousand dollar watch and at least three thousand in cash in his wallet. Even with a sex games gone wrong scenario I can’t see your typical street walker passing up that kind of money.

Just fucking great. The bastard couldn’t do this in Columbus? The Captain shook his head.

Sweet squeezed past the Captain to enter the tiny bathroom. A cockroach carcass in the corner of the room added that special little touch that let you know you were in a high class establishment. Seeing a layer of dust coating the bathroom surfaces, Sweet asked, Jake, have you been in here yet?

Nope, we’re finishing up in here first. The tech called out.

Jeez, it must be the maid’s week off. She mumbled as she looked for any obvious clues.

Hey we might have gotten lucky. Jake called out.

Sweet turned to see the tech peeling fingerprint tape off the doorjamb. Smiling, he placed the tape against the backing. Looks like we’ve got a print.

Hopefully it’s in the database. When you do the bathroom get underneath the toilet handle too, ok?

Sure Sarge. Jake replied.

A uniformed officer entered the room. Sarge, we found the driver.

Good, maybe he’ll have some answers for us.

I doubt it. He’s sitting in the Senator’s car with his throat slit from ear-to-ear.

Fuck! Sorry Captain. Well shit, there goes the easiest suspect.

Go take over that crime scene. It’s ours now. I’ve got to feed the press. The Captain ordered.

Yes sir. Stepping outside of the room, Sweet asked, You coming Shelby?

The sun was high in the sky by the time Sweet and Shelby arrived at the Lakeside Park. With temperatures in the mid-seventies and a warm breeze blowing off the lake it was the perfect day to be outside enjoying the early taste of summer. Rollerbladers and power walkers vied for sidewalk space as families staked claim to the concrete picnic tables next to the metal grills. Parking was at a premium as the park filled up causing more than one patron to complain about the spaces taken by the crime scene tape surrounding the Cadillac and the three patrol cars. Shelby cut off a Jeep to take a space next to one of the cop cars. The blast of the driver’s horn reverberated through Sweet’s already aching skull.

The driver, dissatisfied with the lack of response, blasted his horn again. Sweet exited the car, storming towards the SUV. Damn it! No Sweet! Shit! Shelby called after her.

One of the older patrol officers smiled and elbowed his younger partner, nodding toward the furious redhead storming toward the Jeep. When Sweet exited the car, the driver revved the engine as though he was going to run her over. Drawing her weapon and moving to the driver’s side of the vehicle, Sweet assumed the two-handed stance and yelled, Get out of the car now! Now! If you hesitate I will shoot you. Hands in the air.

The suddenly meek jock exited the vehicle with arms stretched high above his head. His friends that had guffawed at his antics only moments before were suddenly quiet.

Turn around and face the vehicle! Sweet ordered.

I didn’t do anything. the big man whined.

Shut up! Turn around and face the vehicle now!

Once he had complied, Sweet had him interlock his fingers behind his head. Using her left hand, she grabbed his interlocked fingers along with a handful of hair, pulled him backwards to keep him off balance, holstered her weapon and proceeded to pat him down. When she was certain he was unarmed, she took him over to the curb and had him sit down. After a five minute lecture on attempted murder with a motor vehicle and the proper use of the safety device known