The Cop and the Killer Ch. 01

"Oh, Susan." Amy sighed.

It wasn't until her cell phone rang that Amy realized she was lying back on her bed, her underwear down around her knees, teasing and squeezing her left nipple and feverously thrusting her right middle and index fingers in and out of her now soaking wet pussy with images of Doctor Susan McConnell's beautiful face and gorgeous body running sexually rampant through her mind. Amy was so close to orgasm that she almost let the call go to voicemail, but she was already in enough hot water with her squad lieutenant over her drinking and the recent epidemic of tardiness and lethargy it was bringing about. Amy slipped her fingers out of her slit, rolled her twitching body over and could have sworn she heard her aching pussy shout, "Don't tease me like this you fucking bitch!" She reached over and snapped up her cell phone.

"Styles." Amy said with a frustrated sigh into her cell phone.

"You dead?" The gravelly voice of her partner, Detective Ted Cline asked through the phone.

"More like undead." Amy warily replied as she arched her back and jerked up her underpants.

"Yeah, you sound it. Jesus Christ Amy, why don't you just go ahead and swallow a fucking bullet or gut yourself like a samurai instead of trying to drown yourself in Stoli." Cline snapped.

"That would be Absolut, thank you very much." Amy shot back.

"Whatever!" Cline said. "It could be Popov for all I care."

"Is there some particular reason you're calling Ted? I mean other than to just break my balls and critique my particular brand of vodka?" Amy asked.

"Well, there is this little matter of seven DOA's found aboard a private jet that landed at Sea-Tac last night, but in truth I was really hoping for some phone sex." Cline rebuked.

"Okay, I think you have my attention." Amy answered, suddenly wide awake.

"About the phone sex or the seven DOA's?" Cline asked.

"Eat me, Ted." Amy roared, rubbing her temples.

"Been wanting to for years." Cline snickered.

"Now Ted, you know I'd never want to come between you and your beautiful bride." Amy said as she stretched.

"Didn't she spend the night with you last night?" Cline jabbed sarcastically.

"Eating me out as we speak, my love." Amy giggled.

"Shall I pick you up?" Cline asked.

"No, I'll meet you there. Got to get your child bride off to school first." Amy snickered. "What's the twenty?"

Cline gave Amy the information on the location of the crime scene.

"Give me an hour." Amy told him.

"Hey, Shawna isn't really with you, is she?" Cline asked with a hint of anxiety in his voice.

"No, Ted. Randi is." Amy replied.

"Oh, thank God." Cline said relieved.

"Fuck off, Ted!" Amy snapped.

Amy put the phone down and stumbled to the bathroom. Ted Cline was 51 years old and had been married for six months now to a twenty-two year old former showgirl he'd met on a weekend getaway to Las Vegas with his ex-wife Randi in hopes of rekindling the passion in their faltering 23 year marriage. Oh well.

Amy turned the water on in the shower, wrestled herself out of her raggedy flannel night shirt, slipped off her full bottom underpants then stared at her naked body in the full length mirror behind the door. Immediately her mind went back to the woman who had no doubt been the love of her life, Doctor Susan McConnell; a tenured vascular surgeon at Seattle General. Amy remembered how beautifully their naked bodies melted together in the throes of passion. How Susan's steady and skilled surgical hands used to trace with that magical precision over her body, knowing just the right hot spots and pressure points that would overwhelm every fiber of Amy's physical being with unbridled, illicit pleasure. And then when they slipped inside her. Oh my God! At this, Amy sucked in a deep orgasmic breath as she could almost feel Susan's long, sturdy and skilled fingers massaging deep inside her. Her pussy was tingling now, saturating with overwhelming arousal.

Despite the fact that her diet was mainly a liquid one anymore, not to mention that her daily exercise program had deteriorated considerably; okay, it didn't exist anymore. Then there were the several broken bones, three gunshot wounds, two stab wounds and countless black eyes and bloody lips she'd sustained in her years of duty in the protection and service of the citizens of Seattle; despite all this, Amy was most impressed with how appealing her thirty-seven year old body still was. If only her face had weathered those years as well as her body. Though she had piercing, deep and captivating emerald green eyes, Amy's nose had been broken probably one too many times. Her cheeks were high and her mouth was smaller than she'd like and her years of job stress, lack of a regular sleeping pattern, pour nutrition, heavy drinking and smoking had left deep lines in her cheeks. It wasn't exactly angelic, but neither was it demonic or unattractive. Amy's mother liked to call it the face of a woman fulfilled. Not hardly! Most people called it cute.

Closely examining her 5'9" frame in the mirror now, Amy ran the palms of her hands slowly all over her body. Her peaches and cream skin was surprisingly soft and smooth although a bit on the dry side this morning. Her auburn hair, though course and straggly at the moment was full and flowing, hanging down between her shoulder blades. Her shoulders were broad, tone and filled out with delectable and highly alluring feminine muscularity. Amy's arms likewise, were muscle toned to near feminine perfection, topped off with slender hands and long, sexy fingers with clear polish. Her neck was solid but sleek with an adorable Adam's apple. Her waist was trim; her stomach was flat enough to suit her but her six pack abs had not been visible for some time. Her torso was slender, her hips curved firmly and beautifully and they shaped her steel solid ass delightfully. Long and powerful legs that had no doubt carried Amy over almost every square inch of the Puget Sound area in her fifteen years on the force were now ripped wonderfully with sexy feminine muscle and curved exquisitely in all the right spots.

With her mind still on Susan and her arousal building, Amy teased her half-dollar sized dark brown nipples with the tips of her fingernails. Protruding out like fresh pencil erasers now, Amy caressed her full and pert 36 C-cup breasts that were now very tender and sensitive with arousal. A sensual moan escaped her pouting, albeit at the moment, dry lips. For two mounds of womanhood that had never had any aftermarket enhancement, Amy's breasts were holding their own remarkably well for their age.

Amy slipped into the shower and the warm water doused her tingling, sexually charged body thoroughly. After washing her hair, Amy lathered her glistening body slowly and sensually. In her mind's eye, Susan was there and Amy found herself pressed up against the tile wall under the shower head, her body twitching, her heart pounding, and her lungs straining against the immense orgasmic pressure building up inside her to find air. Amy's hand slid down the front of her body, grazing the flat of her palm over her completely shaven mound; the tips of her fingers teased and massaged her swollen folds. Instantly, her index and middle fingers were deep inside her. Amy's hips bucked, her head rolled aimlessly from side to side as illicit pleasure coursed through her body; she thrust herself down on and against her penetrating fingers, riding them hard. With her orgasm racking through her now shuddering body, Amy seized the shower head directly above her in her free hand and her mouth sucked erotically on her bicep as she felt the inner walls of her pussy collapse under the force of her orgasm. Her fingers, hand and the inside of her thigh were doused with her juices; she could hear nothing but the pounding of her pulse in her ears. Gasping for air, Amy's legs turned to jelly and she sank her orgasm rattled body to the floor of the shower stall; steam had completely engulfed her like a thick cloud of smoke. With her legs twitching and her chest heaving, Amy slumped like a sack of horse meal against the wall, totally spent. Not bad, she thought. But not nearly as good as Susan McConnell, M.D. Jesus, was anybody?

Forty-five minutes later, Amy sipped her usual morning venti White Chocolate Mocha as she drove her silver, 2008 Mustang GT away from the Starbucks drive thru. With her stomach still queasy, Amy didn't know if putting something this heavy on it was the wisest of choices, but then again, wisdom had not been her strong suit recently, particularly where her well being was concerned. Amy headed south down Interstate 5 toward Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on a surprisingly sunny and clear February morning. Under bright blue skies and an unseasonably warm sun, Mount Rainier was out in all her majestic glory, as were the Olympics to the west and the Cascades to the east.

With her hair pulled back in a ponytail and dressed in a pair of easy-fitting blue jeans, a low cut, long sleeve, white pullover that clung tightly to her slender torso and nicely displayed the girls and a tan leather vest. Amy rested her left wrist on the steering wheel, sipped her mocha with her right and pushed the accelerator near to the floor with her snake skinned, cowboy booted right foot. Having been born and raised to the age of eighteen in the suburbs of Dallas, Texas - Detective Sergeant Amy Styles loved her cowboy boots.

The crime scene wasn't anything like Amy had anticipated. Parking her Mustang at the edge of the police tape amidst the numerous police cruisers, unmarked cars, EMS and rescue vehicles, forensic vans and officials from the Seattle Port Authority, Amy slipped off her sunglasses and surveyed the scene. The Gulfstream III jet had skidded off the runway during landing, crashed through the perimeter fence, its nose gear had obviously been torn off and it finally slid to a stop just a few yards shy of a steep drop off into a heavily wooded area nearly fifty feet below. The emergency escape slides had been inflated at both the front and rear exits; the forward now having been replaced by a short step ladder to allow the crime scene investigators access into the aircraft. The sleek jet showed no signs of smoke or flame damage and Amy could not detect any odor that would indicate fuel spillage.

With her badge clipped on her belt, just to the left of her buckle and her 9 mm Browning BDM holstered on her right side, Amy strode to the tape line, displayed her credentials to the young, burly uniformed officer on guard and stepped under it. Ted Cline was conferring with two more uniformed officers and a member of the forensics team just below the main cabin door. Amy slipped her sunglasses back on and approached Cline. Ted Cline was tall and ruggedly handsome. Standing nearly 6'5", with broad and powerful shoulders, enormous hands, a trim waist and Olympic cyclist legs; his face was worn, his dark brown eyes were deeply embedded in his narrow, somewhat gawky cheeks and his cropped hair was so blond it was almost white. Cline was wearing a navy blue Hugo Boss suit that was pressed to perfection and a lavender silk tie. If there was a true Odd Couple partnering in the homicide division of the Seattle Police Department, it was Amy Styles and Ted Cline, with Amy playing the slob of Oscar Madison and Ted Cline being the epitome of fussy Felix Unger.

Cline dismissed the officers and glanced in Amy's direction. A shit-eating grin filled his lips and he slipped off his sunglasses.

"Boy, don't we look flush this morning. Randi took good care of you I see." Cline said.

"She's the best fuck I've ever had Ted; how could you possibly dump a piece of ass that good?" Amy replied.

"Long story." Cline answered.

"I have no doubt. And speaking of stories, why don't you tell me one?" Amy said as she motioned toward the disabled aircraft in front of them.

"I'll tell you half of one. Aircraft originated out of Los Angeles just before 1:00am this morning and touched down here at ten minutes past four." Cline explained.

"Declared an emergency?" Amy asked.

"Nope. According to the flight controllers, both here and at the center, descent, approach and landing were all textbook perfect. It wasn't until transmissions weren't responded to just after landing that there was any indication of a problem." Cline continued.

"Okay." Amy said incredulously and frowned.

"Captain of a Northwest Airlines heavy jet spotted the aircraft as he was taxiing for departure." Cline added.

"FAA been notified?" Amy asked

"Yep. NTSB, Seattle Port Authority too." Cline said.

"So what next?" Amy asked.

Cline smiled and motioned toward the open door to the aircraft.

"You tell me." He said.

Amy rolled her eyes, climbed the ladder and stepped aboard the aircraft as Cline followed. Two more uniformed officers stood guard near the forward galley. The interior of the aircraft looked as though a tornado had torn through it as debris of every kind from broken dishes and glasses to champagne bottles, pillows, blankets, oxygen masks were scattered all about. Cline stopped Amy and directed her toward the flight deck were two CSI's were at work in the cramp space.

"You guys step out for a second." Cline ordered. "Give Detective Styles a look."

The two CSI's stepped out of the flight deck. Amy snapped plastic gloves on her hands and stepped in to examine John Doe #1 - the flight captain. He was in the left hand seat and his body was slumped to the left, his head resting on the side window; the side window was splattered with blood and brain matter. Amy carefully studied the wound through the man's head and though her own head still ached, her criminal justice mind was hard at work. Cline gave her a few moments. Despite their child-like banter and crude sexual innuendo, Ted Cline held the utmost respect for Amy Styles as a homicide detective. She was a good cop. Even though she'd had seemingly more than her share of personal demons, the worst of which was a devastating break up with a woman she loved dearly; a break up that she had never truly gotten over, and now while her heavy drinking was beginning to concern him greatly, Cline knew that Amy Styles was still the best cop on the force and he would trust her with his life. No, not just a good cop, but she was a great cop! And a brilliant criminologist! As people often refer to most police departments as the cities finest, Amy Styles was the type of cop they were referring to with that statement. She was by far one of the best and bravest law enforcement officers Ted Cline had ever encountered in his thirty year law enforcement career. And the man had once worked for the FBI.

"Well Detective?" Cline began.

"Where are the rest?" Amy asked with her face pinched with deep concentration.

Cline led Amy into the front cabin where a handful of CSI's were meticulously scouring the cabin as a forensics expert was examining the body of Jane Doe #1 - a very attractive woman who appeared to be in her early forties with blond hair and dressed in a stunning Versace evening gown. Her body was lying on its side with what appeared to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound to her head.

"Detective Styles, meet Jane Doe #1." Cline winched.

Amy squatted over the body and let her investigative mind continue to spin. Though he would never openly admit it, Cline loved Amy with all his heart. In many ways, she was the daughter he always wanted and he loved to watch her mind work. Her meticulous and deliberate observations, her overall comportment and her sheer resilience made her irresistibly adorable to him.

"What do you think?" Amy asked the Forensic agent.

"What you see is most likely what you get." He replied. "Self-inflicted gunshot wound."

Cline was pacing calmly and patiently behind them, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks.

"Do you have the weapon?" Amy asked.

The forensic agent, a chubby, balding man of 45 with a beet read face and thick beard named Frank Abernathy held up a plastic evidence bag containing a 9mm Sig-Sauer P226 with silencer.

"9 mm Sig-Sauer 226." Abernathy told her. "Found it next to the body."

Abernathy handed Amy the bag and she examined it carefully.

"Holds fifteen in the mag, right?" Amy inquired.

"Indeed it does." Abernathy replied. "Very sensible weapon; German made."

"So how many rounds were left?" Amy asked.

"Just one in the chamber; the other fourteen you'll find to your right and through the door. Well, except for the one in the cockpit." Abernathy said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Amy rose and Cline followed her to the rear cabin where several more forensic agents and crime scene investigators were actively and meticulously sweeping, dusting and photographing the crime scene. The bodies of Julio, Bear Man, Tammy, Twiddle Dumb and Twiddle Dee had obviously been tossed around in the crash. The rear cabin, much like the front was in total post-crash disarray. Amy took her time and carefully examined each of the bodies as Cline again paced patiently with his hands in his pockets.

"Do any of them have positive identification on them?" Amy asked of nobody in-particular.

"No Detective." A female voice returned. "Two Jane Doe's and five John's." Cline couldn't help but chuckle at the woman's description.

Amy stood up and removed the plastic gloves.

"So, Detective...Tell me a story." Cline said.

"Well, this has all the makings of a hit." Amy said matter of factly.

"Mob?" Cline asked with the hint of a fatherly proud smile on his face.

"No. I said it had all the makings of hit, I didn't say that's what it was. This is way too precise, far too clean and lacks of feeling to be a mob hit." Amy continued.

A tall and lanky woman in her mid thirties with short and cropped black hair, wearing a CSI jacket, tan kakis and white tennis shoes stared incredulously at Amy.

"What do you mean by lacks of feeling?" She asked.

"Mob hits are more often than not rooted in a personal vendetta. Hence, they want to inflict a lot of pain to repay for personal wrongs done against them. The kills are usually pretty messy in terms of method; you know, slit throats, hooks in meat lockers, buried alive under fresh concrete, that sort of thing." Amy began. "But that didn't happen here. I mean, look at these."

Cline's smile grew. "Keep going." He said. "Listen and learn my dear." He offered to the lanky woman.

Amy continued. "A single shot placed with expert precision at the most operative points; right between the eyes, directly through the ear drum and at the bass of the brain stem. These poor bastards were dead before they even heard the shot or saw the muzzle flash. No pain whatsoever." Amy paused and glanced briefly at Cline to see him smiling proudly at her.

"Please go on." He said.

"The boy in his birthday suit is one Julio Salazar - big time international, black market arms dealer. One of the biggest; the Mob wouldn't have any reason or more to the point, the balls to touch him. So that means that this, for lack of a better term, was an assassination. Not a hit."

"What's the difference?" The lanky woman asked.

"Basically, who orders it, who carries it out and why they carry it out. A hit is personal, an assassination is business." Amy answered.

"Please continue, Detective." Cline said.

"The three guys in the Armani suits were obviously his private security detail and the topless woman was more than likely the flight attendant who was obviously preparing to provide some very exclusive in-flight services when she suddenly found herself meeting her maker." Amy said.

Cline chuckled. "Nice way of putting it."

"The man in the cockpit was obviously the pilot." Amy continued.

"So what about the woman in the forward cabin?" Cline inquired as a master to his apprentice.