I wandered over to the morgue and let myself in—there were no guards or even an assistant, and the door was unlocked. As I entered, I noticed a name placard next to a door which proclaimed that the office’s occupant was one ‘Georgia Dominguez’. ((Assuming that’s a typo… congratulations, Asta)). The door was open; I stood on the threshold, saw that she had her face buried in paperwork, and knocked on the doorframe. She looked up and smiled. “Oh, hey, Prax.”
I shushed her, “Not at work!”
“Relax, the only other person here is Doctor Regina Klein, whomst you are aware is one of our mistress’ other pets.”
“I’m a little worried Alex might not have made it.”
“Maybe! Wanna bet on it? I’ll give you 3-to-1 odds he’s a goner.”
“Uh. No.”
She was silent for a few seconds, then admitted, “That was crass.”
“It was.”
“I get it. I understand now. This is why I’ve been passed over for promotions so many times.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“It isn’t the first time today. I made a joke to Diane this morning that did not go over well—which I will not be repeating—and she disciplined me. God, I’m letting another human being control me. I should be pissed, I should have told her to fuck off, but instead I feel like… I have to obey. No. Not ‘have to’. Want to obey. I crave her approval. I’ve never craved approval. Respect, sure, but not approval. I’ve never felt this need to be liked by someone coming from inside me until I gave myself to her.”
“You’re her pet.”
“I’m domesticated,” she observed with mild devastation.
“You’re not alone.”
“Yeah. She’s got both of us whipped.”
“I wouldn’t mind a whipping,” I admitted.
“Christ. Me neither, I guess, now that I think about it. I’ve only ever been the whipper, not the whipped, but now I find myself wanting her to give me a few trial lashes on the ass to see if it’s something we might like to do together. This is fucked up.” She shook her head. “So. You’re concerned this missing person case was bound to turn into a lost-and-found-too-late person case.”
I nodded solemnly.
“Well, I would have checked the cadavers myself, but I’ve been busy. Just to err on the side of caution, we have 36 unidentified males ranging from sixteen to sixty. You aren’t squeamish, are you?”
“I’m no Columbo, but the sight of death is one aspect of the job I can handle better than him. Show me.” She pulled out cadaver after cadaver, and each time I said, “Nope.” 36 negatives. This ought to have been encouraging, but I wanted Geraldine to see him again so she could stop worrying. I was desperate to find him, and him turning up in the morgue would be the most expedient way to do so, as well as the most probable. But I knew I was wanting the wrong thing.
“That’s the last of them. On the bright side, I suppose this means there’s a chance you might find him alive.”
“Yeah. The bright side.”
“Is that… disappointment I hear in your voice?”
“Just because his corpse didn’t turn up at the morgue doesn’t mean he won’t turn up tomorrow,” I quickly improvised.
“True. Come on, let’s relax, get this guy off your mind.” She sat me down in front of her desk. “I take it the investigation is kicking your ass.”
“I had an interaction with the wife.”
“And?”
“I guaranteed her that he’s still alive.”
“Shit. You over-promised when you’re probably going to under-deliver. You fucked up, girl.”
“Yeah. I did. And there’s more.”
She let her head tilt to the side. “Oh, God. What else happened?”
“As far as she knew, I was still a private investigator.” She nodded. “She had two friends over. Everyone there is an antifa. And they were talking about plans and strategies, and I got it into my head that it wasn’t right that a police officer was listening in on that, so I showed them my badge and told them I understood if they didn’t trust me. And they didn’t. So now the family and friends of the vic hate me.”
“Ungrateful bastards. They don’t understand how hard you’re working to save their guy. You came out of retirement for this, came back to work at a place with rampant sexism and sexual harassment—I’ve endured plenty of both—and on top of that, everybody here is gonna hate you for rescuing the one guy they hate more than anybody else—maybe even more than they hate the guy.”
I decided not to explain to her that the antifascists had a right and reasons to distrust me, because doing so would probably lead to an argument about the legitimacy of the concept of ACAB. I nodded with an unenthusiastic “Yeah…”
“I’m sorry you’re being treated like shit.”
“I’m unhappy, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Has your new job been kind to you?”
She bobbed her head side to side. “My first day at work? For the most part, it’s been kind to me. I knew when I asked for this position that I wouldn’t be doing any real work until I’ve finished my residency—in about 7 long years—but I’m glad Regina’s given me something to do, even if it’s a bunch of underwhelming paperwork. As much as I would love to stick my hands in someone’s chest cavity and hold their cold, decaying heart in my hands…” From the look in her eyes, and the sincere smile on her face, it was clear that she was by no means being facetious about the joy she anticipated in handling dead hearts. “…I’m still happy enough to be busy and working in a morgue at all. Not satisfied, but the distraction helps me cope with the unbearable excitement and anticipation. How was your hangover?”
I blinked a few times, then realized she had asked me a question. “Oh. Right. So… I barely managed to get out of bed, I forgot to put on deodorant, I almost wasn’t able to put on my pants, I rushed to get out the door and down the stairs which I nearly fell down multiple times, and I barely arrived on time to work… Only for Nichols to tell me he doesn’t give a shit whether I’m late… or even whether I show up.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard if you get on his bad side he has the tact of a bull kicked in the nads. Regina, on the other hand, was an hour late this morning. I asked her if something happened on the way to work and she said she didn’t ‘feel like coming in at 7’ so she slept in. I’ve concluded there’s no discipline here. Which is great if you enjoy a laid-back work environment… but I’m a workaholic, and I prefer starting my day an hour if not two hours early. Now that I’m working here, I don’t get to start my day until she hands me my assignments, so I expect to be spending a lot of time going stir crazy while waiting at my desk for her to show up.”
“That’s rough. Maybe once you’re… digging around dead people’s innards, you’ll be able to clear out her backlog.”
She grinned. “Oh, yeah. The feeling I get after clearing out somebody else’s backlog faster than they can? It’s like heroin for me. Doing Regina’s job for her on top of doing my own is my dream.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Maybe if I’m lucky… she’ll let me do a few autopsies before I graduate. Like an apprenticeship.”
“Maybe. Fingers crossed.”
The scanner finished processing the paperwork and she jogged the pages into alignment. “Anyways, they’ll respect you once you find their man, Ventura.” As she stapled the stack, I intuited there was a joke in there somewhere, and as she filed it in a cabinet, the movie reference hit me, and I busted into laughter. She giggled. “Jim Carrey fan?”
“Not especially, and I find that particular movie offensive, but I’ve watched all sorts of detective movies.”
“Lemme guess—being a detective has been your dream since you were a little girl.”
“As a matter of fact… yes, it has been.”
“Well, I see we both share a desire to acquire our dream jobs that’s so strong that we gave up our bodies, and in your case, your reputation among your fellow antifa.”
“Two kindred souls.”
“Peanut butter and jelly. Do you need anything else?”
“Nah. You showed me a bunch of dead people, and now I’m satisfied there’s a slightly less insignificant chance that my guy hasn’t been murdered yet.”
“Speaking of satisfaction, do you think maybe I could pound your cervix again tonight? Diane gifted me her strap-on.”
I blushed. “I would absolutely love to have you do that to me, but I invited someone over to do nasty things with me and my other girlfriend.”
“Would you by any chance happen to… have room for… a fourth?” she asked gingerly.
I needed a gentle way to say ‘no’. “How would you describe our relationship?”
She didn’t sound unsure of herself, but certainly unsure of my response as she answered, “Girlfriends?”
[Oh? You called me ‘Little Lady Lush’ last night. When did we become ‘girlfriends’?]
“When I joined Diane’s harem and dicked you so hard you developed another addiction. I have something you need, ergo I am your girlfriend.”
“Ah.” Her argument was crude, but nonetheless compelling.
“Well? Four-way with your girlfriends?”
“I need to… ask.” I SecreTexted Doll,
“Sent. If you end up coming, this would be her first time getting involved with two women—three if Judy joins in—at the same—” My phone notified me of a response.
“Oh. She says yes.”
“Awesome!”
“6 o’clock. 2840 Chester A Arthur.”
“I already have your address. I’ll bring some booze and mixers.”
I figured Judy could stop me if I had a moment of weakness, but it would be nice not to have the temptation… so I gave her a hint and the opportunity to withdraw her offer. “Sure. But they better be good mixers, because that’s all I’ll be drinking.”
“I’m joking! I’m not an asshole, I’m not going to bring temptation into your home.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll bring drinks, but I promise, nothing with ETOH. You are swearing off the booze permanently, aren’t you?”
“No-yeah, for sure. Back on the wagon, and this time I’m buckling my seatbelt.”
She gave me a thumbs-up. “Good luck, Prax.”
((She wants to bring it, though, doesn’t she? It could certainly add to the experience for the others. Maybe it’ll be better this way. I can handle the compulsion, no reason to dampen their fun.)) “Georgina… alcohol is a constant temptation, not just when it’s available, but every day—when I drive home after work, I want to stop by the liquor store and buy a bottle of tequila and drink it in my car until I can’t read the road signs. The same for my drive to work. But I’ve pushed that… it’s almost like anxiety, into the background, it gets a tiny bit easier to ignore the longer I’ve gone without. I can handle a bottle in my house without losing my dry streak.”
“You must be incredibly strong-willed to deal with that.”
I shrugged. “I prefer not to pat myself on the back for exercising basic self-control. And I don’t know if I like someone else expressing admiration or telling me how inspired they are by how strong I am. Especially when I just relapsed and made a fool of myself last night.”
“First of all, not feeding an addiction isn’t ‘basic self control’; second of all, I said nothing about you ‘inspiring’ me.”
“You were headed in the general vicinity. Every one of my therapists did it, constantly, so I’m familiar with the conversational foreplay that comes before being told I’m an inspiration.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry I engaged in ‘conversational foreplay’. If you’re going to pitch a bitch fit about it, I’m not bringing anything.”
I grunted. “Do you want to come or not?”
“Yeah.”
“Then be a little bit nicer to your host.”
Her cunty expression morphed into realization and regret. “(Ahh, shit…) I’m being a bitch again, aren’t I?”
“Kind of a big one.”
“Ugh. Sorry.” She seemed equal parts regretful and frustrated. “Our mistress gave me a command this morning and… I’m… trying to obey it.”
“It’s fine. And I’m not going to ask what it was she told you to do… or not do.”
“You’ve probably already guessed it. Anyway… I’ll bring soda.”
“Bring alcohol, too—anything but tequila. Bring red party cups so I can pretend I’m drinking booze. And a change of clothes, you’re sleeping in my bed tonight. I don’t want you driving home drunk at three in the morning.”
“Are you saying that from personal experience?”
“I am. But we’re not at the point in our relationship where I share details of that experience.”
“Alright, alright, I won’t try to get you to talk about it. Sorry for… prying. And I promise I will bring red cups.”
“Good. Thank you for showing me the bodies. I have to go over all the evidence in my CaseCloud and figure out what the hell my next step is gonna be.” She got up and hugged me firmly, something I was not expecting from a cutthroat workaholic bitch, but sure enough she squeezed me tight, authentically, then kissed me long and hard and aggressively. I occasionally glanced at my phone and watched the minutes tick by. We kissed for 11 minutes, until we were interrupted by the clearing of a throat. My heart skipped a beat. I turned around slowly, dreadfully, to see the source of the sound as it asked, “What’s up, bitches?”
The woman was maybe 2 or 3 years my senior, 5′8″, with azure hair peeking out from a lighter blue bouffant, and teal scrubs under a white lab coat, both stained with blood. On her breast was a brass name tag labeled ‘R. Klein, MD’. I relaxed as soon as I recognized her name. Under her arm was a thick stack of paper held together by a binder clip. “Did you finish digitizing the Tenderloin John Doe, Georgia?” Medical Examiner Klein asked sternly.
“Georgina, and yes, I finished it like 5 minutes ago.”
“15,” I corrected her.
“We kissed for a quarter of an hour?”
“11 minutes. Time flies.” I extended my hand. “Examiner Klein, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
She shook it. “Call me ‘Reggie’. Diane’s mentioned you a couple times. Said you were ‘very loyal, very obedient, and very expressive’…”
“I suppose I am.”
She smirked. “You don’t know true pleasure until you’ve felt her wrath. You owe it to yourself to give being a bad girl a try.”
“I’ve considered it,” I replied cautiously. “Disobeying her goes against my nature, though.”
She shook her head and smirked as she strolled past us, sat on Georgina’s desk, dropped the stack she was carrying on it, and said, “Georgia, here’s the Dennis Fahrenheit drowning. Get to work.” Georgina hummed, returned to her chair, and leafed through the report. “So, Andrea… I’m quite interested in you, I’ve been told you have the libido of a rabbit and you make the cutest sound when you cum.”
“And was it… Diane who told you this, or was it Georgina?”
“First Georgia, but I didn’t believe her so I asked Diane. So I know it isn’t simply one person’s opinion, but an objective fact.”
“I won’t argue with them.”
“So I was wondering if you might like to come by my place tonight and demonstrate for me. I’d love to play with your body and record what kinds of sounds it makes in response to various stimuli. I’ve been working on a scientific system of mapping the qualities of a given sexual vocalization to the location, intensity, and pleasurability of the erogenous stimulation that prompted it. The key factors are changes in the formants of a train of sexual utterances and the timing of those changes. Gonna make Kinsey proud, bringing sexology to the front page again.”
She was attractive enough, and my clit was swelling at the implication that I was nothing more than a sexual curiosity to her, one data point of many, a subject to be dissected and studied, a stepping stone towards her ambitions, but… “Any other day I’d visit and let you analyze me all night long, but tonight I have a prior engagement.”
“I’m sure it can be rescheduled.”
“I’d rather not reschedule when there are 3 guests.”
“They won’t mind.”
“Regina… I’m inviting 2 women over to meet my soulmate.”
“So?”
“For… sex with me. And her.”
“Then make me your plus-one! Ju mer vi är tillsammans!”
“What does… ‘you mare—’ that mean?”
“Roughly, ‘the more the merrier’.”
I rolled my eyes. ((First Georgina invites herself, now Reggie. This “threesome” is multiplying uncontrollably.)) And yet… I couldn’t help but feel like it would be a little bit—not insignificantly, but still not by very much at all—unfair to Reggie if I didn’t invite her, and a little hypocritical. Plus… she was a fellow pet, it was reasonable to assume I had an implicit obligation to show her hospitality.
“Or are you jealous because I’m her favorite?”
I gave her a dubious stare. “I wouldn’t necessarily say you’re her favorite. As you should be aware, I am her most loyal and obedient and trusting, so it follows that I would be her favorite.”
“She doesn’t care about how well we follow orders. She’s in it for the psychological games and inflicting pain, which pet is the least well-behaved, which pet is the most pathetic, which pet is the most receptive to punishment and abuse. And I am all of those.”
“I was working on Adams on Saturday. She was my first john. She started insulting me as soon as we had privacy, and I responded by insulting myself so hard she threw herself at me and told me to fuck her.”
“So… you like to think of yourself as a little whore?”
“I serviced 2 people at the same time in exchange for a work favor, and they both called me a whore and a slut and compared me to a sex toy, and I couldn’t have stopped violently fingering myself if somebody had held a gun to my head. Being treated like an object with the sole purpose of pleasing others turned me on so hard I couldn’t even crawl for 5 minutes after I came. So, no, I’m not a little whore. I’m not a big whore, either. I’m the biggest fucking whore you’ve ever met.”
She laughed skeptically. “I have to see you getting fucked with my own eyes—and my own fingers—to believe you.”
“Fine. 2840 Chester A Arthur, apartment 201, 6 o’clock. There will be alcohol and it will probably go irresponsibly late on a weeknight, so bring a change of work clothes.”
With a renewed and especially mischievous smirk she patted me on the shoulder. “I will be there at your orgy.” ((Oh. I suppose an orgy is exactly what it is, now.)) “I will make you cum—hard. And I’ll be the judge of whether you deserve the title of ‘Greatest Whore’.” And then she left.
I checked on Georgina; she was busy typing. “Asta—”
“I hate that name.”
“I’m not a big fan, either, it isn’t feminine and it isn’t feline. You should ask for a new one, I’m sure our mistress will agree it’s not the right name for you.”
“I guess I can leave a couple minutes early to swing by her office.”
“Good. You’re busy, I don’t want to bother you, I’m gonna go look at the evidence I have so far.”
“Seeya, ya big whore,” she said affectionately; I giggled.
As I left the morgue I checked the time for the hundredth time that day: 2:14 PM. I had until about 5:30 before I needed to leave to arrive at the get-together on time. I decided to give a heads-up to Judy, who answered her phone right away. “What’s up, Andy?”
“I’m having a few guests over for a little get-together. There isn’t a dress code, but you may want to make sure whatever you wear is… easy to remove.”
“How many guests are we talking about?”
“‘Just’ 3—4, if you count yourself as a ‘guest’.”
She laughed. “You don’t do anything by half measures, do you?”
“It just kind of snowballed, people kept inviting themselves and… well, you know I can’t often find a reason to say ‘no’ to this kind of thing. Or anything sexual, to be honest. I blame you.”
“What time is it scheduled?”
“6.”
“That should be enough time to prep. I’ll see you at your apartment, 6 o’clock, on the dot.”
“I promise I won’t be late.”
I logged into my laptop and then into CaseCloud. The dash cam footage from 5 of the vans was there, and with trepid fingers I opened the first van’s file.
With more skepticism than optimism, I watched from the dashboard a van idling for a couple of minutes. Nothing happens, other than someone asking about the countdown, and someone else responding that they have another 40 minutes until they’re moving forward with the operation. Sure enough, at precisely 09:00 the van starts moving. Nothing continues to happen, other than chatter about the Roadrunners’ most recent series against the Padres, for a quarter of an hour… and then the steeple of the Hotel Torrey Pines appears, towering above the other rooftops of Adams. As soon as the van turns eastbound onto Adams the mysterious blue car comes into view. I waited for the camera to get close enough to read the plates—
And then I noticed the blue car’s model—Dodge Charger. I scrubbed back and forth to find a frame where the front plate is legible, to no avail—the camera’s resolution was simply too low.
I let the video resume. The vans park on the wrong side of the street a few tens of meters behind the car, facing the hotel. Teams alpha through delta report that they are ready, and at 09:14:59, a battle cry of ‘Go!’ comes in over the radio. Not long after, thumps and thuds occasionally disturb the silence for several minutes, concluding with the slamming of the doors. At 09:25:24 an announcement comes over the radio, ‘Zone Tango Papa Hotel clear, all Operation Broken Wishbone units return to Papa-one.’
The vehicles head back to base amid mutual congratulations. The van is parked and turned off, and the only sounds are the footsteps of the detainees being unloaded from the van and verbal prodding from the officers. I scrubbed through the rest of the video, and found nothing. I sat back and worried about the blue car. I had no doubts that the other vans would provide equally poor views of the car’s license plates. I would have to wait for the body cam recordings.
It was 5:14, giving me plenty of time to get home and begin welcoming guests.
I locked my laptop and headed home, stopping at the Groceright along the way to pick up a box of Teddy Grahams while fighting the temptation to grab a bottle each of top shelf tequila and triple sec and a dozen limes.