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This is what I found when I powered up my laptop and logged in to check my email. “Sgt. Finn, Your Lt. was kind enough to give me your email address since you have some strange aversion to telephones. In exchange, I was courteous enough to fax him the form stating you had indeed kept your first appointment. Dr. Weaver and I are apparently suffering some strange form of amnesia and cannot recall a thing which might possibly have taken place mid-morning on Wednesday May 21st. However, if you do not keep your appointment which I have taken the liberty of setting up for you Friday, May 23rd, 2:30 p.m., I am afraid we will be forced to seek treatment to remedy that. Sincerely, Dr. K. Legaspi, M.D.” God, she’s annoying! But in such an amusing way. I check the date on the toolbar and am relieved to see it’s only 1745 on Thursday, May 22nd. The time on the email says it was sent only a couple of hours earlier, so I assume it’s safe to think she hasn’t begun any sort of commitment process. Yet. I hit reply and type in: “Dear Knuckles Legaspi, I am so sorry to learn of your recent bout with a troubling mental disorder. I empathize as I seem to be suffering much the same for a more extended length of time. I would be delighted to have you take me to a late lunch somewhere very expensive in the Fisherman’s Wharf area! I shall expect you around 1400 hours next date. So kind of you to offer to show me your city, knowing I have so far only taken an extensive tour of a toilet bowl. Please feel free to bring major wads of cash and the lovely Dr. Weaver. However, I should tell you I know ex-CIA when I see one. I will, of course, refrain from saluting her in public and thereby blowing her cover. Just as Sincerely, Sgt. Investigator H. Cooper Finn TX DPS CLE P.S. I am sensing some deeply rooted control issues within your personality. I feel you should perhaps consider therapy. “ I’m giggling like an idiot as I send it. I locate the instruction manual for the security system in the top drawer of the wardrobe, just as Jinny had said. I also locate a mind boggling amount of sex toys on top of the instruction manual. There are vibrators and feathers and dildos of every shape, size, color and texture. There are strings of anal beads in several different varieties which I fish out and over to the side cautiously using a pen. There are butt plugs and nipple clamps and panties, both crotchless and edible, three black half melted candles, porn videos, magazines which cater to a more hard core group than the Playboy crowd and a small black whip and leather mask. I stir around warily and discover black silk handkerchiefs and leather collars and wrist bands and straps and a pair of cuffs. There are at least twenty unopened condoms. Ribbed and lubricated. Well, that’s comforting. Sylvie is a very kinky girl, but she is at least a very kinky smart girl. It’s like a home Porn-Mart. I’m fascinated trying to figure out what some of the stuff is and forget for awhile that I am supposedly on a mission to change the security code. I pull out a bewildering tangle of black leather with silver rings in various places and feel like I have earned a gold star when I finally grasp it’s a harness for the dildos, using one of the magazine covers as a guide and attempting to hold it at the proper angles. Or actually two harnesses, all twisted and knotted together. Sylvie must have taken this one off in a hurry. I wonder if she took it off herself or someone else. Do men even wear these things? Perhaps I should flip through that magazine and do a little research sometime after I get the security code changed. Maybe Sylvie swings both ways. Maybe she wore them both at once. That would certainly be tricky to get out of, I muse and find I’m giggling and can feel the heat in my face. I should have gone into Vice. Who wants to be an expert on meth labs when shit like this is lying around in drawers? I’ve never had this much fun or got giddy inventorying grams of coke or bricks of pot. Well, there was the time some moron dropped a lit cigarette in the back end of a UHaul full of a load we’d just seized, melting the plastic and setting ablaze at least one of the compressed cannabis bricks. We’d all been giggling too hard to put the fucking fire out until the Major had strolled out to see what the seizure amount was going to be. That straightened everybody up real fast. I finally un-dildo the manual and take it downstairs to study over a cold beer. It appears fairly simple. The code can be all numerals, all letters, or a combination of both and can be up to 30 characters long. The manufacturer’s recommend a simple, easy to remember phrase converted to the corresponding numbers on the keypad. I use my fingers to tally up “MASSEY IS A DICKHEAD” and am pleased to discover that it will do just fine. Let’s see the arrogant, egotistical Motherfucker figure that one out. I’m standing in the entrance hallway chortling over my little joke at Massey’s expense and about to begin punching in the sequence to clear the old code when some gear in my head meshes suddenly with another and I stop, staring blankly at the wall. Jase used to tell me I looked like I was experiencing a petit mal seizure during the moments when my brain was working hardest. I am having a Hink Moment. I lay the book down and dig my pager out and slide it out of the little case it’s in to extract the slip of paper I’d stuck in there. It’s the current code. I have to enter it and then remove it before I can install the new one anyway, but I have a head like a Rolodex for number combinations and I have already memorized it. I just want absolute confirmation of what I know I am going to find. 795843 56837 54669. Sylvie Loves Jinny. This is one of those major, “Oh Shit” moments. This is what Exstead is protecting. This is what she is hiding and being defensive about. This is why she nearly fucking fainted when I asked about Sylvie. (Oh Jesus, what exactly had I asked about Sylvie?) This is how she knows the code and how she got past the gates and this is how she knows this place… And she told me where to find the instruction manual. She told me where to find it, knowing what else I would find in that drawer. I make the stairs in record time. I dig through the rubber dicks and leather and feathers until my fingers feel the cool familiar slickness of steel and I scoop the cuffs out and stare at them. My hands are trembling because I already know what I’m going to find. Cuffs are generic. You can’t tell them apart. Sometimes two pairs are needed for larger boned perps and we share and swap and claim them later. But there’s always some nimrod in the station who never shows up with his or hers and to thwart that person constantly claiming a pair not theirs, you mark them. So you can take them back later and say, “No, Fuckhead, they’re mine. See that? Are your initials HCF? I didn’t think so.” I walk over beneath the skylight and turn them, looking. And there it is. Probably done with a broken paper clip or a nail file or pocket knife because the letters are faint and jagged. J.E. This is what is known as an “oh fuck” moment. Below me Jase exclaims in feigned irritation, “Coop! YOU’VE GOT MAIL.” I know it’s sick to keep the wavs but I can’t help it. It startles me every time and leaves me feeling like I’ve just fallen through a black hole and landed in the Twilight Zone and it threw everyone in narcotics within ear range of my computer into a subdued hysteria but I can’t make myself change them. If it’s all I can have then why can’t I just have it? What is so fucking horrible about hanging onto those little scraps of Jase? I want to hear him say my name. He was supposed to be saying it from now on. I take the cuffs with me. I’m making a furious mental list, the kind I make after “oh shit” and “oh fuck” moments. I have to change the code. I do not want Massey or anyone with anything to do with Massey walking in on me or rummaging through my stuff when I am not here. I have to go through this place and I have to find everything there is to do with Exstead and I have to~~ what? Destroy it? Hide it? Take butt plugs and vibrators to Goodwill? And then it hits me like a ton of rubber dicks. Massey already knows. This is why he’s doing the hula around her. This is why he’s standing on his head screaming her name at me. This is why none of the rest of it makes any sense, because it’s been rigged up to point someone, to point me to this. I decide I will make the new code “MASSEY IS A FUCKING DICKHEAD”. When I snatch the manual up photographs spill out from between the pages onto the polished hardwood floor. I cannot believe this. I’m running out of words to define just how crappily fucked this shit has become. Did neither Exstead nor Sylvie either one possess a brain cell between them? And we think men get stupid when their dicks are hard. I have no idea what Sylvie does for a living but you would think a cop would at least attempt to not leave evidence, much less initialed evidence and photographs. If this is part of being rehabilitated I am going to apply myself to becoming a much more dedicated drunk than I am. Someone’s breasts are laying there staring up at me, so to speak. It’s unnerving. But I get the new code in and the security system in place and the door locked before I allow myself to kneel down and begin gathering them up. The first thing I notice, other than the obvious, is that they are digital and have been printed on glossy photograph paper. The camera, the paper and the laser jet printer used are of high grade quality. No low bid shit. This means they are Sylvie’s because it’s unlikely Exstead has $7,000 worth of equipment on a cop’s salary. I’ve spent a great deal of my time in this place in an incoherent, near comatose condition, but I think I’d have noticed a computer set up. If it’s not here, then where? I take them back into the front room without actually looking at them yet and am reaching for the beer when I remember I have new mail. I have two actually. One is from Sarge affirming he received the fax from Legaspi. What had I found out from McCafferty and was the case looking any clearer and did I have some leads and some bullshit about checking in and being smart and make sure my pager is on and I have my cell with me In other words, I am still being babysat. Checked on. Expected to check in. Although nothing like what I had feared, probably because he had received that form from Legaspi. The second is from, of course, Legaspi: “Dear Sgt. Finn, Dr. Weaver and I decided to take you up on your offer of treating us to a Texas visit, preferably in the fall when we find it rather chilly here. You really didn’t have to offer to pay for both flights, however, we accept. You’re too kind. We shall be picking you up tomorrow afternoon around 2:00 p.m. If you are unable to translate that into Cop Time, Agent Weaver suggests you purchase a timepiece from a more conventional outlet rather than the Green Berets. Or simply go accost someone. Ridiculously Sincere, Knuckles Legaspi, M.D. P.S. We are betting one another what the “H” stands for. I am leaning towards “Headache” while Kerry is certain it is “Hallucinogenic” thereby explaining both your calling and habits in life.“ She almost makes me forget what I’ve lain down on the floor beside me. Almost. Shit. Do I want to look at these? Do I have any right to look at these? This is not what I was sent out here to do but now it seems I wasn’t sent out here to do what I thought anyway. But to look at these photos which were obviously intended to remain private and after knowing that this case now has nothing to do with drugs… Or does it? I already know Sylvie Chandler is kinky and has access to prescription drugs but there is nothing illegal about that. But what if she exerted whatever influence she had or has on Exstead in order to obtain some illegal substances to party on? I can’t wrap my mind around Jinny being induced to do something like that but then I am seeing her now, after Rehab and I have no way of knowing what she was like prior to that. And until a half hour ago I would never have imagined finding her cuffs in a drawer of sex toys. But being kinky and drunk does not necessarily mean a dirty cop. And when she left here, after I said the name aloud, she could barely stand up and she couldn’t meet my eyes. Was that humiliation and shock that I tossed that name down and she knew what I was going to find, or is it guilt? And why did she send me straight to the drawer with the sex toys and the fucking cuffs in the first place? I would have eventually thought, “Gee I should change that code” but not right then and she could have slipped in when I was gone and removed everything pointing me to finding this out. Is this some bizarre sober self-destructive streak? Yet another convincing argument for drunkenness. I reply to Sarge’s email first. I don’t go into details but tell him, yes, case is shaping up but is now hinkier than ever but not to worry I am good to go and in sterling tip top shape. Thanks for showing the confidence in me to do this; I won’t let you down, blah blah blah. I can almost feel the shit drying on my nose as I reply next to Legaspi’s: “Oh Knuckles, The offer of Agent Weaver as my personal sex slave is just too, too much! Really, you shouldn’t have. However, I wouldn’t want to endanger our deep meaningful friendship and insult you by refusing so I accept. Is she particularly allergic to any specific animal dandruff? I shall await you both at the gate. I’ll bring the cuffs. As Ever, Sgt. Investigator, H. Cooper Finn TX DPS CLE P.S. Obviously, it’s for ‘Hilarious’” There. Let’s see her top that one. I glance at the little stack of photos and nudge them with one bare toe. It’s not that I’m afraid to look at them, I reason. It’s that it is a violation of privacy. That’s it. Sylvie Chandler, who are you and how have you succeeded in fucking up Exstead’s life so efficiently? Okay. I can handle this. I’ve looked at porn before, many times. Just because I might know one of these people is not reason enough to be squeamish about it. It is not an invasion of privacy because this is obviously pivotal to why I am out here. I am calm and collected and all I really need to know about these photos is if they indicate some further measure of fucked-upedness, which I doubt is possible. I mean, this is San Francisco, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like there are no gay cops on the force out here. That there is some measure of homophobia I’ll buy; but we’re not talking like she’s being outed in say, Texas. And she’s got one hell of a lawsuit if she can prove Massey is trying to get her fired by staging an investigation on bogus missing drugs when the real reason is she racked his balls for him when he asked her out. And I am great at writing up that type of report. Instead of stomping around glaring at me she should have just been up front about it and honest and I wouldn’t have wasted all this time dicking around trying to solve the stolen narcotics when what was really up for grabs were stolen civil rights. But then me and my 1800 milligrams of Vicodin vomit have not been exactly reassuring or confidence inspiring. At least they have not been as stupid as I had feared. Most of the shots seem to be of one particular female who I assume is Sylvie, but even if I had a photo of her in front of me I couldn’t be certain since they’ve been careful to avoid head shots and when the head is included the face is concealed beneath that black mask. I shuffle through them, looking for details and realize that the person taking the photographs is male; in one of the shots taken on the bed upstairs he is sitting with a leg extended and the calf and foot are in the shot which is necessary because he has a toe inserted… Somewhere. In a close up of her breasts with nipple clamps attached a large, male hand is in the center, the chain wrapped around big knuckles, the breasts tugged inward by the force. Ouch. Sylvie, Sylvie. No wonder she has such voracious need for pain pills. There are a few where Mr. Kink attempted to get artsy fartsy and have Sylvie masturbate with a dildo and one leg up on the black counter in what I recognize as the bathroom upstairs; he was apparently attempting to capture the moment on film in reflection but the flash was funky and glared off the mirror. It’s annoying because this is the only one with a head shot without the mask, but all I can tell is that Sylvie’s hair is very long and very blonde. Not like I need to know what she looks like anyway but it’d be interesting to see what Exstead has risked her ass for. Three of the photos are of two women, one of them presumably Sylvie wearing the mask but with long pale hair showing beneath it. The other, I see with relief, is definitely not Exstead. The hair is darker than Sylvie’s and the color is undetermined because the film is in black and white but there is no way it is anything darker than a mousy brown, no way it is anything like the deep color of Jinny’s. It’s the wrong cut, the wrong texture too and the length is far down the pale expanse of back. I lay the photos down and can’t help grinning just a little. This isn’t so bad. This is apparently Sylvie and some guy and gal just having a little adult fun in the privacy of Sylvie’s bedroom. That Exstead and Sylvie have had similar fun is a given going by her reaction to the name, the autographed hand cuffs and the intriguing Sylvie Loves Jinny security code. But she has not been stupid enough to allow any real evidence. This is a containable situation, as Sarge would say. It just needs a bit of damage control. There is nothing here she can lose her job over, nothing but just minor circumstantial evidence indicating she has probably had biblical knowledge of another female. While this might not be something she particularly wants plastered all over the front page of “The Chronicle” and while it will probably make her life even more complicated if it becomes public knowledge it is not something she can be legally fired over. I am going to peel Massey’s dick back to his homophobic asshole with my investigation and report and he’ll be facing charges for a fabricated investigation, tampering with State’s evidence, maligning a peace officer, violating umpteen of his Departmental codes, being in possession of too many teeth and anything else I can come up with. Jinny can file a lawsuit and buy a place like Sylvie’s little sex nest here. Nice. I am so pleased with myself that I wish I had Jinny’s number to call her and clue her in that the pussy is out of the bag and I don’t give a rip and come over and let’s figure out how we’re going to nail Massey’s hide. I stick the photographs back into the manual and decide to kick back and watch Sylvie’s, of course, wide screen television. I’ve finally discerned that the thing on the wall across from the sofa is a massive entertainment center and it only took me four days. That’s how keen my cop instincts are. Several videotapes fall out when I swing the cabinet doors open too hard and for just a second I tense and think, No way. She is not that stupid. I’m still relieved when I tentatively flip them over and see the titles; Charlies Angels, Shrek, The Matrix. Phew! Jinny Exstead’s sex life is going to give me a heart attack. I can already tell the television and remote controls are going to be far worse than the espresso machine or the dishwasher. I punch buttons which look likely and nothing happens except I realize the various lights are switching off and on upstairs and down and the drapes on the windows to my right whir forwards and back a few times. Cool. I’m probably launching satellites and fucking with NASA too. Now if I could just turn the television on. I give up. There must be some secret code. Fortunately the stereo system has controls on the front and I happily discover Sylvie has as varied a taste in music as myself. Everything from Nine Inch Nails to Indigo Girls stocks her shelves. It’s a twelve CD changer and I decide I’ll just go with whatever Sylvie was last listening to and am searching the front of the machine for a button which will surely just be marked “Play” when I realize there is something in one of the dual cassette decks. It’s another photograph. It’s in black and white and was taken with a 35 mm. The woman who must be Sylvie Chandler is standing at the side of the bed upstairs, near the foot, right hand above her head, cuffed to the metal canopy. Her head is back and blonde hair hangs skimming the top of her ass but the heart shaped face is tilted and looking directly into the camera. The left leg is lifted and curled around the waist of the other woman. The blonde’s body is twisted to the right with her weight on the right leg so the hand and the two fingers penetrating her are plainly visible. Sylvie’s free hand is fisted in the other’s dark hair pulling her head back from where it is buried between breasts and although her face isn’t really visible, only an inch of forehead maybe, it’s unmistakably Jinny Exstead.
END OF EIGHT {~> Crossroads Next Story, Please <~} ***Author Note*** (Because MJ asked so sweetly & apologies for not giving these sooner.) TX DPS ~~> Texas Department of Public Safety. (Not Pubic Safety; Public Safety although we do strive to protect Pubes at Large) CLE ~~> Criminal Law Enforcement (A branch of TX DPS meaning anything not TLE & encompassing all undercover/narcotics/fraud/theft/sex cases but usually understood to be Narcotics because otherwise the person would probably be a Texas Ranger and the investigation would fall within their jurisdiction) TLE ~~> Traffic Law Enforcement (The guys that pull you over & give you tickets, usually referred to by the civilian population as “Prick” or “Asshole” & who actually take those as compliments.) HP ~~> Highway Patrol aka TLE
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