“Sylvia Navarez has been strangled.”
“And you thought of me, how sweet.” I slurred my words as best I could. My face felt flush with alcohol.
Hanson looked at Tripp and said, “He’s drunk.”
“Looks that way,” he said.
Anger passed over her face. She’d thought she had me, except she didn’t. Somehow she must have called whoever she had watching my GPS signal and found out it hadn’t budged for hours. And now she could smell “evidence” of what I’d been doing during those hours.
I couldn’t resist prodding her. “You wanna arrest me for something. How ‘bout Housing-While-Intoxicated.” It was a terrible joke, and I knew it. But it was exactly the kind of joke I made when I was drunk. And I’d begun to feel drunk. My stomach felt distended from all the Margarita I’d dumped into it.
Hatred floated off Hanson; she turned and walked down my lawn to the Crown Vic. Tripp gave me a little nod and followed his partner. I went into the kitchen to make another pitcher of Margaritas. While mixing the ingredients, I looked out the window and saw Hanson and Tripp standing on either side of the Crown Vic, arguing.
I stopped mixing Margaritas and watched. Hanson was furious, red-faced, yelling so loud the cords in her neck stood out. Tripp attempted to placate her. He had both hands up in a conciliatory gesture. Obviously, she was accusing him of something, but what?
I was thinking about easing open the window so I could hear what they were arguing about when Hanson got into the Crown Vic. Tripp tried to open the passenger’s door, but it was locked. He pounded on the window as she pulled away from the curb. I was shocked. Hanson had dumped her partner. I hurried out to the front yard. As I walked down the lawn, Tripp had his cell phone out making a call. When I got close, I could tell it was to a cab company. A minute later he hung up the phone.
“Trouble?” I asked. He gave me a dirty look. “You want me to give you a ride somewhere?”
“You’re drunk.”
I shrugged. “True. You want a Margarita?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Oh. That’s right.”
“What do you mean ‘that’s right?’ We never talked about that.”
“There’s a cup on your desk. The kind alcoholics have.”
He gave me a stern, unfriendly look. Then he seemed to remember I wasn’t the enemy. His look softened. I turned and walked up the lawn. Looking over my shoulder, I made sure he followed me. I was barely in the house before he grabbed me and pulled me to him. We kissed, tongues plunging deep into each other. Falling against my front door. Our hands everywhere.
Before I thought about it, I had my hand in his pants, wrapping a fist around the base of his thick cock. With my other hand, I unzipped his slacks. I eased his pants and briefs down around his hips and got his prick completely free. His skin was amazingly smooth, like living silk. He was uncircumcised, and I jerked him gently so the foreskin rubbed up and down his cockhead.
Meanwhile, he had hold of my prick, rubbing me through my shorts. He was rough, rougher than I was. I wondered then how completely he believed in my innocence. Did he still have doubts? Was he bringing them into this? When I broke our kiss and tried to look down at his dick, he pulled me back up to his mouth and gave me a bruising kiss.
Finally, he undid my shorts and pushed our naked cocks together. He pushed my hand away and jerked us both. His dick a darker brown than the rest of him, mine flushed pink. Letting go, he reached down and grabbed my balls. I gasped. He rolled my balls in one hand while pumping me with the other. Gently, he flicked the head with a finger.
Pushing away, I began to drop to my knees, anxious to get him into my mouth. He grabbed me by the neck to stop me. I looked into his eyes, questioning. He smiled and continued to jerk me off. I reached over and pulled on his dick.
Our eyes glued to each other, we pumped. Soon, his cock seemed to swell, getting even harder. Then it contracted, and come spurted out of him, landing on the floor and all over my hand. Even as he was coming, he pulled me into a kiss. And then I joined him, my hips pushing forward as my muscles convulsed. I came on his nicely laundered shirttails.
We held each other, panting, for a few moments. Then I went into the kitchen and got a paper towel from the butcher block. After we wiped up, I asked, “Why is your partner mad at you?”
He frowned, seeming to be sorry the mood had changed. “She thinks you killed Sylvia Navarez. She’s pissed you’re getting away with it.”
“Why is she so sure? You’re not sure.”
He just looked at me for a moment. “You know what, I really shouldn’t talk to you about the case. I’ve already said too much.”
Then I answered my own question. “She thinks I killed Sylvia because she thinks I killed Eddie. It doesn’t make sense they’d be strangled by different people. So it has to be me.”
“We should talk about the weather. Nice day, isn’t it?”
“You don’t think I killed Sylvia. That means you don’t think I killed Eddie. You let me go because you’re afraid your partner is going to find a way to pin both murders on me.”
“I like this time of year,” he said, wiping himself off and pulling up his pants. “It’s comfortable, but not too cold.”
“Sylvia called me and asked me to come over. Whoever killed her made her do that. Set it up so it would look like it was me.”
With a serious look, he said, “You should
