Death in Eden Ch. 02

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I woke up, thinking at first that it had all been one long wet dream. But when I opened my eyes, there he was, over at the full-length window, leaning his shoulders back against the side frame of the window and looking out over the morning traffic inching back and forth over the Key Bridge linking Georgetown to the Virginia suburbs. He was magnificent in nakedness and repose in a way that made the football posters and commercial shots of him that woman flowed over pale in contrast. His knees were slightly bent, and the leg toward the window was lifted, with the pad of his foot resting on the window frame. His dong was jutting out and hanging down. A good eight or nine thick inches of it as I gauged it from where I lay tangled in the mussed sheets of the bed. He was smoking a cigarette and looking out on the city with unseeing eyes. He seemed to be looking at something inside him. I suspected I knew what.

“Regrets?” I asked in a low voice. “Because . . . I mean . . .”

He turned that radiant smile on me and snuffed out his cigarette in an ashtray on a small table in front of the window.

“Come here for a few minutes and then ask that question if you still want to,” he said. That voice was husky again. And his cock was beginning to jut out.

“I think we used all the condoms I brought,” I answered, almost apologetically, even though it had been Jentel who raced through the condoms.

“No problem. I brought my own.” And he had. He pointed to the top of the table in front of the window, and there was a small pile of condom packets there.

“I think I should shower first,” I then said. “I haven’t washed for over a day now. I must stink like a pig.”

“I think not,” he said. Still smiling, but voice like steel now. Knowing what he wanted; not to be denied. “Come here. Now.”

I disentangled myself from the sheets and moved toward the window.

“I don’t think this will work. I’m a big man.” I was panting, worked up by his kisses and his tonguing on my torso and snuffling up into my pits. But I was skeptical about what he was trying to position my body to do. He was still standing, leaning against the frame of the window, crouched a bit farther down, trying to lap me on this thighs, facing him.

“No problem,” he muttered, his voice full of lust. Knowing what he wanted and determined to get it. “I’m bigger—and every way,” and then he laughed and I smiled too, as he most certainly was. “And stronger,” he continued. “I lift heavier weights than you every day. Hook those knees on my hips. Now!”

And it was obvious that he did lift those weights and was quite strong enough, because he grabbed me with his hands around the small of my waist and lifted gaziantep escort me and settled his cock head on my hole. I reached down and held his cock until he had broached my channel by a good couple of inches. And then I cried out as he slowly forced my pelvis down on his ass splitter and, when he had bottomed, began pumping me up and down on his tool, handling me like I was a writhing, groaning rag doll.

“Oh, god, Yessss! Oh, no, no . . . no . . .slowly . . . yessss! Oh, shit, Jentel. Oh, Shittt! Faster, harder, deeper!”

Afterward, still skewered on him as he crouched against the window frame, still panting slightly, both of us looking down into the rush hour traffic on the busy Rosslyn streets below: “Why me? In the plane. How did you know?”

“I didn’t know, not for sure,” Jentel whispered. “And I wasn’t thinking of you. I was thinking of me. I just knew I had to have you.”

“But how? Why did you . . .? What did I do . . . or say . . . that . . . got to you?”

“Your scent,” he answered in a low voice. “The scent of a man. Your scent put me in heat. And then I had to have you. I don’t know how to explain it.”

But he didn’t have to explain it. I had heard it before. I had something that got to men who were even slightly inclined. And I hadn’t showered before going to the airport.

A long pause.

“Can we shower now?” I asked.

“Will you see me again?” he responded.

A slight pause.

“Yes, I don’t see why not.”

“Then we can shower now. I won’t use this last condom.”

But he did use the last condom, in the shower, taking me from the rear, under the streaming water, pushing my belly up and down on the slick, soapy tiles of the shower with the strength of his cock jackhammering up into me.

At the door, as he, dressed in what he’d worn the previous day, was about to leave ahead of me: “How long will you be here?”

“As long as it takes,” I answered. “As long as my business here takes. And I’m not sure now how long that will be.”

“And when I want to fuck you again—”

“Then you will fuck me again,” I responded.

That big white-toothed smile reappeared.

And as he opened the door to leave: “And, oh, Jentel,” I said, “What happens in the Marriott stays in the Marriott.”

A repeated grin and a “thanks,” and he was gone.

* * * *

I got the call on where I was to go soon after Jentel left. A car had already been rented for me and was waiting down on Nash Street. In little time at all I was cruising out on the George Washington Parkway and taking the Route 193 back road through the very wealthy, deceptively rural residential area around Great Falls on the Potomac, and then on out the quickly developing Route 7 corridor to just beyond Leesburg, the center of the Northern Virginia hunt country. I’d picked the Rosslyn area for my hotel not only because it was just across the Potomac from the nation’s capital, but also because it gave me ready access to a relatively pleasant, counter commuter traffic, scenic drive out to Loudon County, where I’d been summoned by the chief of police of one of the richest counties in the nation.

As I drove, I wracked my brain how Johnny “The Club” Wallace, at one time the scourge of New York City’s underbelly, had managed a connection with the rolling hunt country of Virginia’s Loudon County.

“It was the witness protection program,” Peter Blair, the aforementioned chief of police, told me when I was standing on the front porch of a modestly sized, but obviously high-priced southern colonial house not more than ten miles beyond the moneyed “countrified” town Leesburg had become.

“I knew he’d gone into the program,” I said. “But he would have really been out of his element here, I’d think. I mean one of the Mafia’s chief hit men?”

“Yeah,” Blair said. And then he laughed. “But I guess they were using psychology. This would probably be the last place the Mafia would find him. We call this area of the country Eden, you know. With some folks thinking Washington, D.C., is the center of the world, all of the rich and famous who gather here need some place close by where they can canter their horses and enjoy their entitlements.”

Pete Blair was still looking good. He was older than I was by about ten years, but he’d always been the Marine model type. Big and bulky with muscle that cried out of long hours in the gym. A crew cut and rugged blond good looks. He could be taken for an FBI agent, which probably didn’t hurt him in finding a high-paying job out here in the manicured countryside when he had so abruptly left New York. All because of me.

Not wanting to dwell on that, I snapped my attention back to the work at hand. “Well, it looks like the Mafia wasn’t fooled. Is he in the house still?”

“No, they carted him away during the night. Didn’t want the area Moguls to be disturbed. Not in the house. Out in the barn. Let’s walk and talk.”

We started off for a barn a couple of hundred feet back from the house that looked quite a bit better painted and maintained than most of the houses in my Brooklyn neighborhood.

“And it isn’t so simple as fingering a Mafia hit, either. Sal M. has been dead a while himself, and the leadership of that family has passed on to the point where it’s kind of late to come after The Club for yakking to the DA. And there are other possibilities.”

“Other possibilities?” I asked. “Oh, is that where, over at that saw horse in the center there?” We had arrived at the barn. The yellow tape was discretely just inside the structure, and I could see where the pool of blood was. Right there at the chunky wooden saw horse.

“Yes, that’s where. He was found hog tied to the saw horse. His own M.O. Clubbed to death.”

“That all?” I asked. I knew there was probably more, and I was right.

“No, not all, of course. He’d been worked on in the ass with the club before he was beaten with it. His own method.”

“And raped too?” I asked in a small, thin voice. I had to know, but I was having a hard time talking about it and breathing steady too.

“We won’t know until the autopsy is finished, Clint.” And then Blair lowered his voice to a level that none of the techs working the scene could hear. “I’m sorry, it may have been a little insensitive of me, calling you down from New York and all . . . but . . .”

“Yeah, I am sort of curious why you brought NYPD Homicide into this, Pete—and, especially, why me?”

“A couple of reasons, Clint. The first one being that no matter what happened, you are the one who knows Wallace’s cases the best. And it’s sort of delicate here for another reason.”

“Oh, what’s that, Pete?”

“You asked why we couldn’t just assume the Mafia had caught up with Wallace. It’s because there is other ‘stuff’ in play here. You know Wallace. Even though he was in the program, he was close to being taken in for another crime here.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stood and stared him down until he went on.

“We’re not far from a Loudon athletic prep school here, Clint. You know, promising athletes who aren’t academically ready to go on to college yet, but so much in demand for college athletic programs that they are given extra schooling to make the grade.”

“And so,” I said.

“As I said, you know Wallace. We had him pretty much dead to rights on a molestation of one of the nineteen-year-old boys in that program. So there was bad blood focusing on him hereabouts that had nothing to do with his previous life up in New York.”

“I’m not surprised, of course,” I said. “But that’s even more reason why you should be able to handle that down here. You were one of New York’s finest detective supervisors, Pete. Why do you need me for a simple murder investigation down here that, as you say, may have no connection to New York at all?”

“Well, here’s the thing, Clint. The boy’s father is the Commonwealth’s Attorney in this county and I myself am on tape telling Wallace I would personally tear him limb from limb. So, you see, we do need some outside help, and under the circumstance, with your history with Wallace . . .”

“Oh. OK, so can I see the body?”

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