Red Silk Scarf (5 page)

A quick
unexpected shove moved Mark sufficiently for Patrick to gain his freedom.
 
Like a child throwing a tantrum, stomping
around the patrol car, he kicked the front tire before sliding behind the
steering wheel and slamming the door.
 

Two minutes later
brought them to a favored coffee shop.
 
Mark was right Patrick decided on the way, he needed a break, a good fix
of caffeine, or, was it a fix of something else, someone else.
 

It didn’t help
that Stella was waiting for them when they entered. Without a word, her bronze
shapely figure hugged by a red leather vest and mini skirt, wriggled
upright.
 
Lacing his arm around her
narrow waist Mark escorted her out the back door and into the alley.
 

It wouldn't be
necessary to hear about Mark’s liaison; Patrick knew all too well how Stella
satisfied men’s fantasies.
 
Besides, sure
as hell, Mark would blabber on and on all evening about the juicy details.
 
Whether the need for air was from jealousy,
disgust, or sexual frustration, Sullivan couldn’t decipher.
 
Swiping at the perspiration trickling down
his forehead, he turned, and with a bang of his palms against the door, exited.

Typically, a half
hour later, with a smile of great satisfaction stretching his lips from ear to
ear, Mark returned, his disposition the jolly kind.
 
Surprised to discover Patrick missing upon
questioning the bartender he stated that Patrick seemed to be in an odious mood
and stormed off, a familiar reaction occurring all too often recently.
 

At five minute,
intervals Mark checked his watch noting that an hour had passed before Sullivan
returned.
 
He needed some fresh air he
explained, and Mark wouldn't have been suspicious if Patrick hadn’t acted so
uptight, and looked so drawn and pale, signs he chose to ignore several times
before knowing his partner was withdrawing from drugs.

Exchanging no
conversation, they returned to patrolling the streets.
 
A short time later, the scanner announced a
homicide, a normal occurrence on a Saturday night in L.A.
 
In the middle of Hollywood Boulevard a hard
tug on the steering wheel along with a size, eleven stomping the accelerator
spun the patrol car around.

Two blocks from
the scene, a dreadful feeling began tugging at their guts.
 
Both knew with awful certainty it wasn't an
ordinary homicide, there were too many cars, too many blinding, rotating
lights, too many uniforms trying to contain irrational spectators.

Hesitantly
approaching, hoping their suspicions were wrong, in unison two sets of eyes
zeroed in on the nude victim placed on the stretcher.
 
Unbelievable as it seemed, first and upper
most in Sullivan's mind, the woman was not wearing silver stilettos.
 
It wasn’t until paramedics carried the victim
passed them that they identified the victim.
 
Instantly, horror struck expressions turned on the other, each set of
eyes asking the unthinkable between friends.
 

With his mind
roaring, “No!
 
Dear God Almighty,”
Patrick backed away from the anxious crowd.
 
Finally clear of inspecting eyes, he gave into the nausea lurking all
evening.
 

In a trance like
state, Mark followed, one hand on the back of his neck grasping a shooting
pain.
 
Alongside his friend, head reared
back, he closed his eyes tears seeping in a steady stream down his cheeks.
 
There was no, standing still, no rhyme or
reason to the circular pattern venting his emotions.
 
Collecting what little remained of their
wits, expressions filled with repulsion and remorse faced each other.
 

Around
Stella's neck was a red silk scarf.
  

CHAPTER 5

When Cassidy's
bottom slithered across the gray leather seat, she was oblivious to the
lushness.
 
Outrageous noise was
bludgeoning her ears, the sound of her heart pounding frantically swelling her
veins with boiling blood.
 
Reality had
hit with the force of a cannon telling her she’d entered a deep, dark abyss
that allowed no return.
 

Sullivan was a
challenge beyond her wildest imaginings.
 
If not for Mark, he would have thrashed the daylights out of her.
 
To hell you say, she would have taught him a
thing or two, but how when her well-honed expertise could only be utilized in
case of life or death?
 

Truthfully,
Sullivan exploding from the car didn't surprise Cassidy; wanting to gage his
temperament, she purposely goaded him.
 
It was the extent of his anger that made her wonder if she could handle
what might become a frightening discovery.
  
Considering her lengthy list of successes, she didn’t understand why
suddenly he was making her question her abilities, especially since it was too
early to know much about such a complex man.

A distant voice
mumbling something finally penetrated her wrestling imaginings.
 
“Excuse me.
 
Sorry, Ben.
 
What did you say?

Ben DeMarco's
raven eyes audibly collided with their equals, mesmerizing orbs that swiftly
slithered the length of Cassidy before jerking back to the street.
 
“Jesus Christ, Mo, you're pushing Sullivan
too damn hard, too damn fast.
 
I told you
to take it easy.
  
If I didn't come
along. . .”

A lecture
instantly halted by Cassidy’s feather like finger pads gliding over a hairy
tattooed arm, as if stroking the fur of an antagonized tiger.
 
“Don't be silly, Curly, I know what I'm
doing.
 
Cut me some slack, will ya?”

Thumbs drumming
the steering wheel, an expression stern enough to uncoil a Rattle Snake, said
Ben was having great difficulty leashing his anger.
 
“I'm worried about you, that's all,” he
shouted, eyes ricocheting as his head shook back and forth assessing her then
the road.
 
“God, we go back a long
way.
 
I can't believe you volunteered for
this shit.
 
You're an idiot,” he
ranted.
 

“Now, now, chill
out.
 
I'll be fine.
 
After all, I have you to protect me, don't
I?”
 
It was his glittering globes
swinging back to hers, lips caving into the barest of smirks, that Cassidy knew
he'd keep her safe.
 

Riding in
semi-silence due to Ben sputtering undecipherable expletives beneath his
breath, Cassidy recalled when they first met in Martial Arts class.
 
Both natural born comedians, their like
characteristics brought them closer still.
 
Taking turns, each pulled pranks on their teacher and classmates trying
to outdo the other, a pair the others began referring to as Curly and Mo.

Reminiscing wrinkled
the corners of Cassidy's mouth.
 
They
were two peas in a pod, young, and stupid; full of youthful energy so certain
they alone could burn up the world.
 
Benjamin Bedito, her “Wop” buddy, she reflected lovingly.
 
If anyone else dared to use such a phrase Ben
would've gone through them like a dose of salts, so proud was he of the Italian
heritage that blessed him with midnight curls, dark skin, and bulging
muscles.
 

Admiration for
Ben literally oozed from the eyes of all the female classmates, and, Cassidy
chuckled inwardly, some of the males.
  
Though the first to admit Ben scored off the Richter scale, she defied
his efforts and held tight to her heart.
 
“We can't be best friends and lovers, Ben,” she persistently
lectured.
 
“Someday you might have to
think objectively, decide whether you save an innocent victim or me.
 
We know they’d stand a better chance with you
as my friend rather than my lover.”
 
Though it was not easy for either, Cassidy felt certain Ben recovered
from his crush long before they separated to pursue their individual careers.

A quick sideways
glance nudged Cassidy’s awareness of how much she missed her dear friend, two
years was much too long to be apart.
 
Disturbing her now, despite a sense of humor that seemed unchanged, Ben
was different, more than the, flamboyant leather vest, greased back hair, and
entire jewelry store worn on his neck, wrists, ears and fingers.
 

Forcing her eyes
from the all too alluring face melting her in sides, for the first time she
examined the vehicle's interior.
 
Never
did she dream of riding in a Mercedes, or that Ben would be behind the wheel of
an excessively expensive vehicle.
 
A
realization that erupted new concerns, did life undercover change her loving,
down to earth charmer?

Although Bens' mind was spinning out of
control, disguising emotions and thought processes came as natural to him as
breathing, the reason he was a damn good undercover cop. “Stupid, pigheaded
woman,” he spouted to himself.
 
“She will
not be happy until she gets herself killed.
 
I ought to wring her neck myself.”

Cassidy could
never learn she’d always be more than a friend, that her fingers, like a
lightning bolt, sent tremors rippling through his body electrifying his soul
for the first time in two years.
 
Ben
knew tipping her off in any way as to how hard it was not to touch her, would
cause her to give up the assignment, so honest was she.
 
For Cassidy a long awaited career-altering
opportunity.
 
He couldn't bear the
blame.
 
God help him, it was dangerous
enough without complicating matters by becoming intimately involved.

Ben was ecstatic
when first learning of Cassidy's move to L.A., until he learned the details a
time when a surge of panic shot to his gut.
 
He should have known she was not coming for fun and games.
 
This was neither the time nor place for a
woman, particularly one bearing the name of Brady.

In spite of the
endless list of females wrinkling Bens' sheets, none ever affected him the way
merely looking at Cassidy did.
  
Never
believing in Fairy Tales, he hated to admit that it was love at first sight,
just as it was upon their reunion a few weeks ago.
 
A mere friendly hug and kiss, and he felt
like he'd die from want, and from that moment on, he wished he had.
 
Now how was he going to keep secrets?
 
The love of his life couldn’t find out that
the star in heaven she’d assigned him had burned out.
 

During the
planning sessions and fight rehearsals, their closeness drew Ben into a tight
wad, just as he was now.
 
His reputation
at being the best was no guarantee that he could protect someone volunteering
to be a serial killers sacrificial lamb.
 
Thank God, Cassidy's first night on the streets was over.
 
Barely able to endure the evening all he
wanted was to get her to safety an anxiousness that made even parking the car
an enormous effort.
 
Though relieved
she'd be where he could protect her, an overwhelming vulnerability possessed
him while escorting her across the dimly lit underground parking lot to the
elevator that would exit them onto the sixth floor.
 

Ben’s reputation
on the streets had required a sizable bribe to convince the proprietor to lease
him two apartments.
 
Even considering the
exorbitant amount of greenbacks, he was unable to obtain the flat across the hall
from Cassidy’s apartment.
 
A request made
due to his oppressive need to be near her.
 
He should be thankful for the apartment on the same floor; the
proprietor snapped snatching the money from his hand.
 

Upon saying
goodnight, Ben realized the decision would not have been wise.
 
Pressing a pager into her hand, he persisted,
“Promise you'll beep me if you need anything.
 
Promise.”
 
All the while pleading
with his eyes to stay level with Cassidy's, for they had a tendency to wander
over her enthralling body.
 
Certainly if
she knew he was looking, as any man would, she’d slap him silly like many times
before.
 

Renewing their
friendship had caused a relapse into old habits of wondering what making love
to Cassidy would be like, frequent uninvited visions that caused restlessness
and added to an already perpetual exhausted state.
 
Tonight knowing she was within reach ensured
he'd never sleep again, especially when all it took were her fingers grazing
his cheek in a friendly gesture to make him crumble into particles of dust.