Chapter 5

Mia lurked around the periphery of the ongoing investigation at the site of the drug dealer's death, peering into the minds of the few policeman who were left on the scene. When she had awoken earlier in the evening she had been sorely disappointed by the fact that she and her Master continued to exist, despite all of her efforts to lead the police to their lair. Obviously, they were in need of greater inspiration. She decided that she would have to kill one of their own. The logical choice being the one who was heading the investigation. While she regretted the necessity, she could not abide even one more night of servitude to the monster that was her Master.

She had spent the first hour of the evening trying to think of a pretense she could use as a reason to leave the house for the third night in a row without raising her Master's suspicions. It had been a surprise when none had been needed. In the middle of one of the endless shows he watched on tv, her Master had stood and unceremoniously announced that he was going to the opera and that she could pass the night however she pleased. It had taken all of her self control not to show her contempt for this beast who remained so oblivious of her intentions, despite the bond.

After waiting a short time to be certain that Arthur was well and truly gone, Mia had come to this crime scene to learn the identity and probable location of the man she had decided must die. Now she had it. Tonight would be Tom McNelly's last.

Tom pulled his decrepit car into the small reserved lot outside of the drab apartment building in Polish Hill that he called home. Today had been the worst in Tom's memory. The drug dealer had been bad enough. The coroner had quickly confirmed that the wounds on the neck were inflicted post mortem. Which meant ... just the thought of it made him clutch his hands protectively over his groin. Far, far worse had been the woman in Shadyside. Tom had been to a number of murder scenes over the years and had thought himself immune to the sight and smell of the horrors that one person could perpetrate upon another. He had been wrong. One look at that poor, broken woman had been enough to send him running out the door to empty the contents of his stomach into the carefully manicured topiary. The evidence there clearly showed that he had not been the first to do so.

The worst part was that there was no apparent motive for any of the recent slayings. Nothing had been taken from woman's house, Larry's apartment or the drug dealer's person. The latter had more than a thousand dollars and a gun in his coat pocket. The only possibility that Tom could think of was that the killer murdered his victims just for the sheer pleasure of it.

Tom vowed that when they caught the guy who was doing this, he would use every ounce of his influence with the DA's office to make certain that they pushed for the death penalty. He would also kick the living shit out of any defense attorney who dared try to get the guy off with an insanity plea.

Except it might not even be a guy. They had quickly found the cabby who had taken Lawrence Scripps and his guest from the nightclub to Scripps' apartment. The cabby had insisted that Scripps' companion was a blond "hotty." The CSI team had also discovered that the blob of semen taken from Scripps' balcony, while primarily belonging to Scripps himself, also contained more than a trace of vaginal secretions. It just didn't seem possible that the perp could be a woman, especially in light of the scene in Shadyside. Could there be two serial killers working together, a man and a woman? It was uncommon, but it supposedly did happen. Tom had sent sketch artists to visit the cabby and the nightclub and should have a composite by morning. With luck he would have the woman, and the answers he craved, by the end of the day.

Halfway to his apartment, Tom decided that he couldn't face the night without some liquid fortification. Reversing his direction, he went to the corner bar. The bar, Zelda's Tavern, catered to the working class and, typical of such places, its interior was plain, but clean. The bar was well stocked, but the only beers available on tap were Iron City and Budweiser. When he entered, the bartender gave him a friendly nod; Tom didn't come here often enough for the man to know his name. Tom sat himself in one of the corner stools, ordered a double shot of JD with an Iron City chaser and dedicated himself to drowning the day's images from his mind.

He had only been there a few minutes, staring down into the depths of his beer, when he heard the barstool to his left being dragged outwards. "Hello," said a soft feminine voice, "It looks like you've had a rough day."

"Yeah, it was bad," Tom answered automatically. Glancing towards the speaker, he saw that she was a beautiful young blond, too well dressed for a place like Zelda's. Fishing into his jacket pocket, Tom pulled out his badge and flashed it. "Look, honey, I'm a cop. There hasn't been any solicitation, so I'm not going to try to bust you or hassle you, but you really might want to take your business elsewhere."

The young woman looked confused for a moment and then her eyes went cold and flat. "I'm not a prostitute," she said in a low, frosty voice, "You just looked like a lost puppy that had been kicked a few times, so I thought you could use someone to talk to. But, now I think I'll do as you suggest and 'take my business elsewhere.'"

Tom immediately felt like shit, and admitted to himself that he deserved to. "I'm really sorry, miss. You just look a lot better than this place's usual clientele and I jumped to conclusions. Occupational hazard. Can we start over? Hi, I'm Tom," he said as he held out his hand.

The woman appeared to have been slightly mollified by the apology and indirect compliment, but she still took his hand as though it was covered in festering boils. "Mia," she said simply.

Several hours and more than a few drinks later, Tom was leading the beautiful Mia up the stairs to his apartment. Never before had he met a woman who was so easy to talk to, and he had talked. A lot. More than he should have. It was an odd role reversal for Tom, who had often inspired confidences but rarely given them. If Mia turned out to be with the media, the chief was going to have a conniption. But, he had to admit, even if this turned out to be the case, it had been worth it. Sharing his fears and the guilt he felt over not being able to bring the killer to justice had been almost like giving confession. His soul and mind felt less burdened then they had in years, and he had this kind woman to thank for it.

He was shocked that she was still with him. When he had brought his long monologue to an end, he had realized with embarrassment that he knew nothing about her, that her part in the hours long conversation had been limited to the occasional compassionate murmur of understanding. Shamefaced, he had noticed that she hadn't even touched her drink. He had been certain that the poor girl must think him a bore and had apologized and said a hasty good night. She had given him a look brimming with compassion and had asked, "Are you sure you want to be alone tonight?" He had gladly accepted the offer.

He paused at one of the landings and turned toward Mia. She flowed willingly, even eagerly, into his arms and their lips met passionately. His tongue darted out and hers rose in response, the two twining together in wanton abandon. For a time he lost himself in the feel of her firm body against his, her heavy breasts crushing into his chest, her soft lips against his.

She disengaged with a smile and grasped his wrist firmly, using it to drag him toward the next flight of steps. "Which floor?" she queried over her shoulder as she pulled him along behind her.

"Two more," he answered and then they were there. Again she pressed herself to him passionately, but suddenly disengaged.

She looked down at their feet and, in a mildly embarrassed tone, asked, "I really hate to ask, but would you mind if I took a quick shower first? It's been a long day and...".

Tom almost groaned in frustration, but he could understand. He forced a smile on his face and answered, "Sure you can. Bathroom's right at the end of the hall." She moved past him, and his gaze traveled up her shapely, stocking covered legs to the round, full ass encased by a tight wool skirt. He admiringly watched her shapely bottom sway provocatively back and forth as she walked down the hall, unable to believe his good fortune.

She seemed surprised when he slipped into the small shower stall with her, but quickly moved away to make room for him and then back to resume their interrupted kiss. He almost yelped when the scalding hot water hit his chest, and reached toward the spigot to add more cool water to the mix.

"Please don't," she whispered, "I've been freezing all day and I just can't seem to get warm."

Now that she had mentioned it, he noticed that she did feel cold against him. Instinctively, he pulled her even closer, seeking to warm her body with his own. He took the body wash from the shower shelf and started to bathe her. He made long, caressing strokes up and down her smooth, well muscled back and the firm, lush curves of her ass, reveling in the feel of her soft, soap slippery skin beneath his hands. As he did so, she twined her arms around his neck and leaned into him, breathing hard against his chest. When he finally decided that her back was clean enough, he gently turned her around and began to give her front the same treatment. He hefted her breasts lightly in his hands before sliding his hands upwards to rub and gently pinch her nipples until they stood hard and erect. She shivered, her arms falling limply to her sides while her head fell back to rest on his shoulder.