Principles of Spookology (The Spectral Files Book 2) Page 2

  It wasn’t a slow and leisurely blowjob, the kind I usually woke up to on lazy Sundays. He’d edge me until I thought I couldn’t handle it, sometimes using a toy in my ass to make sure I shot off like a rocket when he finally let me come. This was quicker, dirtier, and sloppier. Frankly, I didn’t know which I liked better—slow and easy with my hand entwined with his, or quick and filthy, my fingers twisting his thick hair so hard I was surprised I wasn’t pulling it out by the handfuls.

  The quiet darkness amped every sensation to the max. I could barely see his bobbing head. No sly looks under thick, dark eyelashes. I couldn’t watch the length of my dick—which never seemed so long as when it was in his mouth—sliding in and out of those swollen, spit-slick lips.

  But I remembered.

  Filthy visuals stored in my memory played in front of my eyes like a movie. It only seemed like a few seconds before I came down his throat with a violent cry. He stroked my thighs and whispered things I couldn’t quite understand because I was still floating so goddamned high. He nuzzled my stomach playfully and then moved up my body to kiss me, deep. I chased the taste of my own release until I realized I’d been too far down his throat to come in his mouth.

  When I spoke again, my voice was scratchy, like I hadn’t spoken in years. “You want me to….”

  “Not now. Just sleep.”

  It had been a bullshit offer anyway. I wasn’t sure I could even move. The best I could offer was to be a creepy sex dummy while he jacked off on me. I let him take over, participating sleepily as he pulled up my boxers and folded me in his arms. We would eventually drift apart, but for now, his embrace was just the thing I needed.

  Sleep hit me like a freight train, making my limbs and mind heavy. It was a relief to feel myself dropping off, almost like being under gradual anesthesia. The tension seeped out of my shoulders and legs first until, like a magic trick, my entire body was limp and relaxed.

  “Glad to have you home,” was the last thing I heard, just the softest of whispers at my temple.

  Glad to be home. Too tired for actual words, all I could manage was a soft murmur of agreement.

  Chapter 2

  The property was a bust.

  Although the house had just about everything I’d asked Mary Anne to find, I wound up giving it a hard pass. The heaps of character squeaking in every floorboard was far surpassed by the resident ghost, Mabel. She’d taken a tumble down the stairs thirty years prior and was still bitter about how long it took her lackadaisical son to find her.

  “Two damn weeks,” she’d muttered, poking me in the chest with a bony finger. “Can you believe it?”

  After knowing her for five minutes? Yes. Yes, I could. I murmured something noncommittal, and she squinted at me for a few seconds. Clearly I needed to work on my poker face because her suspicious gaze turned into a glare, and then she poked me again, hard.

  The irascible Mabel certainly explained the bargain basement price Mary Anne had hedged about. When I’d texted Danny an update, he hadn’t seemed all that broken up about it. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he almost seemed relieved.

  I pulled into the precinct lot and snagged the spot of a leaving cruiser. As usual, the Brickell Bay Police Department was a bustling hive of activity. The precinct was more tall than wide, boxy and uninspired in design. Though my former workplace had been newer and more modern, I didn’t miss it all that much.

  After zipping through the metal detector and two checkpoints, I amended that statement. I did miss having a dependable elevator. Much like the rest of BBPD, it was old as hell. The elevator was also slow as could be and jerked to a halt on each floor. I got on cautiously and it jolted like I weighed a metric ton. I pressed the button for my floor and waited while the elevator thought about my request, doors still ajar.

  Every time I rode the damned thing, I felt like I’d just cheated death, like the only thing between me and a horrible end was an elevator held together by twisty ties, duct tape, and prayers. And yet… it was worth the daily risk. People doing extra cardio for no damn reason were the real urban legend—something I’d heard of but didn’t quite believe to be true.

  The elevator doors jerked shut and it lumbered upward.

  The PTU’s small bank of offices were on the third floor, tucked away in what used to be storage. Our department was nothing fancy and that suited us just fine. Our secretary, Macy, sometimes complained that it still smelled faintly of mold, and she obsessively used scented air freshener. I wasn’t sure if the scent of mold was better combined with spring meadow, or a la carte, but it made her happy, so I didn’t complain.

  We had enough room for each of us to have a tiny office, which was an upgrade and an unexpected boon. It also went under the category of extremely necessary to keep from killing Nick and Kevin. In our old setup, which involved a lot of shared space and partitions, the two of them could argue for thirty minutes about which pizza place used the most cheese. In addition to our offices, we also had a spacious briefing room with several huge corkboards and whiteboards. Several interrogation rooms, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette rounded out the PTU’s headquarters.

  Ours was a pretty self-contained unit. I liked to think they wanted it to be convenient rather than just containing us. The fact that we didn't have to leave the floor unless we were leaving to go home was… well, nothing but a happy coincidence.

  The elevator finally delivered me safely to the third floor. Macy was on the phone as I approached her desk, and she glanced up with a smile. She was wearing a shirt/sweater combo covered in cats, and her iron-gray hair was pulled up in a bun that knew better than to frizz. She pointed a finger toward the kitchenette and I nearly broke land records getting in there. Her baking was the one factor that made up for her routinely routing calls to the wrong extension and her refusal to use office equipment that was too ‘newfangled.’ I could only hope the rest of the team hadn’t already inhaled whatever she’d baked.

  I made a beeline for the covered container on the counter. Risking monumental disappointment, the likes of which I’d never recover from, I lifted the lid gingerly and peeked inside. Two danishes were left. I spared a brief moment to wonder if Kevin St. James, Danny’s partner and walking food vacuum, was ill. I grabbed the pastries, put them on a paper plate, and then skedaddled.

  I pinched off a piece of one of the pastries and popped it into my mouth. It was strawberry, Kevin’s favorite. I grew more concerned about his welfare. Since he had an open-door policy just about twenty-four seven, which gave us all the opportunity to see him constantly breaking his own food consumption records, I glanced in his office as I passed. He was seated behind his desk, phone up to his ear as he mowed through a bag of plantains with alarming efficiency.

  Kevin was a blond-haired, blue-eyed former quarterback whose wholesome, trustworthy appearance generally worked in his favor, especially when interrogating suspects. Before they knew what happened, they’d already confessed far too much. I was also pretty sure I’d never seen him without food in his mouth. Luckily for him, he was tall and solidly built, so all those calories had plenty of places to go.

  When he saw me, he held up a finger I pretended not to see. The pastry sharing deadline was over. My stomach had spoken, and my ass was just going to have to deal.

  By the time I got to my office, he was right on my heels. “Hey.”

  “Hay is for horses,” I informed him as I sank down in my desk chair.

  “Why didn’t you wait? Didn’t you see me do this?” He held up his pointer finger in demonstration. “Don’t you know what this means?”

  I squinted and hazarded a guess. “E.T. phone home?”

  He scowled. “Where’s McKenna?”

  “I think he’s in a meeting. He should be here before long.” I booted up my computer— otherwise known as the only new thing in my office. I refused to use something a dinosaur could’ve Googled the word ‘meteor’ on. “I’m sure you two can live without one another for six minutes.”
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  My guest chair squeaked alarmingly. I glanced up, surprised to still find Kevin there. He smiled pleasantly… and then his gaze landed on my pastries.

  We had a brief battle of the eyes. My steely gaze told him I wasn’t above licking a Danish to claim it. His steady stare told me he wasn’t above eating a licked Danish. To seal the deal, he hit me with rounded Puss-in-Boots eyes.

  I gave the plate a little push in his direction. To my surprise, he showed restraint, taking the one I’d already taken a small piece from. He polished it off in two bites and then patted his stomach with a sigh.

  “Just one?” I asked.

  “I should probably slow down,” he said, licking at his sugary fingers. “I already had six. My wife thinks I’m one pastry away from a diabetic coma.”

  He crossed his legs at the ankle. He was comfortable, well-fed, and like any annoying pest, in no hurry to get lost. “Was there something else I could help you with?” I asked.

  “Actually, there is.” He smiled before he lowered the boom. “LT wants to speak with you.”

  “What? When? Why?” I tried to stop asking panicky questions, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Lieutenant Tate’s conversations were hardly ever pleasant. “Are you sure?”

  “She requested you specifically.”

  “But why? Danny’s head of the unit.”

  “I know that. But he’s not here and you are, so you’re on deck.”

  “You have seniority.”

  He shrugged. “This whole unit was your idea.”

  “It was not my idea, it was Danny’s idea.”

  “So she should talk to Danny,” he said promptly.

  “Danny’s not here,” I reminded him.

  “And round and round we go.”

  I glared. To think, I once ate a holiday meal at his dinner table and brought flowers for his lovely wife. “I’m not in the mood to get yelled at by Tate.”

  “Then you should’ve stayed home,” he said sagely.

  “Christiansen!” Tate’s bellow came from the hallway like I’d summoned her by my thoughts alone. The rhythmic tap of her heels sounded like an omen—a Koyaanisqatsi remix in my head. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Never say her name,” Kevin whispered as he stood. “It’s like Beetlejuice.”

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” I demanded.

  “I’ve got two open cases. Work isn’t going to do itself.”

  “Wait a damn—”

  My angry whisper faltered as Tate’s tall, imposing figure filled the doorway. It would be a mistake to judge her on her best attributes—creamy brown skin, delicate features and dark, satiny eyes framed with long lashes. No, it was better to pay attention to that scowl because that was how she ruled. Ironfisted. Big stick tyranny at its finest.

  “Christiansen, we need to talk.” She marched over to my desk and sat in one of my guest chairs. “Have you heard the latest regarding the Lottie Hereford case?”

  “No, I just walked in the door—”

  “The dental student,” she said impatiently. “Her ex-boyfriend killed her and her two young children? Jon Gable?”

  “Yes, I know the case. I just haven’t heard any updates—”

  “You would think you’d be invested enough to keep up with these things.”

  I glanced in Kevin’s direction for support and did a double take when I saw a crumpled napkin and an empty chair. I took a moment to reflect on how rude he was—when you learn teleportation, you teach others.

  Abandoned by my worthless crew, I had no choice but to row on. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

  “Jon Gable claims you gave him a message from his dead mother.” She paused for effect. “He said he only confessed because you said she’d wreak vengeance on his soul.”

  “He asked if she would be angry with him. I merely answered a question—and truthfully, I might add—”

  “You should’ve let McKenna do the interrogation. Or St. James.” She shook her head. “Hell, even Macy would’ve been better at this point.”

  Stung, I sat up straighter in my chair. “I don’t need McKenna holding my hand and looking over my shoulder. Either I’m a part of this team, or I’m not.”

  “Don’t be so goddamned sensitive.” She eyeballed me. “No one can deny you’re a damned fine investigator. If I didn’t think you were capable, I would’ve said so.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “We agreed the PTU didn’t need any scrutiny. The team works cold cases like you normally do, and you do your thing quietly. That was the deal.”

  “And I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

  “Jon Gable’s attorney is asking questions. Questions I don’t need to be answering right now.” She raked a hand through her hair, which was cut in a short, layered style. “As far as I know, he hasn’t made much headway, but we both know that won’t last long. There’s always someone willing to talk. Even if they don’t really know what they think they know. You know?”

  “I know,” I said solemnly.

  Tate’s lips thinned. “The department is going to protect itself.”

  I’d been in law enforcement a long time. That was fancy speak for they were going to throw me under the bus so hard, I would have Goodyear tattooed on my forehead. “I understand.”

  “I feel bad about it, and I wish there was something I could do. Especially after what you did for me with my grandmother.”

  “I didn’t do much.”

  “You may not call it much, but to me it was everything. I got to speak to my grandmother and make amends. I never expected to be able to do that.” Her eyes got a little misty. “That was something special—no, you’re something special, you know?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. At what point did mist become tears? If a tough piece of leather like Tate started crying in my office, I might tear up too. Then I’d have to throw myself out the window from embarrassment. My luck being what it is, the fall would only maim me, and she’d yell out the window that I should stop bleeding on her walkway and get my ass to medical ASAP.

  Her gratitude morphed into fascination. “You’re almost about to come out of your skin from a simple thank you.”

  “I said you’re welcome, didn’t I?”

  “Actually, you didn’t. And are you blushing?”

  Yep. A little bit. It wasn’t like I could hide it. I was a blond with fair skin—turning pink at inopportune times was practically my birthright. I could no more stop the flush climbing my cheeks than I could stop a speeding bullet with my mind.

  “Lieutenant,” I said desperately, “I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I am an emotionally stunted human being.”

  “Cheese and rice, Christiansen. I’m trying to open up to you here.” She shook her head. “Maybe you should see a therapist or something.”

  If only you were the first person to tell me that. “Yes, ma’am,” I said dutifully.

  “Look, I’m fully aware of the limitations of this department. Hell, I helped create this department.” The fire was back in her eyes. “But I went out on a limb for you guys, and I need you to deliver.”

  “I know.”

  “If the brass wants you shut down, there won’t be anything I can do about it.”

  “I know.” Boy, did I know.

  “Don’t just know. Bring me some goddamned results.”

  For Christ’s sakes, she couldn’t chew my entire ass. I still needed some of it for sitting. And sex.

  My gaze landed on my last Danish. I shoved the paper plate across the desk in supplication. Sometimes you had to throw the snack in the cage and hope the bear was distracted enough for you to save your leg.

  Her eyes got wide. “You didn’t. Did Macy make that?”

  “She did.” Maybe it wasn’t smart to poke the bear, but I couldn’t resist. “If you don’t want it, that’s okay too. In fact, maybe I should just—”

  She snatched the plate with honed reflexes a Navy SEAL would envy. I pretended not
to watch as she pinched off a piece of the Danish and nibbled at it. My stomach growled. Miss you already, butter. You and my belly were going to be besties for life and give the cold shoulder to my cholesterol.

  “Damn you, Christiansen, you know I’m on a diet.” She broke off another piece and popped it in her mouth. Then she pushed the plate away like it was radioactive and gave me a defiant glare. We both knew she was going to eat the rest. It would take a stronger man than me to call her on it, though.

  Several seconds ticked by before she sighed, clearly disappointed I didn’t give her a reason to pounce on me like a sumo wrestler. “Well, it’s important that we’re on the same page. I’m glad we could have this little chat.”

  “Yes. Err, me too.”

  “Jon Gable’s attorney is like a bloodhound, so we need to be proactive about this.”

  “Which means?”

  “Legal wants a complete write-up detailing your actions during the investigation. Handwritten.”

  “Handwritten?” I wasn’t even sure I knew how to hold a pen anymore. “What century are they in?”

  “The one where you stop being a burr in my ass and get with the program.” She stood and grabbed the pastry. “I want the report on my desk before you leave tonight.”

  Well, there went the rest of my fucking workday.

  “And Christiansen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The next case the PTU tackles better be a good one. A solid case,” she warned. “So rock-solid, Ashford and Simpson could sing about it.”

  “Heard,” I said faintly.

  I didn’t bother to tell her that I didn’t pick the ghosts, rather they picked me. Instead, I gave her a two-fingered salute that hopefully indicated my willingness to cooperate. Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full sir. I winced as she blew out my office like the tornado she was, slamming my door so hard I was surprised it didn’t keep on swinging like a saloon door.

  I did so look forward to our chats.