Vice Cop Ch. 08

The FBI agents were at the station again.

It was evident to Hudson that they were here investigating the "Yellow Cab Killer" case. There was a news report that he had killed another victim, a 70 year old French-American named Gustav Letelier. The murder had been reported by his grandson, Michel. It was the first time someone had actually seen the killer up close and witnessed him in action.

Michel had described the killer as a white Italian man, with facial hair that looked messy and equally messy hair. He had lots of hair on his chest. The one thing that stood out was the fact he smelled of garlic. Immediately, Captain Barry Hiller put the cops to work along with the FBI.

He was sitting on his desk eating gummi bears from a bag. Hudson resisted laughing. In his years as a cop with the NYPD, he had grown chubby and had become bald. He could play Santa Clause at the mall.

"Sit down, Hudson," he said, "we have an assignment for you. FBI agent Oswald Carey has already assigned Miss O'Neil and Detective Holmes on an undercover assignment together. They'll pose as Manhattan residents who need a taxi. They have back-up, FBI guys, ready to arrest this wicked type. We've developed a profile on him. He's been a loner all his life, has never had a real family, probably an orphan, and also never went to high school. As soon as he learned to drive, he became a cabbie. He's psychotic and kills people he believes are successful when compared to him."

"And what do you want me to do?" Hudson said.

"Did you not read your assignment on written paper?"

"Yeah. My cover this time is a cabbie. I don't understand how that will help track the killer."

"You wouldn't know that because you're not with the FBI and you're not a detective, like our Mason Holmes."

Hudson frowned. Did everyone have to rub that guy's success in his face? No wonder Lexa was his woman. Everyone thought he was the crème de la crème of the NYPD.

"I'm not a detective but I do my job right," said Hudson, "and besides, I've seen a hell of a lot more action than that candy ass."

"Now, now, Banach, there's no need for such language," the Chief reprimanded him, "you have no reason to be jealous. He's a terrific asset but you've got a lot of qualities about you that make you our top cop. You've proven yourself countless of times, even back when you were a rookie cop. That's why I assigned you to various units, and each time you showed the force how fine a cop you really are."

"So what does my cover have to do with getting the killer?"

"With back-up on your side, you'll go into the Manhattan Cab Service assigned to you and you'll see if you can pick out the killer. He has been hired to drive passengers to the airport, particularly passengers who are leaving New York. If you pose as a fellow cabbie, there's a better chance that you can spot him and we can get him. Here's a composite picture. His description was given to us by Michel, who as you know, had the unfortunate experience of seeing his grandfather being killed inside the cab by the maniac."

He handed him a picture, more of an artistic sketch than a photo, which depicted a burly mustached Italian man with dark menacing eyes and large forehead. Hudson thought he looked like one of his mother's brothers, one that was still in Italy, but he perished the thought. It was impossible. All his family members were good people who had never gotten into any kind of trouble nor did anything immoral, being staunch

Catholics.

"Ok, Chief, I'm your man," he said.

As he got up to leave the office, he turned to the Chief and said.

"And wish Miss O'Neil and Holmes good luck."

EIGHT

Hudson had dressed the part. He looked like a cabbie straight from the Bronx. He had to wear a uniform, which was nothing more than a beige jacket and slacks. It fit him well and it showed off his muscular physique. He looked at himself in the mirror above and to the side of the steering wheel.

"How you doing?" he said, practicing his accent and then laughed at himself.

He hated the ridiculous looking cap on his head. It made him feel silly but he bore it with patience. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to catch the killer after all. That would look good. Another evil-doer caught – by him. He had already enjoyed the compliments and praises after he had successfully put a stop to the terrorists who had plotted to blow up the Empire State Building only earlier that year.

He was proud to have been part of a team dedicated to putting a stop to scum like that. He hated anyone who threatened his beloved New York City. His father had fled Italy during the difficult times after Mussolini's reign and had seen much Mafia violence there. Why should America become corrupt and full of crime when so many people like his father had migrated to America for a better life? He wished to make New York City a better place. At times, he felt as if it was too hard a task. Too many evil-doers out there. He wished he could acquire superhuman powers, like Super Man and save the city.

He waited until someone showed up to use his services. It was a man, wearing cold-weather clothes – a scarf, a trench coat and a fedora so big he was unable to see his face under it. The man looked like he was visiting New York or perhaps returning. He had only one luggage.

"Hey, how you doing? The name's Eddie," said Hudson, "where are you going today?"

"The airport and hurry," the man said.

"What is your name?"

"Antonio DeVito."

Hudson looked over to the FBI who were in their undercover cars looking at him. Hudson had learned to make signals briefly so he was able to communicate to them. They were behind him and on the tail of the taxi cab following him to the airport. Perhaps he'd find the killer at the airport, thought Hudson. The cab took off, and they left Manhattan and headed for the airport located in Queens. Hudson looked at the man now and then, trying to appear discreet.

There was something about him, something subtle but palpable; struck Hudson as familiar.

He was a strong-looking man but he was hiding behind too many clothes. His fedora cast a shadow over his face. He realized it was not peculiar for him to be overdressed in warm clothes. It was cold and cloudy, and what he wore was not unlike others wore against the frigid New York City weather. But something about him struck him as strangely familiar. The man was quiet, cold and did not seem to be able to smile. He looked like he could have been Hitler's right-hand man.

"Leaving the US, eh?" Hudson said, trying to make conversation,"where are you headed?"

"I'm only heading to another state," he said, "I have found New York City unlivable."

His words were slow and deliberate, and had an icy quality about them.

"That's too bad. Me, I love New York. No city can compare. I'm sorry to hear you don't feel the same."

"I don't wish to talk, sir, so please drive on, I don't want to miss my flight. I'm going to be late. I can't miss that flight for all the money in the world."

"Sure thing. Just trying to make conversation, you know, but sure, we don't have to talk."

They drove to Queens in silence. Hudson checked the mirror to see if the FBI men were still on their tail.

They were right there behind them, heading for the airport. The night was descending. It was getting chillier and the lights of the city began to glow with their usual beauty. The airport was in sight and Hudson smiled. He felt like a real cabbie in these clothes and he had done a good job of getting his passenger to the airport in very little time. He had had to cut through traffic to get there but he had made it in good time.

"Ok. Here we are. What terminal you need to get to?" he said to him.

"The one right over there."

Hudson drove to the nearest terminal. There were flights to Nevada, California and Arizona. Some were ready to depart in less than an hour. Hudson parked the taxi into the terminal. The airport was full of people, as always, and bustling with activity. People of all colors and backgrounds were up and about. The man looked like he could lose himself in the crowds.

"I can't thank you enough," said the man.

He paid Hudson cab fare. What to do with this money earned undercover, thought Hudson. He felt bad about it since he was not real cab driver.

"You have a good flight, mister," Hudson said to him.

The man looked at him square in the face, too off his fedora and grinned. It was a slightly wicked grin and as their eyes met, a bell rang in Hudson's brain.

Dear God, this was the Yellow Cab Killer. There was the same facial hair, which looked messy, and the same big forehead, eyes and features. The body beneath the trench coat matched that in the composite picture. It was the killer, dressed as a passenger!

"Jesus Christ," Hudson swore.

The man disappeared into the crowds at the terminal.

"Oh, my God, oh my God," Hudson said nervously.

He fumbled as he got his communication device hidden in his pocket.

"I don't know how to say this," he said to the FBI agents who received his call.

They were right behind him parked at the terminal.

"Damn that son-of-a-bitch, damn him to hell," Hudson said.

"Banach, what is it? What's happened?" said the voice of Agent Oswald Carey.

"Mr. Carey, I'm so sorry," Hudson said, "the Yellow Cab Killer has escaped New York."

"What? How on earth –"

"The bastard pretended to be a passenger this time. I was fooled. He was wearing too many clothes and a fedora. He must have taken a flight out of New York and to either California, Nevada or Arizona. I'm sorry. The Chief's sure going to give me a hard time about this. I had no idea it was him. It was a nasty trick. I'm sorry. I failed you."

"Did he give you a name?"

"He said his name was Antonio DeVito."

"We'll have to check if that's an alias, fake name or stolen identity," said another agent on the device.

"I'm so sorry about all this," said Hudson.

"That's alright Banach," said Agent Carey, "you aren't to blame. The man is obviously very smart. No one expected him to do this. He must have already known the FBI and cops were conducting a manhunt for him. You did your part, Hudson. Return to police headquarters. This case is ours now."

NINE

Mason Holmes and Lexa were kissing in his office.

It wasn't just any kiss. He had taken her in his arms and held her tightly against him, pressing their bodies together, more intimately than he had dared to before. His mouth was on her in a prolonged and passionate kiss which left her weak in the knees.

His blonde mustache grazed against her lips and she moaned under the kiss. They had enjoyed their time together undercover the previous day, though they hadn't accomplished much. Seeing Lexa in her tight "journalist" skirt and blouse, with her lovely legs in mocha colored stockings, not to mention her high heels, had made Mason want her badly.

They kissed deeply and just as he pushed her against his desk ready to lay her on it, someone was at the door to his office trying to open the door. The doorknob turned slowly. It was locked. There was a knock.

"Detective Holmes, it's Lieutenant Dante," said an African American voice.

Quickly, Mason and Lexa composed themselves, trying to look as if nothing had happened. Lexa was smoothing her hair when Mason opened the door and the Lieutenant walked in. Isaiah Dante looked at them briefly, but it was a scrutinizing look.

"You're wanted at the Chief's office," he said to Mason.

"I'll be right there," he said, "excuse me Miss O'Neil; we'll talk about your next assignment afterward."

He exited his office. Lexa and Isaiah Dante's eyes met. He stood there by the door and there was no mistaking his expression. It was hard. He was staring daggers at Lexa.

"Is something the matter, Lieutenant?" she said to him.

"Yes," he said, slowly, "I can't understand you young women today. Why are you wasting your feelings on that white man?"

Lexa froze. What a terrible thing to say. It was such an unexpectedly racist outburst that she was stunned. Dante had always been quiet but she wondered if he was so racist that he loathed working in a white establishment as this Manhattan Police precinct.

"I beg your pardon?" she said to him.

"You heard me, woman," said Dante, "Look at you. You have black blood. You may be mixed, but you can't deny you've got a black mother. And here you are obviously making out with that white guy. He's only going to use you."

"Lieutenant, you have no right to judge me or to spew those awful comments," Lexa said, "not all white men are bad. And he's on the side of good. He's a detective. How can you think that? It is just as bad to hate whites as it is to hate blacks."

"I don't need a lesson from you," he said, "I know why I feel this way. And I'm warning you, stay away from him. He's going to lead you into a path of danger. He's always investigating murderers and psychopaths and one of these days, you'll be working with him on a case and it will mean your death."

He shut the door.

Lexa was suddenly afraid. The Lieutenant had issues, and obviously he didn't like anyone who wasn't black. And that was a dangerous thing indeed.........

TEN

Another hot night in Brooklyn.

Hudson was at home, in his briefs, in bed, restless and observing Lexa through the blinds of his window. He couldn't help himself. She was so beautiful. Her face and body had now become tattooed to his brain, etched into his memory.

He had seen her naked.

She had walked into her bedroom from the shower and her towel had fallen off. Hudson had an eyeful of her nude body, everything - her shoulders, breasts, flat stomach, smooth shaved pussy, legs and feet. Her body had a beautiful mocha color, very light brown but her voluptuous body was that of a goddess. No white girl he knew possessed Lexa's gorgeous figure.

Watching her sleep through the blinds, in that sexy baby-blue negligee of hers, made him feel like coming over there and taking her. She was a Sleeping Beauty, ripe for the plucking. He wanted to make love to her, to feel her alive and warm under him, making her shutter in orgasms he would bring on.

Her breasts fell and rose as she breathed and she stirred in the bed, moaning softly.

Too much aroused, Hudson began to stroke his own cock through his briefs. When his cock was hard, he felt the underwear to be too uncomfortable. He took it off and finished masturbating. All the while he looked at Lexa and imagined himself in her bed, taking her, making her his. His big cock was full of semen for her. He moaned and groaned as he masturbated, closing his eyes tightly as he suddenly ejaculated over his own bed.

God, he wanted that woman. Yes it would be wrong. Yes it would open up a can of worms. But if only she were his, at least physically, a woman he could make love to whenever he wanted. She did not fit the profile for the housefrau of his dreams, not the wife he had been raised to believe was for him, but why couldn't they be lovers?

He knew why. There was too much between them. Not just Mason Holmes, but the fact that everyone in the force probably expected them to be a couple of some kind. And always, they were trying to move up to higher positions, in Vice Squad, in Detective Borough, in positions that would make them bigger wigs in the NYPD. They were rivals in this, and yet the competition made him hot for her.

He looked at the window. Lexa was waking up. Quickly he closed the blinds fully so that she would not see that he had been spying on her. Hudson went back to bed and was ready for sleep.

Lexa, he thought, why did you have to come into my life this way? If only she had come to him without having been a cop...............

Lexa had gotten out of bed to get a drink of water from her cooler. She was in the kitchen when the phone in her living room began to ring. Good God, who's calling at this late hour, she thought.

It was half past midnight.

She finished her drink, not sure whether she should pick up the phone. At this time of night, it could be no one she knew, nothing important like a wrong number. She wondered whether it could be related to her work. Her hesitancy to answer resulted in a voice message in her answering machine.

"Miss O'Neil, it's Detective Mason Holmes," said the Detective's voice.

Lexa was suddenly all ears. So it was work calling after all.

"I imagine you're asleep so I'm terribly sorry to call at such late an hour. Forgive me. But it's very urgent that you come to headquarters, not the precinct, as early as six a.m. The Chief and Homicide Detectives, of which I am now part of, have called a meeting. We are to discuss the next assignment. It involves bizarre murders at rock concerts throughout Europe and here in our US."

She finished another glass of water. She wondered just why she always got the cases involving murders. Perhaps she would need to go undercover again.

It was like Lieutenant Dante had said. Hers was a job which involved risking her life each time. Sure it was easy to get out of the job, to get out of harm's way, to take the coward's way out. She could just live a happy, peaceful, uneventful life taking up some kind of job her mother, the once famous opera singer, could provide for her. She could be a music teacher, like Professor Goldstein. The Professor had always told her that if she should quit her very dangerous career as a cop, she was welcome to help him at the Conservatory.

But she wouldn't dream of it. Being a cop in such proximity to danger gave her an exciting life.

And she would always be able to see Hudson Banach, even if they didn't get along. She had become accustomed to his voice and to his body and presence...............

To Be Continued...................

On The Next Episode of Vice Cop, while working for Homicide Hudson and Lexa go undercover to stop a psychotic shock-rock star. But he's got too many diabolical tricks up his sleeve with the help of theatrical special effects and torture devices used in his performances and shows, and he lures them into a death trap......Chills and Thrills await on the next episode of Vice Cop....