A Kiss So Deadly Ch. 02

A Kiss So Deadly Chapter 2: Inscitia

By Trixie Adara

Knox

When I woke up, Lex wasn't in bed next to me. Usually, she would wake me up with kisses and then we'd make love before she passed the fuck out. Usually, I'd wake up with her sprawled out and taking up over half the bed. Usually, I'd make her breakfast and the sweetness between us would be at unbearable teenage romance levels.

But she had the gallery to focus on.

And it was a fucking Wednesday morning.

So I had to go to work.

One shower, two hard boiled eggs, and a cup of scalding coffee later, I was out the door and heading towards the station. I wasn't going to be on time, but my captain didn't particularly care about punctuality. He was more of a results oriented asshole— my kind of asshole. So it was the second unpleasant surprise of the day when he shouted, "Knox!" across the bullpen for me.

I sipped the coffee I picked up on the way—I was still in my thirties, but I was definitely getting too old for erotic shenanigans at three in the morning— and did my best to keep up my 'I-don't-give-a-fuck face' because I, in fact, did not give a fuck. To be fair, probably none of my co-workers or the captain gave a fuck either. Captain Whitaker yelled because he didn't have any other volume, and the other detectives and officers were immune to his yelling. It wasn't like I was in—

"Ooooh, somebody's in trouble," Merriweather said as I walked past his desk. Merriweather was the walking stereotype of every cop and the reason people felt comfortable calling us pigs: balding sweaty white guy who's high blood pressure and greasy complexion gave him a very unpleasant pink hue, thick brown mustache that looked straight from the seventies, suspenders over a white button up that was stained with ketchup or marinara or both and had one button right below his belly button unbuttoned.

"Puberty is going to be a bitch when it finally hits you," I said. I pointed to his face. "Can you imagine what acne is going to be like for you?" I shook my head and took a sip of coffee. "I can't fathom it getting worse."

"Dyke," he growled at me. A few of the other assholes-in-training laughed.

"Get more pussy than you," I said, turning to give him the middle finger before slipping into Captain Whitaker's office.

"Would you fucking leave Merriweather alone?" he said as I sat down in front of his desk. Captain Whitaker was a light skinned black man that looked like he was made out of stone: solid, smooth, cold, huge, and intimidating. He was one of the few idiots around here that I respected, and I suspected I was one of the few morons that he trusted.

"He started—"

"I don't give a fuck who started it," Whitaker said. "If he says something homophobic, it's an easy write up. If you punch back, it gets complicated."

I shrugged and took another sip. The coffee was shit, but the caffeine was pure. "Write us both up."

"Yeah, I'm sure we both want to see how deep the old white boy's club goes."

I raised my cup in salut. "Touche."

"Also, don't fucking come to work late." He didn't smile to let me know he was joking, but it didn't matter. Whitaker had been the one to recommend me for detective. I didn't have many fuckers around here on my side, but he was one I knew I had in my corner.

"Right right right. I was up late working on a case."

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter."

I smirked and took another sip. "I was up late."

"Tell Alexa I said 'hello.'"

"Will do. What did you need me for?"

"First, I need you to go out and apologize to Merriweather."

"Fuck that."

Whitaker's lip trembled as though he had a mustache that itched. He didn't have any facial hair, but it was a tick that made me think of a phantom limb, some long lost Merriweather-level mustache that his body couldn't quite forget.

"Not for him. I need you to do it for me."

Realization struck me, and I bolted upright, spilling coffee over my hand but not giving a fuck as I said, "Oh, absolutely—"

Of course, Whitaker wasn't going to let a little shit like me talk over him, and he kept going. "I need you to work with—"

"Not. No, fucking way am I going to —"

He stood to match me, and I made sure to not give a fuck about the foot of height he had on me. "Him. He's absolutely useless on this Gibbler case, and—"

"Work with that animal. I'd rather —"

"We're bringing in dozens more detectives now that I'm being threatened with the FBI and —"

"Then let the FBI deal with his racist ass, and leave me—"

"Knox, I need you."

The wind died in my sails. My hand was finally realizing that it was on fire from scalding coffee, but I didn't give it any attention. In front of me, Captain Whitaker— the man who practically raised me after my parents kicked me out—turned from the impressive man made of stone to the frail older man about to be politely asked to retire.

"Shit," I said as I sagged down in my seat. "Mayor's office?"

He sat down, and it seemed like the years kept piling on. All at once, he was more of a grandfather than a father to me. "Fuck," he said with a sigh, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. I stood up and pulled down the curtains on the windows of his office, obscuring the fact that he was smoking. He opened a window and said, "Once the press really tears into this, the mayor will be the least of my worries."

"It's just a bunch of missing rich bitches, right?"

"Stupid rich bitches." He let out a long exhale of smoke and shook his head. "Stupidly white bitches and stupidly rich to boot."

"Well, I'm not surprised you gave the case to Merriweather. He is the leading expert on stupid."

Whitaker laughed and smoke puffed out of his mouth. "We got nothing. As far as we can tell, they're not dead. They keep spending their money, but never on the same continent. We can't track their phones. None of the usual tricks work. If it weren't for the fact that these women were already scandalously content with their lives, I'd say they ran away. But all of them running away around the same time, in the same way, without being able to be traced?" He shook his head. "Doesn't make no damn sense."

"There has to be a pattern," I said. "Or they're using the same tech to hide their tracks." My brain was already working on the puzzle. They could be dead, and someone is working an incredibly complex route to spending their money. So there would either be a body or some sign of an abduction.

"Kidnapping isn't usually my thing," I said. "And the Lindbergh Law says this should be the feds only kind of thing. I mean, we're talking international—"

"Someone is keeping the feds out of this," Whitaker said.

"That would have to be—"

"A billionaire?" Whitaker extinguished his cigarette. "Yeah. Someone like that."

"Fucking fuck," I said. "One of the husbands?"

Whitaker shrugged. "Fucking shadow games."

"Why wouldn't he want his wife found?"

Whitaker looked at me like I was a moron, and I raised my hands to concede the point. Silence crept in around us. When the smoke had dissipated, I opened the curtains so no one would get any funny ideas about me in his office. But we still didn't talk. I could see the weight of this stupid case crushing Whitaker, and I had no idea how I was going to solve a case that was being held up by someone that powerful.

"How did something this complex ever fall into Merriweather's lap?" I said.

Whitaker tilted his head towards me, darkening his eyes with his brow. "The mysterious powers."

"Someone above you requested him?"

"The old white boys club," Whitaker said. He pointed out the window towards the commissioner's office downtown.

I whistled. "Sounds totally fucked."

"Mhmm." Whitaker took out his pack of cigarettes from his desk drawer and took one out. He looked at it for a long moment, and then put it back into the drawer. "You're my ace, Knox. You're the one person I feel confident isn't eating some corporate asshole or sucking on a politician's cock. Whether it's the most fucked up corrupt shit in the world or a bevy of corpulent incompetence, I want you to figure it out."

"All while babysitting Merriweather?"

He leaned back in his chair. "All while babysitting Merriweather." He shrugged. "I didn't say it would be easy."

"Just admit that I'm the best detective you have, and you got it." It wasn' like I was going to say 'no.' I spent all day working missing persons with runaways, prostitutes, and the homeless. A conspiracy web of rich white bitches would be a refreshing change and a worthy use of my intellect.

Whitaker rolled his eyes. "How about I give you a paycheck?"

"Just say, 'Knox, no one else could possibly solve this case. I need the best and brightest woman I have, and that's you.'"

"You're the only woman on my team."

"Say I'm the only decent detective on the force, and I will absolutely solve this unsolvable case for you."

He laughed. "Get the fuck out of my office."

"Is that grisly old man for, 'Knox, my savior, when you solve this case that is absolutely impossible for all of my lesser employees, I will give you a promotion with a raise?'"

Whitaker stood up and walked out of his own office, ignoring me completely. "Merriweather," he shouted. The pudgy piece of shit looked up from his breakfast burrito. "Kershansky, Wu, Donahue, and Knox are joining you for the Gibbler case."

Merriweather opened his mouth to shout something, but semi-chewed sausage and egg spilled out. "Any more of that homophobic shit, and I'll have you answering every phone call for every lost kitten or puppy in the city."

Merriweather looked at me through the window to Whitaker's office, but before I could hear whatever nonsense he followed up with, my phone rang. I took it out and didn't recognize the number— though that's usual for a detective. I tapped Whitaker on the shoulder and slid past him, out of his office and over to a side hallway.

"Hello?" I said.

"Miranda Knox?" It was a pleasant feminine voice, but not one I recognized. Probably a bill collector.

"This is Luisa Salvatore, at the Smith Gallery downtown." I recognized that name. Not Salvatore, but the Smith Gallery was where Lex was presenting her work.

"Yes?"

"We were wondering if you had heard from Alexa this morning. She didn't come in today, and some of the contractors hired to customize the space are here for her."

"Oh, shit," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, um ... one second." I pulled my phone away from my ear and put it on speaker. Frantically, I checked to see if Lex had texted me at all while I was talking to Whitaker. Nothing. The last text she sent me was the video last night.

"Have you tried calling her?" I asked.

"Several times. It seems like she's either avoiding her calls or her phone is off. My calls are going straight to voicemail."

"Um. Crap." I thought about opening the app to track her phone, but I didn't want to hang up on the gallery. "Let me call you right back," I said.

"Absolutely."

I hung up and called Lex. It went straight to voicemail. "Hello, this is Alexa Liu. I'm either asleep or in the darkroom (and no, that isn't a metaphor for depression, Mom). Sorry for missing your call. Just leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible." Beep.

"Lex?" I said. "The gallery just called. They said they haven't seen you today and something about a meeting with contractors? Are you alright? You haven't texted since last night, and that's enough to make a wife worried. Call me back and let me know you're fine. Bye."

I immediately opened the app to track her phone. Not shocking, but it wasn't working. Her phone had to be off. Dead? Stolen? Lex wouldn't turn her phone off intentionally, not after one of our hunting parties like last night. There were still ways to trace it but—

"Knox," Merriweather said, rounding the corner with his straining pink skin and ragged breath. "I'm organizing us into teams. Need you in on this meeting."

"Hang on," I said. "Family emergency."

"Yeah, well I got a few other families dealing with emergencies themselves, and it's our job to—"

"Fuck off, Merriweather," I said as I stormed past him. I rounded the corner, tapped on Whitaker's door, and poked my head in. He was talking with some red headed woman I didn't recognize with dark eyes, and she had a paper out to take notes. I assumed the press was descending.

"Hey Captain," I said, "Lex's gallery just called and she hasn't been in to work today. She didn't come home last night, and—"

"Go," he said, waving me away.

I obeyed, turning back to go to my desk, grab my jacket, and get the fuck out of here. I'd start at my apartment, then start calling our local friends. Oh, and the bar. I should swing back to that shitty bar. I had spent the last few years hunting down missing people. I should be able to find my own wife, dammit.

"I'm your senior officer on this case," Merriweather said as he walked past me. He followed me, huffing along as I rushed through the bullpen. "I need you to stay for the briefing, and—"

"Merriweather!" Whitaker barked from his office. Merriweather froze, and slowly turned to answer the captain's call, but I kept going.

On the way back to our apartment, I called all of our friends and Lex's parents. No one had heard from her, and her parents insisted that I calm down. Only her younger sister, Grace, was taking my panic seriously, though she was always the nervous type. Lex would often go rogue before a big gallery or while she was really deep on a project. But they didn't know everything about Lex. They didn't know that last night she was with some stranger, fucking her, and now anything could have happened to her. She was a beautiful woman traveling through Chicago late at night. She didn't make it home. Why didn't she make it home?

She wasn't at our apartment. It was just as I left it, which meant she hadn't been home since I left. I double checked the shower to see if it had been used, the hamper to see if she'd tossed her dirty clothes, and the fridge to see if anything had been moved or taken. I thought of all the interviews I did with families when one of their loved ones went missing. What would a detective ask me to check for? What was the useful information that would break the case open? But I also felt bad about all the times I'd judged them for not remembering some minute details. Who notices which way the milk was facing in the fridge? Who carefully catalogs their life to make sure they notice when something is slightly off?

I got a text from Whitaker asking me if I was alright, and that was what broke me. Two holes in the wall later—that Lex would inevitably make me fix when she was found and everything was alright—I was calm enough to know what I had to do. I knew the next steps: track the phone and the footsteps. But I didn't have the authority, technology, or leverage to do it on my own. I couldn't pressure a service provider to ping her phone and triangulate its position. But I knew exactly how we would handle this down at the station, but I would need to ask them for help first. I'd need to embarrass myself in front of my peers and say that I had lost my wife, and I needed the help of idiots like Merriweather to find her.

I'd rather chew glass.

And I could be making this whole thing up. I got up and poured myself a drink from the bar. I imagined Lex judging me again about drinking this early, but I would shrug her off if she was here, so I shrugged her off in my mind now. Alcohol cleared the fog of other bullshit and helped me focus on the task at hand. It was like fucking adderall to my brain, helping me think logically about the situation instead of misting it over with romanticism.

It was entirely possible that Lex was still out with the Arab woman, still passed out in her bed, on her way back here now, or on her way to the gallery. Her phone could be dead. Or stolen. There were a thousand possible explanations that didn't involve Lex being in danger. She could have seen an amazing scene and stopped, turned off her phone, taken out her camera, and got lost in the moment. That happened to her from time to time. Sure, it didn't happen before a big gallery, but it did happen.

But as I stared at the holes in the wall with a cold glass of whiskey in my hands, I knew it wasn't doing it for me. I couldn't numb this out. I had to make sure Lex was okay. I could be wrong, but I had to make sure she was safe. I downed the glass of whiskey, poured myself another, and downed it just as fast. It burned like hell, but I would need some liquid courage if I was about to ask Whitaker to formally open up an investigation for my wife.

***

Shahwa

The blonde meal who had begged me to fuck her had changed her mind so quickly. I turned to the camera where her fans were watching us kiss. I had asked her to crop out my sunglasses, but she wouldn't. She said her fans wanted to see my face. Of course, I kept my face off before obliging to remove my sunglasses.

That was when the shrieking began.

The dorm room was cramped and didn't provide much room to run. The teal meal—she still insisted I call her Alexa—stood in front of the door. She was still a seedling, and my sin would take time to root and flower inside of her. As such, she was dull and passive, obeying simple instructions like a well-trained animal.

Thankfully, our target had taken the time to add some soundproofing to her room for the sake of her fans on the computer. Her whole room was oriented around the computer and her cameras for her performances. I imagined she took many lovers like myself in here, and her neighbors were accustomed to hearing passionate moans despite the soundproofing. The internet was an incredible invention since my last time on earth. My sin thrived with an audience, and the idea of thousands of strangers stroking themselves at once was enough to make me almost godlike.

While the teal meal restrained the blonde one, I moved to the camera. I could see comments flying over the screen from her viewers and a preview of what they could see. For now, it was my voluptuous hips and full, heavy breasts that were on display. The chat commented on the twisted red metal of my piercings. Red was the color of my sin and my house, and I wore this mark with pride. One of my meals had said my breasts were a gift from god, both so large and so perky all at once. She had no idea how close she was to the comment.

I swayed my hips as a song from this body's country came to me. I could walk through her memories at will, but it was only her skills that were of use to me. I lifted my arms and made my hips move of their own accord, performing a belly dance my body had done a million times for men as she hunted, seduced, used, and disposed of them. She had been a woman after my own heart, and my name for this incarnation was a dedication to her perverse and cruel spirit.

The comments scrolled past faster than I could read, but I could tell they liked my dance. They didn't care that they watched the blonde meal scream or scamper off screen. They wanted to cum, and without reading their comments, I could feel them giving me power, hungering for my body, assuming they owned me. I could pick up flashes of their imaginations. Some wanted to bend me over the bed and fuck me hard. Some wanted to kneel before me while I kept dancing and bury their tongues into my thick bush. Others wanted to see me on my knees— to see my face and my warm, dark eyes—so they could imagine sliding their cocks through my full, black lips. There were a few images of women wanting to play with my breasts but not enough. As I told the Coven, I would only reproduce with women. Afterall, they owned lust in a way that men were enslaved to. Who better to rule?