Ebb Tide Ch. 02

She was never flirtatious and I couldn't imagine her ever being disloyal to her husband ~ she was too smart to think she could get away with that. She was polite, even kind, yet never a false friend. She use to wear her hair straight and longer. Now she wore it cut to shoulder length with cropped bangs. It highlighted her cheekbones and grey eyes.

I also thought the look made people respect her intellect a smidge more...if your eyes ever made it up to her face. She had that kind of cleavage that lured you in, saying 'rejoice in your woodie, Mate. Are you thinking titty fuck, motor-boating, or are you a going to fixate on my thick nipples and large, dark areolas for some in depth suckling?

I wasn't a monk. Beautiful women didn't intimidate me, nor had I ever desired any woman more than common sense allowed. I wasn't going to ravage either of my guests. I could shamelessly masturbate in the bathroom with the best of them. And outside of those two occupying more space in my home than I did as well as snoring, my life was completely on track.

Snoring...yeah...I'd bunked with men, so I was used to night-noises. In time, I'd get used to Dabney making little whimpering sounds interspersed with stuttered-meeps and G's more traditional low, steady snore which was no louder than a cat's purring. Dabney, ignorant of my predilections toward utter silence, was my current problem.

I had bought a queen-sized bed because I accepted the possibility that I'd have female companionship over on rare occasions. I had given my bed to my two female refugees and put a portable cot in my living room. The sofa wasn't made for sleeping and I wanted to be alone. Dabney hadn't figured that out, or maybe she was afraid of not being near me, her rescuer. She was soundly asleep, on my sofa, 18 inches away from me.

{The second day}

My phone vibrated; again, I didn't like noise, random or planned. It was 6 a.m. and I had a few things to do before I met Lorenzo, my mentor/trainer at my new job, MedicWest. I had an errand to perform, a strict time table to keep and Dabney was sleeping on her stomach. I'd woken up when she exited the bedroom and started coming my way. I watched her through nearly shut eyes. Feigning sleep is a useful knack to pick up.

She was very scantily clad. Her divinely-inspired ass was tightly contained in faint white bikini briefs with dozens of small smiley faces on it. Her upper-wear consisted of an UNLV (University of Nevada -- Las Vegas) "Go Runnin' Rebels!" scarlet jersey cut off between her belly button pierced with a pearl link ( pearl was her June birthstone) and the bottom of her spherical mammalian bountifulness. The name on the back of the jersey read "Care-Free".

Ugh. I had work to do that involved keeping those two safe -- safer. My home was my fortified sanctum -- my paranoid love nest. I slipped on some gray track pants and a shirt, then double-checked my security before sneaking out the back door. I used the fading night to slip over the back wall and jog to my desolate back-up house. I retrieved my two bits of damage control material (the badges of the two Robbery/Homicide detectives I'd bludgeoned two nights ago), then returned home.

Dabney was still sound asleep on the sofa. G was curled up around one of my body-pillows on my bed, also in a blessed dream-state. I left them a few simple instructions ~ 1) Don't steal my car (again). 2) Don't call a taxi to come for you until you are two blocks away from the house, and only then if it is an emergency. 3) Don't make any personal phone calls. 4) Don't answer the door, or the phone. 5) Don't open any windows. 6) Everything you need is in the house.

After a quick, healthy breakfast, I was off on my pre-work errand. I had to meet with one Lt. T. (Trixie) Crowe Buchannan of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department (LVMPD) at 400 South Martin Luther King Blvd.

Once more, using my pirated police log-ons, I had researched officers' case management files (not the individual cases, just the amount of hours put in, caseloads vs. cases closed) to decide which person was both effective, relatively honest and likely to be in the office before the regular 8 a.m. start time. Access was easy. I had a badge and no sane person broke into the Internal Affairs Bureau (IAB) of the LVMPD.

It was cubicle hell. I detected only two person in the moderately-sized office space. I knew the face of the woman I was looking for. When the other detective on the floor saw me, I asked for Lt. Buchannan and the man showed me the way. Again, no one enters into this place without a damn good reason.

"Detective Lieutenant Crowe Buchannan?" I went through the formalities. She had the quick-eyed, coltish gaze of a classic over-achieving misanthrope. Her hazel eyes, set in an oval face, were dissecting me even as she answered. She brushed a stray strand of brown hair out of her face. Most of it was contained in a ponytail that dropped to the bottom of her shoulder blades.

"Yes, and who would you be?" she said. Her eyes flickered to the computer screen, most likely making sure that it was in fact 7:35 a.m.

"Vance Vardanyan," I gave a tight grin. "I want you to do something for me."

"Mr. Vardanyan," she clipped off each syllable as she stood, "Internal Affairs only investigates matters involving the LVMPD. If you have a complaint, we have a procedure..." That was when I dumped the two badges on her desk and a flash drive.

"These two drunk detectives stumbled into my yard Sunday night and dropped these before driving off to God knows where," I lied. "I was wondering if you knew why they were attempting to harass me. While you are at it, could you please find out why Assistant Sheriff Mahaulu wants to speak with me, as I am unaware of any criminal proceedings aimed my way."

"I...perhaps I should call him," she suggested sarcastically while her inquisitive mind kicked into high gear. "What is your name again?"

"Vardanyan -- Vance. That is v-a-r-d-a-n-y-a-n -- v-a..." I spelled it out.

"Vance," she interrupted. "I've got it. What is the nature of your complaint?"

At least she was allowing me to cut through most of the crappy paperwork.

"I don't like police. I don't like police showing up at my door at night. I don't like police yanking me around for no good purpose," I explained, "and threatening me with false charges to force me to meet said Assistant Sheriff. Can I count on you to investigate this, or are am I going to get another round of late night law enforcement abuse of power?"

"I need more details," she pressed.

"Good plan. Check out the flash drive. Investigate. I've got to go to work now ~ second day on the job," I grinned. "Best of luck to you, but I have to go."

"You can't drop some vague accusations in my lap and walk away," she grumbled.

"Watch me. As I said, I don't like cops and I have a job to get to. Do what you wish," I backed off. "I've done my civic duty for the week. Good-bye."

"I will need to contact you later," she slowly followed me. "What is your number?"

"I'm the only V. Vardanyan in the phone book," I waved bye-bye.

Oh, I'd lied to her. My listed number went to my cut-out, my address went nowhere and our communication would be done on my time-table, not hers. Her time-table? She had two pictures on her desk -- an older photo of a man in a LVPD uniform and the same man, much older, with Lt. Buchannan on the day she graduated from the LVMPD Recruit Training Academy aka 'The Academy'.

She had a Bachelor of Arts in Criminal Justice degree and had been working on her Masters in Professional Master of Arts in Criminal Justice for three years. After graduating from the Academy eight years ago, she'd made sergeant in two years and Lieutenant two years after that. Her last two years had been spent in IAB.

I made it to MedicWest early and in time to answer a call from Lt. Buchannan, "Hello TC (Trixie Crowe ~ why would parents do that to a kid?)." I had a thing for referring to people by their initials when able. Again, paramedics are licensed.

"Lt. Buchannan," she tried to correct me. "Your public phone number is an answering service and your official address belongs to someone who claims not to know you," Crowe was steamed. She was also interested in my case, which was all I wanted.

"Okay," I responded.

"Okay?"

"Yes, I agree that my phone and address don't lead back to me," I sighed. "Will there be anything else?"

"How about a little bit of cooperation, Mr. Vardanyan?" she grumbled.

"Did you look at the flash drive?" I winked to Lorenzo. 'Girl problems', I mouthed.

"Yes...it is a recording of six officers doing inappropriate things. Maybe if you would come down and fill out a formal complaint, I could move on this," she suggested.

"No thanks. As you have seen for yourself, I have reason to distrust the LVMPD. It is your workplace, not mine. This is your mess, I'm merely giving you a chance to do the right thing and inquire why in a forty-eight hour period I attracted so much unwarranted attention," I reiterated the case I'd dumped in her lap. "Start at the beginning and work your way up."

"I need more than this," she hedged.

"No you don't. You have two cops hassling me and a friend, searching me without cause, two more stumbling around my house after hours and finally two pleasant interactions with yet two more of your patrol officers, the ones who are inviting me to go talk with the Assistant Sheriff," I volleyed back.

"What are you trying to do?" she hrumpfed.

"I'm trying to tell Lloyd Pharris to back the fuck up, Lt. Trixie," I told her. "He sent those first two to do his dirty work. The next two were sent to intimidate me. The third two were running private errands for the Assistant Sherriff."

"I'm giving Mr. Pharris a stern reminder that he doesn't rule this city, or the whole police force...or does he?" I said.

"Lloyd Pharris?" she murmured. It wasn't fear -- it was caution I heard in her voice. "I'm going to need more than this to..."

"Do you job and I'll do mine," I looked over to Lorenzo who was indicating we needed to take off. "I've got a service call. Lives need saving. Have a nice day." I handed the phone to the equipment officer, swept up my gear and followed my new partner out the doors. We had a call. It sounded like an allergic reaction.

"You've got one messed up social life," Lorenzo nervously chuckled.

"Tell me about it," I laughed. "Tell me about it."

Lorenzo didn't stop trying to get inside my life. He was a talker and was the type of guy who wanted all his constant companions to be his friends and projected my refusal to accommodate him as a personal failing on his part.

"Hey Vance," Lorenzo called out to me as I was signing the receipt for the gear I'd returned at the end of shift. Paramedics handled all kinds of substances which were controlled and/or illegal ~ thus valuable. I'd been able to check all my supplies and fill out the paperwork blindfolded for years. Lorenzo, despite five years at this job, still took three times as long.

"Yeah?"

"Me and the wife are having some friends over Saturday for a cookout," he said. "I figured that you might not know anyone..." That was somewhat desperation on his part.

"Sure. What time and can I bring my roommates -- two of them?" I replied.

Since Lorenzo was expecting yet another rebuff, my immediate acquiescence caught him by surprise.

"Sure. Ah, my wife has a younger sister and she has a friend," he grinned. Now he was trying to hook me up. He was doing me a favor I hadn't asked for, in an arena I had shown no interest in. I decided to not burst his bubble by mentioning my roommates were both women.

I was rewarded for making the next three days riding with Lorenzo much easier by spotting a LVMPD patrol car lurking in wait for me. They thought they were being sneaky. My next gift was on my passage side door -- someone had jimmied the lock. I imagined something illegal had been put in my car. Cool. Opening the door had activated the internal surveillance system. I also had two GPS locators and a satellite phone hidden away, but that wasn't relevant at the moment.

I took my time. I had an older looking car and I lived in Las Vegas, so my starting the engine, then standing alongside it while the air conditioning blasted away at the stifling heat that all car develop, wasn't all that unusual. Making a phone call was equally innocuous. The cops were more than willing to wait for me to make it onto W. Delhi Rd. to bust me.

"Hello?" Dabney's voice came over the phone.

"Didn't I leave instructions to not answer the phone?" I reminded her.

"Oh...sorry, yeah," she moped.

"That's cool. You need to drive G into work tonight. A bit of trouble has come up and I might be late," I said.

"Oh. Is there anything I can do to help?" she perked up.

"Yes. Figure out what you want to do for dinner," I told her. "I'm going to need to do some de-stressing and you know the downtown area far better than me." I didn't want to dine out. Giving Dabney a purpose after she'd stayed in the house all day was a concession I had to make to promote my domestic tranquility.

"Okay, I've got three or four places in mind," I could feel her warmth coming through. "Here is Georgianna." The phone switched hands.

"Hello V? Is there a problem?" she was nervous.

"Nothing I can't handle. Go to work. We'll talk when you get home tonight," I assured her. "Take care. I have to go."

"Bye," she said. Letting a woman have the last word was a useful expedient.

"Officer Crowe Buchannan," I requested from the operator. It took me a few seconds.

"Buchannan," she grumbled. Definitely not a happy person.

"Vance Vardanyan here. Are you still looking into that matter we discussed?" I said politely.

"This has been a shitload of trouble you've dropped on me," she groused. Then, "Yes, I'm still looking into this."

"Gosh, thanks for doing your job, Lieutenant. I need to download you some more video and then establish a link because I'm about to get busted by officers Rothschild and Shell," I informed her.

"What? Why?" she flipped from pissed to attentive.

"Let's find out together," I took my seat and shut the door. I flipped my system to broadcast and cut back to the appropriate footage.

"Here it comes," I told her. While I waited, I double-checked shirt collar spy cams. They looked like onyx buttons and were very difficult to detect. From past experience, that would be enough.

It showed Officer Shell opening my passenger door -- the system hadn't activated until one of the entry points was breeched -- and looking around. At the 53 second mark, he pulled out five packets of what I believed was Meth and stashed it under the driver's seat. He had on gloves but had brushed his head along the rear-view mirror -- trace hair evidence. All of that was captured on video. I put my car in gear and started to pull out.

"Oh crap," she muttered. "When can you come in? We need to talk about this."

"As I said, I am about to get busted. I should be in Clark County Detention Center within thirty minutes. Meet me there," I suggested. She didn't say something stupid like 'are you going to let them arrest you.' I couldn't avoid them, even if I sat in the parking lot.

"My partner and I will meet you there," she grunted. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I already am," I joked. "I'm putting a single ounce of faith in a cop not being a fascist fucker. If I wasn't in a peaceful frame of mind, I would have dealt with this myself."

"Don't do that," she insisted.

I pulled out on to W. Delhi and here came the cops, with a brief flash of lights and a siren wail. Buchannan could hear that. I pulled over, fully prepared to play my role while the video from five camera's recorded and broadcast the events for posterity and IAB's Trixie Crowe. The came at me from both sides, hands resting on the butts of their pistols. Both of my hand were on the top of the steering wheel.

"Mr. Vardanyan," Rothschild addressed. "Step out of the car carefully. We have been informed that you are transporting drugs in your vehicle."

"I am carrying a firearm and a knife," I announced loud and clear before complying. What followed was rote. She found the usual nail clippers, phone and wallet plus my FN45 Tactical pistol. I had my Concealed Carry Permit as well. I had a service knife (licensed too).

Shell asked me if he could search my car, I acquiesced ~ in theory I thought my car was clean, right? I was already cuffed and searched by the time Officer Bart Shell made his discovery.

"What do we have here?" he gloated, waving five baggies from the far side of the car. He had searched from the passenger side while Rothschild pulled me to the back of my ride and did her thing.

Any response on my part was a waste of words so I kept quiet.

"Trying to sick Internal Affairs on us was stupid," Rothschild whispered in my ear. "What are these?" she inquired as the serious pat down began. There went my knife.

"Arm braces," I stated. "I hurt my arms a few years -- landed hard and broke the bones. If I don't wear them for a period of time and am active, they start to really hurt."

"Sucks to be you. They won't let you keep them in jail," she mocked. It would have been bad if I had told her the truth. The leg braces came next. Intelligent people called them forearm and shin guards. They gave me a serious edge in hand-to-hand combat. "You are going to lose these too." Shell was busy calling the 'bust' in and setting the ground work for my sentencing hearing.

Rothschild Mirandized me, made sure I knew my rights and I responded by invoking my Right to Council. After they got me in the back seat of their cruiser and started on the trek to the Clark County Detention Center. My blasé attitude was concerning Rothschild and angering Shell.

"So, you think you are hard-core?" Shell grumbled. What the Hell...

"I think? Let's keep to the things I know. I am a paramedic. You two are not hired killers. I know both of you are corrupt, arrogant and delusional in believing you are anything more than pawns, Officers Shell and Rothschild," I countered. "You were given a few simple jobs to do and failed to do any of them."

"I don't know," he chuckled. "You are about to go to lock-up. Putting a jailbird like you behind bars is our job."

"Stupid," I smiled at Shell, "you have failed all across the board. You failed to uphold your oaths to protect and serve, you failed to achieve competence on multiple levels, and you are about to fail to provide for you families."

"Let it go, Bart," Rothschild cut off her partner's angry retort. The rest of the trip was made in silence. I hadn't gotten under Rothschild's skin, but Shell was letting his emotions cloud his common sense. Exiting the car was rough. With the banging up that was going on, I figured the Corrections Officer was probably part of the problem. I didn't care.

They three of them got me to booking when the shit hit the fan. I was the first one to realize that my freedom was nigh. The bookings officer was busy cataloging my stuff when she stopped parroting off my possessions as they were handed over and looked past us. Lt. Crowe Buchannan and another female cop, R. Kerr where coming our way.

Their arrival wasn't the only bad news. Silently those two had flashed their ID's to three other Corrections officers then motioned our way. My peripheral awareness was top self. Since IAB doesn't go after suspects brought in for 'sales weight' drugs charges, they knew one of the cops were about to get it. Rothschild sensed the disturbance at the last second.

"Officer Bartholomew Shell, you are under arrest," Buchannan announced. "No sudden moves." Shell almost got himself shot as he made a rapid half-turned. The two IAB officers and three other officers drew their pistols and pointed at him/us. The Corrections officer who had been my Welcome Wagon Lady slowly backed away.