Lady Smith Lock and Key Pt. 05

I'd like to thank Lastman for the help editing. Always a great help. This will be the last upload of the year seeing how this will likely get published right before the new year. This time last year I was hoping to reach 700 followers by the end of 2021. We managed to get over 900. Thanks for all the support this last year.

-Trixie Kirkpatrick-

Wednesday - April 21, 2021

Lieutenant Hoskins starts her morning with a cup of coffee and yelling at Miles for so long her mug is cold when she finally stops for a breather and a swig. Detective Miles Deacon just couldn't let it go. We had no hard evidence against Lady Smith, but he just kept poking that bear. He let himself get careless. Lady Smith lets a man take her into a car, and he assumed he had her. Turns out the only thing he caught was her and her boss having a fling.

Lieutenant Ronda Hoskins is the same age as Miles and has been a cop for just as long. Miles had no ambition for command, she did, and that was that. The job has aged her an additional ten years. Once a brunette, she's now a long-haired silver fox with her hair in a professional bun.

Lieutenant Hoskins is leaned forward over her desk, balanced with her palms flat on the surface. She spent at least ten minutes rehearsing this ass chewing. Miles tries to get a word in every other sentence, but never manages a to reach a punctuation mark.

"Just because I didn't see the money change hands..." Miles starts to say in his defense.

"...that's literally the only thing that matters. You've been a cop for nearly thirty years, and yet I have to explain probable cause like you're a fucking boot!" Boot, derogatory term for a police officer fresh out of the academy.

"I have her on tape discussing sex acts..."

"...you have her on tape walking out of a hotel room Miles. You have two things on this woman: fuck, and all. Even if I agreed with you that she's committed a crime, you don't even have evidence to pad out a grand jury indictment, and you can indict a ham sandwich."

"You don't honestly believe the fundraiser story?" Miles asks. Ronda pauses, picks up a folder, and drops it on the other side of her desk closer to Miles. It's stacked full of sworn statements from attendees of the fundraiser. Pictures of her at the event, and her job application complete with background check for the position.

"Applied to be a driver for the car service and passes the background check that we conducted with flying colors, because she has no record. Confirmed to be on their payroll. Attended the fundraiser with Mr. Harper who asked her out earlier that day and leaves with her boss Mr. Justin who also attended."

"Awfully convenient," Miles says. Miles, please, just shut the fuck up.

"Miles, let me tell you what you're saying, just so you can hear out loud how stupid you sound. Someone hired a prostitute by proxy and arranged for her to go to a fundraiser to guarantee she's seen in public. The man then brings a female friend who the prostitute leaves the party with to go to a bar, just so my he can hook up with his date, and he can bang the prostitute in a car in a parking lot. That's more practical, than, say, going to a hotel and fucking her?"

Miles thinks about it for too long. "If you say it like that."

"I'm saying it like that, because that's what needs to have happened, for you to have a case. Miles, she's a girl who got railed by her boss. Hypergamy isn't a crime, let it go. You're lucky I'm only suspending you."

"For what? Public indecency is a crime."

"Getting fucked in a car at midnight hardly passes the legal threshold, and good luck finding a prosecutor who'd take it to court. Especially after finding out her harassment complaint is more credible than your prostitution case. Two weeks, with pay."

I'm not convinced Miles is going to let it go, but he says he will. The door hits the wall on his way out, and I gently shut the door. I have a different idea I want to run by her.

"What?" she asks. Ronda takes a seat, sips her coffee, and spits the cold drink back into the cup.

"I think Deacon is right about her. I'm not sure to what degree, but he's not wrong."

"Irrelevant, because you have no evidence. I just told him, thus you as well, to leave her alone."

"Carrot and stick diplomacy. Miles has been beating her over the head with the stick. She's not afraid of it. I'd like to try dangling a carrot." I spent all morning finding the best analogy for her. One I can easily explain, and that she'd understand.

"You still believe she's connected to the Legion?" I nod. Ronda face scrunches together in thought, then flattens out again. "What's the carrot?"

"Her father's cold case," I say. Ronda blinks a few times, not sure where I'm going with this. "Her father was murdered about twelve years ago. It remains unsolved. If I can make some headway, I can use that to build trust with her."

"You want to work that case on your own, knock yourself out. We still have five days on the surveillance warrant, so that's still priority. You need help getting the case file?"

"Shouldn't. It was investigated by the Yellowstone County Sheriff's Office, and I'm cross deputized."

"You hit a roadblock, let me know."

"Understood," I say with a slight nod and leave.

--

-Lady Smith-

It's been several months since the last time I was in this bar. For now, I feel the threat of a harassment complaint will keep Miles off me for some time. Before I wouldn't dare confirm the relationship with direct contact. Today, I have no issues walking straight into the Coliseum to see the Caesar.

The Coliseum is the headquarters of the 9^th Legion. When you step in it's one giant room with a runway splitting it down the middle halfway. Girls dance naked or partially clothed in robes or ancient looking garbs. The girls are younger than me. The outer edge of the space is tacky Roman Coliseum wallpaper. The bar is on the left side, exchanging larger bills for smaller bills to tip strippers.

My eyes immediately fling across the room to one table on the right side near where the runway meets the rest of the stage. It's a perfect square table with four legs, like all the rest. Only this table holds a horrid memory for me. It's the table I was pinned down on when I had to come clean to the fact I couldn't make a payment, because I gambled it away.

The Caesar's nephew Terrence, or the Centurion, had two of his boys hold me face down on the table. I was given two choices of payment: money or pussy. I didn't have money. He cut the collar of my shirt with a knife and pulled at the sliced fabric to tear the shirt off my body. My jeans were yanked to my ankles, and my panties were about to follow until I saved myself.

"I'm a locksmith!" I shouted. It was a strange enough outburst that the Caesar let me explain why my occupation mattered.

I've had plenty of sex in my life with little regret. I don't so much regret the acts, as much as I regret the men. It's how I've often enjoyed blowing off steam. Sex was always an event of pleasure and fun. Then it suddenly became a weapon to use against me. After that, every interaction with the legion has had that threat looming over it. To keep that threat at bay, I've had to sell my body, and keep telling myself I was in control.

"Chief of security, huh?" I hear a voice ask. I turn my head from the table and toward the bar. The Caesar is pouring himself a whiskey. His white beard is nearly in the glass it's so long. "How'd you wing that?"

"Believe it or not, I'm actually good at my job," I say. He chuckles a little and leans over the bar.

"Which one? Locks or cocks?" he asks.

"Good at both, but I enjoy one more," I say. He gives a hearty laugh and drains over half of his glass. He refills it and walks around the bar to sit on a stool.

"Heard you got that cop off your ass too," he says, and I pause. I haven't told any of them about Detective Deacon messing up. "Don't act surprised. I got eyes and ears everywhere. What now?"

"I control where the cameras look, or even if they look. You got a buyer?" I ask. One big job, and this is over. I can have my life back.

"Working it. The market for these cars is in the Middle East and Eastern Europe. I know a guy who knows some guys. I still need someone here to help get them past customs, but that'll reduce our cut. Right now, we're looking at only thirty percent of the total. You get a quarter of whatever that is. Minus your debt of course."

"You can knock off ten percent right now," I hear a new voice say. The Centurion has entered from stage left. The Caesar's nephew is in his later thirties, but looks older because of a lifetime of crime, drugs, and likely three STIs. His frame is skinny like a tweaker, and his body has more ink than skin. His biker vest wears him, and he dons it without a shirt underneath, showing thin, curly chest hair with no happy trail. Razor blade bald, and some of his tattoos suggests more extremist connections.

Terrence jumps off the stage and lands with a heavy thud considering how skinny he is. I walk backwards until my back hits the runway, and he traps be between his arms.

"You already sell it around town. Ten percent off your total is a lot more than you charge," Terrence says. I'm good enough at math to know he's right, but I still shake my head. "Head for five percent."

"I'm a little selective as per my clients," I say, and he grabs my throat. He forces me hard into the stage, and I push my hands against his chest.

"You saying my dick isn't good enough?"

"Let her go Terrence," says the Caesar, and he releases me with a slight throw backwards. He grabs my hair the moment I think it's over and pulls my ear to his mouth.

"You'll slip up again. When you do, he won't save you," he says. He bites down on my ear hard enough for me to squeak and throws me again. I grab my ear, and then look at my hand. He bit hard enough to draw blood.

"You couldn't just call?" Terrence asks.

"You know I'm bugged," the Caesar answers for me.

"How long until you can move the cars?" I ask.

"About a week. Still trying to make arrangements for transport through Wild Horse."

"You're taking the cars through Canada?" I ask, and he nods. Wild Horse is a border crossing into Canada. Minimally manned. He's probably doing it nearby and not just straight through the crossing.

"You let me worry about that part. Just make sure we can get them out and across the border before they know they're missing," he says, and I shrug. "Update me in a week. I should have the buyer and transit arranged by then."

I posture like I'm about to leave, and Terrence huffs and mockingly moves out of my way. He gestures like I'm royalty, and he bows slightly as I move pass. Before I'm fully out of his reach, I feel his hand hit my ass and squeeze. I quicken my pace to get out sooner while trying to not look like I'm running in the terror I rightfully feel.

--

Bianca is staring at me coldly while I sit in the waiting room. Lucas is busy with a teleconference in his office, and I have to wait to tell him I'm taking the job as his new Chief of Security. A job I'm taking so I can help steal everything he's ever worked for. A job I'm taking so I can prove to his sister every instinct she has about me is dead on accurate.

"Your eyes will fall out if you keep staring," I taunt.

"First you get him arrested, and now he's giving you a better job?" Bianca asks while shaking her head. It sounds like a question, but she's just talking out loud.

"Your brother asked me into the car, I just climbed in with him. Or, on him," I say, and she scowls. "He offered me the job before anything happened. I helped find your tire thieves."

"You know I own forty percent of the company, right?" she asks. Why would I know that? "That's because the last time my brother fucked a woman who worked for him, she divorced him and stole the company."

Lucas is divorced? Bianca's misogyny finds ways to justify itself, but she still annoys me. She annoys me because I can't fool her. To her I'm not some charming locksmith who makes good banter. I'm the next bitch who'll fuck over her brother. I'm about to make what his ex-wife took look like an amicable split.

"I have no interest in marriage," I say.

"Neither did Harley," she retorts. "She was very interested in what came after."

"You'll never trust me, will you?"

"Why would I? You literally started as a driver, and one orgasm later you have an office." The way she said driver, sounded a lot like cock gobbling whore. Amazing how tone changes everything.

"I definitely had more than one orgasm," I say, and she opens her mouth to shout, but Lucas's office door opens. "Maybe I'll christen the office next," I add just before Lucas is in earshot. "Hey boss."

"It's Lucas, La..." he starts to say my name, but knows I don't like it. "...what do I call you that doesn't make you want to stab people?" I always went with Lady Smith in a playful way, and people never assumed it was my real name. I've never thought about what name I could just go with. "What's your middle name?"

"My mother had a cruel sense of humor, didn't give me one."

"Short of making one up, I got nothing."

"I got a few suggestions," Bianca says from her desk. "You probably don't want to hear them though." Bitch. Gold digger. Whore. Cunt. Thot.

"How about, just L?" he asks.

"L? Like E-L-L-E?" I ask, and he shrugs. It's not horrible. Better than Lady. "Sure."

"Alright Elle let's talk over this contract," he says, and invites me down the hall and to his office. He enters and before I follow, I look down the hallway to Brianna who is scowling. I gesture my left index finger into a circle made by my right thumb and index finger before stepping into his office.

--

-Trixie Kirkpatrick-

Friday - April 23, 2021

It took a full day for the Sheriff's office to find me the case, and I had to drive over to pick it up myself. The murder occurred at a time before we digitized everything as part of common operating procedure. One man's entire murder is in a box similar to the kind you'd receive printer paper in. It's sealed with evidence tape so old it's original red has become discolored to a soft pink. The adhesive isn't sticky anymore, the tape holding the box closed by sheer force of habit.

The evidence Sergeant has me sign several forms to receive it. While he's typing something up on the computer, I tap my fingers on the desk impatiently.

"What's the sudden interest?" the Sergeant asks. I lift my head up and look at him, but I don't stop tapping. "This case hasn't been looked at in nine years."

"Nine?" I ask. "This happened around twelve years ago."

"Someone reviewed it but didn't find anything," he says, and turns his computer screen to me. On the screen it says a Detective Leanne Spotted Bear had pulled the box in 2012. I don't know that name, and I know pretty much everyone with a shield in this county. If she was a detective in 2012, I would have known her. I look at her affiliation, and it says Boise Police Department. That and her badge number 2224.

"What interest did Boise have with this case?" I ask, and the Sergeant shrugs.

Something about this already smells fishy.

The Sergeant says I'm clear to take the box, and I do. I tuck it under my arm and walk straight to my car without stopping for anything. I place the box down on the trunk and spin it. I'm looking for evidence the box was opened. Slight peeling on the lid from where the tape was removed in 2012 before being replaced. Also an incision like cut on the side where a blade or something sharp cut the tape, but also sliced the box.

I flip open my pocketknife, cut the tape on one side and flip the lid off. I keep the tape on one side to keep it attached. Inside are several evidence bags of mostly Lady's father's clothing. One baggy with two expended bullets and another with three expended shells. The murder book is here as well, a small binder with all the information collected in chronological order. There is also a flash drive.

I open the book and see the initial lead investigator was Detective John Wolter of the Yellowstone County Sheriffs. That name I recognize. As far as I know, he's still there.

John Wolter responded to the sound of gunshots at a motel at three in the morning. At the scene he found one deceased male leaned back into a chair with three gunshots to the chest. He observed that his beer was freshly opened, and his cigarette was still lit when he was shot, having burned down to the filter, leaving a clean and intact white snake in the ashtray. The door was unlocked and closed, and his boots and jacket were still on. This indicated he was about to leave or had recently returned. The room was billed to him, paid in cash for the whole week.

Interviews were conducted with everyone at the motel, but there wasn't much. Most people heard the shots, but almost no one immediately went to investigate themselves, less they be shot too. One guest on the second floor stated he went to his window, pulled back the curtain and watched a vehicle drive off at high-speed seconds after the shooting stopped. One other guest did something similar, attesting to the vehicle having the body dimensions of a pick-up truck.

It's common for the county sheriffs to ask Billings PD for help considering we share several buildings. John Wolter was assigned a partner to help from Billings PD. Detective Miles Deacon.

"What the fuck Miles," I say aloud.

Miles interviewed several people, but they were never able to find a valid suspect without an alibi. I could understand why Miles wouldn't remember Lady being this man's daughter considering she was thirteen when it happened. What I find hard to imagine is that he's done so much investigation into her background yet didn't find this connection between the two of them.

I can deal with Miles later. What I want to know now is why the Boise Police Department sent someone to look at this case. I search for a number, and after a few holds and several connections, I get someone who can finally answer some questions for me.

"This is Detective Kirkpatrick out in Billings, Montana. I'm looking at a case right now, that according to the chain of custody of the evidence, was signed out by a detective from Boise. I'm just looking to track her down," I say.

"Name?"

"Spotted Bear," I reply. The name is unique enough that I don't add anything extra.

"Leanne?" the man asks, and I confirm. "She's long gone. About ten years, I used to work with her."

"She signed out the box on," I start, and then look for it on the log. "October 11, 2012."

"Doubt it," the man says. "She retired in 2011."

"You don't say," I say, double checking the dates to make sure I didn't suddenly develop dyslexia. "You got a number for her?"

"No number, but the forwarding address for her retirement checks is in Daniels County," the man says. I write down the address on the palm of my hand and thank him.

--

Monday - April 26, 2021

-Lady Smith-

Big changes are coming to King's Chariot. New policy states that employees can enter through one of two doors: the front entrance past the reception desk; or the side door on the east of the building closest to employee parking. This makes sure everyone entering the building is on camera. Access control points will go a long way to prevent inventory thefts.

Each employee made me an inventory of the tools they most often use, and I created inventory packages based on their lists. When they start work, they sign out their packages, and sign them back in at the end of the day. They can sign out more tools if needed, but it's all tracked.

After I handled access control points and inventory access, I created a loss prevention matrix. Thieves don't only target high value items; they also consider what is practical to conceal on their person. The matrix created weighted averages by considering both the price of the item and the ease of stealing it. Tires weren't that high on the list, because they're hard to carry. The recently fired employees installed them on the cars during maintenance and switched them during the test drive. This will be mitigated by limiting the test drive to only the outer circle of the parking lot.