The Cop and the Killer Ch. 01

"Ahh, now there is the rub, good Horatio." Amy said. "A most elusive and baffling lady in waiting so to speak."

"What the fuck are you two talking about?" The lanky woman asked harshly.

"She didn't kill herself, did she?" Cline said confidently.

"No. But she does have a very interesting story to tell, provided one can read between the lines." Amy said.

"Then tell it." Cline said with a grin.

"She would have us believe that she was the assassin." Amy began. "Have we confirmed with Sea-Tac control whether the voice transmissions from this flight were male or female?"

"Male." Cline replied.

"Very interesting." Amy said. "So, we can assume that the pilot was alive through landing. Based upon the track of the bullet, the assassin was obviously in the right seat."

"So what is Jane Doe # 1 really telling us?" Cline asked.

"Two things: First, that the assassin was a woman." Amy answered.

"You're saying that a woman did all this?" The lanky woman shouted aghast.

"Ever heard of Equal Opportunity Employment?" Cline jabbed playfully.

"I find that extremely hard to believe." The lanky woman said.

"Detective Styles?" Cline asked.

"Julio Salazar had himself a very hot date last night with a mysterious young lady wearing a Versace evening gown. While the three musketeers there waited in the forward cabin - Julio, our mystery woman and the flight attendant were going to have themselves a little sexual romp. Mystery woman obviously watched Julio and the flight attendant disrobe, then from her seat..." Amy made a gun firing motion with her thumb and index finger. "Popped them both in the head."

"Talk about foreplay." Cline said.

"Obviously she had her weapon holstered under her gown. Most likely on her inner or back thigh." Amy added.

"God I love it when you talk dirty." Cline said.

"As the weapon was silenced, there was no chance that the boys could have heard the shots; especially over the engine noise. So, our young lady then moved to a prime position near the cabin door, screamed of trouble and waited. The boys marched in single file, guns drawn and then fell like dominos as she picked them off from most likely behind that door."

"Are you just making this up as you go along?" The lanky woman asked.

"Pretty much." Amy said. "Once the primary quarry was bagged, our mystery lady went to the flight deck and took the co-pilot hostage."

"The co-pilot?" The lanky woman asked.

"That's the second thing Jane Doe #1 tells us. She was the co-pilot." Amy said. "I noticed that the pilot's wrists had deep red divots all around them, indicating that he'd been bond and there were traces of sticky resin around his mouth. Somebody covered his mouth with duct tape. My guess is the assassin forced the co-pilot to buck and gag the pilot then the two of them swapped outfits. Once she donned the Versace gown, the co-pilot got shot in the head at point blank range to make it look like a suicide. The assassin wiped the gun clean, marked it with the co-pilot's fingerprints and placed it appropriately. Then she returned to the flight deck, untied the pilot and held him at gunpoint from the right hand seat until they landed. She shot him in the head, intentionally ran the plane off the runway, activated the emergency escape systems and slipped off into the night before help arrived. What was the elapse time between loss of contact and emergency crews arriving on the scene?"

"Somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen to twenty minutes." Cline told her. "The FAA is still trying to iron out a precise sequence of events."

"Canvas going?" Amy asked.

"What kind of a cop do you take me for?" Cline said. "So, give me the moral of the story, Detective."

"This was an assassination of a very powerful and dangerous figure." Amy said. "Very well funded, very well planned and executed by a highly trained, incredibly skilled professional killer. One that might be a little fed up with this line of work and her only way out was to stage her own death."

"Hence the suicide angle." Cline commented.

"Boy, you are a good cop." Amy said as she smiled. "And given the reputation of Julio Salazar and the nature of this situation, chances are good that the Feds will be taking over the investigation and we'll be left holding our limp dicks in the wind."

"And the chances of finding the assassin?" Cline asked, already knowing the answer.

"Negative 100%, my love." Amy said. "Professionals like her don't get caught. It's hard enough for their employers to even find them."

"I don't understand." The lanky woman piped up. "I've always thought that assassinations are targeted on one person."

"They are. But you're forgetting the prime code of assassination; or at least, one of many underlying the term: Assassination is perfectly legal and justified if you're on the right side." Amy said.

"How poetic." The lanky woman remarked.

"And with assassination often comes elimination." Cline added.

"Pardon?" The lanky woman replied.

"Assassinate the target. Eliminate the witnesses where necessary." Amy said.

One of the uniformed officers appeared at the cabin door.

"Detective Cline, the FBI is here." He announced.

"Fun while it lasted though, wasn't it?" Amy sighed.

"STYLES!!!!!" A booming male voice roared like a T-Rex through the cabin, startling everyone out of their wits. Everyone but Amy and Ted Cline.

Amy turned to behold her squad lieutenant, Nathan Ellis. Ellis was a broad, burly and powerful black man who stood just a couple of inches shorter than Cline, but was a much thicker man all throughout. He had an enormous beer belly that bulged out from under his grey suit coat and blue shirt. Black and shiny wing tips were on his shovel size feet, double chinned with a thick mustache, his shirt collar and tie seemed to be on the verge of asphyxiating him.

"Lieutenant." Amy nearly whispered.

"Outside! Now!" Ellis roared and stormed out.

Amy shrugged at Cline and then followed after Ellis as two Federal Agents in dark suits and even darker sunglasses entered the cabin.

Amy descended the step ladder and spotted Ellis near the tapeline, motioning her toward him with his finger. Amy felt a knot forming in her still queasy stomach.

"Yes, sir?" Amy asked humbly.

"As of right now, you are on indefinite suspension. I need your gun, your shield and your police ID." Ellis said extremely coldly.

Amy's anxiety was immediately replaced by rage.

"Suspended? In the name of God, why? What the fuck is this all about?" Amy demanded.

"The Ryan Wallace/Katherine Regal homicide." Ellis roared.

"What about it?" Amy asked. "It was cut and dry. His wife gave a full confession. She's on trial as we speak."

"She walked!" Ellis said.

"What?" Amy said aghast. "She shot her husband in the head six times and then bludgeoned Katherine Regal to death with a fucking hatchet."

"Mistrial. Improper procedures in filing evidence, suspected forgery in logging the evidence, tampering with the evidence and a surveillance video of the investigating officer, one detective-sergeant Amy Styles engaging in a wild lesbian sex act with Ryan Wallace's widow - one Debra Wallace. On the very bed where she had brutally murdered her husband and his lover."

Amy's body spasmed and her stomach tied itself in knots. She felt the vomit rising up her throat like magma up a volcano. Her legs buckled and she felt sure they would give out on her any moment.

"Lieutenant, you have to understand..." Amy began.

"I've seen the tape, Styles. Very arousing to say the least. You ever thought of going into the adult film industry? You could easily become a fucking starlet." Ellis said.

The tears were building up behind Amy's eyes; she felt her throat closing up, her heart raced and she suddenly forgot how to breathe. She began to sweat. Ellis held out his hand, his thick fingers spread open wide.

"Your gun, your shield and your police ID, Styles. Now!!" Ellis demanded.

Amy's entire body was shaking almost uncontrollably and she could hardly hold her hands steady as she handed over the only three things left in the world that made her still feel as though she were alive: her gun, her badge and her police ID. Without them, she had no life. She did not exist. She did not matter. Just like that, Amy Styles was no longer a cop. And just like that, Amy Styles was as dead as the seven people aboard the aircraft behind her.

"IAB has already been notified and they're beginning their investigation. You are suspended indefinitely pending the outcome of that investigation. They'll be in touch so don't be taking any vacations." Ellis added.

Amy couldn't look Ellis in the eye. She'd probably never be able to look anyone in the eye again. Amy stared, hopeless and helpless at the concrete tarmac beneath her feet, fighting the welling tears with every fiber of strength she had.

"Lieutenant, I..." Amy barely uttered.

"Don't speak, Amy." Ellis said, his tone softening tremendously. The fact that he called her Amy brought her just the slightest inkling of comfort. "Don't say a fucking word. You know, you're one of the best police officers I've ever had the privilege of working with. Or at least, you were. But this is bad. It's impossible to predict anything in this world, but if I were you, I would seriously consider looking for another line of work."

"Like what?" Amy asked. "Lesbian porno movies?"

"I hear Spec's Liquor is hiring." Ellis said coldly. "Now get the fuck out of my sight."

Amy shuffled slowly to her car, the tears racing down her cheeks.

***

Miranda Wagner sat on the edge of the bed in her Extended Stay America Hotel room, staring at herself in the mirror and absentmindedly stroking her freshly cut and dyed hair. The platinum blonde had been replaced with shiny, walnut brown and the hair itself, much thinner, now curved gently up around the base of her neck, just barely brushing the tops of her shoulders. Dressed in a University of Washington sweatshirt, snug fitting blue jeans and a pair of sneakers that she'd purchased at Wal-Mart, along with several other new wardrobe items and toiletries, Miranda exhaled a deep, cleansing breath. Sliding on the pair of tortoise-shelled rim glasses that contained no prescription, Miranda felt as though she had been transported back in time to her brief stint at the University of Southern California. She was the bookworm once again. But anything was better than what she had spent the last twelve years of her life doing. Miranda wrapped up the blouse, blazer and slacks of the pilot uniformed she had donned in one of the plastic Wal-Mart bags along with the shredded remains of identification and flight logs she had removed when she made her escape.

Miranda felt paralyzing chills creep up her spine as she heard the pitiful sobs and the horrified pleas of the woman she had taken the uniform from and shot a point blank range stalking around in her memory. After the pilot activated the reverse thrusters and the aircraft slowed, Miranda fired what she hoped and prayed would be her last kill shot through the man's ear. Having already taken out the co-pilot and now occupying her seat, Miranda knew enough about aircraft systems to deactivate the reverse thrusters and then throttled up full, sending the Gulfstream III racing off the end of the runway, it's weight sinking the landing gear deep into the wet ground. Breaking through the perimeter fence, Miranda throttled back full and the nose of the aircraft dropped hard as the front gear snapped off. The crippled aircraft slid fairly smooth across the grass and finally came to a stop just before the drop off. The emergency evac switch was directly above Miranda's head and less than thirty seconds after she'd thrown it, Miranda was sliding down the escape shoot out of the forward galley exit, her body like a missile sliding over the wet rubber through the gentle falling drizzle, holding the co-pilots catalogue case tightly in her hands. It took the better part of two hours to work her way around the perimeter of the airport and finally hail a cab on the curbside passenger pickup of the main terminal. The rain was falling much harder by then and since she was wearing a pilot's uniform, the cab driver didn't give her or the fact that she was soaking wet a second thought. Dropping her at the Extended Stay America near downtown, Miranda checked in under an entirely new alias and fictitious address from Fairbanks, Alaska and paid two weeks rent in advance in cash. It was near seven in the morning when she finally got to her room and collapsed on her bed. Her sleep was troubled, but long and she opened her eyes around four-thirty in the afternoon. That's when she walked to the Wal-Mart she'd spotted on the cab ride in, had her hair cut and died and made her purchases, paid for all in cash.

Glancing at herself once more in the mirror, Miranda sneered, slipped off the grotesque pair of glasses and tossed them on the bed. I'd still like to get laid from time to time in this new life, she thought.

Stepping out into the cool of the evening, the plastic bag in her hand, Miranda was hit by a cool and refreshing breeze that carried the smell of the sea on it. The sun had dropped below the distant Olympic Mountains and the soft light of orange and purple remaining in the sky was breathtaking. Miranda strolled casually along the sidewalk, crossed the street and continued down a steep hill toward the Seattle waterfront. The famous Pike's Fish Market was buzzing with activity. People were chatting freely and laughing heartily as beautiful couples, young and old, were holding hands and necking. Miranda's heart ached. All around her people were enjoying each other and enjoying their lives and freedom. If only they truly understood just how much others, people like herself, had sacrificed in order to provide them with these treasured privileges. Miranda had always wanted a family, she'd always wanted children. Did it really matter that she was gay? Homosexual couples had and raised families together. Why couldn't she? It just wasn't meant to be, she always had reasoned to herself. She was called to a purpose that few understood and even fewer could actually do.

Well, not anymore!

Miranda strode casually among all the bustling gifts shops, restaurants and taverns that lined the famous Seattle waterfront, eventually coming upon a secluded pier that jettisoned a good thirty feet out over the filthy waters of Puget Sound. There was a construction project on the pier, evidently the future home of another waterfront gift shop or restaurant. Glancing around to make certain she wasn't being watched or followed Miranda snatched a brick off a stack from the construction site and slipped it into the plastic bag. Tying off the bag securely and making one final check over her shoulder, Miranda let the bag drop over the wooden railing of the pier and watched it disappear with a gentle splash of black water into the dark and murky depths of Puget Sound. Miranda sighed deeply. Now it was over.

Miranda's step was now much lighter, her heart and soul much brighter as she continued her walk along the waterfront as the fading daylight turned to gentle and alluring moonlight. The sky was filled with stars and a gentle sea breeze whipped softly through her hair. Miranda turned east, climbed swiftly up the steep streets and wandered casually into the heart of downtown Seattle. In all her travels, Seattle was one of the few places she'd never been. Though she'd only been in town for less than twelve hours and her arrival was quite surreal, she felt a connection to the city. It was a big city yes, but it was also a very quaint and cozy feel about it. It had a beautiful heart. The closest she'd ever come to Seattle before now was by watching the occasional rerun of "Frasier".

Turning a corner now, Miranda found herself in the heart of what appeared to be a high-end avenue of four star restaurants, high-roller bars, quaint pubs and taverns. Miranda could hear more laughter and people enjoying their lives all around her. As she continued up the sidewalk, she listened to the trolley bells on the tour buses and heard the monorail roar by over head. Then she saw an all too familiar sign beaming with a soft green glow in the dark night and she felt her heart skip. A bright green neon sign that read - O'MALLEY'S IRISH PUB. Miranda's face lit up in a beautiful smile. Having been born and raised in Chicago, her mother the oldest daughter of an Irish immigrant and owner of an O'Malley's pub, Miranda felt as if she'd finally come home. Some of her happiest childhood memories were inside her grandfather's west side pub. It was only then that Miranda realized how thirsty she was and nothing quenched thirst like a pint of Guinness.

The crowd was very light tonight and this rather surprised Miranda. The place was almost a carbon copy of her grandfather's place expect maybe just a hair smaller. A long, mahogany bar ran the length of the room with soft cushioned, high-back stools and brass plated rails ran the full length of the bar at foot level and also enclosed the two waitress wells at each end. The place was dimly lit, booths lined the opposite wall from the bar, low riding tables and chairs in the center between and there were pool tables, dart boards and pinball machines toward the rear, followed by the restrooms and the back door. There were three registers behind the bar, an enormous assortment of liquor bottles and several beer taps. Though it was geared for three, only one bartender was working tonight and there couldn't have been more than a dozen patrons. The TV monitors were all tuned into ESPN and ESPN 2. She didn't notice that two very longing and wanting eyes had just fallen upon her.

* **

Amy Styles sat at the far end corner of the bar when she first saw the brunette wearing the University of Washington sweatshirt and tight blue jeans come into the bar. Guzzling the last of her second Absolut Citron cosmopolitan, Amy spotted her over the rim of her martini glass. The woman was a looker! Setting the glass down, the twenty-something, freckle-faced bartender named Erin, with long, glowing red hair, enormous green eyes, pale skin and big, adorable dimples wearing the tight green O'Malley's T-shirt and even tighter black jeans that accentuated her beautiful hips and voluptuous ass divinely, suddenly appeared and obstructed Amy's view of the woman.

"Another cosmo, Amy?" Erin asked with a beaming smile, her dimples seemingly blowing Amy kisses.

"Don't you think it's a little early, Erin?" Amy replied.

"For another drink?" Erin said, eyeing her closely.

"For stupid question, darling." Amy said. "Less cranberry juice this time."

Erin began preparing another drink for Amy with expert bartending skills. She could have easily acted as a coach for Tom Cruise while he was preparing for his role in Cocktail.

"More citron you mean." Erin whipped.

"That's my girl." Amy smiled seductively as she watched Erin work. "Erin, since I'm already buzzed, I'm sure you won't mind me asking this. How can you let such a gorgeous body go to waste on men?"

Erin was straining Amy's cosmopolitan from her mixing tin into a freshly chilled martini glass.

"Guess I'm what you call an old-fashion girl." Erin said as she dumped the spent ice from her mixing tin into the sink, set another cocktail napkin in front of Amy, squeezed the lime wedge into the glass and served Amy her drink.

"I'll drink to that." Amy said and she took a sip of her drink.

Erin turned to find the brunette in the University of Washington sweatshirt standing just across the bar from her. Erin's face lit up in a warm and welcoming smile and she set a cocktail napkin down in front of her.

"Good evening. What can I get for you?" Erin asked sweetly.