The Number

Because I'd noticed something in the background of the pic, the POV one of Tony slurping her cooch.

I scrolled up and peered at it again, then saved it and sent it over to my department laptop so I could blow it up. The phone hummed a couple more times, but I ignored it because now? I had a fucking clue. And when I'm on the scent, everything else goes away: Traci's texts, the humiliation of the night shift, my sore vagina, all of it. Gone.

The clue was in the shadowed background, above Tony's gelled hair, bracketed between the tantalizing slope of Traci's thighs. It glinted back there, dim but not too blurry: soft plaid wallpaper. A mock-cherry desk. A landline phone, old-school, the kind with pushbuttons and a blinking red light in the corner by the receiver. "They're at a hotel," I mused, but that wasn't all that surprising. It also wasn't what had my pulse ticking up.

Hotel phones often have logos on them. Like, the logo of the hotel.

I zoomed, not messing yet with the brightness or the contrast, just letting the shadowy phone talk to me. There, above the buttons. Over the red light: a logo, the words completely unreadable, but I did catch a shape there, angular, blue with a red outline. A star. And then, extending to the right, some black text in a slanty font.

Hands shaking, I squinted at the screen and then isolated that part of the pic. I clipped it, saved it, sent it back to my phone, and then blitzed it off to Aaron DiMaggio. Because I was still a fucking detective, dammit, and he was still my partner. And he was a Detective One to my Detective Three. This is a hotel logo. Find out which one, I texted quickly, sending it off with a decisive tap of my finger. Now. Tonight.

And then I sat back in my chair to log what I'd done. Because the last thing I needed was for a case to fall apart in court because I'd failed. Again.

* * *

I didn't change out of my blues before I went in to meet with Lieutenant Jaeckel when he came in at six. I caught him in his office, changing after a morning in the gym. "Hi, Lou," I called, arching an eyebrow; he was shirtless, and I'd never seen his chest before. "Want me to come back later? I've got the night log..."

"Oh. No. You're fine." He pulled a shirt hastily over his sweaty hair. "I was just about to hit the showers. Anything happen?"

"Sergeant Burke got shot by gangbangers, but miraculously recovered, tracked them down, and pegged them in the ass." I sat down with my laptop open, looking up to catch his mouth falling open.

"Look. Lindberg." He sighed. "You're funny. We all like you. I know you're a good cop, sort of. But jokes aren't what I'm looking for out of you these days." Jaeckel was an okay guy, but he had this way of staring at you that really got into your soul. "So. Report."

"Sir." I straightened in the chair, cursing myself. Way to read the room, idiot. "No reports of felony activity, no deaths, no injuries, no vehicle accidents." I ran through the spiel, but there wasn't much to tell him; he was still wiping sweat off the back of his neck when I finished. "Anyway. That's it."

"Yeah." He leaned his chin on his fist and stared at me. "Did LaFratta tell you I wanted to see you this morning?"

I swallowed. "Yes. About a citation I issued yesterday. Red SUV. Driving to endanger."

He snorted. "'Driving to endanger.' More like he pissed you off and you wrote him up."

I was ready. I'd spent my first two years coming up with creative ways to write my moving violations. "His negligence in repeatedly yielding the right-of-way added to the time oncoming drivers took in trying to read his intent prior to accelerating. On top of that, his lack of concern for proper road speeds created a potentially dangerous traffic bottleneck in a high-pedestrian area." I smiled thinly. "To say nothing of the increased likelihood of road rage among trailing drivers."

"You just didn't like him slowing up and yielding."

I shrugged. "Of course not."

He spread his hands. "Well. That, I can comprehend. But I'm not the trial clerk. He's going to appeal it, and he's going to win." He stared at me for a long moment. "But I like you, Lindberg, and this guy's had eight other tickets squelched. So I'll make up a complaining witness to make this one stick." He sniffed. "Say, another driver, reporting him for cutting him off."

I winked. "A concerned citizen."

"Yep. I'll use one of our snitch license plates in the report. Just write up something that substantiates it. One statement from you, one from the fake witness. I'll endorse and file them, and then this dude should be fucked." He read over my ticket. "$389 fine."

"Plus costs, Lou."

"Sounds about right. But do me a favor, Lindberg," he went on quietly, with that penetrating look of his, "no more of this kind of thing. I don't want to have to fuck up your career due to excessive citizen complaints. Let's not bullshit. You're in the doghouse, and that's where you're going to stay until you find Tony Massacoli."

"I understand, Lou."

"Good."

I took a breath and thought of my phone. "Matter of fact," I added in a rush, "I've got a new lead on him."

"Yeah?" An eyebrow shot up toward his hair. "Got in touch with his old cellmate? That was your last plan, I thought..."

"No," I admitted, hesitating: I didn't want to tell him the perp was texting me. Mocking me. "New info. I have DiMaggio working on a way to figure out what hotel he's at. If it pans out, he and I are going to need to take a little drive."

He waved his arm. "Whatever. Go! If it's a good lead? Strong possibilities?" He smiled. "Look, nobody wants you out of the shitter more than I do. Right? But that's not up to me; that's up to the Chief and the DA. Get their prisoner back here, and everyone is happy."

"Thanks, Lou." I meant it, too. Jaeckel was a dick sometimes, but he understood being a cop. "I'll keep you posted."

"Great. Now, unless you want to watch me change for the shower? Get the fuck out, Lindberg."

"Sir."

Aaron DiMaggio was right out in the hall when I slipped out of Lieutenant Jaeckel's office, looking smug. "There you are. I just got in."

"What?" I demanded. My mind was on coffee, then changing out of my blues, then settling down to figure out what the fuck I was going to do all morning. The day after an all-nighter was getting harder and harder to manage the older I got; I was no longer a 24-year-old PO1. DiMaggio's eyes glittered. "Wait. Did you find something? About that hotel logo I sent you last night?"

He shrugged. "It looked a little familiar. That blue star is not a blue star. Come on back to the desk." We trooped that way, ignoring low taunts from a few of my colleagues, and pretending not to notice my dried drool-stains on the DG-344s.

"Take a seat, Lindberg. Let me show you what I figured out."

"It's a blue star," I yawned, wishing I had enough pull anymore to have some underling get me a coffee. I frowned at my phone, studying the pic I'd sent him. "Looks like it, anyway."

"It's a blue mountain," he corrected, messing with his own laptop. "Check this out." He turned the screen my way, a browser open beneath a flurry of open tabs: Pixboox, AnalingusChat, CNN, a porn site. I looked at the main window, though, the website for what looked like a charming business hotel with the camera placed low for the kind of picture where you just know that one specific angle is literally the only way the place looks like anything other than the cheap-ass building it really is. "Mountain Valley Inn. Regional chain. One of their hotels is about an hour away, past Ray Peak."

"Mountain valley," I mused, my heart racing, "is an oxymoron." He just blinked at me as I gave him a feral grin. "Look, the motor pool only gives me the shitty cars now. So you go down there and sign one out. I'll meet you down there after I get changed and talk to the Lou." I hesitated. "We'll hit your apartment on the way out of town."

"For a quick bang?" His eyebrows rose. "Already?"

"For a fucking overnight bag, dickhead," I sighed, walking away. "We're taking a little road trip."

But first? Coffee.

* * *

The roads escaping town were a mess at the tail-end of the morning rush, and we knew they'd stay that way until the DOT got around to building an interstate here. "Jesus," DiMaggio observed, squinting at the hundreds of rubes we shared the road with, "I've seen about fourteen Class 2 moving violations and another twenty or so Class 3. If we were in the mood to do some ticketing, we could be making our whole quota in one morning."

"Yeah," I frumped, without much interest. I stared dully out the window as last night's shift crashed into me. I planned to close my eyes and get a catnap in a few minutes, but I'd forgotten that Aaron DiMaggio always drove like an asshole. "Slow down."

"You want to drive?" he barked pointedly, taking a too-long glance over at me. "Huh?" He waited until I shook my head, then swiveled his back toward the road. "Then let me." Definitely, I realized bitterly, DiMaggio was getting a bit big for his britches. I'd need to shitcan him, and soon. But I knew I couldn't, not yet. Not until I got back into Jaeckel's good graces. Meaning, not until I pinched Tony Fucking Massacoli.

Which, I prayed, just might happen today.

DiMaggio had done the legwork: there were three Mountain Valley Inns, the closest about a hundred miles away. He'd gone online and checked out room pictures, figuring out which one had beige plaid wallpaper. That had eliminated one of them, and the other he'd nuked because it was in a nice enough town that it didn't need to offer weekly rates. So I'd had the Lou call the local five-oh and tell them we'd be fucking around in their jurisdiction, and off we'd gone with a pair of overnight bags. I figured we'd get there in plenty of time to check in, sweat the manager to give up a guest list, and then nab Massacoli.

And maybe Traci Golden, too, though she wasn't my priority. My priority was getting off nights and drawing better cars from the guys in the motor pool. She and her little manslaughter case could wait; we'd catch up with her eventually. What was she, like, twenty? There was plenty of time. I pondered her as we drove, thinking about The Number she texted me from, wondering what I could do with it.

I was still pondering when the radio started pissing me off.

"Fuck that," I grumbled, searching for a new station. DiMaggio glanced over.

"That was Aerosmith," he shrugged. "'Angel.' Good song."

"It's a piece of shit song from a piece of shit band." The next station I found featured Barry Manilow, so I blitzed away from that too. Goddamn these motor pool cars; you couldn't even put in your own presets.

"It's only like a four minute song," he chuckled.

"Four minutes is too long when it's Aerosmith." I found Kings of Leon finally, that one where they're singing about using somebody, and I cursed again. "Is no station playing anything decent right now?"

"Why don't we just use my bluetooth?" He definitely sounded amused at my pain, the dick. "I've got a bunch of good stuff on my phone."

"If you think 'Angel' by Aerosmith is a good song, then I don't want to hear anything else you've got on your playlist," I declared, finally tuning in Bon Jovi. "Here we go. This will work as a bridge until fucking Aerosmith is done."

He smiled, shaking his head. "You're really something."

I yawned and looked out the window again. Almost six months we'd been partners. I'd driven many miles with DiMaggio, and it was making me anxious these days; there was always an elephant in the room, to go along with the one in his pants. Before, we'd had fun at work. We'd talked about sports and guns. Now?

And, just as my thoughts went there, he jumped right in. "That was some fuck last night, Lindberg, but it would have been better if you didn't make me glove up."

"Oh dear lord," I exploded, "why, oh why, can't you read the room, you stupid motherfucker?"

He gazed over at me, eyebrow arched. "Watch it, Detective Lindberg. Or I won't let you cum next time." I shuddered, damn me, and he saw. "Thought so," he gloated.

"Look," I sighed, knowing now that if I didn't sock this dude in the face, I'd never again be able to assert any kind of dominance over him at all, "let's get this out in the open, Aaron. I went undercover once and got reamed over a table. I used to be married. And I probably have some kind of sex addiction or something." I shrugged. "Point being, dude, I've seen a lot of penis. Hell, I worked vice; you have any idea how many dicks you mess with, working a vice bust?" He was arching his brow now. "I've got to tell you, DiMaggio, you're good. But you're not as good as you think you are."

"Whatever," he sniffed. "You're not the only one who's been around the block. I've been knee-deep in pussy since I turned eighteen."

"Quality and quantity are not always correlated, dude."

"I mean, I was an athlete!" He was burbling on as though I hadn't spoken. "High school and college. Two sports."

"Two sports," I scoffed, "do not impress me. It doesn't count if your two sports are poker and bowling."

He just turned a maddening grin on me. "I know you like me doing you, Lindberg. You don't have to say it." He drummed the wheel. "Just wait. I know what I'm doing. You'll let me give you a creampie before Halloween. And we'll be buttfucking by, oh, Thanksgiving."

I gaped across at him in disbelief. Fucking cocky bastard. He had me wet already, that confident grin of his. "Hundred bucks says neither of those things goes down," I snapped.

"They'll go down before I will. You'll never again see me eating your pussy," he chuckled.

"That's not something to be proud of, bud."

"Seems like a waste of time to me. I like to, you know, get it on right away." He adjusted himself; motherfucker was getting hard, clearly. "My nickname in college was Captain Wondercock."

I laughed despite myself. "If I'd have known you were such a caricature, I never would have agreed to partner with you. And I sure as shit wouldn't have slept with you." I stared out the window again, wondering just how open I should be with this weasel. "I need to catch Tony Massacoli, Aaron."

"Well, no shit."

"No," I told him, a little louder, "I need to catch Tony Massacoli. Like, I have to. I'm not going to stop at anything to get him. So I need you to stop thinking about my pussy and start thinking about my career. Understand? Clear enough for you?"

He glanced over at me for a long minute, the scenery flowing swiftly past. "It's important to you."

"I'm a joke to the rest of the Division," I grated. I was not used to being a joke.

"Yeah," he sighed heavily, "I thought Sully was a little rough on you the other day, comparing you to Sergeant Burke." Burke had lost a suspect once, who'd fled from her car when she'd pulled over to take a dump. Her nicknames since then had not been flattering.

"Sully," I muttered, "is soon going to learn not to fuck with me." I'd swiped a dab of heroin out of the evidence room and smeared it on the bottom of his locker. Eventually, one of the dogs would go in there and freak the fuck out, at which point Sully would have some things to explain.

"Then there's that other bitch. Vice cop? Wiley? They say she's on her way up." He glanced at me. "There's always someone younger and hungrier, they say."

"She's no worry. Her snitches are all shit. Turco's old goons, mostly."

He was nodding. "So. What's the play then, boss? How do we grab this guy?"

"The usual. Bully the manager into giving us the guest list? If that fails, and it probably will, we'll need to spend some time in the parking lot. I know what Massacoli drives. Dumbass has probably switched for something else, so we'll run the plates and see what we get."

"It's going to take forever, doing a parking lot full of cars." He glanced over. "No scanner. What are we going to do, photograph every one?"

"Yup. And record where they are." He looked doubtful. "We have to. If we don't find his car, we can find one he stole. Or we can at least find what's registered back in Seaborne."

"Shit."

"I know. But that's the play, DiMaggio. You asked." I yawned. "I'm going to rest my eyes."

"No problem." That's what he said, anyway, but when I woke up later he was groping my boob as he drove. Goddamn pervert.

* * *

I yawned several hours later, as the sun started to crash earthward and I stared yet again at my laptop. We had a little over fifty license plates to run, and I was doing each one on the database while DiMaggio peered out at all the cars. We'd been careful to get a room that let us watch the whole lot, even though the hotel manager had been a bitch about it.

Not that I could blame her. We'd been a little bit cocky, barging in and demanding to see the guest list. She'd been understandably pissy, knowing full well that we had no legal justification for seeing the names without a court order.

I'd prioritized the cars nearest the exits, figuring that if they'd been here for awhile, they'd have a space they liked near the doors. So far we'd come up with three cars registered in Seaborne, plus another one that came up stolen. DiMaggio was making sure his sketch included all the locations, since we'd need to explain all this in court one day. "So," he began nonchalantly, lowering his binoculars, "how are we going to do the sleep thing?"

"I'm going to sleep, Detective-One DiMaggio," I smirked, "and you're going to watch."

He gave me a smirk. "That's not what I mean, Detective-Three Lindberg."

I felt my face burn as I craned my neck up from the computer and tried not to smile at his tone. "I know it's not what you mean."

"You," he shrugged, "me. A bed."

"Two, actually." I'd insisted on two queens. I did not need the nosy manager testifying that Aaron and I had shared a bed. "Which we'll use."

"Yeah. One for fucking, one for sleeping. That way, neither of us needs to worry about sleeping in the wet spot."

Despite myself, I found my lips curling into a broad grin as my pussy stirred. "No, Detective. You in one, me in the other."

He laughed. "I've got a big dick, but I don't think it'll quite reach across from one bed to the other." We stared at each other, smiling, thinking. "And I think you'll want my dick, Lindberg."

"You're such an asshole." My laptop chimed, drawing my eyes. "Space number eighteen is a miss," I told him.

"Yeah," he sighed, making a note on his sketch. "And I've got two more plates for you." I groaned. Cars were coming and going, obviously, and there was always the chance Traci and Tony had been out at dinner or something. "It's not the end of the world. Of your three hits, one of them looks damn likely."

"Yeah." I'd sent him out to recon the three Seaborne cars and the stolen one, and he'd told me of trash bags in one of them. Food wrappers. Sleeping bags. People on the run, maybe, and no sign the car had moved in awhile; it had left an oil leak underneath it. We had a camera on that one now, with the other camera waiting for me to decide where to point it. Everything was pretty smooth: we had surveillance, license plates, and good observation. The local cops were looped in.

All I needed now were Traci Golden and Tony Massacoli.

I didn't let myself think about what would happen if we had the wrong hotel. The next likely one was another three hours south, in another fucking state. I was pretty sure we couldn't just go there and do whatever we wanted, at least not without calling Lieutenant Jaeckel. Which was not really a prospect I relished, since I had another desk shift coming up on Thursday and he'd get all naggy if I begged off.

Or? I could nab fucking Massacoli, and get off that roster forever.

DiMaggio was saying something. "Huh? What?"