Page 1 of At Her Pleasure

CHAPTER ONE

Ten Years Ago…

Mick’s radio crackled. “Possible D&D at 5th and Woodside.”

Drunk and disorderly at the cemetery. Probably kids, or a homeless person off their meds.

“65 Adam to Central responding.”

“10-4, 65 Adam. Caller says the subject is a woman.”

So not kids. More complicated, but not urgent.

He kept his head on a swivel as his cruiser purred down the streets. His headlights swept over trash piled up over the storm drains. Most of the streetlights were out. Broken by kids with a good throwing arm, eager to earn their props with the local gangs.

In one of New Jersey’s top-rated cities for crime, his precinct covered its worst neighborhoods. If a kid here made something of him or herself, they deserved a Bronze Star. And a fistful of Purple Hearts for the scars, inside and out.

People clustered in the ample shadows. Some froze like rabbits as Mick rolled past, but he didn’t stop. His sergeant said to wait for the calls. Don’t go chasing trouble.

To distract himself from the overwhelming urge to ignore that advice, Mick picked out a song on his phone and played it on low volume, humming along under his breath. He wasn’t much on religion, but it had been one of his mother’s favorites. “How Great Thou Art,” the Elvis Presley version.

Having music in his head that meant something to him gave him breathing space, reminding him of the reasons for flowers, puppies, the smell of a woman’s hair. The firmness of her touch.

He’d much rather have that than her softness. Soft was oozing mud that sucked him down and held him under, making him disappear. He wanted an insane mix of torment and tenderness no one but him would call a woman’s love.

Ah, well. As his Irish grandfather would have said, “Feck it out, boyo, and get on with it.” His grandfather had used the “throw” meaning of “feck,” but he probably wouldn’t have disagreed with “fuck it out.” Mick’s dad was one of eleven kids, after all.

He had an active dick, too. But Mick’s grandfather had been true to Mick’s grandmother. Mick’s father had whipped it out for any woman who caught his eye.

At least the darkness that plagued Mick wasn’t that kind. Just the opposite. If he found his blessed female torturer, she’d command his devotion until they both dried up and blew away into dust.

Loose gravel from potholes crunched under his tires as he pulled into the cemetery. No other vehicle in sight. As he parked near the caretaker’s shed, he noted a battered wheelbarrow next to it. Since the landscaping around the parking area had long ago been stamped out, he suspected the only thing the employee did was mow and clean out weeds and fallen branches.

Gang members avoided this place, maybe because they had family here, and even they had respect for the dead. Or they didn’t care for the reminder of how many of their crew were planted in the plots.

“65 Adam, 10-84.” He was on site.

“10-4, 65 Adam.”

Dispatch would wait for him to evaluate the scene and request backup if needed. One experienced cop on the midnight shift could handle an unarmed homeless person. In this precinct, his five years on the job made him a veteran.

Thirty acres wasn’t big for a cemetery. Some older sections, dating from the sixties, had more impressive stones, but today it was one step above a potter’s field. People buried here couldn’t afford what it cost to die, but as a big fuck-you, they did it anyway.

A few gnarled trees had stubbornly endured, growing big enough to spread their branches over the graves. Their profiles were menacing, but also protective. He could respect that.

No sign of flowers, silk or otherwise. If anyone left some on the markers, they were stolen fast. Was the thief wanting them for his girl or mother, but lacked the cash to buy his own? Did he apologize to the dead, or tell himself they didn’t care?

Before Mick switched off the car and got out, the song on the player changed. “Gone, Gone, Gone” by Phillip Phillips. As he strode down the path toward the shed, he held the beat in his mind.

Drawing out his flashlight, he passed the beam over rusty tools resting against the wheelbarrow. Cigarette butts overflowed a sand bucket.

He paused, listening. Nothing. Then he caught a raised voice on the breeze. Followed by shattering glass.

He radioed in another status, still holding off on a request for backup, and proceeded in that direction. Some of his fellow officers didn’t like visiting the cemetery after dark. It wasn’t all superstition. The shadows were thick here, and the wind animated them, moaning through the trees. It could distract a cop from real world dangers.

Mick was good at separating fact from fiction, and the older gravestones soothed him. They’d weathered enough storms not to be bothered by much anymore. Which suggested the occupants had settled in and found peace.

Or maybe not.

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