Page 8 of A Dead Man's Pulse
Opening the passenger door to the patrol car, she climbed in. Some days, she rode solo, but today she was partnered with Ric, who was staring at her expectantly. “Well? What did Sarge want?”
Dakota opened and closed her mouth several times before the words finally came. “Captain Bowman in SOD wants me in his office ASAP. Any idea who he is? I’ve never heard of him.” With nearly 1000 officers on Tampa PD and over 350 civilians in support positions scattered between fifteen police stations, it was impossible to know everyone.
Putting the vehicle in drive, Ric pulled out of the parking lot and headed across town to where the Special Ops Division was located. “No idea. Maybe newly promoted?”
“Could be.” Her mind raced as she tried to tell herself not to get too excited. It would suck to get all psyched up, only to find out the meeting had nothing to do with a UC assignment.
“Think you’re in?”
“How? I didn’t put an app in the last time a position opened.” But her previous applications would still be on file. “Anyway, I don’t want to get my hopes up, so let’s talk about something else until I find out what’s going on.”
Ric knew her well enough to change the subject to the date he’d gone on the night before. By the time he pulled into the station that housed the SOD, Dakota had her nerves under control again. Leaving him in the car, she headed inside and found her way to the captain’s office. After she introduced herself to his secretary, the woman picked up the phone and notified Bowman that the officer he was expecting was there. Dakota was then told to have a seat, as the captain would be a few more minutes.
Thankfully, the chairs in the sitting area were wide enough to accommodate the duty belt resting on Dakota’s hips. A holstered .40 caliber handgun, extra ammo clips, two pairs of handcuffs, keys, pepper spray, and a PR24 baton were all attached to the belt. Add a backup pistol in a holster above her ankle, a Taser strapped to her left thigh, and her bullet-proof vest, and she was carrying twenty extra pounds of equipment on her frame.
While waiting, she pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through some emails and Facebook notifications that had popped up over the last few hours. There was nothing big or overly interesting, but it kept her mind busy and the butterflies in her stomach in check.
Suddenly, the door to the captain’s office swung open, and a familiar-looking man, wearing a navy-blue polo shirt with the TPD SOD logo and khakis, waved her inside. His crew cut was sandy-blond, and his kind, green eyes welcomed her into his office. Standing, Dakota racked her brains, trying to remember where she knew him from but couldn’t place him—must have been at some police function.
Entering the spacious office, she was surprised to see two other men in civilian clothes sitting at a small conference table. And, holy hell, were they good-looking. One was in his late thirties, with black hair. He had on a blue polo shirt that matched his incredible eyes. The other was about ten or fifteen years older, with eyes the color of hot cocoa and salt-and-pepper hair—giving new meaning to the words “silver fox.” Their intense stares in her direction had her legs quivering, and she had to fight the urge to drop her gaze to the floor, followed by the rest of her to her knees.
Stop it. You’re at work, not the club.
The man who’d waved her inside held out his hand. “Officer Swift, I’m Captain Al Bowman.” After she shook his hand, he gestured to an empty chair at the table. “Have a seat. Let me introduce you to Special Agent Colt Parrish of the FBI and Ian Sawyer from Trident Security.”
Neither man said anything, but both acknowledged her with a nod of the head. Dakota swallowed hard as she took her seat. Bowman sat next to her, and silence filled the room. All three men were studying her, and she fought the need to squirm under their scrutiny or glance down at her uniform to see if something was out of place. Unable to take the silence, she cleared her throat and directed her gaze toward her superior. “Was there a reason you wanted to see me, sir?”
The man glanced at Sawyer and Parrish. The former’s mouth ticked up at the corners but never fully formed a smile, while the other man remained stoic. When both gave another curt nod, Bowman leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. “I’ve called you in for a special reason, Swift. There’s an assignment I think you’d be perfect for—and not just because of your stellar career and the high praise you’ve received from your superiors—although those are major pluses. What I’m about to say has only been shared with these two men—no one else in the department is aware of this, to my knowledge. If you turn down the assignment, the information goes no further than this room, and you have nothing to worry about. It’s obvious you don’t recognize me, but we have been introduced before, about six months ago . . . at Pandora’s Box.”
Dakota’s confusion gave way to shock as her jaw dropped along with her stomach. Oh shit. “I’m sorry, sir, I-I don’t recall . . .”
He held up a hand. “That’s okay. It was only a brief introduction, and don’t worry—I didn’t ask to negotiate with you, nor did you turn me down.” A grin spread across his face. “One of the owners told me you were on the force—she didn’t want either of us running into an issue. I’ve made it a point to avoid you since then, so I’m not offended you don’t recognize me.”
Now Dakota remembered him, and being part of the same police department wasn’t the only reason he hadn’t tried to negotiate with her months ago. The other was that Captain Bowman was gay. She recalled he was a Dom with a long-term male submissive. Clearly, he had no problem announcing the fact he was in the lifestyle, but he still kept a few facts to himself.
Shit. That was why she’d joined a club in Kissimmee, an hour’s drive from her condo. She hadn’t wanted to run into anyone from the department. She had a hard enough time being a female officer in a man’s world and didn’t need any of those men to know she was a sexual submissive. Pandora’s Box was a members-only BDSM club that thoroughly vetted all applicants. It was the only reason the owners of the club, Mistress Raven and Madame Lola—who preferred the rarer title to honor her French heritage—knew Dakota was a police officer in the first place.
“Sorry I didn’t remember you right away, Captain, but now, I do recall meeting you.”
“Good. Now, I wouldn’t normally out you like this, but Master Ian, Master Colt, and I need your help. I’m sure you’ve heard about the Kink Killer.”
Holy shit. She should have known the two other men were Doms from their intense stares alone. And they needed her help? The press had dubbed the sadistic psycho, who was whipping his victims to death, the Kink Killer—how fucking original. Five women had been kidnapped and murdered so far that they were aware of. Several other missing women might be victims, but their bodies hadn’t been found, so they couldn’t be officially added to the count. “Who hasn’t? It’s been all over the news and the department.”
Parrish picked up a pen and twirled it through his fingers while he spoke. “Well, we’ve managed to keep a few things away from the press. Have you had breakfast yet?”
His fast change of topic confused her. “Um . . . no, not yet.”
The fed slid a manila folder toward her. “Good, because the photos are quite gruesome.”
Swallowing the saliva that had gathered in her mouth, Dakota opened the file. As she stared at the first picture, she understood his concern. Her stomach roiled at the sight, and she was grateful it was empty. Any seasoned veteran of law enforcement would have reacted the same way as long as they had an ounce of sympathy. Whoever the woman had been, she was now a mass of abused flesh. Her body, from her neck to her feet, was covered in deep lacerations. There was barely a quarter of an inch between them.
Dakota glanced at Parrish in revulsion. “He cut them all like this? With what?”
“A bullwhip.”
Her jaw clenched as her gaze returned to the photo. There were almost no marks on the victim’s face, so they’d probably been able to identify her easily, but the rest of her body looked like something one would see in a slaughterhouse.
The next few photos were of different women who had been tortured to death in the same manner. “Jesus Christ.”
