Semper Fi Pt 02

Copyright by calibeachgirl and shuttlepilot

All rights reserved, 2011

Chapter 9 Have I Told You Lately That I Love You,

"Jesus Christ, I can't believe it!" Garrett Brinkley dropped his candy bar and looked at his partner, Caitlyn Bradford, sitting in their unmarked car. "How the..." he was starting to ask but then was quiet... a quiet so silent it hurt.

"It was an accident, I guess. It must have broken." She wiped a tear and looked out her window at the latest crime scene, another "Lonely Hearts" murder.

"What's he going to do?"

"I haven't told him."

"You're fuckin' kiddin' me. Caitlyn... he deserves to know." Garrett couldn't believe her. Whatever hold Frank had on her had ruined his partner and he didn't like it. He needed her at her best and she'd been anything but...

Garrett squeezed the steering wheel in anger... in anger for the situation... in anger for what she had done, was still doing... in anger for what Frank had done. And, damn it, they still hadn't caught the killers and probably weren't going to.

"Garrett, I'm sorry..." she began, "but he's going to leave when this is over and there's no reason to tell him. I don't want him to stay just because of the baby."

"How the hell do you think he's going to react when he finds out?"

"What?" She looked confused.

"When he finds out... how do you think he's going to react? You're not going to tell him, are you?" He shook his head in disapproval and disappointment.

Garrett noticed her hands were shaking and that was what he was afraid of. Caitlyn had lost her edge and had retreated, deferring to him in everything... and, he didn't like it. He needed her to be at the top of her game and right now, there was no game, at all.

"No," he said, quietly, "I'm not... but, he'll find out, anyway. He'll find out, no matter what you do. You're too well known, now."

A few minutes later, after she had collected her thoughts, they left the car and walked over to yet another motel room. Inside, a familiar scene presented itself to them: a dead cheating military wife, a dead lover and no clue to the killer.

"Any security video?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, the camera was taken out by a damn good shot. Nobody heard anything."

"Whoever did it policed the brass, as usual. I wonder why they opened the door." She looked at Garrett, wondering if he had an answer.

"I don't think they did. I think somebody picked the lock, somehow. It's one of those keycard locks. I..."

**********

The murders continued without respite and without a hint of usable evidence. The police in each jurisdiction felt useless, realizing that only half of all California murders were ever solved. Whoever it was, they were just too smart... too careful... too lucky... too elusive. It was almost like different people all doing the same thing.

She doubted they would solve the case...

...and, they didn't.

*********

Five Years Later...

"Welcome back to California, Frank," said Barbara Montgomery, his new partner. His new partner was a pretty, tall African-American woman in her later thirties with amazing large curly hair, a penchant for reggae and a deadly aim. He called her 'Barbie,' much to her amusement. He carried two mugs of coffee to her desk and sat down. Opening the cliché'd box of doughnuts, he passed one to her and took a cinnamon crumb one for himself. She wasn't used to be charmed, if that was what he was doing, for police officers and NCIS agents tended to be lacking in the finer graces. Even though she had steeled herself against what she considered his charms, he still affected her more than she expected.

"What brings you back?" she asked, setting her mug back on her desktop.

"You know," he said, putting his own mug down, accidently splashing some coffee onto the beatdown top. The coffee smelled wonderful. She inhaled carefully, as if she could filter the aroma out of the air she breathed.

His smile was confident. He was going to say something but a sharp buzz from the intercom on her desk cut him off. Barbara held up a finger and arched her eyebrows. "One minute," she said, carrying her mug back to her side of the desk. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry to break in," the intercom droned, "but there's been another killing."

She pressed a button to cut off the speaker and grabbed her coat. "I'll drive," she said, pulling open her drawer and reaching for her keys.

She braked at the red light and Frank looked at her. Her fingernails were cut close, with a clear polish and her dark, clear eyes stared back at him. To get a manicure wouldn't be fitting with the no-nonsense attitude she tried to project.

He spread his leather-bound notebook on the seat next to him and flipped the pages until he came to the one he wanted.

They arrived at the apartment house and stopped in the circular driveway in front of the building. The doorman approached and as Barbara pressed the window button down, he pointed to visitors' parking spots along the side of the building near the tropically landscaped driveway.

The afternoon sun threw her face into the shadows but it highlighted her dark, large curls, giving it a glow that otherwise would have gone unnoticed.

Two sets of glass doors set off the lobby from the drive and in the vestibule, the doorman, now stationed behind his courtesy desk, was busy watching his closed circuit television monitors.

Outside the outer doors, two uniformed San Diego policeman stood guard, already stretching yellow crime scene tape across the front of the building. Walking inside, Frank and Barbara took the elevator to the third floor. The door glided open and they walked down the hallway.

Another two officers were in front of the victim's apartment and were staring inside the front room.

He flashed his badge. "It's all right," he said, "she's with me." Laughing, he walked in, followed by a flustered Barbara. He wondered if she played tennis. She had fine muscle tone, he could tell, but then, her wrist was all wrong for someone playing tennis all the time. The bones seemed too narrow and her hands looked more to be those of an artist. Maybe, she played the piano? he wondered.

In her free time, she probably went on whale-watch tours and tried to save the planet. Was he going to be this distracted working with her? It had been five years since a woman affected him in such a way and here he was, finding himself feeling like a high-school boy on a first date.

A pair of San Diego detectives were waiting for them and nodded as they met. "Deceased is Mary Schnebel, 34, wife of Colonel John Schnebel, USMC, currently in Iraq... time of death, probably last weekend."

"She alone?" Barbara asked.

"No... there's a couple of guys in there, also. Philip Stevens and Michael Grady, both of San Diego..." said the lead detective. "Single gunshot to the head, two more to the chest... seem to be nine mills."

"Cleaned up?"

"Yeah, no sign of anything left behind. No reports of noise..."

"So, what was the tip-off?" asked Frank.

"She didn't show up to work."

"Which was?" asked Barbara.

"Kindergarten teacher, what else?"

**********

It was Monday morning and the pile of reports was always higher. Barbara wasn't sure why there were always more files that day than any other unless they were reproducing over the weekend while she was gone. Sometimes, if she stared at the files enough and squinted her eyes and her brain slightly blurred, she could almost imagine them lighting up cigarettes and asking, "Was it as good for you?"

The stacked files reminded her of Mount Whitney and the danger of an avalanche was still present as she carefully moved them from one side of her desk to the other. The only reason she wasn't buried was that she had no boyfriend, no husband, no family... and until Frank had arrived, no interest.

The latest killings went with the others, so numerous now that they filled their own file cabinet, counterfiled by date, location and military branch.

"Well, I see nothing's really changed," Frank said, looking at the papers filling the cabinet, "except to grow five years more paperwork."

She shrugged her shoulders, knowing the answer.

**********

Frank took Barbara for a walk along the beach. He told himself it was in the interest of getting to know his partner better, to know what to expect when they were working together but he knew better. He was attracted to the woman, even if she was five, six years older than he.

He watched their footprints disappear in the swash as the water retreated back into the sea. He instinctively reached for her hand, her dark fingers interlaced with his as his other hand reached up to fight the glare bouncing from the water.

It wasn't until he met her that he realized how lonely he had been since leaving San Diego the first time. The hole Caitlyn had left in his heart was slowly being filled by Barbara.

"Barbie?" he said, gripping her hand tighter.

"Barbie? You've got to be kidding me."

"No, you're my chocolate Barbie doll."

"I could have you up on harassment charges so quick, it wouldn't be funny."

"Are you going to?"

She glanced across to him. "No," she said and kissed his cheek.

He stopped her and kissed her full lips, his hand smoothing her face. "Dinner at eight?"

"Sure... I'd like that."

"I think," he said, quietly, "that tonight, I'm the luckiest man in the world."

Don't kiss me, she prayed... not because she didn't want his kiss but because once he kissed her he would desire more from her and more until their closeness would be tested beyond what it could withstand. He would either let the kiss proceed to its logical end, which she knew would be a disaster and there would be no chance of them remaining friends, or she would stop him in which case she would resent him or think she was crazy.

The moment he kissed her they would be on a roller coaster with no chance of getting off and she was filled with dread.

Frank's mouth touched hers and she knew she was in trouble. He grazed her lips again and she yearned to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight, to beg him to kiss her and hold her and be everything to her.

His next kiss was different... harder, hungrier and then he coaxed her lips apart and after that she was unable to think. His tongue reached into her mouth. It took him no effort to pull her onto his lap and move his fingers through her hair until he was holding the back of her head.

She looked at his face, his mouth, his eyes so intense she could feel his gaze like a caress against her skin.

Then he took her mouth once again and she felt his kiss in her breasts, her hips, in her throat, her heart. "Let's go," he whispered, not wanting to break the magic.

"Where?" she asked.

He put her hands in his and pulled her to her feet and she realized where he wanted to go. "No... Frank, I can't. I'm just not good at this." That was as honest as she could be with him. If she told him her true feelings, what would he do?

"It'll be OK," he said as he kissed her again and she almost believed him.

He led her down the hall into his bedroom and she stared at his bed, made up with dark sheets and blankets.

He swept her into his arms again and she closed her eyes, wanting to believe in him. She prayed that he wouldn't hate her.

His hands moved down her back to her waist and he tugged her blouse free of her skirt. She felt his hands beneath the cloth, felt his fingers against her skin. His fingertips were demanding and followed the line of her backbone upward until he reached her bra and with a flick, it was undone and gone.

Barbara no longer knew how to breathe; his touch felt so good. He stopped kissing her and she opened her eyes. His smile almost frightened her as he abandoned her breasts and pulled her blouse away, and she stood before him, bare from the waist up, feeling not so much modest as wondering what she was doing.

He pulled her to him as he backed up and sat on the edge of the bed and then she was trapped between his knees. He kissed her stomach and then held her with his legs as he removed his own shirt and hurled it across the room.

To her amazement, she wanted to touch him, to feel those muscles which she now saw. She let her fingers move along his shoulders and he caught his breath. Within seconds, her dress and panties were gone, so were his shorts and they were lying on the bed, side by side, completely naked.

She was prepared to fake it, if necessary. She told herself this was Frank, her friend and for this one evening, she decided to give herself to him completely.

"Touch me," he whispered... and she was touching him... his neck, his collarbones, the slight curves of his chest, his arms and flat stomach and then pushing her breasts against him. Everywhere she touched him pleased him.

"Touch me," he begged as he took her hand to his erection, closing her fingers around him... big and hard and hot.

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe and her hand pulled away. Every kiss, every touch disappeared as a horrible memory pushy them from her mind back to a time she couldn't seem to ever forget.

"No," she said, unable to look at him. "No, I'm sorry, Frank, I just can't..." She pulled away from his embrace and rolled away, curling herself into a whimpering ball with her back to him.

She was embarrassed beyond words and wanted to run away but her legs had turned to rubber... and then she heard him groan.

He said nothing and a long minute passed in silence as her body trembled as she felt herself drowning in ice water.

"I'm sorry... I really am." She hated how feeble she sounded, how frightened. How many times had she promised herself never to be this frightened again, never to let that old fear conquer her?

He pushed her onto her back so he could look at her face and waited for an explanation. "I'm sorry," she said, yet again.

"Barbara," he whispered, brushing his fingers across her curls.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I do," he said, more forcefully than he wanted.

If she could find a way to leave his bedroom, to run away, she would and shivered under his touch.

"Someone hurt you."

She wanted to tell him the truth. "Yes," she admitted, dying inside as a tear rolled across her cheek and soaked into her hair. "Someone hurt me."

He cursed... not at her but at her revelation. Frank sank into the pillow next to her and brought her to him, cushioning her head with his shoulder.

She tried not to cry but with his arms comforting, sheltering, she had no choice. He kissed her, gently, this time. "Who hurt you, Barbie? I'll kill him, I swear to God."

"It happened long ago but it still follows me. I should have gotten over it by now. It was a cop and he pulled me over, one night and..."

He touched her shoulder with his hand, feeling that she was starting to shake again. The warmth of his touch didn't burn this time; it felt soothing, seeping into her and pushing away the tremors.

"He made me walk off the road and he made me... touch him the way... the way you just asked." She had to fight the tension in her throat. She was choking on her own words. "He made me take him in my mouth. I thought I was going to choke and he had his gun to my head and he kept pushing..."

Frank kissed her face and held her tighter.

"He told me he knew my name and where I lived and he had a gun."

"Did you report him?" he stupidly asked, realizing that she hadn't a moment later.

"No, no one was going to believe a black girl accusing a white cop."

"So, you grew up and became a cop, yourself."

"I wanted to stop their abuse of power. I knew what it was like to have a gun pointed at you and I wanted..."

She started to cry, again.

Frank held her and she finally fell asleep in his arms.

**********

Barbara was waiting at their car, honking the horn. He was still waiting for his change from the counter clerk as he waited for the two Whoppers, fries and drinks.

Finally leaving Burger King, he got into the car as she drove out of the parking lot and headed over the Coronado Bridge as they ate in the car. Another wayward wife had met her demise over the weekend and being the spouse of an admiral, she was receiving more attention than the other weekly killings. Rank has its privileges, he thought, but you're still just as dead.

"This one is a little messier than the others," Barbara said. "I don't think it's the same guy as before unless he's changed his M.O."

"Nothing stays the same. It could still be him... or, them. Why don't these women stop doing what they're doing? I just don't get it."

"Loneliness excuses a lot of things, Frank." She clearly didn't like where the conversation was heading.

"Maybe so, but then, just get a divorce, don't cheat. What the hell..."

A half hour later, they pulled onto the street in front of the admiral's Spanish bungalow house. Two uniforms standing on the porch were guarding the front door; the bodies inside were still waiting for the medical examiner to arrive.

Frank put on his gloves and booties and walked in, watching his step as he crossed several Oriental rugs. Some crystalware lay broken on the floor, along with a smashed bottle of champagne. This was the first time he saw damage to furnishings and wondered just how violent the killings had been and what had warranted them.

"The admiral's still on the Reagan. He's flying in and should be here by tonight."

"How are they going to handle it? Tell him the truth?" Frank looked at the two bodies. A certain amount of pure hatred had worked its way into the murders and there was dried blood, everywhere. This one was way too personal, much more than the others he had seen. The woman had been punched, beaten and kicked. There was extensive bruising on her head, breasts, face, shoulders, groin, thighs and legs. Her throat had been cut and she was almost decapitated. The man with her, young enough to be her son, had taken one to the head and lay on the floor. It looked like he was trying to run out through the French doors leading to the pool. "Probably the pool boy," he quipped, not realizing until later how right he was.

Even though the Crime Scene Unit was taking their photographs and gathering evidence, Frank knew they weren't going to find anything more than they had at any of the others over the last five or so years, even with all the violence evident. He was angry. At what point did Darwin's Law enter into it? He wondered what the next weekend would bring.

"You think we're going to find anything new, here?" he asked her, out of courtesy rather than interest. He knew the answer, already.

"No, even if this is a mess... it's been the same since you left and now are back. There's nothing to be found. I can't explain it and neither can anyone else. Whoever is doing this is very, very good... and very, very angry... especially, this time."

"I wonder if it was someone else. Barbie, this feels different. I don't mean the violence, just the way the scene feels... that's all." He gave the room one last cursory glance and walked back into the hallway. "This is just ridiculous, that's for sure. I'm ready to go if you are."

Barbara looked at him. "Always work this fast?" She was surprised. He was supposed to be the best, the only failure, if you could call it that, was his failure to catch the "Lonely Hearts Murderer."

"No, it's just what you said... there's no clues and why waste time, that's all. Maybe the CSI guys will come up with something more, this time."

It took over an hour to return to the San Diego Navy Base.

"I'll let you write this up," Frank said, "I've got to take care of some personal business." Without waiting, he walked out, leaving her standing by the car, by herself. It was not going to be easy, working with him, she discovered. However, he was attractive, in a rugged sort of way and she was determined to find out just how rugged he really was.