I was back at the station, locked in an archival room in the basement with Ian, the records boy. I was bent forward over a desk that had been cleared in a hurried fashion with my skirt pushed up my back and my panties around my ankles, my brow furrowed in deep thought while Ian's cock pumped, slowly and rhythmically, in and out of my lightly-grasping box.
I often went to Ian when I needed to think. Ian had stamina. If I required it of him, he could go for hours at the same steady pace, pumping in and out like a metronome for as long as I needed.
I put all conscious thoughts about the sex out of my mind, thinking back to the facts of the case. The slow and steady pleasure provided by Ian settled into the background, the electricity of his ministrations serving to power and amplify my thought process. Funny, that I do my best thinking while being rogered...
I thought back to Prue Worhurst, wife of the man who had crashed his expensive supercar and fled the scene. I thought back to our conversation after she had finally recovered from the shock of discovering that her husband had been hiding his Lamborghini ownership – and as I spoke to her, the possibility that he was hiding a great deal more was definitely playing on my mind.
"So Prue," I had said, back at their modest little suburban cottage. "You honestly had no idea that Mick, your husband, owned a Lamborghini?"
"No idea," Prue told me, with utmost honesty and befuddlement. "I don't know how he could afford it. He's a civil servant! He works with an administration company, subcontracting to the government – he doesn't even earn six figures. And I'm a stay-at-home mum," she added, waving her hand at the back yard of their modest house to indicate their five children; they were being minded by their grandparents while Prue spoke to me. "We're not rich, in fact we struggle sometimes. Where could he have got a Lamborghini?"
"I'm going to try my level best to find out," I promised her – not only for her sake, but to sate my own intense curiosity, too. A white-collar male, thirty years old, wife and five kids, a modest little house and a beaten-up minivan in the carport... who, during the night, had crashed his Lamborghini off a mountain, fled the scene, and was still whereabouts-unknown? This was the juiciest case I'd ever been assigned!
But I kept my gleeful thoughts internal, maintaining a professional façade. It wasn't just a whole bunch of cock-sucking that had earned me my Detective Sergeant's rank – I was also pretty good at my job, too.
"Let's start with what you know, Prue," I suggested. "Tell me about Mick's work-day routine, or at least what you know of it."
"Well, he leaves for work around seven o'clock every morning," Prue began. "He has done for three years, since he got the job with his company. He sets off in his company car, the old Ford wagon—" which was not currently on the property, so I made a mental note to put out an alert for Mick's 'company car' "—and he gets to work in the city at eight, works out of the company office til five, then gets home in the Ford around six. Every day, Monday through Friday, for three years," she repeated.
"Prue, this may sound like a silly question," I warned her, "but: how sure are you that what you just told me, is what Mick actually does? Do you know for sure, for absolute sure, that he is going where he says he's going? What's the name of his company?"
"Project Management Services," said Prue, baffled at my first question so choosing to address the last. "They specialise in telecommunications maintenance, big transmission tower upgrades, stuff like that. But what do you mean, 'how sure am I'?"
"Have you ever visited Mick at his office, where he works?"
"Well of course I have," frowned Prue.
"When was the last time you visited him at work?"
"Well, only a couple months ago," Prue reported. "He was on an outing by himself, checking out a new jobsite in the hills half-way to the city, so he invited us up to have a picnic lunch with him. It was really nice, a bright sunny day, we had sandwiches and fruit salad, we watched the kids play in the grass and looked out to the ocean..."
"That sounds lovely," I assured her – but my suspicious little detective's brain was whirring and churning, seeking holes and flaws in Mick's story. Even so, I was determined to treat Prue as gently as possible. There was no reason at all to suspect her of any complicity in Mick's dealings, whatever they were that saw him the owner of a crashed, abandoned, blood-soaked Lamborghini.
"But Prue, what I meant to ask you," I went on, "was: when was the last time you actually visited him at his office, at the offices of 'Project Management Services' up in the city?"
"Oh," said Prue. "Well," she added, as she thought back into the past, "it's actually been a long time... eighteen months, maybe two years? A little bit before we learned I was expecting the triplets," she added. "I don't get up to the city as much as I used to, now that I have five kids to buckle up and make provisions for. Three poohing bubs and two hungry toddlers turn most excursions into a royal pain," she assured me.
I nodded with sympathy and understanding, while simultaneously noting that the last time Mick's place of work was verified was up to two years ago. Prue was a canny one, though: I dare say she saw the wheels and cogs turning behind my eyes.
"You think Mick may be lying to me about his work, don't you?" she observed, with surprising level-headedness and calm – again, I got the impression that Prue was a woman of immense inner strength. She would have to be, to deal with five kids on her own, five days a week.
"I'm sorry Prue, but I can't help but be suspicious – it's kind of my job description," I told her. "However high his 'five-figure-salary' might be, no man can afford to own or maintain a Lamborghini on top of a mortgage and a family of seven. There has to be another explanation. There must be something else that Mick isn't telling you."
"Are you sure the car is his?" Prue asked of me – with a slight edge of pleading in her voice, as though she needed me to somehow tell her that in fact all of this was wrong, to tell her that her husband wasn't hiding a super-expensive exotic car from her, that he hadn't crashed the thing and his disappearance could possibly be explained some other way.
"I'm sorry, Prue, but we are sure. The Lamborghini is registered in the name of Michael Allan Worhurst, and his wallet and driver's licence were in the vehicle. If we don't find him soon, we will use DNA and fingerprinting to confirm he has driven the vehicle, too."
"Oh God..." Prue whispered, as the astonishing, bewildering reality of the situation loomed over her again. "I hope he's alright," she told me, mournfully. "I don't care if he's been lying to me, I don't care about the Lambo – I just want him back. I love him. He's a good man," she promised me, as though the facts of the case may have had me thinking otherwise – and, in fact, I had been thinking otherwise.
'What an arsehole,' I had been thinking. Fancy lying to his wife – to the mother of his five children? Hiding the resources necessary to own and maintain a Lamborghini? Prue seemed to be a really nice lady, and quite attractive too: commendably slender given her non-stop mother-of-five routine, with nicely-sized breasts, a pretty face and distractingly deep, soulful eyes. Quite a pretty lady, indeed...
"He's such a wonderful man," she was saying, still talking up her husband, so I didn't stare at her too long. "Mick has been nothing but loyal and loving, he's always been so good to me and the kids... he's such a hard worker, he's always provided for us, we've never wanted for anything... when times are tight he often goes without, he doesn't buy himself any flash tools or fancy stuff or anything, the kids always come first... well," she corrected herself. "That was until I found out about this bloody Lamborghini. Oh, Detective," she added, flipping from a suspicious squint back into concern and sorrow, "just find him. Do everything and anything you can. Just find him."
"I will," I nodded, with all sincerity, and I reached out to take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, Prue – we will get to the bottom of this."
"Thank you," she murmured. The moisture was starting to pool in her eyes, so I gave her one last pat on the hand and an encouraging smile, and I made my leave.
