Englishman In New York Ch 02

Head Detective Candace Sutton parked her unmarked car at the edge of the yellow police tape and pulled her shield out, tucking it into the pocket of her jacket. The recording officer noted her official status and let her pass, watching her round ass twitch away as she headed to the knot of dark-suited men, most of whom looked away as she approached. It was 2005 and the tight-knit world of New York City's finest detectives still ostracized women. She was considered to be an inferior being, although she had the highest solve rate in the borough.

Still, Candace Sutton hadn't survived near death at the hands of an abusive husband to let a few men with small dicks push her around. Her partner, Victor Fusco, gave her a respectful nod, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking upset.

"Hello, boys." Carlo Bonatelli and Mike Mainwaring murmured salutations, watching as she walked through their circle and headed for the sheet-covered body. She pulled the covering back and examined the young woman, noting the deep slice in her neck and the amount of blood that surrounded her inanimate body. "So what have we got here?"

The men exchanged glances and Fusco left the circle, kneeling on his haunches beside her while extracting his notebook. "Her name is Samara Wilcox, age 20. She's a prostitute that runs out of Gibson Ramey's stable. She was found by Mark Miller, the garbage man standing over there."

"Any witnesses?"

"None."

"Is she missing anything?"

"Not that we can determine. Her purse is over there. She had $700 in cash, nail file, phone calling card and a bottle of clear nail polish."

"No condoms?"

"Nope."

"Make sure that you make a note to tell the coroner to check for diseases such as HIV/AIDS. She looks pretty healthy but if she's doing tricks bareback, you never know."

"Right. There's something else that you might want to see." Fusco pulled a glove on, flipped the sheet back again and used the tip of an old ballpoint pen to open the deep slash in the dead woman's throat. "See that?"

Sutton leaned forward, concentrating on a soupy white mixture that floated on top of the coagulating blood like the white lump one usually found in an egg white. "What's that?"

"It's sperm."

"What? How do you know?"

"I'm not sure but that's what I think." He moved the edge of the pen down, showing Sutton a shiny white line on the inside of the skin. "I think he slit her throat and fucked the wound while she was dying."

"Ugh!" She stood, flexing her aching leg muscles as she contemplated his words. "Sounds like an A-1 fucking pervert."

"I'd have to agree with you, Suttie. Well, what's next?"

"Get what you can from the garbage man and supervise her pick up. Tell Wicker that I want to know what that substance is in her throat right away and if it is semen, have him send it for typing. We may get lucky and find someone in the database."

"Okay. What are you going to do?"

"Talk to Gibson Ramey. Maybe I can find out who her last client was."

"I don't think this was a client, Suttie. I think whoever the dude was, he was freelance."

"I'd have to agree but it doesn't hurt to try."

Sutton left her partner to his department friends and cast her suspicious eye across the people gathered to see the dead body. It was well-known that sometimes the perp would return to the scene of the crime to relive it or to revel in the ineptitude of the police. The garbage man didn't seem to be fazed with having discovered a dead body and was happily chain smoking, talking on a cell phone. The only person that caught her eye was a priest, standing at the edge of the crowd, his lips moving as he said a silent prayer over the body.

"Glad someone's giving her a blessing." She murmured to herself as she headed back to her car. "We all need one."

Next stop, Pimp Central.

* * * * *

He got a beer from the fridge and sat down in his favorite chair, easing the recliner back as he thumbed the remote into operation. The television popped on and a furniture store commercial finished playing just before the Evening News began.

"Our top story, a woman was found nearly beheaded in an alley on the Lower East Side." The anchorwoman said. "Let's go live with our reporter on the scene." At this point, he leaned forward, his interest piqued. As the reporter described the crime, he surveyed the faces of the people at the scene. He loved the fearful and sometimes vacant expressions on the onlookers' faces. His cock hardened in his pants and he unbuttoned his pajama bottoms, giving it a long, hard stroke.

"The head detective in this case, Detective Candace Sutton, had this to say about the murder." He examined the buxom police officer and his cock grew even harder. How lovely she was! All that red-gold hair, blue eyes, huge tits ... god, how he would love to push his cock up between those beauties and spew his load onto her chin. He gave himself another hard stroke, straining with the effort. She continued to talk about some of the specifics of the crime and his attention was drawn to her mouth, wide and luscious, tipped with the light pink that young girls favored. It was more than capable to suck his cock. He groaned, rubbing harder now, using the magic of TIVO to re-run the interview so that he could watch her mouth move over and over again.

A tingle in the base of his spine signaled his release and he came, his semen pistoning into the air, spurt after spurt landing on the brushed velvet of the chair and the tan pile of the carpet beneath. Gasping for breath, he activated the remote again and lay limp, recovering as he watched the rest of the interview. He was surprised to see the priest interviewed next, listening to his benevolent words speak of the preciousness of life and his promise to say prayers for the young woman.

Fuck God!

He fumed, tucking himself away and swigging his beer. That whore didn't deserve to live, didn't deserve to draw sweet breath. If the priest wanted to have whores to pray for, he'd get his wish. He'd definitely get his wish.