Ajax Steele The Set Up

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WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, MORNING

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"Over the past decade, our academy has undertaken a comprehensive self-assessment. We have rigorously re-evaluated the theories and methodologies within each of our fields, established formal ethical guidelines, and created transparent pathways to board certification."

The hall was dim, while the stage shone brightly, lit up like a Hollywood set. From the podium, she could barely make out the audience--a sea of shadowed faces with the occasional glint of light reflecting off a plastic-sheathed ID badge or a hint of a white shirt crossed by a dark tie.

"No longer will unqualified individuals be able to put up a sign, claim expertise, and practice without oversight. Now, they must adhere to thoroughly validated standards."

Behind her, the other speakers sat quietly, attentive and orderly. On either side of them, large screens projected the presentation, flanked by stairs leading down to the main floor.

"This year's conference is titled, 'Reliable, Relevant, and Real Forensic Science.' Whether anthropology, pathology, or toxicology, this goal is shared across every discipline represented here."

At the foot of each stairway, an illuminated exit sign cast a red glow. In her peripheral vision, she noticed two men standing by the exit to her right, caught briefly in its light.

"As each presenter in this plenary session has demonstrated, we are dedicated to achieving that goal--for law enforcement, for the courts, for justice. I thank you for your attention, and I hope you enjoy a truly informative conference."

As the house lights brightened, applause swelled--more than a polite courtesy clap. This was long and heartfelt. The other presenters gathered their notes, clearly relieved and pleased with the reception. They had spoken to a demanding crowd--their peers. Conversations sparked, and the aisles filled as attendees started to disperse.

As she closed her laptop, the two men she'd noticed earlier climbed the steps and approached her. Both wore navy suits with crisp white shirts and understated ties, their shoes polished to a mirror-like shine.

Approaching the podium, the pair fanned out slightly. One, who stepped slightly to the left, was tall and broad, his nose crooked from what looked like several breaks. His shaved head gleamed under the stage lights, reflecting a warm mahogany glow. The other man, to her right, was closer to her height, with dark, thick eyebrows framing small, intent eyes, and black hair complementing his olive complexion.

"Dr. Grace Hudson?" Bushy Brows's voice was surprisingly deep for a man of his size.

"Yes," Grace said, guarded, suspecting their purpose. "And you are?"

"Special Agent Patrick Peters." He displayed a badge to prove it.

She looked at Broken Nose. He badged her the same way employed by his partner. The badge read Special Agent Bartholomew Burdon.

"Are you armed, Dr. Hudson?" asked Peters, his little eyes scanning her body for tell-tale bulges of concealed weaponry.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you carrying a--"

"The question was clear. I want to know why you posed it."

Sensing tension, a few stragglers in the hall eyed them while pretending not to.

"We'd like you to come with us," Peters said, voice lowered a hair.

"No."

"I'm afraid we must insist."

"I'm afraid I must decline."

Peters withdrew a photo from one navy pocket and handed it to her. She took a beat to indicate her annoyance, then she glanced down at the image.

The subject was male, white, probably mid-forties. His hair was centre parted and held back with a binder. Black plastic-framed glasses sat low on his nose. A camera hung from his neck. He looked like a middle-aged uncle who enjoyed shooting wildflowers in his spare time. Grace's eyes rolled up, one brow cocked in question.

"Don't pretend you don't know him," Peters said.

"I'm not because I don't know him," Grace said. Peters's gaze cut to his partner. Burdon wagged his head slowly, clearly disappointed. "Lose the theatrics," she said. "Who is he?"

"Jake Yorker," Peters said. "Until yesterday, an investigative reporter with the Washington Post."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Yesterday, Yorker's house cleaner found him in his kitchen, asphyxiated with a plastic bag over his head." Peters delivered it with an impressive level of disgust. "Murdered."

"I'm sorry for the man's misfortune." She handed back the photo. "But his death has nothing to do with me."

"Au contraire." A flick of a smile, no humour. Probably proud of himself for using a French expression. "Your prints were on the plastic bag."

"That's impossible."

"That's what they all say," Burdon grunted.

"Let's go." Peters's tone now carried an aggressive edge.

"May I phone my attorney?"

"I definitely would."

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WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, NOON

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Ajax Steele stood under the stream of hot water, watching the steam curl around him like fragments of a lingering dream. The heat should have eased the tension knotted in his body, but he couldn't relax. His hands slid through his wet hair, water cascading down his back, yet his thoughts kept wandering.

He closed his eyes, letting the water pound his shoulders, but the tension held on. That instinct was kicking in--the one that had saved him countless times in far rougher places than this--a prickling at the base of his skull, a low hum in his blood warning him that something was coming.

Running a hand over his jaw, he exhaled slowly. Normally, he could compartmentalize, stay in control. But there was a charge in the air he couldn't shake, an energy thrumming just below the surface. He let out a short laugh, shaking his head at himself. "Get a grip, Steele," he muttered.

"What's that?"

Ajax looked down at last night's fling. Hailey rested on her knees and glanced up with her beautiful, blue eyes through wet lashes. By this time of day, Ajax would've normally been long gone. But Hailey had a way to coax him into staying a little longer. One thing always lead to another. His getting out of bed woke her up, which led to another tussle under the sheets, which led to breakfast, which led to showering together, which led to Hailey on her knees, which led to an unexpected sequence of thoughts and emotions, which led to a short laugh, which led to her question.

"Nothing," Ajax said. "Please, continue."

Harley beamed her bright, wide smile as droplets of water barraged her pretty face. "With pleasure." She smacked her plump lips and ran her tongue along the upper row of her immaculate teeth. Her head jerked left and she licked along the length of his shaft. Reaching the tip, she placed a kiss. She did the same on the other side.

Ajax gathered the wet hair plastered around her face. He used it as a handle and brought Hailey in front of his cock. His other hand cupped her chin. He ran a thumb across her lips and parted them. She suckled softly on his digit before he levered her jaw gently down and eased his tip forward. From last night and this morning, Ajax knew what her mouth could do. He breathed heavily with anticipation.

Instead of taking him between her splendid lips, Hailey straightened her posture and angled her head downward. With a hand on the outside of each breast, she enveloped his shaft in her cleavage. Pumping her tits up and down, she sucked on his tip. Hailey then started varying her pace and movements. She slid one breast upward while bringing the other downward, creating a slippery, soapy sensation that made Ajax smile with pleasure.

After a few minutes of fantastic tit-fucking that kept him perfectly balanced on a knife's edge, Hailey released him from the fleshy prison of her bosom. She grabbed his shaft firmly with two hands and tentatively hovered her opened mouth above his tip. Before she inhaled his cock, she made eye-contact. Her naughty grin grew and she bit her lower lip before diving left and slowly licking the side of his cock once more. Again doing it on the other side. Ajax groaned. Hailey repeated this teasing several times, gently and slowly licking the side of his increasingly frustrated cock.

Finally, she decided he'd had enough and plunged down on his cock. Ajax instinctively thrust his hips forward, giving her a bit more than she was expecting. Hailey gagged slightly, then retreated, and dove without pause back down the length of his shaft.

Ajax stood there under the spell of the pleasure she administered. She established a rhythm while gliding up and down his cock. He ran his fingers through her pulled-back hair, gathering loose strands. Occasionally, she stopped with only the tip in her mouth, running her tongue around the circumference, and sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout his body.

Building ever closer to the climax, Ajax let her know that he'll be popping soon. Hailey paused only for a second before working his cock with her mouth even more fervently than before. This new enthusiasm was too much to handle, and Ajax grunted as he was hurled over the edge. He shot strings of thick cum into her mouth. Spurt after spurt hit the back of her throat. Hailey knew from before how large Ajax's loads were, and released his cock from her lips' tight grip before she choked. Another half a dozen of shots landed on Hailey's happy face. She giggled through the whole process.

She sucked some more on Ajax's tip and eventually swallowed a part before spitting the surplus out. She looked up and let his cum dribble down her face, leaking from her chin onto her large breasts.

While Hailey washed herself, Ajax grabbed a towel and stepped out into the humid air of the small bathroom. He was dressed and out of the appartement before Hailey left the shower.

She entered her kitchen and found a steaming cup of coffee waiting. Beside it was a written note. Hailey smiled as she read the kind words from the stranger she picked up at the bar.

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WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, AFTERNOON

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The police station where Grace Hudson was taken looked like a concrete fortress, one among many in a neighbourhood of squat, severe buildings, each as austere as the next. In front, a modest red-bricked plaza stretched out alongside patches of lawn, likely to be more hopeful come summer, dotted with a few spindly trees. Old-fashioned lampposts lined the street and drooping flags adorned the entrance.

They placed her in an interview room outfitted with the usual fare: a steel table, two unyielding chairs, a wall-mounted phone, a two-way mirror, and a row of audio-video recording equipment. After an hour of restless waiting, the door swung open, and a woman entered.

She moved with a crisp efficiency, her dark hair pulled back in a very tight bun, her black pantsuit sharp and perfectly pressed, her shoes practical but polished. She carried a leather briefcase with an understated elegance that signalled lawyer, and her visitor tag simply read, "V. Lester." Her gaze was calm but appraising as it met Grace's, with a hint of something that simmered just below the professional facade.

Grace had explained the situation by phone. They got straight to it. As Grace talked, Lester listened, ears sharp. Attorney ears. Now and then she asked a question. Her voice contained sensuous hints, sometimes unnecessarily accentuating consonants or drawing out vowels.

"You're certain you've never met Mr. Yorker?" Lester asked.

"Absolutely. But I know the connection these cops have jumped on. Yorker was investigating a suicide that occurred a decade ago. A man named Clay Montgomery."

Lester's eyes rounded in surprise. "The air force bird colonel who shot himself in Germany?"

"Yes. Montgomery was discovered dead in his car behind his hotel in the town of in March of 2012. The coroner's ruling was death by self-inflicted gunshot wound."

"You performed the autopsy?"

"No, I wasn't involved in the original analysis. That was done by a German pathologist." Grace worked the keys on her laptop. Which she'd managed to retain thanks to Lester's intervention. Grace thought it highly probable that Lester's sensual speech had convinced Peters and Burdon.

Grace explained further. "The Montgomery family went ballistic. They insisted the suicide finding was a cover-up because Clay had been wrongly accused in an espionage case. They claimed he'd been shot in the back of the head, execution style. Said they had an eyewitness to prove it."

Lester frowned. "I remember this. Some relatives were very adept at working the media." She scribbled down notes on a yellow legal pad as Grace talked.

"That's an understatement. They called press conferences, volunteered for interviews, appeared on every talk and news show airing at the time."

"So where do you come in?"

"Clay Montgomery had three brothers. The youngest was obsessed with the case. After the media lost interest, he took out ads, wrote op-ed pieces, set up blogs and internet pages, put pressure on his senator and congressman, you know the drill. Over the years, every conspiracy theorist on the planet joined in the fight to have the case reopened. Long story short, ten years later, in 2022, a government commission was formed. I was recruited to direct an exhumation and examine the remains."

Grace double-clicked to open a document. A header gave a case file number, date, and the name of the victim, Clay Montgomery.

"This was my final report to the commission." She scrolled down. "I won't bore you with the details. Take a look at these images." The first was an anterior view of a skull. Grace pointed to what had once been the nose. "Note how the midfacial region is fragmented." Traced her finger to the forehead. "The radial fracturing on the frontal bone." Then opened a new image. "This is a close-up of the roof of the mouth. Note the blue-green staining on what remains of the palatine process of the maxilla."

"I see it."

"That's due to copper oxidation."

"The bullet was copper jacketed."

"Yes. On its path through the head, a tiny sliver broke off, lodged, and oxidized there." Grace moved on to the teeth. "This shows the lingual, or tongue side of the upper dental arcade. Note the cracked first molar and the dark areas on that tooth and the one beside it. The discoloration was caused by heat when the gun discharged." The fourth image showed a hole in the crown of the skull. "That defect was created when the bullet left Montgomery's head. Note that the exit point is high on the crown." An extremely tight shot. "And note that the edges of the defect are bevelled on the skull's outer surface. That means the defect is an exit hole." Grace leaned back and gestured at the screen. "The pattern is consistent with trauma resulting from a self-inflicted gunshot wound."

"Or someone shoved a gun in Montgomery's mouth and pulled the trigger," said Lester, playing devil's

advocate.

"Doubtful. The bullet trajectory was straight up and out the top, so Montgomery's head wasn't moving. Also, there were powder burns on his right hand and no drugs in his system."

"Why is the lack of drugs significant?"

"Montgomery was a big guy. Hard to stick a muzzle in a big guy's mouth if he doesn't want it there."

"Which I suspect he did not." Lester flipped a page. "So your opinion corroborated the original coroner's report."

"Yes."

"The brother wasn't happy, I can imagine."

"An understatement."

"What does all this have to do with the reporter, Jake Yorker?"

"According to Peters and Burdon, Yorker was working on a story that would somehow prove my analysis was flawed. That I was either inept or bribed."

"So you killed him to save your reputation."

"That's their theory." With a heavy note of annoyance she hissed, "Ridiculous."

Lester thought about that. Then, "Why were your prints on the plastic bag?"

Grace threw her hands up in defeat and said, "I have no idea."

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WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 22, EVENING

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Ajax Steele stepped out of the bus depot and into the city streets. The sun hung low and pale in the sky, casting a weak, chilly light over everything. He turned west, walking along a broad street with his thumb out. Every car sped past, just as he'd expected--getting a ride in the city was always tough. But once he reached the highway ramp, his odds would improve.

The plan was simple: head south, however many hundreds of miles it took to find a warmer place. Maybe Florida. Maybe as far as Key West. He'd been there before and always had a good time. But Key West was the end of the line, and he hated the thought of doubling back. Forward was the only way he liked to go.

As usual, he had solid shoes--essential for keeping himself on the move. And, for once, a decent coat, so the cold didn't bother him. He'd endured worse: Korea in winter, the Russian tundra. But he couldn't risk an all-nighter here. In the summer, he could sleep under a bridge, but not in February, however mild. He could bar-hop in search of someone like Hailey to take him in, but he tried not to rely on that day after day. He liked to keep moving forward, but he liked to keep things varied, too.

Fortunately, traffic was heavy. Rush hour, just like in every corner of the "civilized" world. Plenty of cars, plenty of potential benefactors. But Ajax was a big guy--an intimidating trait in a hitchhiker, less alluring than, say, a bright smile and charming cleavage of a round-breasted woman. Still, women often found him attractive, a fact he'd never quite figured out. One advantage, he thought, was better than none.

The sheer weight of numbers and the overall odds were with him, and, sure enough, inside an hour and twenty minutes a guy in a blue van pulled over and agreed to take him as far south as he could before his night shift started. So Ajax climbed in, and they took off.

There was no conversation at first. The guy had the radio playing, on a mostly sports talk station, where all kinds of mostly wonderful things were happening. Then at eight o'clock a different voice in a different acoustic read out the local news, just as they were leaving the next major city on the road south. The voice called upon expert opinion to expand on and explain the news, in the form of respectful conversation, as if between the best of friends. Ajax tuned it out, until he heard a name he knew, and then one he didn't.

The anchor asked a question, and the expert answered, "You're absolutely right; to understand this, you have to understand the Clay Montgomery case, and some say the dispute about that case's original findings has now gone on so long we should take the issue seriously at last. The official line has always been suicide, and indeed the government's last communication on the subject dates from four years ago, when it said it welcomed what it called Dr. Grace Hudson's meticulous and independent analysis, which as expected confirmed conclusions made at the time, and therefore the case was now closed."

The anchor said, "But reporter Jake Yorker claimed it was more than a dispute. He claimed to have definitive proof that Montgomery was executed."

The expert said, "You're absolutely right, even to the point where there was a strong rumour Yorker had an actual copy of the illegal 2012 order to deploy the assassin. And don't forget, Yorker was a very well respected reporter. He was from the Washington Post. He was the heir to a grand tradition. What he was going to say would have carried some weight. If he was right, Dr. Hudson was either ordered or coerced or bribed to falsify her second autopsy, and if that was true, her career would be over. All her previous testimony would be worthless. She would be a laughingstock. I mean, just this morning she gave the keynote at a grand convention in D.C., telling hundreds of other forensic scientists to keep it reliable, and relevant, and real."