I sat agape. There I was, searching for Mick Worhurst, the disappearing owner of a secret Lamborghini; I was in the middle of an illegal search of the townhouse he kept secret from his wife, hidden away along with all of the other proceeds of the lottery he won two years ago... staring alternately between the phone in Mick's office on which Mick was talking to me, and the webcam on the shelf above his computer through which he was watching me. And had been watching me as I ransacked his office, poured through his files, pleasured myself (thinking myself alone and unwatched, of course), and later pinning down Mick's little floozy and having hot lesbian sex with her.
All in front of the webcam. All while he had been watching.
"Hello?" he called from the phone, his smooth and sexy voice sparkling with amusement. "I know you're there, I can see you breathing."
I pulled a face and reached for the phone, punching the hands-free button. "Mick Worhurst," I greeted. "You lying cheating son of a bitch."
"And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" he returned, not missing a beat.
"Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings," I told him as I tried to surreptitiously reach for my mobile, hoping to order up a trace on Mick's call. "I was put on your case when we found your Lamborghini – you know, the one filled with blood and wrapped around a tree half-way down a mountainside?"
"My poor Lambo," Mick lamented, as though mourning a dear friend. "If I ever catch up with the sons-of-bitches that ran me off the road..."
"So you had some help, crashing the Lambo?"
"My fucking oath I did!" Mick vociferated. "Have you found the bullet-holes?"
I blinked. "No..." I frowned. "Forensics went over the car, and there was no mention of bullets."
"Well I promise you, there were bullets. I was on my way to meet Pagani when a truck-load of his goons overtook me and shot me all up."
"Any shots they fired must have gone window-to-window," I frowned. "Our forensic boys don't usually miss bullet-holes..."
"Well, if we ever catch up, I'll show you the bullet hole in my arm. That might convince you."
"They said you must have copped an arterial wound, to bleed out like that," I nodded, wincing at the thought of it – I hadn't yet been shot in the line of duty, and it was something I hoped to avoid through to retirement. Bullet wounds do terrible things to a lady's skin tone.
"Yeah, I caught one high in the arm. A real gusher."
"Where did you go, Mick? How did you survive a bleed that bad?"
"I know enough to keep pressure on a wound like that," Mick explained. "And I've got a couple horses on a stud farm down in the foothills – I pretty much followed the creek all the way in, and had a helping hand from their live-in vet. He's a nice guy," Mick added, with perhaps a touch of understatement.
"All that for a girl, Mick?" I quizzed him, not hiding the disappointment in my voice.
"Don't say it like that, Detective," Mick chastised. "Remember: I can see the disapproving look on your face, too."
"Well now, you've seen plenty of me through this damn camera, haven't you?" I teased, settling back to regard the webcam with perhaps a touch of sultriness in my eye; even as I did so, I fired off a text message to the police switchboard requesting a trace on the landline call with Mick. "How's about you and I meet up, so I can at least get a glimpse of you?"
"Sounds tempting," Mick replied, and I could hear his cute, disarming grin even over the phone. "Maybe we can catch up for a chat sometime, after everything blows over?"
"No chance in hell of that happening, matie," I promised him. "You've got to come forward so we can sort this out. You, Trish and Roberto Pagani – sounds like he's got a few charges of blackmail and attempted murder to answer."
"It would really be better if you stayed out of everything," Mick informed me. "I know all about Pagani – I've got enough on him to shut him up. Just by surviving the crash, I've got all I need to stand over him."
"Roberto Pagani is a dumb thug," I told Mick, frowning at the webcam and at his uncooperative attitude. "Dumb thugs don't play ball. Dumb thugs just keep swinging at you until one of you is dead. It would be far better if you'd come on in so we can get statements off you and Trish, and use them to lock Pagani away for the rest of his dumb thuggish life."
"I'm sure you appreciate, Detective, that I have my own reasons for wanting to stay below the radar."
I rolled my eyes – he was referring to his wife, who until today had no idea that he was the owner of a bright orange Lamborghini, and was currently waiting anxiously at home with their five children for any news on her cheating, lying, lottery-hiding husband.
"I saw that little roll-of-the-eyes," Mick reminded me.
"I meant you to see it," I told him. "You really are a prick, Mick. You know that? What kind of man keeps a fifteen-million-dollar windfall hidden from his wife – from the mother of his five children?"
"Sounds like you've visited the missus," Mick observed. "Detective: can you imagine what my life would have been like if I'd brought that money home? I'd be locked up with that screaming shitting little brood twenty-four-seven!"
"That's exactly what your missus does!" I rejoined. "Five screaming little monsters, day-in-day-out, without a break, Monday-through-Sunday, week in week out all the year long, Mick! All so her 'beloved, kindly, providing' husband can go off and hoon around in Lamborghinis and Porsches, flake out in a million-dollar prime-ocean-view pad, and have his cock sucked all-day-long by some teenaged ultra-slut with big tits and blond hair??"
"You're a great one to question my morals, 'Detective'," Mick returned. "Where does 'masturbating in the line of duty' fall under your Code of Conduct? I saw every second of what you did to and with our dear young Trish; and those keys I see on the desk there – they're for my little red Elfin. Right?"
Crap – he'd seen the car keys, which I had dropped on the desk before the phone rang and had forgotten about them.
"So don't you get on your high horse and judge me, 'Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings'," he told me – which impressed me greatly, I must admit; I'm sure most men I meet forget my name immediately, referring to me mentally as 'the cop chick with the great guns'. I was already kind of hot for this guy, with his manly chin and cheeky grin and wicked little deception; the fact that he had consideration, character and respect enough to remember a lady's name did nothing to stop the mounting wetness in my unpantied crotch, my excitement building even as I spoke to the elusive and enigmatic Mick Worhurst.
"Don't you judge me," he said again. "I may have hidden my wealth and had some fun on the side, but never have I neglected my family; never have I held back on what they needed, never have I let them go wanting. I go back there every evening, and I spend every weekend in that tiny little house with them, and I love each and every one of them to pieces and I give of myself, everything I am, to them. I hold nothing back, except that which they can do without."
"Well aren't you a saint," I mocked him, using acrimony to disguise my building heat for him. "You don't think your poor wife could maybe do with a slightly newer car, or a slightly larger house? Maybe a bit of help when you're off doing your Playboy thing, maybe a maid or a cleaner or a nanny? You don't think you could maybe spare a bit of cream off the top of your high-yield returns to give Prue a helping hand?"
"Now—"
"How long did you think you could keep it all secret anyway, Mick?" I went on, in the middle of a rant and not willing to give him a break. "How long were you planning to keep it all under your hat? Ten years? Twenty? Forever? Or were you just gunna 'up-stumps' and vanish, book a one-way flight into the mist with your big-titted little tart and leave Prue penniless with your progeny? Was that the plan, Mick?" I asked of him, nostrils flaring. "Was that it??"
"Screw you, Detective," he replied. "You think you know me? You think I'm another one of 'those guys'? Is my case sparking up on some kind of ill-repressed 'daddy issue' of yours, perchance?"
I stopped, eyebrows flashing with fury, unable to help myself though I knew he was watching me closely via the webcam.
"Aha," he crowed. "I thought so. Well, Detective, not that it's any of your fucking concern, but why don't you go into the computer and open the 'Prue30' file?"
I swallowed my rage, and did as instructed; within I found a few pictures showing floorplans, artist's impressions and architectural sketches of a large, stately, modern-looking manor in a rural setting. "What's this?" I asked, hollowly.
"It's Prue's thirtieth birthday present," he informed me. "She turns thirty next year, and this is my surprise for her."
