drei sechzig
A fiction written for Thursday100plus - prompt, language.
I blame this on Sipman. I didn't have anything I felt like writing until I read her "Helping Hand" and suddenly I had this in my brain. No accounting for how my mental processes work I guess.
***
I hate my phone. It’s always ringing when I don’t want it to and never rings when I need it to. Like now, it’s ringing and ringing and I feel like throwing it against the wall. I haven’t slept nearly enough and my damn phone won’t stop ringing.
“Goren,” my voice is hoarse, rough. Eames does not even give me a pleasantry she simply gives me an address. I can tell by the quality of her voice she had been asleep a few minutes ago as well. I thought phone trees were for elementary school parents. Apparently, phone trees are also integral to NYPD. Ross to Eames to me. Or sometimes Moran to Ross to Eames to me. No matter the line up, it always seems to end with me. “Got it,” I manage to say before I hang up.
I lie in bed a moment longer, I can’t help it. I know that if I go to put my feet on the floor I’ll simply fall to the floor. My brain needs to wake up a bit, and m y body needs to catch up with my brain. I roll over onto my side and I run my fingers through her hair. It is a tangled mass across the sheets. She doesn’t even stir. Her skin is so warm, all I want to do is stay in bed with her, but I roll back over, fall out of bed and start getting dressed.
***
“Eames,” I say as I walk on scene.
“Goren,” she responds, and I smile. I feel like we are Sam and Ralph. I guess I would be the sheepdog. Though in the world of Chuck Jones, Sam and Ralph were adversaries, and Eames and I - well, we’re not, usually, adversaries.
“You look like hell,” Eames mumbles with her sly smile. I can’t decide if she’s always mumbling or if I’m slowly going deaf. I think it’s probably a bit of both. I nod, and step around her. I feel like hell so I might as well look the part.
I run my hand through my hair, making it stand even more on end. As I smear my hand across my face, I realize that my beard is no longer bristly, it’s grown in again and feels soft against my palm. “Strangulation,” I look at the petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. The victim is sprawled across the bed, male, mid 30s, dressed only in pajama bottoms which are kind of twisted oddly around his waist.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Eames is standing a few feet behind me, too far away to really see the white of the victim’s eyes. She’s looking at the dark bruising around the neck. “What do you think caused that?” She asks.
“The hemorrhages occur when blood leaks from the tiny capillaries in the eyes, which can rupture due to increased pressure on the veins in the head when the airways are obstructed.” I refer to the tiny pinpoint red marks in the white of the eyes. Eames rolls her eyes at me. I know she’s referring to the bruising around the neck, but sometimes I just can’t help but bait her.
“Funny,” she gives me that half smile.
“Something thin, not rope, maybe a cord?” I look at the slender uniform bruising around the neck. I also notice bruising around the wrists and some across the ribs. Eames eyes are following mine. The scene is all wrong, someone has rearranged things. “You think that happened during the strangulation?” I refer to the way his pajama bottoms are screwed around the victim’s waist.
Eames has not moved an inch. She has this way of standing still in the center of things, perusing every detail. “I think we’ve got a major mess,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “Wife walks in, finds husband dead on the bed, naked, bound. S&M, but not with the wife, cause she undoes all the trussing and then she’s the one that covers him up with his pajama pants.”
“You’re a mind reader Eames,” my turn to smile. “Or maybe wife was involved and didn’t want that in the press,” I run the back of my hand underneath my nose. I’m tired of being called into rich people’s homes to figure out their messes. Money makes everything high profile.
“I’ll have a chat with Mrs. Winslow.” Eames refers to the widow, “let’s see if she changes her mind about not knowing what happened here.”
***
Did I mention I hate my phone? I’m staring at it thinking my voice mail must not be working. I’ve left two messages for her and she has not returned either. The day slid by, and I feel like a train engine in front of a series of wrecking cars.
“Battery dead?” Eames chirps from across from me. She’s watching me stare at my phone.
“No,” I check to make certain.
“You still think it was the wife?” Eames asks. Mrs. Winslow did not budge in her story. She was out playing bridge, she came home and found her husband on the bed. She called 911 immediately, she didn’t touch a thing.
“We didn’t find a toy closet, so maybe not the wife,” I shrug, I’m still staring at my phone.
“His playmate brings the props, asphyxia fixation turns bad, playmate freaks, cleans up the scene and beats feet?” Eames is doodling on a pad of paper.
“More likely,” I reply, running my thumb along the edge of my phone, “we need a list of playmates,” I state the obvious.
“We need a warrant for Mr. Winslow’s office,” Eames looks at the clock, “which we’re not getting tonight.” My phone rings, and the sound makes me jump and drop the damned thing, hanging up on the caller. “Is that the call you were waiting for?” Eames asks. She’s standing gathering her things to leave for the day.
I glance at the caller ID as I grunt to lean over and retrieve the errant electronic device from the floor, “Yeah,” I mutter.
“Not anymore,” she laughs quietly as she walks away, making fun of the way I just bumbled my phone.
***
The next day I meet Eames at the office of Mr. David Winslow. Eames is standing over the shoulder of a CSU computer tech, who is combing through the deceased PC hopefully compiling a pretty list of potential play mates.
“Anything?” I raise an eyebrow, surveying the dark furniture, the rick carpeting, the bookshelves and desk.
“Yeah,” Eames stops leaning on the CSU tech and stands, “Mrs. Winslow is having a shindig at the residence, an open house with the grieving widow.”
“On the PC,” I gesture to the computing device.
“No, but that’ll take some time,” Eames comes around to stand in front of me, she straightens my tie, “you look suitably somber, we should go by and pay our respects,” Eames breezes by me. She’s right, of course, we will learn more about the players in the case at the open house than we will on the guys computer.
“Cream?” I ask Eames as we’re standing side by side helping ourselves to the coffee service in the Winslow’s home. I know she doesn’t often take cream, but I can’t resist asking. It seems proper to ask. “Sugar?” I continue the joke. Eames cuts me a sideways smile and sets her dainty cup of black coffee onto a tiny useless plate.
“Alright Hugh Hefner, see any playmates?” Eames whispers to me as we look around the gathering of people. “Do you think our killer might’ve been nice enough to mark herself with a bunny tail?” she takes a sip of her coffee, keeping her expression straight.
“I think our playmate might be more likely to be wearing a leather studded collar than a fluffy white bunny tail,” I quietly reply, and my eyes shift from studying people’s asses to looking at their necks. I might actually have a point. What is good for the goose is good for the gander. Maybe the playmate has a similar fixation. So, I start looking at people with their necks and wrists covered with clothing. It’s not terribly cold outside, so no one is wearing heavy sweaters, but there is one woman there with a long sleeved blouse buttoned to the wrists and a scarf artfully draped around her throat. She is sitting with the lovely recently widowed Mrs. Jennifer Winslow.
Eames follows my gaze, “that would be the sister, Jacqueline Larson,” Eames reveals she’s done her homework.
“Are they twins?” I ask, clearly Jacqueline and Jennifer are sisters, and they look amazingly alike.
“No, Jacqueline is 18 months younger,” Eames offers. I’m thinking that maybe in addition to going deaf, some glasses might be in order.
“Sisters,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee, knowing that we’ve found the playmate.
“I guess sisters really do share everything,” Eames follows my train of thought.
***
“Hey man, is that your phone?” Some guy sitting next to me at the bar pulls me down from outer space. I see my phone, on vibrate, skipping across the surface of the bar.
“Yeah,” I nod by way of thanks and pick up the damned device. “Goren,” I answer, half my brain working through the details of the case, about how we are going to prove it’s the sister, the other half kind of numb and thinking about ordering another drink.
“Sorry I missed you,” she says into the phone, after I had hung up on her she had jumped into my voice mail, in the seconds I took to figure it out and call her back I was sent into her voice mail.
“Does this mean I’m it?” I ask, fumbling over my tongue, referring to the phone tag we’ve been playing.
“Yeah, tag,” she laughs lightly. I haven’t slept since I slept with her.
“What’re you doing?” I motion for another drink.
“Talking with you,” she teases me, again she laughs, sounding breathless. I would like to make her breathless.
“Come talk with me,” I reply, wanting to hear her in person. I let her know where I am.
“Hey,” she says into my ear, she’s with me before I finish my next drink. I leave the drink unfinished and pay my tab. I run my fingers through her hair, watching the soft waves straighten and bend. She moves her cheek against my hand.
“You think sisters share everything?” I ask, my question is out before I can stop myself. The thinking part of my brain is still on the job.
“I think you’re drunk, and tired, and maybe not in that order,” She says, she kisses me lightly and takes my hand to take me home. “And, I don’t have a sister,” she reminds me. I stand slowly, letting my feet feel the floor before I let go of my seat.
“I hate my phone,” I reveal.
“I hate your phone too,” her voice is soft, her hands are warm and small within mine.
***
“Goren,” I answer the phone still mostly asleep.
“Who? Oh dear, maybe I’ve dialed the wrond number” A warbly older sounding woman replies. I’m jolted awake by the realization that I have just answered her phone, not mine.
“Um,” I clear my throat not knowing what the hell to say. I realize the person on the phone is speaking in German. I look up to see her walking from the bathroom, she’s mouthing the words - you answered my phone?
She snatches the phone from my hand, glances at the caller id screen, “Mom?”
She’s looking at me, shaking her head, her eyes wide with surprise. I can’t help but smile. She looks amazing, naked and flushed from the shower, damp hair clinging around her shoulders and her breasts. I want to bring her back to bed.
“Yes, yes, that’s my um, friend,” She is speaking in German with her mother. She was born here, but her mother was raised in Germany. My brain is easily translating. I suppress a laugh. I’m her friend. I guess she isn’t really going to say - yes, that’s the guy I’ve been fucking. However that’s exactly what I’m thinking about as I watch her walk around to the other side of the bed, the smooth lines of her body silhouetted by the dim bathroom light. She sits on the edge of the bed behind me. “Yes, yes, he is very nice,” She says into the phone, she turns around to glare at me. I run the fingers of my left hand down the valley of her spine. “Mom, let me call you back… yes, yes, I will call you back, love you,” she tells her mother and drops the phone onto the floor.
I lay back and pull her forward, her hips straddling my hips. “I’m your friend?” I ask. She leans forward, her breasts touching my chest, her lips on my lips, her tongue tasting mine. “I don’t think friends do this to friends,” I murmur as I end the kiss and flip her onto her back.
“You’re my good friend,” she laughs as I spread her legs gently open with my knee. “My very good friend…”
***
Damn it. I think my life is filled with ringing phones. “Goren,” I bark into the line, this time I’ve at least managed to answer my own phone.
“We’ve got another DB,” Eames says into the line, she skips the conventional salutation. I can tell she was probably interrupted in doing something as well. “Jennifer Winslow’s sister, Jacqueline Larson,” Eames provides an address. I grunt an affirmative, indicating I will be there ASAP. After I hang up, I groan again. I hate it when murder becomes a chain reaction.
I blame this on Sipman. I didn't have anything I felt like writing until I read her "Helping Hand" and suddenly I had this in my brain. No accounting for how my mental processes work I guess.
***
I hate my phone. It’s always ringing when I don’t want it to and never rings when I need it to. Like now, it’s ringing and ringing and I feel like throwing it against the wall. I haven’t slept nearly enough and my damn phone won’t stop ringing.
“Goren,” my voice is hoarse, rough. Eames does not even give me a pleasantry she simply gives me an address. I can tell by the quality of her voice she had been asleep a few minutes ago as well. I thought phone trees were for elementary school parents. Apparently, phone trees are also integral to NYPD. Ross to Eames to me. Or sometimes Moran to Ross to Eames to me. No matter the line up, it always seems to end with me. “Got it,” I manage to say before I hang up.
I lie in bed a moment longer, I can’t help it. I know that if I go to put my feet on the floor I’ll simply fall to the floor. My brain needs to wake up a bit, and m y body needs to catch up with my brain. I roll over onto my side and I run my fingers through her hair. It is a tangled mass across the sheets. She doesn’t even stir. Her skin is so warm, all I want to do is stay in bed with her, but I roll back over, fall out of bed and start getting dressed.
***
“Eames,” I say as I walk on scene.
“Goren,” she responds, and I smile. I feel like we are Sam and Ralph. I guess I would be the sheepdog. Though in the world of Chuck Jones, Sam and Ralph were adversaries, and Eames and I - well, we’re not, usually, adversaries.
“You look like hell,” Eames mumbles with her sly smile. I can’t decide if she’s always mumbling or if I’m slowly going deaf. I think it’s probably a bit of both. I nod, and step around her. I feel like hell so I might as well look the part.
I run my hand through my hair, making it stand even more on end. As I smear my hand across my face, I realize that my beard is no longer bristly, it’s grown in again and feels soft against my palm. “Strangulation,” I look at the petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. The victim is sprawled across the bed, male, mid 30s, dressed only in pajama bottoms which are kind of twisted oddly around his waist.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Eames is standing a few feet behind me, too far away to really see the white of the victim’s eyes. She’s looking at the dark bruising around the neck. “What do you think caused that?” She asks.
“The hemorrhages occur when blood leaks from the tiny capillaries in the eyes, which can rupture due to increased pressure on the veins in the head when the airways are obstructed.” I refer to the tiny pinpoint red marks in the white of the eyes. Eames rolls her eyes at me. I know she’s referring to the bruising around the neck, but sometimes I just can’t help but bait her.
“Funny,” she gives me that half smile.
“Something thin, not rope, maybe a cord?” I look at the slender uniform bruising around the neck. I also notice bruising around the wrists and some across the ribs. Eames eyes are following mine. The scene is all wrong, someone has rearranged things. “You think that happened during the strangulation?” I refer to the way his pajama bottoms are screwed around the victim’s waist.
Eames has not moved an inch. She has this way of standing still in the center of things, perusing every detail. “I think we’ve got a major mess,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “Wife walks in, finds husband dead on the bed, naked, bound. S&M, but not with the wife, cause she undoes all the trussing and then she’s the one that covers him up with his pajama pants.”
“You’re a mind reader Eames,” my turn to smile. “Or maybe wife was involved and didn’t want that in the press,” I run the back of my hand underneath my nose. I’m tired of being called into rich people’s homes to figure out their messes. Money makes everything high profile.
“I’ll have a chat with Mrs. Winslow.” Eames refers to the widow, “let’s see if she changes her mind about not knowing what happened here.”
***
Did I mention I hate my phone? I’m staring at it thinking my voice mail must not be working. I’ve left two messages for her and she has not returned either. The day slid by, and I feel like a train engine in front of a series of wrecking cars.
“Battery dead?” Eames chirps from across from me. She’s watching me stare at my phone.
“No,” I check to make certain.
“You still think it was the wife?” Eames asks. Mrs. Winslow did not budge in her story. She was out playing bridge, she came home and found her husband on the bed. She called 911 immediately, she didn’t touch a thing.
“We didn’t find a toy closet, so maybe not the wife,” I shrug, I’m still staring at my phone.
“His playmate brings the props, asphyxia fixation turns bad, playmate freaks, cleans up the scene and beats feet?” Eames is doodling on a pad of paper.
“More likely,” I reply, running my thumb along the edge of my phone, “we need a list of playmates,” I state the obvious.
“We need a warrant for Mr. Winslow’s office,” Eames looks at the clock, “which we’re not getting tonight.” My phone rings, and the sound makes me jump and drop the damned thing, hanging up on the caller. “Is that the call you were waiting for?” Eames asks. She’s standing gathering her things to leave for the day.
I glance at the caller ID as I grunt to lean over and retrieve the errant electronic device from the floor, “Yeah,” I mutter.
“Not anymore,” she laughs quietly as she walks away, making fun of the way I just bumbled my phone.
***
The next day I meet Eames at the office of Mr. David Winslow. Eames is standing over the shoulder of a CSU computer tech, who is combing through the deceased PC hopefully compiling a pretty list of potential play mates.
“Anything?” I raise an eyebrow, surveying the dark furniture, the rick carpeting, the bookshelves and desk.
“Yeah,” Eames stops leaning on the CSU tech and stands, “Mrs. Winslow is having a shindig at the residence, an open house with the grieving widow.”
“On the PC,” I gesture to the computing device.
“No, but that’ll take some time,” Eames comes around to stand in front of me, she straightens my tie, “you look suitably somber, we should go by and pay our respects,” Eames breezes by me. She’s right, of course, we will learn more about the players in the case at the open house than we will on the guys computer.
“Cream?” I ask Eames as we’re standing side by side helping ourselves to the coffee service in the Winslow’s home. I know she doesn’t often take cream, but I can’t resist asking. It seems proper to ask. “Sugar?” I continue the joke. Eames cuts me a sideways smile and sets her dainty cup of black coffee onto a tiny useless plate.
“Alright Hugh Hefner, see any playmates?” Eames whispers to me as we look around the gathering of people. “Do you think our killer might’ve been nice enough to mark herself with a bunny tail?” she takes a sip of her coffee, keeping her expression straight.
“I think our playmate might be more likely to be wearing a leather studded collar than a fluffy white bunny tail,” I quietly reply, and my eyes shift from studying people’s asses to looking at their necks. I might actually have a point. What is good for the goose is good for the gander. Maybe the playmate has a similar fixation. So, I start looking at people with their necks and wrists covered with clothing. It’s not terribly cold outside, so no one is wearing heavy sweaters, but there is one woman there with a long sleeved blouse buttoned to the wrists and a scarf artfully draped around her throat. She is sitting with the lovely recently widowed Mrs. Jennifer Winslow.
Eames follows my gaze, “that would be the sister, Jacqueline Larson,” Eames reveals she’s done her homework.
“Are they twins?” I ask, clearly Jacqueline and Jennifer are sisters, and they look amazingly alike.
“No, Jacqueline is 18 months younger,” Eames offers. I’m thinking that maybe in addition to going deaf, some glasses might be in order.
“Sisters,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee, knowing that we’ve found the playmate.
“I guess sisters really do share everything,” Eames follows my train of thought.
***
“Hey man, is that your phone?” Some guy sitting next to me at the bar pulls me down from outer space. I see my phone, on vibrate, skipping across the surface of the bar.
“Yeah,” I nod by way of thanks and pick up the damned device. “Goren,” I answer, half my brain working through the details of the case, about how we are going to prove it’s the sister, the other half kind of numb and thinking about ordering another drink.
“Sorry I missed you,” she says into the phone, after I had hung up on her she had jumped into my voice mail, in the seconds I took to figure it out and call her back I was sent into her voice mail.
“Does this mean I’m it?” I ask, fumbling over my tongue, referring to the phone tag we’ve been playing.
“Yeah, tag,” she laughs lightly. I haven’t slept since I slept with her.
“What’re you doing?” I motion for another drink.
“Talking with you,” she teases me, again she laughs, sounding breathless. I would like to make her breathless.
“Come talk with me,” I reply, wanting to hear her in person. I let her know where I am.
“Hey,” she says into my ear, she’s with me before I finish my next drink. I leave the drink unfinished and pay my tab. I run my fingers through her hair, watching the soft waves straighten and bend. She moves her cheek against my hand.
“You think sisters share everything?” I ask, my question is out before I can stop myself. The thinking part of my brain is still on the job.
“I think you’re drunk, and tired, and maybe not in that order,” She says, she kisses me lightly and takes my hand to take me home. “And, I don’t have a sister,” she reminds me. I stand slowly, letting my feet feel the floor before I let go of my seat.
“I hate my phone,” I reveal.
“I hate your phone too,” her voice is soft, her hands are warm and small within mine.
***
“Goren,” I answer the phone still mostly asleep.
“Who? Oh dear, maybe I’ve dialed the wrond number” A warbly older sounding woman replies. I’m jolted awake by the realization that I have just answered her phone, not mine.
“Um,” I clear my throat not knowing what the hell to say. I realize the person on the phone is speaking in German. I look up to see her walking from the bathroom, she’s mouthing the words - you answered my phone?
She snatches the phone from my hand, glances at the caller id screen, “Mom?”
She’s looking at me, shaking her head, her eyes wide with surprise. I can’t help but smile. She looks amazing, naked and flushed from the shower, damp hair clinging around her shoulders and her breasts. I want to bring her back to bed.
“Yes, yes, that’s my um, friend,” She is speaking in German with her mother. She was born here, but her mother was raised in Germany. My brain is easily translating. I suppress a laugh. I’m her friend. I guess she isn’t really going to say - yes, that’s the guy I’ve been fucking. However that’s exactly what I’m thinking about as I watch her walk around to the other side of the bed, the smooth lines of her body silhouetted by the dim bathroom light. She sits on the edge of the bed behind me. “Yes, yes, he is very nice,” She says into the phone, she turns around to glare at me. I run the fingers of my left hand down the valley of her spine. “Mom, let me call you back… yes, yes, I will call you back, love you,” she tells her mother and drops the phone onto the floor.
I lay back and pull her forward, her hips straddling my hips. “I’m your friend?” I ask. She leans forward, her breasts touching my chest, her lips on my lips, her tongue tasting mine. “I don’t think friends do this to friends,” I murmur as I end the kiss and flip her onto her back.
“You’re my good friend,” she laughs as I spread her legs gently open with my knee. “My very good friend…”
***
Damn it. I think my life is filled with ringing phones. “Goren,” I bark into the line, this time I’ve at least managed to answer my own phone.
“We’ve got another DB,” Eames says into the line, she skips the conventional salutation. I can tell she was probably interrupted in doing something as well. “Jennifer Winslow’s sister, Jacqueline Larson,” Eames provides an address. I grunt an affirmative, indicating I will be there ASAP. After I hang up, I groan again. I hate it when murder becomes a chain reaction.