AtHerCommand (7 page)

The minister invited the mourners to approach the casket one
last time, which many did. Several women laid a rose on the coffin before
turning away. When it was their turn, they shuffled forward. Suzi pulled a
delicate spray of blue flowers from her cavernous purse and placed it on the
casket.

“Forget-me-nots,” she explained, and Dalton felt a bone-deep
emptiness.

He led Suzi away from the coffin and they waited until the
majority of the mourners had left. Then at a nod from the minister, the casket
was lowered. Several groundsmen moved the funeral flowers from the church
closer to the headstone while others filled in the grave.

One floral offering appeared out of place, almost cheery
against the somber setting. Curious, Dalton walked over to the colorful
bouquet. The plants in the vase looked like a mix of wildflowers, appealing and
fresh among the serious funeral wreaths. Suzi came up beside him as Dalton
reached for the card accompanying the arrangement.

Suzi looked over his shoulder and read the note aloud. “Your
kindness and your memory live on. Love, Tori.”

“A dominatrix with a heart of gold,” Dalton said, the
sarcasm strong to his own ears.

Suzi shook her head. “No, just another person whose life
Jason touched. C’mon, Bull, let’s go get a double latte and toast Jason.
Whadaya say?”

“Sure.” Dalton followed Suzi in a shambling gait. “But I get
to drive that lime-colored lemon.”

“When pigs fly,” she said as a light snow began to fall.

* * * * *

Domino, still fuming from her phone call with her boss,
shoved through the door of the Xecutive Branch women’s locker room.
What was
Sam Lowery thinking?
It was bad enough she had to strut around as a
dominatrix every day. Now she had the added embarrassment of toting Smokey, the
drug-sniffing mini dog, to work at the club.

Stalking over to her assigned locker, Dom placed her purse
and Smokey’s bag on the bench in front of it. A squeak from the bag dragged her
out of her funk. It wasn’t the pooch’s fault she was stuck with him on this
case. Dom unzipped the top of the tote and ruffled the wispy hair on the silly
mutt’s head.

“Sorry, Smokey,” she crooned. “We’re in this farce together
so we might as well make the best of it.”

The dog licked her hand, settling into a ball for a nap. Dom
smiled. She wished Meyers were as amicable. Opening her locker, Domino hung up
her coat and examined the outfit she’d picked from the club’s wardrobe room.
The slinky black dress, which featured high side slits on the skirt, was cut
low in the front and the back. There wasn’t much to the outfit but it was still
less revealing than many of the club’s S&M clothes.

The locker room door opened and Ellen strode in. The
dental-student dominatrix looked wind-burned and cold in a shapeless down
jacket and leather boots.

“Hi,” Dom greeted her. “Walk from the dorm again?”

“Yeah.” The girl trudged over to her locker, which was three
down from Domino’s. She opened it and tossed her gloves and scarf on the top
shelf. “Figured I could use the exercise. But, damn, it’s cold out there.”

As Ellen removed her winter coat, the unmistakable, sweetly
pungent odor of marijuana wafted off her clothes. Domino noted the scent but made
no mention of the dominatrix’s recreational drug use. As a DEA agent, she’d
learned to ignore small-time users and focus on catching the drug traffickers.
Apparently however, no one at the Virginia DEA office had bothered to inform
Smokey of this selective enforcement policy.

The dog’s head poked out of the tote like a jack-in-the-box
before he shoved the bag over onto its side with his front paws. Then as Dom
grabbed for the mutt, Smokey skipped down the bench out of her reach and
stopped next to Ellen. True to his training, the canine crime solver whined and
lifted one paw toward the perp.

“What a cutie!” Ellen gushed as she shook the dog’s paw.

Smokey gave Dom a confused look over his shoulder that made
her laugh. Most druggies didn’t pet and coo over the drug sniffer that ratted
them out. Scooping up the toy hound in her hand, Domino snuggled him close to
her chest. Under the guise of kissing his ear, she whispered “off,” the word
that called the dog off the scent.

“This is Smokey, my sister’s Chinese Crested,” Dom
explained. “I’m watching him for a couple weeks.”

“I love his Redskins jersey.” Ellen gently patted the
trembling dog. “You should make him a little S&M outfit.”

Dom smiled then tried to appear concerned. “I was afraid I’d
get in trouble bringing him to work.”

Ellen jerked off her boots and placed them on the floor of
her locker. Then she pulled out her outfit for the evening, a merry widow
corset that looked several sizes too small for her ample curves. The girl had a
penchant for wearing clothes that shoved up her full chest until it practically
brushed her chin. How her breasts remained inside the top of a corset was an
aerodynamic miracle worthy of NASA research.

“I don’t think any of the staff will squeal on you,” Ellen
said, “but I’d avoid Clyde Salvi and his nasty Doberman. That attack dog would
eat Smokey in one bite.”

Domino had met the club’s unsmiling manager and his vicious
canine companion during her job interview. Salvi looked like a mob
enforcer—cold, compassionless, utterly without a conscience. The Doberman had
bared his teeth at her, his feral eyes gleaming with hate. She’d definitely
keep Smokey away from the predatory pair.

“Thanks for the warning.” Dom placed her pooch partner into
his tote.

Smokey lay down with a sigh that sounded remarkably
exasperated. Meyers had forgotten to give her any pet treats, which were used
to reward Smokey for a job well done. Slipping a pretzel out of the munchie
stash in her locker, Domino placed the snack near the dog’s nose. Smokey lifted
his head to lick at the salt on the pretzel.

The locker room was heated but the February chill seemed to
seep through the cinderblock walls. Dom and Ellen changed into their S&M
clothes with haste as a local easy-listening station played over hidden
speakers. Domino thought about the evening ahead. Would Dalton show up again?
As much as she wanted to see him, she didn’t relish hurting or humiliating the
man.

“Ellen,” Dom began and then faltered.

The girl looked up from the task of adjusting her breasts in
the corset’s lacy cups.

“Did you ever have a client who didn’t fit the pattern?”
Domino asked. “You know, someone who was different from your other clients and
seemed out of place.”

The dominatrix started to shake her head but then caught
herself. “Yeah, there was this one super-preppy guy who wasn’t at all
submissive. Looked like he stepped off the cover of
GQ
. I remember him
because he got really pissed off over some of the pain and discipline stuff.”

“Then why did he book a session?” Dom strapped on her patent
leather high heels, grimacing as they pinched her toes.

“I asked him that exact question,” the dominatrix said. “He
told me he’d lost a bet to some buddies. They were all members of the club but
used this place for mattress parties more than anything else.” Ellen laughed.
“I’ll never forget the nasty look he gave me when I handcuffed him and strung
him up on the hook. I was pretty enthusiastic with the cat that night.” She
winked.

Domino winced. Her coworker enjoyed meting out punishment
and the cat o’ nine tails could be painful. A client who gave Ellen attitude
would have trouble sitting down for a week.

“I wonder if that guy bet his friends on anything ever
again?” Dom said, only half joking.

“Probably not.” Ellen chuckled, pulling on thigh-high boots that
matched her corset. “You got an odd client?”

Domino thought of Dalton, his full lips drawn down in a
frown, his cool blue eyes challenging her. “There’s this guy who looks like a
linebacker—”

“Size doesn’t mean he isn’t submissive,” Ellen interrupted.

“I know. It’s just he didn’t seem to enjoy himself, you
know, get off on the pain and such.” Dom hesitated, smoothing her black dress.
“It made me feel bad topping him.”

“Hey, don’t go there, okay?” Ellen added some dangly
earrings and a choker necklace to her ensemble. “For whatever reason, the guy’s
paying to be topped. Angi had a client last summer who was researching a book
on the S&M lifestyle. After two sessions, the wimp quit the club.” She
snorted. “Nobody is forcing these guys to book sessions with us, you know.”

Domino stood up carefully on her spike heels, tugged down
the dress’s hem and slipped on her mask. “I better get going. I want to make
sure the room’s stocked before my first client.”

“What are you going to do with Smokey during your sessions?”
Ellen peeked at the sleeping dog.

Domino stopped, surprised she’d forgotten the pooch. Dalton
was definitely messing with her mind. “He’s well-behaved. I’ll put his tote
behind the futon, I guess,” she said. “He’s not a puppy but I wouldn’t want to
contribute to the delinquency of a minor mutt.”

Ellen smiled and waved goodbye. Domino closed her locker,
picked up Smokey’s tote and left the room. Maybe, if her schedule wasn’t too
busy, she’d get a chance to do a little reconnoitering. With her investigative
skills, Smokey’s nose and a bit of luck, she might be able to close this case
before she got bunions on her feet from the damn stiletto shoes. With a groan,
she walked toward S&M Room Five.

Chapter Seven

Calvin Taylor sat in his government-issue, late-model sedan
and watched General Joseph Mattingly drive into the private parking garage for
the Xecutive Branch sex club. Shaking his head, the FBI agent put a checkmark
next to the general’s name on the detailed chart he’d produced on his office
computer. Although many of the high-ranking government and military men on the
list were almost nightly visitors to the club, this Wednesday evening
appointment was just the general’s second trip to the club in six days. Maybe,
Calvin thought with tired sarcasm, the man should look into Viagra.

Tossing his clipboarded chart aside, Calvin stretched his
limbs as far as the confines of the mid-size car would allow. His six-two frame
felt accordioned and miserable. A week’s worth of cramped surveillance work was
playing havoc with his thirty-eight-year-old body. He rolled his shoulders in a
futile effort to ease the stiffness.

Calvin glanced again at the names on his chart. Man, he
hated to admit it but his boss was right. The Xecutive Branch had to be the
conduit for the steady trickle of government and military secrets finding their
way to America’s enemies. Thanks to some unprecedented cooperation between the
FBI and the CIA, the Bureau had developed a list of possible traitors—all men
with access to vital information. Over half of the names on that list were men
who frequented the sex club.

Calvin had been the unlucky agent tapped to investigate the
Xecutive Branch. Absently, he rubbed his bad right knee. The college game
injury that had sidelined him from a football career still gave him trouble,
especially after long bouts of forced inactivity. And due to a week’s
surveillance of the sex club, the joint was throbbing painfully.

With the help of an FBI computer hacker, Calvin had obtained
a roster of the club’s personnel. Picking up the clipboard, he lifted the chart
to check the employee list underneath. Quite a few staffers were foreign
nationals—all attractive, young and female. And the majority of these worked in
the club as masseuses. His boss suspected the women were using their charms to
extract top-secret information from their customers. Then the women either
passed the secrets to their governments or gave them to the club’s owner to
sell to highest bidder. Either way, the United States lost.

As the lead agent on this case, Calvin dreaded the next
logical step—infiltrating the club. He was prepared professionally. His papers
were in order and his State Department top official cover story in place. But
emotionally… He just had to convince his body to open the car door and step
out. Why couldn’t his boss have picked one of the younger agents, a bachelor,
for the job?

He looked down at his simple, gold wedding band, almost
dwarfed by the size of his hand. Sure, technically a widower was a bachelor but
Calvin still felt married despite losing his wife. In the three years since Pam
had died of cancer, well-meaning friends had urged him to date again. But he’d
stuck by his marriage vows. Now, thanks to his job, he was headed where no
married man should go in his opinion. A sex club.

Calvin closed his eyes and sent up a silent apology to his
late wife before removing his wedding band. It slipped off his finger with ease
since he’d never regained the pounds he’d lost after Pam’s death. Tucking the
ring into a zippered compartment in his briefcase, Calvin took a deep breath
and opened the car door. He was here to do a job but he sure as hell wasn’t
going to enjoy it.

* * * * *

Suzi stripped off her disposable latex gloves and washed her
hands in the massage room’s bathroom for good measure. After four nights as a
masseuse at the Xecutive Branch, she was surprised she hadn’t developed a latex
allergy. At least she was increasing her upper body strength. The
Korean-American detective smiled. Maybe she’d challenge Dalton to an arm-wrestling
match the next time she saw him.

So far, her new coworkers and clients had taken her at face
value. No one had questioned her fluent English but Suzi was making an effort
to thicken her slight accent anyway. Except for the other masseuses—an international
lot who appeared to have cornered the market on unfriendliness—the sex club’s
staff was an amicable bunch.

Suzi had written the name of each employee she’d met on a
list she was compiling for the investigation. The list was in her purse, along
with a detailed sketch she’d drawn of the building’s layout. As she gleaned
more information, she added it to her cache of data. For safekeeping, she’d
locked her purse in a drawer built into the massage table.

Saturday night, her first on the job, Suzi had met Dalton’s
Mistress Bella. The woman, a real knockout, had introduced herself as Domino
and had seemed quite friendly. Since that meeting, Suzi had made a note of
Domino-Bella’s license plate number and looked forward to passing it to Dalton
to check out. Was Bull’s interest in the dominatrix totally professional?

With surprising efficiency for a novice masseuse—if she did
say so herself—Suzi prepared the room for her next client. She stripped the
sheet off the massage table, replaced it with a clean one and tucked the sheet
around the massage pad. The vibrating pad had been a hit with all of her
customers so far. Then she made sure she had enough warm massage oil and
vibrating toys. The final item on her mental checklist was the room’s
atmosphere. A quick glance around verified the lights were properly dimmed, the
thermostat set on a balmy seventy-two degrees and the New Age music CD
programmed for continuous play. Damn, was she proud or dismayed at how well she
was handling this job?

The door to the room stood ajar so Suzi noticed the flash of
white uniform before Bruno, one of the club’s bouncers, knocked on the
doorframe.

“Got a new member for you.” He handed her the file. “Just
signed up and asked for a massage.”

“Thanks.” Suzi smiled, determined to apply the aggressive
friendliness that had served her well all her life. “You’ve been here a long
time. Did you get any strange vibes off this guy?”

Bruno slipped his hands into his front pockets and rocked
back on his heels. “Not really. He’s a big guy but he seems pretty safe, just
kinda intense. Some bigwig from the State Department. I’ll stay close just in
case.”

Suzi couldn’t stop the concern that clouded her face and the
bouncer noticed. “Hey,” he said, “I doubt you’ve got anything to worry about
but if something happens, just hit that panic button on the wall.” He pointed
to a discreet red button to the right of the room’s light dimmer.

“I will,” Suzi assured him. “It’s good to know you’re a
button push away.”

Bruno gave her a crooked smile and left the room to retrieve
her next client. Suzi flipped open the file and scanned the brief contents. The
top document resembled a doctor’s office form, detailing the client’s
statistics. “Calvin T., six-two, one hundred and ninety pounds,
thirty-eight-years-old, male, African-American, State Department Division
Director…” She noticed he’d signed up for a single versus a couples membership.

A noise distracted Suzi. She glanced up to see the door to
the massage room across from hers open and a florid-faced, balding man emerge.
He looked vaguely familiar but the vapid smile on his face made him difficult
to place. One of her coworkers, a voluptuous Slavic masseuse named Ilona,
smiled up at the man and gave him a deep kiss. As the customer walked away, all
the woman’s pleasant mannerisms disappeared. Ilona shot a cold look at Suzi
before heading back into her room. Oh well, the detective thought, her
guerrilla friendship tactics couldn’t work on everyone.

* * * * *

Calvin stopped before the door his uniformed escort had
indicated—Massage Room Three. He gritted his teeth and ordered his nerves to
calm down. It was just a massage. As a quarterback for Cornell, he’d had plenty
of them after his football games. Getting a rubdown was no big deal.

Stepping into the softly lit room, Calvin tried not to feel
trapped when his escort closed the door behind him with an ominous click. He
swept the room with his gaze, noting the pleasant pastel color scheme, the
large massage table dominating the space and the built-in shelves holding a
painter’s palette of colored bottles and products. At the far end of the room
was a door opening onto a bathroom and a decorative screen he assumed shielded
the dressing area. Low instrumental music mimicking nature sounds played in the
background and the scent of something woodsy and soothing permeated the air.

At that moment a young Asian woman carrying a stack of hand
towels walked around the screen and approached him. The smile on her generous
mouth appeared genuine and the steam rising from the heated towels gave her an
ethereal air. Mist clung to her chin-length black hair, which swung around her
heart-shaped face and framed her enormous dark eyes. She was dressed in what he
thought of as fancy workout clothes—spandex pants and a crop top. Apparently
club-issued, the Xecutive Branch logoed, pale green outfit hugged her athletic
body. As she reached him, the woman juggled the towels into the crook of her
left arm and extended her right hand.

“Hi. I’m Suzi. I understand it’s your first time here.”

Calvin took the proffered hand and was surprised at her
firm, warm handshake. Searching his mental case files—Suzi, new club employee,
divorced, twenty-eight-years-old, Korean, possibly a spy—he forgot to end the
handshake. The object of his scrutiny cleared her throat.

“Oh sorry.” He dropped her hand and ignored the hot flush
spreading over his face. “Yes, I just joined the club. My name’s Calvin.”

“Well, Calvin, if you’re after a massage, you need to
change,” Suzi indicated the screened-in dressing area before she placed the
towels in a small refrigerator-like warming appliance. “Once you’re ready, just
get on the table. Any preferences I should know about?”

He had to establish the ground rules but the words seemed to
stick in his throat. “I’m here for a massage…you know, just a massage since I
have this high-stress job. I’m not looking for, uh, anything more than a
massage.”

The woman’s smile grew broader, something Calvin would’ve
said was impossible. “We aim to please.”

He nodded and went behind the screen to change. Hanging on
wall pegs were several massage wear options, including a terry-cloth robe and a
towel wrap that could be wound around the waist and Velcroed shut. Calvin
stripped down to his briefs, chose the towel wrap and fastened it on. With a fortifying
breath, he stepped around the screen and approached the table.

Suzi glanced up from mixing drops from a green bottle into
the massage oil and her gaze seemed arrested by his bare chest. God, he wanted
to turn heel and get dressed. Instead, Calvin walked to the end of the table.

“How do you want me?” He immediately regretted his
phraseology but it did break the spell. Suzi blushed and looked down as though
combining massage oil scents was as delicate a job as defusing a bomb.

“Well, is there any part of your body… I mean, do you have
any specific stiffness…” Suzi trailed off looking mortified and Calvin
remembered she was new. Maybe she hadn’t had time to become jaded, he thought,
taking pity on the young woman.

“Well, my shoulders are tight and my back muscles are pretty
tense,” he said. “I have a desk job, lots of computer work, and can’t seem to
get the kinks out myself.”

“Oh then please lie facedown so I can work on your neck and
back.” She appeared relieved.

He got onto the table and realized it was not only well
padded but heated. Immediately, the warmth began to seep into his damaged right
knee, loosening the stressed tendons. After a week cramped in the car, the knee
was knotted and painful. Maybe this massage wouldn’t be such a bad experience
after all.

“Scoot forward and put your face here.” Suzi indicated a
doughnut-shaped extension at the end of the table. “It will support the weight
of your head and keep your neck in alignment without suffocating you,” she
explained. “And it allows you to lay your arms back alongside your body.”

As she spoke, Suzi placed his arms in the relaxed position
she’d described. The feel of her warm hands brought a rush of goose bumps to
his skin.

“Are you chilled?” she asked.

“No.” He lifted his head from the extension. “I’m just
getting acclimated after being out in the cold.”

“This will help.” Suzi held out two polished, egg-shaped
rocks for him to examine. “We use these heated stones in some massages.”

She placed one on each of his upturned palms. The
pleasurable sensation of the smooth, almost hot stones was indescribable.
Calvin lowered his face back onto the doughnut extension with a sigh. This was
nothing like the rubdowns performed by his college football trainer.

“Now, I’m going to start with a scalp massage and then move
down to your neck and back.” Her voice was soothing, blending with the New Age
music, and her words were spoken softly, almost loverlike in their intimacy.
“If you prefer, I won’t speak or we can talk as long as you don’t talk about
anything that has you tensing up again.”

Calvin would’ve loved to just enjoy the massage but his
investigation was too important. He had to get her talking.

“A conversation would be nice.” He almost groaned as she
slid her strong but slender fingers over his temples and through his hair. She
stroked his scalp and down his neck, and his brain turned to mush.

“Tell me about you,” Suzi said. “What makes you happy?”

What makes me happy?
Calvin was confused. Shouldn’t
she be asking about his job? Getting him to spill some secrets?

“Well,” he began, his voice muffled by the extension, “I
really like my job even though it’s stressful.”

Suzi began to use her knuckles to loosen the tendons in the
back of his neck.
Blessed relief.