Black Princess Mystery (25 page)

Tasheka
tried to respond but she gave up, holding his ass with both hands and pulling him
forward as she moved her head forward, then pulling her head back and releasing
her pressure on his tight buns. Soon they were in an intense rhythm and
Thorston held her head with both hands, one second looking at the ceiling, then
looking down at her, then turning to the wall and moaning loudly. Finally he
pulled out but not before Tasheka got in one more lick of his balls and shaft.
The next thing she knew he was on top of her and holding his twitching cock to
her slippery, hot pussy lips.

“I’m going
to have to check you here, too,” he told her.

“Do what
you have to do, Officer Bubba. I will prove my innocence.”

Thorston
slipped his cockhead into her. She moaned and her eyes opened wide, then he
gently fed her three or four inches of his erection. Tasheka groaned and held
tightly, moving her hips back and forth, and up and down. They separated their
upper bodies and both of them looked at the point of union as Thorston slowly
and steadily buried his cock balls deep into her. She looked into his eyes and
he seemed to be experiencing a sense of wonderment. Tasheka felt it, too, never
having enjoyed intercourse more than at that moment.

“I’m going
to have to work my probe and give you a good, thorough exam,” he said, starting
to take her in earnest.

“Do what
you have to do, officer,” she returned, meeting his thrusts with upward
movements of her own.

The
intercourse grew in intensity and they began slapping together, her black,
small body an absolute contrast to his big, white body, but never had Tasheka
felt a more perfect sense of completeness. It was as if he was part of a long
missing puzzle that had snapped into place, giving expression to a sweet
perfection. In a blur, she found herself on top of him and riding hard, driving
downward as he thrust up, their bodies colliding and surging in a race to
thoughtless orgasms.

“Look up,”
she told him.

When
Thorston glanced at the ceiling, he did a double take. Above him was a huge
mirror that was so crystal clear their reflections were lifelike, and Tasheka
knew from watching herself masturbate on that bed that it was almost
voyeuristic, as if you were watching someone else. Thorston grew more
passionate as he looked up and held Tasheka’s buns, driving his cock into her
wet pussy and rolling her around on top of him. Tasheka was kissing his neck as
she clasped his hand and pulled it between her buttocks, guiding his middle
finger to her anus. He didn’t seem sure what she wanted, but as soon as he
touched her there, her loud groan of pleasure let him know what she desired. He
gathered up wetness from her pussy and massaged her anus, which drove her to
new heights of passion. She squirmed on top of him and fucked like there was no
tomorrow. Then she called out in ecstasy as Thorston slid his middle finger
into her ass, first only an inch, then halfway, then all the way. Tasheka
started to grind and pant, growing wilder as he fingered her deeply and
steadily.

She looked
at him with smoky eyes, her hair flailing as she rode. “I fantasize about
double penetrations,” she confessed, licking her lips. “Give it to me, Officer
Bubba.”

The
intercourse became a mad dance in which both of them lost their minds. The room
was filled with moans and the sounds of them humping. The smell of sex
permeated Tasheka’s nostrils.

“I’m going
to come,” he muttered, his body stiff and his eyes frozen in time.

“Shoot it
in me,” she ordered, “and keep fingering me. Fuck me hard. Hard!”

Thorston
held her and rammed his cock into her like a jackhammer. Tasheka met every wild
thrust and pumped relentlessly up and down on him, her soft, wet pussy taking
no prisoners. Then she stiffened and cried out as she experienced the biggest
orgasm of her life. As she was climaxing, her muscles contracting around his
cock and finger, Thorston grunted, lifted his head upward, gritted his teeth,
held his breath, and jerked mightily as he shot his cream deep inside her
pussy. They rocked and convulsed on each other for ten seconds or more, then
came to a standstill, holding each other as tightly as possible and staying
locked in intercourse. It took at least five minutes for their breathing to
return to normal. Finally, spent and covered in sweat, Tasheka rolled off him
and onto her back. A huge amount of thick, white cream dripped from her pussy
and down onto her rounded bottom.

“I thought
I was going to have a heart attack,” Thorston said, regaining his senses but
unable to move.

“Did you?”
she said with a satisfied laugh. “What a way to go,” she added.

They
turned to face each other and hugged for twenty minutes in silence.

“Anything
new with the investigation?” she finally asked with a quiver in her voice.

Thorston
seemed strangely reserved. “No.”

“Nothing?”
she persisted.

“We’re
doing everything we can, Tasheka, but this is not an open and shut case. The
weapon doesn’t even offer anything definitive, as you noted.”

“The
fingerprints on the club are meaningless,” Tasheka said, “because the killer
wore gloves.”

Thorston
paused. “McNab doubts that Gina Dawson checked on Mike Power the night of the
murder.”

“He thinks
they’re lying?”

“McNab
thinks Mike Power and Gina are both lying, but he’s also wondering if Matt
Vendor’s alibi will hold up. His sister assured us he was playing cards with
her and Henrietta Gable, but McNab has his suspicions.”

“Why would
Marissa lie, Thorston?”

“To
protect her brother, of course. She has a roof over her head, three square
meals a day, her own room, even an allowance. Living home must seem like heaven
compared to prostitution. If her brother gets into trouble, she could lose
everything, including all her security.”

“So McNab
thinks Matt killed Father Tim and Marissa is lying to protect him?”

“McNab
does think Marissa is lying,” Thorston said, “but he isn’t accusing Matt Vendor
of the murder. He isn’t excluding him either. But you have to ask yourself why
would Marissa lie and cover for her brother unless something untoward did
happen.”

“Something
untoward did happen, but not in the way you’re thinking,” Tasheka said.

Thorston
turned and looked at her.

“The
morning I found Father Tim’s body,” Tasheka said, carefully choosing her words,
“I met both Matt and Henrietta at the service station. Now Matt has this thing
about people paying their bills as soon as the repair is finished. There are no
postdated checks and there’s no credit. He even has a sign to that effect.”

“And?”

“That
morning Henrietta brought her car in for service. The exhaust pipe was dragging
on the pavement and was in obvious need of repair, but she specifically told me
she didn’t have two cents to rub together.”

“And?”
Thorston said again.

“And,”
Tasheka said with a hint of impatience, “I saw Matt repairing Henrietta’s car.
But how did she afford that repair?”

“What are
you trying to say, Tasheka?”

“I think
Henrietta paid for the repair in the country way.”

“What’s
the country way?”

“Barter,”
Tasheka said with a wink and a nod. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.
See what I mean? I think Matt was at her place enjoying a little female
company, if you know what I mean. Her husband, Baxter, is almost always away
driving his truck. She had no money.” Tasheka lifted her eyebrows. “Matt is a
red-blooded American man who lives with his sister and he doesn’t have a
girlfriend.” She hesitated. “Do you see what I’m driving at?”

“You think
she was giving him sex in exchange for the muffler?” Thorston asked
incredulously.

“I suspect
she entertains Matt in exchange for all her car repairs. I also think Father
Tim found out about this arrangement and that’s the mysterious reason he
confronted Matt just before the murder. To protect themselves, Matt and
Henrietta dreamed up this story about the card game and had Marissa play along.
Fact is, he was at Henrietta’s but both of them want it kept secret because
she’s married and doesn’t it getting out.”

“Interesting
speculation,” Thorston said, “but maybe Mr. Vendor simply made an exception in
her case and replaced the muffler on credit.”

“Not
likely,” Tasheka said. “Matt is relentless on that issue because he’s been
burned too many times. I’ve heard his best friends say he won’t extend credit
even to them on any conditions. Henrietta’s a full-figured woman who is open to
creative solutions. Matt’s a single man. You do the math.”

“She paid
him in the country way,” Thorston said with a wry smile.

Tasheka
nodded.

“The
murder weapon is no help at all.”

“It’s
useless,” Tasheka said. “We know it was used in the crime, but can’t prove who
used it. It’s conceivable the murderer could be someone we don’t know. He could
have just happened to find the club and then hid it under the shed when he was
finished. I don’t think that’s the case, but we can’t disprove it.”

“I just
can’t imagine Mike Power killing someone with a golf club that could easily be
traced to him and then foolishly hiding it where it could be found. That’s a
setup even a stupid man would reject.”

“That
seems like the case, but how does McNab feel?”

“He says
people often do stupid things when they commit murder. He’s not ruling anybody
out.”

“I refuse
to believe Matt Vendor killed someone and then hid the weapon on his own
property,” Tasheka declared. “That’s way too much of a stretch.”

“I don’t
know,” Thorston said. “I knew a man in college who agreed to box this guy he
detested. For weeks he trained at a boxing club and was taught by a
professional instructor. The pro showed him how to stay outside, to jab, to
keep his punches crisp and economical. But as soon as the bell rang for the
real boxing match, the man totally forgot everything. His mind went blank and
he got knocked out thirty seconds into the first round.”

“Your
point is?”

“My point is,”
Thorston said, “that if someone responds like that in a boxing match, imagine
how much harder it is to maintain your composure after murdering another human
being. It’s not like something you can practice. The vast majority of murderers
will kill only one person, so they are rookies at it, and no one knows how his
mind will react to such an event. It’s unknown territory. Most murderers, no
matter how thoughtful they are, botch the whole thing with simple, stupid
mistakes. So is it possible Mike Power used his own club or Matt Vendor hid the
weapon in his own yard? Yes, it is possible. You have to admit that once and
for all, Tasheka.”

“It’s not
probable,” she disagreed, “and we are dealing with probabilities, though I do
accept that human beings aren’t machines reducible to mathematical logarithms.”
She gazed at the ceiling and looked at their naked, sated bodies side by side.
“I think we’re looking for someone who is deviously smart, someone who planned
this very thoroughly. I don’t think he made any obvious mistakes, but he did
leave a scent, no matter how faint.”

“Oh,
right, you can smell the crime.”

“I have a
story for you now, storyteller,” Tasheka said.

“Go for
it.”

“When I
was a little girl, someone broke into our home and stole our stereo. We notified
the police and they brought their dog. The thief was tracked through the woods,
a swamp, over a bridge and finally to a trailer in the park. There, lo and
behold, sat the robber in his yard listening to our stereo. He was shocked to
have been discovered, but what he didn’t realize was that he left a scent. All
criminals leave a scent.”

“Not this one,” Thorston disagreed.
“From the time of the murder until we reached the body, close to twelve hours
had elapsed. During that period it snowed like hell and blew a gale. Our canine
unit found nothing by the tree. There was no scent. It was only by luck that
one of the dogs found the golf club, but as you so eloquently noted, the club
is a useless piece of evidence.”

“Maybe
there is no scent left for the nose,” Tasheka said, “but the murderer’s actions
left a scent. The golf club to the head, the location, the dismembered hand—those
are particles of scent that leave a stench. It’s just up to us to piece them
together like a crossword puzzle.”

“It’s
possible, you know, that the murderer had no connection to the golf club or
that particular spot by the tree. It may have been just a random chance.
Everyone knew Murphy walked there, so that would explain the location, and the
golf club may have simply been found, used, and then replaced.”

“He may
have no connection to the location and the weapon,” Tasheka agreed, “but they
were not chosen by random chance. He knew the club was in Matt’s backyard and
he chose that tree for a particular reason. For one thing it was remote. If he
failed to immediately make a kill, or if Father Tim called out, he was safe
from detection. He could have waged a bloody war out there that night without
being heard.”