Without a Net (2 page)

“The lieutenant asked me to go undercover in a shade club. He believes there are drugs and possibly rape going on inside.”

“Shade clubs are dangerous places for newbies,” the captain agreed. “I don’t hear anything particularly surprising there, and with your looks, you’ll catch someone’s eye.”

Ollie blushed. “I don’t mind the undercover work, but my backup won’t have line of sight on me.”

The captain glanced up while still typing. “Where will they be?”

“Two buildings down in a vacant garage.”

“Electronic surveillance?”

Ollie nodded. “Yes, sir. They plan to plant a few listening devices inside and then hijack the wiring to amplify the signal, but these clubs are loud. I don’t know that they’ll be able to isolate my voice and track me, and the things that go on in shade clubs…” Ollie let his voice trail off. He didn’t need to get specific because everyone knew what happened. Lots of people were into control play, but the shade clubs were for the rough end. Those people liked to push limits and sometimes crash right through them. Even experienced players sometimes had trouble telling the difference between negotiated violence and rape in those places.

Of course, that was why the police tried to keep an eye on them. A dozen standard control clubs with a little S&M to go with the B&D didn’t generate half the trouble of one shade club.

“What’s your cover as?”

“New server, fresh meat… Someone looking for something more exciting than a control club and someone who is low enough on money that he might be tempted to do something dangerous.” Ollie’s cover was one Olan Roberts, recent college graduate. His background had Olan in the military for eight years, which explained why he was trying to get his life together at thirty-four.

“Has the lieutenant briefed you on the target?”

And that was why this assignment was creeping Ollie out. If this were a matter of going in and bird-dogging some drug dealer, he wouldn’t care about the lack of backup. “Several men have vanished. There’s some worry that a slaver ring has set up to take advantage of people who don’t have many ties to the community—people who won’t be missed. And Huda wants me going in there with no weapon.”

“I saw the wardrobe request he put in. You won’t have any place to hide a weapon,” Captain Greyson said. “What’s the exit strategy?”

“Pull a fire alarm,” Ollie said with disgust. It was the stupidest plan ever, especially considering places like this tended to disable the fire alarms so disgruntled clients couldn’t disrupt business by pulling them. But Ollie had put in an official request for more backup, and he only had to wait until Huda refused him to file a formal complaint. He could handle working a job mostly naked, and he had no problem putting his life on the line. It was his job to put himself at risk to protect others. He absolutely believed that. But he couldn’t justify taking stupid risks, and Lieutenant Huda was asking him to take incredibly moronic chances.

“Do you think he’s trying to give you a rough exit?” Captain Greyson asked.

That was such a serious crime that Ollie didn’t want to believe it. Was Huda trying to get him killed or injured badly enough to be removed from duty? “Maybe,” Ollie admitted. “I would rather have eyes on me during the op or have one of the cis detectives take the job as bait.”

“You think he’s going to turn down your request for more backup?”

“Yes,” Ollie said firmly.

Captain Greyson nodded. “You’re in a tough spot here,” he said, and Ollie’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t in a tough spot if the captain approved putting a cisgendered detective in his place, and if that happened, Lieutenant Huda would probably find a way to get more surveillance and backup into the room. “You’re a good cop, and sometimes I have to ask my good cops to do some risky things.”

“Sir?”

“Lieutenant Huda already filed a denial on your request, which is what caught my eye. Now, you can file your protest, and I will officially see that you’re getting screwed over and make Huda put more protection on you. That’s one choice.”

“And the alternative is?” Ollie asked. Unless there was some damn good reason, more backup sounded like a wonderful idea.

“The alternative is that we give him enough rope to hang himself,” Captain Greyson said. “I would wire you up with a panic switch—a dermal pressure patch—and if you hit it, I have a secondary backup team ready to come in hot. If I veto Huda’s plans, that’s a small mark on an overall excellent record. If one of the detectives has to hit a panic switch because his backup has failed due to the pathetic quality of Huda’s planning, that’s a black mark that will probably get him demoted. If nothing else, it will make him a lot more careful about bringing his shit into my precinct.”

For a second, shock robbed Ollie of his words. The office felt oppressively silent. “You want to run a sting on Lieutenant Huda?”

Captain Greyson leaned forward. “This is your call. If you aren’t comfortable with it, I won’t ever mention this conversation again. However, there are too many pieces that aren’t adding up. If we can get him to stick his neck out farther, I think we can get rid of this phobic little shit that’s slimed his way into my police department.”

“You’re working with IA,” Ollie said. It was the only thing that made sense. No way did a captain decide to target one of his own lieutenants.

“Whether I am or not will not affect you,” Greyson said softly.

There were a lot of cops who didn’t appreciate having an IA rat in their ranks. There were too many little ways to break the regs, and too many IA guys would rather harass a patrol officer about taking a few free coffees than go after the ones taking kickbacks from drug dealers.

“I’m not afraid to do the right thing,” Ollie said.

“No, but you have a long career ahead of you. Me, on the other hand, I’m old and cranky, and I don’t give a shit what other people think. I’m also close to retirement, so if we do this, you tell people you followed your captain’s orders. In fact, your captain never mentioned IA in conjunction with this investigation.”

Captain Greyson wasn’t that old. He was pushing sixty, but he was a fit and healthy sixty and still very attractive. The gray hair made him more distinguished, although he did have the heavy chin that suggested he’d have jowls in five or ten years. That was not a look Ollie went for.

“So, what do ya say, Robertson? Are you in?”

Ollie swallowed nervously. Honestly, he didn’t want in. The idea of playing two sides against each other while he was standing in the middle sounded pretty damn stupid. But he had his duty. If Huda was some hetero-pride jerk, or worse, part of a hetero hate group, he could be hard to root out. Even though his stomach was churning with acid, Ollie nodded. “I’m in, sir.”

Chapter Two

Ollie pulled into his parking space and cursed when he found Mrs. Dennison had commandeered his solar-charging outlet again. A long cord went from the solar shade above his space right up the wall and into her apartment.

Something inside him snapped. Ollie couldn’t take it anymore. The solar was free, but he’d asked her not to jack his power. It drained the reserves, and some days his car barely charged enough to get him to work and back. And today was cloudy, so he needed every ounce of energy he could get out of the station.

He parked and stormed over to the charging post. While ripping the plug out of the socket felt good, it wasn’t enough. He’d asked her a dozen times. He’d threatened to have the code people out for her illegal extension cord. He’d filed a complaint with the apartment house, and she still had her damn shit plugged into his charger.

Captain Greyson could ask Ollie to stick his neck out. Lieutenant Huda could walk all over him. But Ollie would be damned if Mrs. Dennison and her damn sunlamps would push him one more inch. Ollie marched over to the wall, grabbed the part of the extension cord that hung down from an upper window, and pulled. Mrs. Dennison was on the second floor, but he could hear something crash and then several more dull thuds and an ominous bang. Feeling very satisfied, Ollie went back to his car and plugged it in. A quick check of the levels told him that he was at 17 percent charge.
Fuck.
Well, he wasn’t going anywhere tonight. He’d be lucky to get enough charge to run the car through tomorrow comfortably.

A door slammed, and Ollie wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Dennison came around the corner looking ready to claw his eyes out. She raised herbs and shit for her magical charms and Wiccan jewelry, and that was fine with him, but not on his charging station.

“I’ll file a complaint! Do you have any idea how much damage you did? That is my workplace, and you damaged hundreds if not thousands of dollars in equipment. I’m going to get you fired.” She stopped several feet away from him. Even mad as a wet hen, she wasn’t about to get too close to him. First, attacking a police officer was stupid. Second, Ollie was built well, and she was about 110 pounds of nothing.

“I tripped and caught myself on the cord, which is why there are codes against having extension cords out windows. I’ve told you that before,” Ollie said. Right now he wanted a fight, and if she called the station, that would give him a great one. “And if you are running a business out of a residence, that is a whole new issue.” He took a step forward.

“Don’t you dare bully me,” she snarled at him. “I will have your job for this.”

“You go for it and try,” Ollie suggested. “And while you’re at it, you can keep your plugs out of my outlets.” Ollie walked away.

“It’s not like you pay for it, asshole.” She chased after him. Thank God he had the parking space nearest the building, so his front door was close. He was ready for a drink and a lot of loud music—something that might disturb her chi or whatever the hell she called it.

“Hey!” Darla Canterbury called out. “We’re all neighbors. Let’s be nice to each other.” She hurried over. Maybe she’d lived in some happy-happy place in her last apartment, but around here everyone pretty much ignored one another when they weren’t throwing around blame. Being nice was not high on the agenda.

“He destroyed my workstation!” Mrs. Dennison nearly shrieked. For a woman in her forties, she had a mean shriek. Usually that tone came out of teenagers at rock concerts.

Mrs. Canterbury smiled soothingly. “I’ll help you get it back in order. I was watching out the window, and he did trip. He looks like he’s had a hard day, so let’s cut him some slack, okay?”

Ollie was shocked. Then again, Mrs. Canterbury was married to a retired cop, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised she stuck up for him.

Mrs. Dennison stopped at the low rail that marked the beginning of Ollie’s apartment line. Stepping over the threshold would make her a trespasser, and maybe she knew Ollie was angry enough to arrest her.

Mrs. Canterbury threw an arm around the woman’s shoulders. They were a study in contrasts. Mrs. Dennison was blonde with delicate features and a tiny frame. While Mrs. Canterbury was about the same age—midforties—she was tall and broad-shouldered with long black hair and a mix of ancestors that must have included some damn attractive Africans and Indians. “I bet you’re frustrated. I’ll help you clean up the mess. What do ya say?”

Ollie glanced up, and Mr. Canterbury stood leaning against the third-story railing. A handsome man a few years older than his wife, Mr. Canterbury looked like he was somewhere in his forties. Gray was showing at his temples, but he was one of those square-jawed masculine men who kept their striking looks well into old age. Ollie had no idea if the Canterburys had children, but if they did, those must be gorgeous kids. They were probably out breaking hearts in college.

Mrs. Canterbury urged Mrs. Dennison up the stairs, and Travis Canterbury came down. Ollie considered heading into his apartment, but that seemed rude when Mr. Canterbury had made such deliberate eye contact. The man’s wife had lied for Ollie; the least he could do was have a friendly conversation.

Mr. Canterbury stopped on the last step and leaned against the rail. “Hard day?”

“To say the least,” Ollie admitted.

Mr. Canterbury offered his hand. “Travis.”

“Ollie. Oliver Robertson. We met when you were moving in.”

“We introduced ourselves, anyway,” Travis said. “No offense, but you look like you caught a hard case.”

Ollie rubbed his face. “Yeah, it happens. You know the job. Anyway, thank your wife for intercepting the shrew. When she tells people she’s a witch, she should tell them she means that in more than one way.” It was horribly un-PC, but in Mrs. Dennison’s case, it was also true.

Travis chuckled. “She’s sometimes hard to take. Between the sage and the marijuana she burns, my house smells like a smoke shop. She’s not good at respecting other people’s boundaries, but I think that has less to do with her religion than the fact she’s a bitch.” Travis stopped and gave Ollie a curious look, and that was when Ollie realized he’d been staring at a married man.

Fuck.

Okay, that was a new level of awkward. Ollie turned to study his front door instead of Travis’s broad shoulders. Travis chuckled again.

“True. She’d be a bitch even if she were Buddhist.” Ollie headed toward his apartment and stopped at the sight of an advertisement hanging from his doorknob. The Bridle Club. Artistically arranged leather implements made it pretty clear what they were promoting. Ollie froze. Either everything in his life had just taken on a sexual overtone, or he was really having trouble getting his head screwed on straight.

“Some of the families are angry about those. They say it’s a shade club and don’t want that garbage hanging from their doors,” Travis commented.

Ollie held the paper, and a tremor went through his body. It was like some sort of omen, only Ollie didn’t believe in omens. He believed in facts.

Travis didn’t seem to notice anything, because he kept right on talking. “I don’t have a problem with the control clubs. My wife and I enjoy playing, and a club is a good way to work out frustration, especially if you have a committed partner and you’re spicing things up with a new setting. But when I was on the job, I hated the shade clubs. Let some nineteen-year-old wander into the wrong one, and he or she would get so turned around that reality wasn’t reality anymore, ya know?”