Viggo's Break - Chapter 3.2 - Step into my parlor (Warning, Russ's POV)

Detective Russel Pierce, a corrupt cop, has just learned that a man he framed for murder has escaped jail.

To know more, read Chapter 3.1.

I apologize for the racist and sexist parts, and the scenes of abuse. They are supposed to reflect my character's views and beliefs, and his point of view, they in no way reflect mine.

Russ spent most of his evening reconnecting with his favorite CIs. He wanted to tighten his net all over the Bay area while he still could. He would know it the minute Carlsen stepped foot in San Francisco. He wanted to get as much advance notice as possible. Just in case the sheriff and the feds let Carlsen slip through their fingers…

He felt a lot better once that was done. Still, in case a detail escaped his notice, he figured forming new bonds with the medias was a good idea. Immediately dismissing a missed call from Nyssa, he dialed Miss Mark Beck's number.

She picked up at record speed. “Oh, Detective Pierce, thanks for calling me back.”

“You're very welcome, Mark, and you know you can call me Russ. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I think you know perfectly well the reason I called you,” she purred, seductive little kitten that she was.

“Trying to pry something out of me?”

“Maybe. What would it take?”

Russ laughed. It would take very little, but he decided to milk it for everything he could. Might as well take the clothes off the bitch’s back.

“I'm incorruptible.”

“Oh, please, Russ,” she blurted breathlessly. “I just want a few comments. I've got an article coming out tomorrow but there's still time to add a few quotes. Has Carls…”

“Damn it, Mark!” he swore, and the cuss word was heartfelt. This was the last name he wanted to hear. He dreaded the prospect of being surrounded with Peter Carlsen for any length of time. “You can't just babble about it over the phone.”

“Then…”

Come on, sweet, juicy, little fly, here is my web.

“Want to have dinner?” she asked tentatively.

Yeah!

Russ refused to sound as eager as he was. “I don't know…”

“Oh, come on. You can bring your girlfriend if you want.”

“Nyssa? She's…not a consideration. Not now.”

He meant that. The moment Carlsen was dealt with, he would rid himself of the bitch. She bore him now that she was broken. She took everything with barely a twitch. Maybe she could serve as bait – Carlsen had always had a miles wide soft spot for the little slut. Some more of his chivalrous crap. Look where it had gotten him.

Oh, it would be the perfect finale. Way better than shooting the bastard in the back. He imagined choking the life out of Carlsen as he explained it all, “I'll make it look like an accident. I'll fuck her until she passes out, pouring vodka down her throat. Maybe I’ll let the cunt choke on her own vomit. Poetic, don't you think?”

Russ started getting hard at the thought.

“Why don’t you come over?” Mark sounded perky. “I'll cook you my word-famous curry and I won't be too much of a pest.” He kept his silence. “Come on. Off the record. You know you want to talk about it.”

It was about the last thing he wanted but he would make do.

***

The curry was only passable, but Mark was wearing a very short dress that bared her long legs. She was cute, with her freckles and the short blond curls bobbing on her head. She looked like a teenager and Russ, who had fond memories of his youth, had high hopes for dessert. He had brought wine and made sure to top off her glass. She was pleasantly tipsy by the time they moved on to the sofa for coffee.

He had led the conversation away from Mark's scoop so far. She had the makings of a good journalist, but she still had trouble bypassing courtesy to get to information. So, he led her the merry way around, flirting and alluding and drinking until she was pliable enough. Now, before steering her back toward the subject of Carlsen, he scouted closer to her. It would make all subsequent maneuvers easier.

“…and that's how I came to live in San Francisco,” he concluded.

“Where you met Peter Carlsen,” she inserted gently, probably thinking herself very smooth and worldly.

He pretended to hesitate, but he had played tired and drunk pretty well and, with a sigh, he gave up, “Yeah. We were partnered up my first year in Homicides. I really looked up to him.”

“I heard they called him the Iceberg.”

She shivered prettily. It annoyed him that she shivered for Viggo. If she was after cheap thrills, he would give her some.

“True. The guy was kind of remote. He always had this way of going on like nothing could touch him and I guess he was kind of untouchable.” He laughed, and his bitterness wasn't a pretense: the guy had walked away from a fucking earthquake! “Listen, Mark,” he said, putting a hand on her knee, “you can't repeat a word I say. My captain has it in for me and she doesn't want us involved in any way, shape or form in the manhunt.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes filled with eagerness.

“Because Peter Carlsen's a smirch on her department's history. She's afraid the press will shine the spotlight our way again. Truth be told, I wonder…”

He faltered.

“What do you wonder?” Mark pressed like the good little shitkicker she was.

He shrugged. “I sometime wonder why she's so afraid someone will say the word corruption in connection to her. I mean, what does she care? There's no corruption problem in our station, right?”

“Well, she won't be able to keep it under wraps for long.” Mark's lips pressed together in a slight pout. “It's big news. National news caliber. And it will get out.”

“I know but, right now, I'm the only one in the department who's even been informed. And you, missy,” he added, tugging playfully on a curl, “shouldn't have heard so much as a blip.”

Their faces were close. Watching her pupils dilate, Russ gave himself a second of anticipation before giving her the kiss she expected. Her breathing grew faster and shallower, hectic.

“Russ,” she gasped.

“Tell me, Mark, how did you know?”

His question gave her the false impression that he was allowing her a time-out and she answered readily enough, “I've got a friend in the correctional administration. He heard about Carlsen through the grapevine.”

“Clever girl.” He cupped one of her breasts. He wasn't shy or hesitant about it either. He grabbed it and started rubbing her nipple through the silk of her blouse. She made a soft mewling sound of protest, but she didn't shy away. “That’s right. Tell me,” he added, tugging her skirt up her thighs, “what else did you hear?”

“Russ, please, s…”

She gasped again and moaned. He had his other hand up her panties. “What else? Tell me.”

“They've got a search going on, hm, but they believe he drowned and that, if he didn't, he’d – oh! –he’d be too weak to get very far. Oh, we've got to stop. What about your g…?”

But he had her underwear out of the way and he didn't believe in covering himself up. He unzipped and thrust in one smooth move. It would be quick. He was full of pent-up need, and the little whore was hot and tight. Whore, he repeated to himself as he thrust in and out. He could get her kind under him any time he wanted. He came, spilled himself inside her before she could even begin warming up. It gave him grim satisfaction to know she had gotten nothing out of it.

“Get up,” he told her as he withdrew.

“What?”

“Get up and take off your clothes. Maybe you can do better on your second try.” For one second, she dithered, but she already had him dripping out of her pussy, and he could see the tiny airline fractures in her character. He grabbed her wrist. “Now.”

She licked her lips. He tightened his grip on her wrist – enough to bruise. She got the message just fine: he was fully capable of ripping her clothes off and taking her on the coffee table. She shivered. This time, it was about him, so he didn't mind. As a matter of fact, his cock started stiffening again. Her eyes flickered down to it, then up to his face, and her tongue flicked out again.

"Okay,” she said, pushing up from the sofa.

To know whether Viggo and Nyssa will outrun Russ, read Chapter 4.1.