Controlling the Detectives (The Magic Remote Book 3)

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Controlling the Detectives (The Magic Remote, #3)

Author's Note: All Characters Depicted Herein Are 18 Years Of Age Or Older.

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Further Reading: Bimbo Or Bust

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T
here just doesn't seem to be much to the house, thought Heather, deep now in her eighth hour of the stakeout.

Lieutenant Detective Heather Key and her partner, Detective Sandra Harrera, had been watching the sorority house for nearly a day now, sitting in their car and trading off observation periods with their high-powered binoculars, watching the attractive two dozen or so women who lived there go in and out—they exited with only their purses and their drab, plain high-collared outfits, and came back with bags of groceries, designer clothes, video games, and movies.

The word was, this sorority used to be something of a hot spot for parties and wild, indulgent living not even a month ago. Now, they were all dressing like nuns in a convent, as if they wanted no one to see what their bodies looked like one way or the other. It was an odd reversal for what had been, before, a sorority for rich, beautiful socialites. Now it seemed like a sorority for rich, beautiful shut-ins.

As far as working stakeouts for the Vice department went, Heather had been on far worse. Most put her deep into downtown of the city, snuggled up against smog-fuming buildings and buried in trash. This university campus, on the other hand, was rich and abundantly nice. She felt like she needed a better car just to fit into the affluence that surrounded her.

It was morning time in the nice little  campus—the sun shining happily on the cloudless day. Most of the other campus houses here were big, with driveways that circled around gardens or fountains or fountain-filled gardens. Long rows of brushes lined each home, nearly matching the height of the tall fences that were common to many of them. Every lawn was perfectly maintained.

There was, so far, no sign of the young man who supposedly had ruined the once-happy home of the Russells.

The man who had brought the case forward, a Mr. Bryan Russell, had explained that he came home no more than a month ago, and his daughter Carmen simply told him to leave, forever, and not come back, and that his wife Monica would be sending him divorce papers soon.

In the back of that same room, Russell said, he saw his wife performing an eager, practiced blowjob on the young man from next door.

They were trying to hide it, the young man positioned behind a counter, watching the whole interchange between Carmen and Mr. Russell. But, apparently, Mr. Russell had seen a reflection in a glass door of his hot young wife so exuberantly performing the blowjob.

Russell had a lot of pull with Heather's boss, having donated some serious money to the police commissioner's campaign at the end of last year. So, naturally, the best vice detectives in the department were put on the case—Heather and Sandra. Russell had asked specifically for vice—he insisted some kind of weird prostitution drug exchange was going on.

Heather was inclined not to believe the husband's story, certainly after seeing so much of nothing so far from the sorority house. They had tracked his daughter there, and some eyewitnesses said they had seen the young man, Jared, there as well, and that was how their stakeout had been started. Heather's gut instinct, though, was that probably Bryan was only making it all up to help himself in the divorce proceedings.

Still, though. Bryan Russell would be somewhat rare if he was getting dumped. When a husband got discarded, she had found, there was either abuse, lack of finances, or lack of sexual attraction. With Russell, all three were hard to fathom. He didn't express the kind of undignified rage that most abusers tended to take on, he was completely wealthy, and he certainly was very handsome.

“Quiet, so far” she said to Sandra, sitting across from her in the front of her old sedan.

“Mmm,” said the younger detective.

They were both young, both beautiful, and both had closed over ninety percent of their cases in the past three years. Perhaps their beauty, and the tendency of bad guys not to take them seriously because of it,  added to their success rate. Heather tried not to think about it—she just wanted to be known as someone damn good at her job.

Even so, Heather suspected that part of their success also had to do with Sandra's desperation to impress Heather. Sandra's affection for Heather bordered on . . . well, romantic at times. Heather did not mind, so much—it netted her free food, and wine, and lots of extra groundwork on cases—but she did not feel anything like that in return for Sandra.

Heather had known for a very long time that she was an attractive woman. Diet and yoga kept her medium-sized frame in tight, firm shape all over. Normally, she only dressed in jeans and t-shirts as she was today. Nothing fancy, nothing showy. Tight jeans, working boots, and a shirt and a jacket. Sandra wore the same, though her boots wrapped around her jeans and up her legs over her knees.

This was due to the fact, of course, that Heather had mentioned something once about finding tall boots cute.

Being beautiful had not done either of them many favors in the department itself—mostly just sparking rumors about sexuality and late-night trysts. But, not only being fit but having a gorgeous face—with her tilting high cheekbones and perfect lips—had come in handy in the past when she was trying to solve a case. She would dress up on occasion, in a tight pinstripe skirt suit or in a clingy red mini dress. People, men or women, would let a beautiful girl in wherever she wanted most of the time.

The combination of her long legs and short height made her significantly hefty bust seem even more significant. She had short black hair, often kept in a bob that curled up around her face. Her lips were thick and entirely kissable, her eyes just as dark as her hair. In contrast to her dark hair was the bright paleness of her smooth skin. In high school, many years ago, she had been a shoo-in to play Snow White.

These days, she still sometimes used her acting skills—to get past doors, to get people to pay less attention to her as she snooped around in offices.

Heather eyed Sandra, somewhat lazily, as she sat back in the car.

It wasn't that Sandra was unattractive. She was a beautiful young woman—her shoulder-length red hair was often tied up in a ponytail, and her skin was a natural, deep tan. She had some sexy Eastern European background, born in some sexy-sounding country, and a tinge of that accent popped out whenever she was excited. Her breasts were full 36Cs, her body rigorously toned and muscled from an absolutely merciless workout program. Sandra had tried to get Heather to join the program (which Heather suspected was only to get her sweaty and in less clothes), but Heather had always said no.

Unfortunately, Sandra was sometimes painfully obvious about wanting Heather's body, clearly living for any hint of reciprocation. Heather got the feeling it netted Sandra a lot of lonely nights, which was ironic for a girl that any guy in the department would kill to be with.

Heather's own sexuality was rather more complicated than straight or gay. Even Heather had trouble admitting the truth to herself about what really turned her on. If she let her guard down, if she let her mind slip, she was constrained again, her body unable to move without permission . . .

. . . but now was no time for that.

“Hey now,” said Sandra, sitting up. “What's that?”

Heather sat up. Using the binoculars, she saw that Carmen, the hot young thing that had broken her Daddy's heart, had brought home a girl with her.

Heather, inexplicably, started getting bad vibe, seeing Carmen's plastered smile as she led the young woman inside.

Most of being a detective was sitting and waiting, when she wasn't doing paperwork. It was an acceptable life. It was not a fulfilling one. If Heather was not on a case, she was dreadfully depressed. As she progressed in her career, she could feel herself drawing out cases more and more, collecting as much evidence as possible. There was no way she could fall into the deep spiral of depression while she was working, so she tried to work until she knew she had another case lined up.

When this didn't happen, Heather was a mess. She felt something essential was missing from her life, though she could never identify what.

So, when she felt like she was getting a bad vibe from the house, she had to take this feeling with a grain of salt, especially when she couldn't originate the source of the bad vibe to begin with. Perhaps it was how Carmen were dressed.

Both girls were positively gorgeous. But Carmen dressed in a thick gray dress that covered her bodies from the neck to her ankles, just like every other beauty that Heather had seen enter or exit the house.

Mr. Russell hadn't mentioned anything like that. Perhaps they had joined some kind of cult?

The girl who Carmen had brought home with her was stunningly attractive, much like Monica and Carmen. She had beautifully young tanned skin, long dark hair, and a beautifully elongated torso with perfect abs, shown off by the tiny white cut-off tee shirt she wore. Her jeans rode low on her lovely hips, enhancing the effect of her long curves.

Watching the girl go inside the house raised Heather's hackles. If it was some kind of cult, if there was some kind of indoctrination to go on, Heather needed to stop it before it went too far.

She sighed, putting her binoculars down on the seat behind her. They crumpled the empty plastic packaging of the soy health food snacks she and Sandra had brought with them.

There was no way she would live with herself if something happened to that girl—she needed to get a better look.

“Stay over here,” she said to Sandra. “I'm going to sneak up for a better look.”

“Should I come?” asked Sandra. “You know, for back-up?”

Heather got the distinct impression that Sandra only wanted to stay close to her. If they had to hide—and they almost certainly would—then Heather and Sandra would be forced to share a very small amount of space. Sandra's firm breasts would be riding up on Heather's back, or vice versa, or Heather's lips would have nowhere to go but Sandra's ear . . .

. . . This is what Heather imagined Sandra imagined, at any rate.

“No,” said Heather. “I need you watching the front. Radio me if anybody sees me, or starts coming my way.”

She picked up her camera—they would need evidence, after all, and got out of the car. Hopefully, nobody would bother to look outside of the house in the twenty seconds it took her to cross the street and gracefully climb up the wooden fence of the large estate.