In a police station, with a cop, who just discovered that her latest one-night stand is now the main suspect in a nasty case.

(#00017)

There are ten thousand dirty stories in this city. I’m just one of them. My name is Miki Spelaine. I’m a cop. And in case you missed the magnificent boobs and the ass made of sass, I’m also a girl.

Treat me right, I’m a lady. Do me wrong… well, you better not do me wrong.

This job is littered with divorces and broken relationships. Being a cop eats love and spits out the bare bones, hungry for more. Part of the reason I chose to be a free spirit, unfettered by any man desperate to chain me to a desk or worse.

Not that I’m against chains, per se. In the right mood, in the right time…

But I digress.

It’s been hot, in more ways than one. Heat brings all the sickoes out from hiding, like the laundry list killer. Take all the worst elements of Jack the Ripper, Hitler, and Gacey, and then drag them backwards through an anatomists’ nightmare, and you’re just beginning to glimpse how horrible this guy is.

He has a type. A special kind of girl with all the right things in all the right places. Then he takes her back to her place and neatly removes and preserves them for display. In just the right order so she lives long enough to see most of it come off or out.

Everything that doesn’t fit is literally nailed to the opposite wall and any blank space left over is filled with slurs written in her bodily fluids.

We’re still making up our minds as to whether he’s a misogynist or a self-diagnosed romantic with an ideal none can attain. I think he’s just a sick bastard who found a very good excuse to be a sick bastard.

But my job is to try and find out who he is by where he’s struck and what he’s looking for. Trouble is, he’s so all over the place that the profile hasn’t extended much past white male, age sixteen to thirty-four.

I looked up into paradise. Last night’s fling. He treated me like a lady last night and made all the ugly go away. Sculpted muscle. Trim, toned and terrific. Skin like fresh-poured honey and lips that could take you to heaven.

I should’ve known he’d be trouble. The little details stabbed me in the heart like tiny shivs as I picked out the details.

He’d thrown on my coat because his was still stuck in the ceiling fan and I’d broken the last stepladder trying to get it off. The rookie had her hands on something between his wrists. The silver glint of every cop’s favorite… the bracelets of justice.

The stammering way the rookie stumbled through Miranda.

The way he smiled sadly and shrugged as he sauntered past, showing off that apple bottom and washboard abs.

That was when it hit me.

I fit the perp’s laundry list, too.

And his last words to me suddenly made sense.

“I think I finally found a Keeper…”

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