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By Daryl Keith Middlebrook

Detective Yancy Weeks uncovers how dangerous it is to mix business with pleasure.


Sweat beads dotted Detective Yancy Week's brow. Damn, air conditioning not doing me any good. There was a sharp rapping on the door, the kind someone makes when they are in a hurry.


     "Just a second." Melinda Alvarez's accented voice said.


     Weeks listened as tiny stiletto steps moved across the marble floor. Melinda, all of five foot two, was a package of sexual dynamite. He envisioned her sexy rear swaying as she marched across the room in her stilettos. He suddenly felt aroused; his high heel fetish was kicking in. Memories of his first encounter with stilettos flooded his mind. They belonged to Marilyn Monroe.

His dad, like many men of his era, loved Marilyn and one of his favorites was Let's Make Love. Marilyn was sporting six-inch heels, her shapely legs cloaked only in black tights. He was only twelve years old and she had produced his first erection, at least the first one he could recall that was sexually stimulated. He nervously watched Marilyn; his face red, hoping his father wouldn't notice the pillow now resting over his crotch.


     Weeks wiped his brow and took a deep breath. He was glad his partner wasn't there with him. The two had been locked up together on stakeouts so often he sometimes forgot she was a woman. Still, explaining his sudden "tent pole" would have been slightly embarrassing.


     The hotel door opened. Weeks tried to make out the conversation at the door, they sounded like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Suddenly the door closed, the stilettos again clicked against the floor, now followed by heavier footsteps of a man. Both footsteps paused; there was a soft moan, then the rustling of clothing.


     "You taste good baby," a baritone voice said. Melina's only reply was a cute giggle.


     Weeks scowled, no longer aroused.


     "Let's go out on the balcony baby." Baritone said.


     The voice seemed familiar; Weeks scanned his brain's search engine, no match. Their footsteps moved across the room. He cursed silently. If they close the balcony door he won’t hear a thing.


     The sliding door rolled across the window base as if it hadn’t been oiled for years. Weeks listened, there was no sound of the door sliding back. He exhaled.


     From the balcony, Weeks had a hard time making out Melinda's words, however her companion's were no problem. His voice was rich, strong like James Earl Jones.


     "Don't talk like that baby," he said. "My wife had to go. From now on, I spend my night only with you."


     Suddenly Weeks felt butterflies rumbling in the pit of his stomach. He clenched his fist. Jealousy? The thought angered him. Again, he was glad his partner couldn't see him she was very astute, more so than he. She would’ve noticed his behavior, known something wasn't kosher with him. When he began binge drinking, only she saw through his bullshit and realized there was trouble at home.


     He and his wife Karen were struggling. She didn’t like the long hours he put in. That's the life of a cop, He thought, she knew what she was signing up for ten years ago.


     He cheated, she caught him. He begged her not to leave and take his kids. She consented, but she kept him on a short leash. Marriage became hell, he despised everything about her, her perfume, her hair, how wide her hips had gotten. But for the love of his kids, he played the good husband role. They were his life, if she took them, she might as well put his revolver against his forehead and pull the trigger.


     Melinda's voice brought him back. Weeks still couldn't make out her words but noticed a tinge of distress in her voice.


     "What do you mean what's this?" The baritone said. "It's a check for one million dollars."


     It was killing Weeks now. Where had he heard that voice before? And what was this about a million-dollar check?


     Suddenly Melina's voice rose three octaves. "But I thought it was an accident."


     "As far as the insurance company knows, it was an accident." Baritone replied.


     "That’s murder!" Melinda said, her voice slightly trembling.


     "Shhh, voices carry.” Baritone replied. “She had it coming. She was standing between our happiness."


     The stilettos tap back and forth on the balcony. Weeks strains to hear the conversation.


     "What if the police find out?" Melinda said. Her words clearer; she must have walked closer to the door.


     "The investigators for the insurance company couldn't find anything," Baritone said. "It's no way in hell any of those Bozo cops are going to figure it out."


     Bozos? Suddenly, the light bulb went off over Week's head. The Terrance Hill shooting. Black kid fit the description of a holdup suspect. Two beat cops pumped twelve bullets into him, said he had a gun. Turned out Terrance's gun was an ipad. The next day, the Mayor called the cops Bozos on television.


     "Don't worry about a thing baby." The Mayor said. "You're everything she wasn't. You're my angel, so pure, so good, I told you I'd kill for you."

     There's quiet. Weeks envisions them kissing. His teeth clench. The stilettos and heavy footsteps move back across the room towards the door, which squeaks as it opens, and then closes. Alone, the stilettos make their way back across the room than stop.


     "You can come out now." Melina says.


     Weeks crawled from beneath the bed. He looked up at Melina, befuddled. She knelt down, kissed him.


     "You hear that?” She asks. "I'm scared, what're you going to do?"


     Weeks weighed the situation “I don't know. If I bust him, they'll ask what was I doing here.“ He said. “If it comes out you and I are also lovers, I'll never see my kids again.”


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