“Seems like you’re ready to go all the way. All the way!” R. Kelly emanated from the speakers of the Malibu Chevy as her seat was reclined backward. He kissed her deeply, sucked on her lips and neck, and then nibbled on her ear.
“Ummm,” she moaned out when he slid his hand underneath her H&M skirt and caressed her wet pussy and throbbing clitoris.
“You so wet, baby gal,” the paymaster said to Trina as he descended and spread her legs apart as he passionately began eating her pussy.
“Ummm, yes! Eat this!”
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
* * *
“I don’t like this one, Holmes,” Det. Mark Harris said to his partner, who he had pulled from her bed—and vacation—as she ducked under the yellow caution tape.
“Who is she?” Holmes asked, staring at a bullet-riddled Trina and her trick.
“Trina Fox. She’s the tip-off that helped the FBI out a couple months ago, and him,” Harris said, pointing at the trick, “a full-blown AIDS trick.”
“Looks like death two ways. So, she’s definitely the target, huh?”
“What other way could we put it? She’s logged in as a CI,” Harris explained.
“So, the killer follows them to Sandsprit Park, walks up on them while they’re getting their groove on, and hands them a whole clip.”
“A clip of straight hollow points,” Harris corrected.
“And who do we put behind this one?” Holmes inquired.
“I’m looking at the Swamp Mafia. I don’t know ’bout you, but I see Jermaine Wilkins’s name all over this one.”
“It’s too easy. He’ll never give us something so simple. Maybe it’s made to look like him,” Holmes assumed.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“I doubt he’ll talk without a lawyer, Mark,” Holmes said, adding, “What trick do you have up your sleeves?” She knew her partner’s flexible techniques for getting accurate information from the streets.
“Just let me work my magic,” Harris retorted.