Deadly Forever

By Dave Gehrke

Cookie O’Shaughnessy has just about everything an adventurous young lady might want; a modest stock portfolio, a semi-legal Mercedes, a partnership stake in a mostly-legal hamburger joint, a wad of cash the IRS doesn’t know about and a private detective’s license. What she doesn’t have is a steady boyfriend or any clients with adrenalin-pumping, danger-laden, gut-twisting cases. Which makes life terribly dull.

But that’s all about to change.

Because when it rains, it pours and suddenly the formerly bored Cookie is hired to do what she does best, go undercover. First by a helpless rape victim being stalked by her attacker, then by a local Godfather who may or may not have turned over a new leaf and finally by the FBI on the trail of an international assassin. Instead of boredom now the big question is whether the former vice cop is in over her head with crooked cops, mobsters, FBI agents that don’t completely trust her, secret agents, hit men and rapists. To solve all three cases, O’Shaughnessy is forced to do something she’s always tried to avoid; relying on others. And along the way she discovers a talent she never thought she possessed; leadership.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Gehrke
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463932964

Dave Gehrke

I grew up reading comic books in my uncle’s toy and hobby store. I didn’t know how to read at first so I contented myself staring at the drawings while trying to figure out what the words meant. I believe the first word I learned was “Pow!”. “The” wasn’t far behind. Then my uncle started sending me home with a comic, often, purportedly so my parents could read them to me, but also because he grew tired of me being in the way of paying customers.I learned two things from that experience; how to manipulate my uncle, which came in handy as I grew older, and how to read at an early age, which served me well my entire life.Reading opened up a whole new world for me; a world of knowledge, entertainment and imagination, and that world lay just across the alley from me at the Dyckman Free Library. By the time I reached the second grade my family had named me “Professor”. By the eighth grade I’d demonstrated to Mrs. Dombrowski, the librarian, that had I not only graduated from the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew section, I was well on my way through the adult fiction section and could pass a comprehension quiz on any book I’d already managed to smuggle out of the adult section when she hadn’t been looking.In high school my standard answer to a question from any teacher wondering how I happened to know something esoteric or arcane was “I read that somewhere.” Which also brought a standard groan from my classmates.Writing is a natural evolution from prolific reading. And when I discovered I could wow both my classmates and instructors with my completed writing assignments, I decided at age sixteen that I would someday become a writer of books.Then life got in the way; graduation, marriage, kids, college (I’ve earned three degrees), various business pursuits, various stints at journalism, teaching, coaching, school administration and half a dozen hobbies. But I never forgot about becoming a novelist. So I studied people (future characters); their mannerisms, how they spoke, the way they conversed, what motivated them, how they reacted in various situations, how they expressed their hopes and their dreams, the way one wrinkled her nose when she laughed, the way another tended to begin the answer to any question with “basically”.And I gathered reams of notes; character descriptions, possible storylines, potential plots, locations, time periods, etc. And I continued to read, sometimes for entertainment, sometimes to study the different techniques used by my favorite authors in crafting their books.Then, when the drawers holding my writing notes were overflowing, when my kids were off having kids of their own and I retired to my own semi-isolated place in the countryside, I did what I’d always been meant to do; I started writing books.Life, as they say, goes full circle.Some circles just have larger diameters.

Book preview

Chapter One

Chrissy Thoreson had the world by the ass. She was young, attractive, well-educated, self-assured, gainfully employed and in no hurry to get married, own a home or buy a car. Her eleventh floor condo overlooking the river was a fifteen minute walk from her small office at Biggens and Rawlings, CPA, her favorite restaurant was halfway between her home and her office and the dance club she frequented with her friends was only a block off her daily path. And when the Minnesota winters turned from bad to worse, which they inevitably did, Chrissy could access all four centers of her life thru the heated skyway system. She didn’t even own a winter coat. For a Minnesotan that was no small accomplishment.

But it was on a warm summer’s eve that Chrissy lost her grip on the world’s hind end.

She’d strolled home from the dance club with her girlfriends, giggling and laughing, drinking in the cool night air and marveling how wonderfully easy life was in the Big City. Two of her friends, roommates, peeled off at their apartment building and the third did the same a couple blocks later, leaving Chrissy to walk the final block alone. Still feeling the glow from a pleasant evening, Chrissy never noticed the man following her, but then there was no reason for her to suspect she was being followed either. She’d walked this final well-lit block alone many times before and there were always others out enjoying the cool night air despite the late hour.

Chrissy had her keycard out for the pass-locked building entrance doors, but a young male resident who just happened to be on his way out gave her an appreciative smile and politely held the door open for her. And inadvertently for the man who had been following her. The two of them waited at the elevator, separated by a few polite paces, Chrissy distractedly replaying the club music in her head, when an older couple Chrissy vaguely recognized as fellow building residents joined them. They traded smiles.

Terrific night, isn’t it? the older man asked both of them with a polite smile. The follower, now standing slightly behind Chrissy, nodded politely.

Beautiful! Chrissy exclaimed with a happy grin, her body swaying slightly to the music still in her head.

You were dancing, weren’t you? the older woman grinned, recognizing the signs. I used to be like that, capable of feeling the music long after the band stopped playing. You remember that, don’t you, dear? Back when we were young?

I do, her husband assured her. Now it’s tough to move like that even when we hear the music.

They all laughed. Even the follower.

The elevator doors whooshed open and Chrissy entered first, then the couple. The man off the street stepped in, his head down slightly as he squeezed past everyone to take a spot in a rear corner as if he expected to get off at a higher floor.

The couple exited on the 10th floor with a final smile in Chrissy’s direction and Chrissy shuffled a little closer to the door, her floor being next. The man stayed in the far corner, staring up at the indicator lights as if impatient to reach his own apartment. It was late and his impatience was understandable. Tired people were always in a hurry to get to bed.

The elevator stopped and Chrissy stepped out, doing a quick dance step in time to the music still playing in her head. Her footsteps were silent on the carpet, just as the man’s were.

She reached her condo, unlocked the door and barely stepped inside when the man tackled her from behind, ramming his shoulder between her shoulder blades and pushing her face first into the carpeted floor, the impact driving the air from her lungs. Thoreson gasped in panic, frantically struggling for breath as the man quickly straddled her, pinning her to the floor. He jerked her head up by her hair and slapped a strip of duct tape over her mouth before she could make a sound. Then he wrenched both hands behind her back and just as quickly taped them together. A blindfold was slipped over her eyes, then her ankles were taped together. Before Chrissy Thoreson could draw a single breath, she was bound, gagged, sightless and lying helpless on the floor of her own home, her beautiful evening over with.

Unable to scream, barely able to move, Chrissy heard the door close gently behind her and the deadbolt lock click shut, guaranteeing no one would be coming to her rescue. The realization that she was now a helpless prisoner in her own home plunged her into a frozen, icy despair so deep she was sure her heart would stop beating. It didn’t. Though in minutes she would find herself wishing that it would.

She felt the man’s weight on her again, his breath in her ear and then in a very deep voice he informed his victim that the two of them were going to have some fun. What transpired over the next several hours was anything but fun for Chrissy Thoreson. She was stripped naked and raped repeatedly, the man propping her body into different positions, taping and retaping her arms, hands and legs to get at her in different ways. Sometimes he pounded her as fast as he could go, other times he slowly slid in and out, savoring the sensation. When he finally stopped, the man rolled her over, slapped her on the ass and thanked her for a good time in that same deep voice. I’m going to leave your door open so somebody can find you and turn you loose, he reported as if doing her a favor, and then he was gone, leaving Chrissy face down on the floor, still blindfolded, her hands duct-taped to her knees, her mouth taped shut. If she had any dignity left, she would have cried.

Private Detective Colleen Cookie O’Shaughnessy was still on the short side of thirty, attractive, financially comfortable and so bored with life she was contemplating jumping off a bridge.

Figuratively speaking.

Two months earlier O’Shaughnessy had returned from her first case as a private eye, in DC of all places, pumped up, a cocktail mixture of adrenalin, hormones and a satiated lust for revenge bubbling through her veins. She’d never felt more satisfied. More alive. But as the quiet days in Minneapolis slipped slowly by and the DC excitement wore off, her high slowly evaporated with the unrelenting dull routines of ordinary life. And ordinary life didn’t hold a candle to shooting it out with Russian mobsters and enjoying an occasional bedroom romp with a certain handsome young lobbyist.

Ordinary life sucked. Like really, really sucked.

The frustrating part was that there was nothing Cookie could do about the sucking. Danny Kiergarrd, the DC lobbyist that had tickled her fancy and various parts of her anatomy, was fifteen hundred miles away and up to his neck in proposed legislation and congressmen. And the Russians, at least the ones that had mattered to Cookie, were either taking dirt naps or were singing soprano to the Feds. Literally.

Yeah, she was still Colleen O’Shaughnessy, Private Detective. She just didn’t have any clients. And the private eye business was really dull when you didn’t have any clients. Worse, she had no idea how to find one either. Marketing tools hadn’t come with her investigator’s license. Cookie thought it pretty damn strange that she had uncovered criminal plots, tracked down killers and found missing persons, but she couldn’t find a client. How was that for irony?

But then weren’t clients supposed to find her? Weren’t they supposed to show up at her office with legs up to their neck and beg for her help? Maybe if she had an office... Or placed an ad in the yellow pages? Done one of those web page things? Would that do the trick?

But Cookie didn’t want an office because that would mean she’d have to learn how to keep records, print invoices, file papers, answer phones and all that other crap that came with running a business. Drudgery. Drudgery was depressing. Almost better to be... bored.

So she’d spent her empty days in her small apartment diddling with her online stock portfolios. Nights, after Wheel of Fortune was over, she spent tooling around the city in her semi-illegally acquired Mercedes searching for excitement. But excitement was something else she couldn’t find. Dance clubs seemed so... juvenile, sports bars were filled with losers with their caps on backwards and dining alone at even the best restaurants was... well, lonely.

Eventually, out of sheer desperation, Cookie slipped into a skimpy halter top, low riders and knee-high boots and rubbed elbows with the ladies of the evening she’d come to know when she worked undercover vice, hoping one of them might steer her to someone who could use her unique talents. Outside of the propositions she fielded from would-be johns, those efforts produced little more than tired feet and aching legs. Some evenings were so boring Cookie almost accepted a couple of propositions. Just for kicks. That’s when she knew it was time to hang up her hooker garb.

So as the weeks ticked slowly by and her life slipped even lower down on the dull and boring scale Cookie jumped off that figurative bridge she’d been contemplating.

She went blonde.

What the hell.

But being blonde didn’t do the trick either. It sure as hell wasn’t more fun. The same dull guys that hit on her before, hit on her still. They were just more persistent. And hopeful.

Three weeks later Cookie became a redhead. It was an Irish thing. Reflected her heritage. Unfortunately, she couldn’t carry it off. She had the temper, but didn’t have the complexion for it. So Cookie went black.

Figuratively speaking.

One guy, a balding accountant, said she looked like Cher. Only younger. But that really wasn’t a compliment. Everyone except maybe Mick Jagger was younger than Cher. A hooker friend, Magdalena, told her if she added hoop earrings large enough to fit a baseball through, she could meet all kinds of new guys and make a couple hundred bucks an hour in the bargain. Apparently everybody wanted to do Cher.

Cookie didn’t own any hoop earrings. Not even ones large enough to slip a golf ball through. So the Cher thing was a non-starter.

The thing was each time Cookie had her hair color changed the ladies at the beauty salon insisted that the new color was definitely her.

Maybe, Colleen was beginning to believe, there was no her. Instead she was some nebulous remnant of a former human being that could no longer be categorized. She’d been bent, folded, stapled and mutilated into something no one, including herself, could recognize.

Not having an identity was bad enough, she thought, but the worst thing was the lack of excitement in her life. Just the same old boring routines; run errands, wash clothes, do her nails the way Bryce had taught her - two coats and a layer of shellac - go to the pistol range and blast the hell out of paper targets and when she was really desperate, slip into her official karate clothes and let the karate guys down at the gym throw her around the mat while occasionally coping an accidental feel. Until one day she deliberately broke a guy’s nose who’d overdone the accidental copping thing and been given a time-out for a couple of weeks by the gym manager.

So Cookie jumped off another bridge. This one higher than the first.

Figuratively speaking.

She moved.

She’d read an article in a beauty shop magazine that said a person’s home should reflect their personality but since Colleen wasn’t sure who or what she was, she decided that maybe she needed a different reflection. What the hell else was a person supposed to do when they had no idea who they were?

Her new reflection was one of those trendy loft condos. Loft condo. That’s a nice way of saying the joint used to be a deserted warehouse until some developer paid off enough city council members to have the abandoned property deeded over to him at no cost so he could clear twenty million rehabbing the abandoned building and selling off condos to the young, the beautiful and the bored.

The developer had put in a few walls to carve each floor into separate units, gave each unit two stories, up and down floors connected with black spiral staircases that were a major pain in the ass to navigate after too many whiskies, added some cathedral windows that overlooked the Mighty Mississippi, which most often resembled a dirty brown strip of water cluttered with grain barges and tugboats, and threw in real wood floors that had been sanded, finished and waxed until they offered all the sure-footedness of an ice skating rink.

Colleen’s unit was cavernous, compared to her former one bedroom apartment, and quickly swallowed up what little furniture she owned. So she called around, looking for a furniture store that could fill up the place, and dropped another tax free thirty grand on couches, tables, beds, dressers, wall hangings and an armoire that was large enough to serve as a mausoleum for her grandparents.

What the hell do you put in an armoire? A couple of rifles and a riot gun?

The upside of it all was that Cookie was now coordinated. What a rush. And her tax free fun money was just about gone, reminding her she either needed a new client, a paying one, or she would soon have to tap into her investment portfolio which was supposed to last her into her old age, if ever she should live that long, but was growing more slowly than she had anticipated.

The salvation for the new place was the four-person liquor bar where Colleen could sit by herself sipping Jameson whiskey, watching rusty barges plod along the muddy river below and reflecting on her sorry state of affairs while all the time wondering who the hell she really was.

So much for new reflections. The mirror might have been different, but the reflection was still the same; nothing there.

In her more exciting days Colleen O’Shaughnessy had been a cop. An undercover vice cop. And she’d been good at it. Real good. Right up until she’d been dismissed from the force for not following official protocols. At least that was the official line. Now she was a private dick. So private, she thought, no one was pulling on her dick. That made her laugh. She would have to tell Gene that one.

Though comfortable being alone, Cookie wasn’t a sociopath. She had a few trusted friends and a number of acquaintances, some honest and some not so honest, but everyone she knew and enjoyed socializing with had jobs. Or careers. Or lived in DC. Or even worse, had spouses that took up a great deal of their time.

So Colleen O’Shaughnessy sat alone in her new condo, sipping Irish whiskey, studying her reflection in the cathedral windows, wondering if she should have the ladies at the beauty shop try auburn next, and wishing somebody would commit some heinous crime that would require her involvement. The crime didn’t necessarily have to include any shooting, or even a scuffle. Brainwork would be just fine. Anything that would give her a purpose! Well... maybe not a lost pet case. And definitely not a lost cat case. She hated cats. Although she thought it might be fun trying to shoot one on the run...

Her cell phone jingled, startling the bejeebers out of her.

It was Doc Jane. One of those friends with a career.

I see you joined the Black Irish, Doc Jane remarked dryly, noting Cookie’s latest hair color.

Like it?

Not sure. Though it’s better than the redhead look.

Magdalena says I could make thousands of dollars on my back if I had a pair of very large hoop earrings to go with it.

Magdalena the hooker?

Yeah.

She ought to know.

Doc Jane was ten years Cookie’s senior, starting to show a little age around her eyes, but still had a body that could turn most guys’ heads. She’d been married once, to another shrink, but they broke up when they realized they were both nuts. Or maybe it was when they realized they were both sickeningly normal. Whatever. Same result.

So how’s the shrink business? Cookie asked Dr. Jane Radtke, changing the subject. Doc Jane, as she preferred to be called by her patients, shrugged heavily, as if unable to lift a massive burden off her shoulders, and morosely stirred the martini she was playing with.

That bad, huh? Cookie offered with concern. In the many months she’d known her, both as her patient and a friend, Cookie O’Shaughnessy had never seen Doc Jane down in the dumps. Radtke had always been able to leave her patients and their problems behind when she walked out the office door. At least that had been Cookie’s impression. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Anything you want to talk about? she asked softly.

Doctor-patient stuff, was all Doc Jane managed. You still hitting on the Jameson? she asked, pointing at Cookie’s whiskey, in an attempt to change the subject.

It’s good shit, Cookie countered with a grin. She’d developed a taste for the Irish whiskey while in DC and now counted it as her favorite alcoholic beverage.

The shrink gave her friend and patient a concerned look. You think you might be getting to like it too much?

It was Cookie’s turn to shrug. I don’t think so, but things have been awful slow lately. I guess I might be drinking more, but only out of boredom. The taste suits me.

You just drink it because you’re of Irish descent, Doc Jane countered half-teasingly, trying to interject a little light-hearted humor into the conversation. She hated reverting to her professional standing when she was out of the office, but she’d seen patients who’d been through the same experience as Cookie turn to booze as a way to shut off the memories. She didn’t want that to happen to any of her patients, but especially Cookie. Though she and the former cop had a different relationship; more like friends and confidants rather than doctor and patient, Doc Jane still felt some professional responsibility for her. Still, there were boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed.

Being Irish helps, Cookie agreed, lifting her glass in salute, then tossing off the last half inch. But the best part? It deadens pain rather quickly.

Radtke tilted her head with a questioning look. O’Shaughnessy hadn’t required the full attention of her professional services for quite some time. Had she missed the fact that Cookie hadn’t recovered as well as Radtke had believed and was she now slipping down that dangerous slope of alcohol dependence?

I’m relating that pain thing for your benefit, Jane, Cookie smiled, reading her shrink friend’s mind. You look like you could use a pain-killing prescription of Jameson, not that watered-down martini they serve here.

Radtke looked down at the martini she’d barely touched, then gave a decisive nod. Okay, hit me.

An hour later, Dr. Radtke the psychologist dropped her professional guard and finally got to what was troubling her. Cookie, I need a favor. A personal favor.

Anything, Cookie quickly agreed. She owed Doc Jane far more than she could ever repay.

Radtke shook her head. You haven’t heard what it is yet.

Doesn’t matter.

You can’t say that until you hear what the favor is, Radtke warned.

I owe you my sanity, Cookie countered with a sardonic grin. What there is of it. You need a favor, I’ll do it. No questions asked.

Goddammit, Cookie! Jane blurted angrily. Stop that blind trust shit! Okay? If you don’t reserve the right to turn me down, I won’t ask for the favor. Got it?

O’Shaughnessy was more than a little taken aback by the shrink’s outburst. She had never seen Doc Jane lose her cool before. Ever. Okay, she agreed reluctantly. I reserve the right to deny you the favor.

That’s better, Doc Jane proclaimed with an exaggerated bob of her head common to those who were feeling their liquor.

So what’s the favor? Cookie asked, leaning forward so the shrink would maybe lower her voice.

I have this client, Radtke whispered. Nice young girl. She... well, her situation when she came to me was similar to your own.

Cookie’s eyes never left Doc Jane’s, but her mind jumped back in time, to a hotel room, when four men had...

Forget it, Doc Jane said abruptly, reading the look in her former patient’s and current friend’s eyes. I have no right to...

She was sexually assaulted, Cookie finished for her.

Yes. Terribly. Went on for hours. And in her own home.

Sonuvabitch!

Yeah.

They catch the bastard?

Doc Jane sadly shook her head. No. And that more than anything else is what’s holding back her recovery. She’s scared to death. All the time. Afraid this guy is going to show up and subject her to everything all over again.

That isn’t too likely, Cookie the former vice cop offered.

The cocksucker called her afterwards!

Christ! Cookie spat disgustedly. Getting raped was bad enough, but to get follow-up phone calls from the very bastard that did it? How sick was this guy?

Yeah, a forlorn Doc Jane nodded. I thought we were making some progress, then this asshole called her at home and she crawled right back into her hole.

She can’t identify him for the cops?

She was blindfolded before she knew what hit her. Gagged. The guy said about six words the whole time. Left her lying naked on the floor in front of an open doorway; her hands duct-taped to her knees, blindfolded and gagged. She thinks she was like that for hours before someone walked by, peered in and saw her.

Jesus Christ!

I’ve been seeing her for a long time now, Cookie. Like I said, she isn’t making any real progress. Especially since that damn phone call. The constant fear is holding her back. If she knew the guy couldn’t return... if she thought she was safe... maybe she could start picking up the pieces.

Do the cops have anything to work with?

Doc Jane shrugged. Not that they’ve said. I have the feeling they’re stonewalling, but I’m not sure. It could just be my own frustration.

O’Shaughnessy traced the rim of her glass with her index finger. She watched the digit make several laps while she contemplated what Doc Jane was asking of her. An assault victim herself, Cookie wasn’t sure if she could involve herself in this case without reliving her own assault, without mentally relapsing into the dark hole she’d fought so hard to climb out of. And she’d only gotten out with Doc Jane’s help.

When he called her, the psychologist blurted. He asked her how she was doing and if she was looking forward to their next date. That’s what he called it; a date.

You want me to kill the fucker? Cookie hissed.

I want you to catch him, Doc Jane quickly corrected her former patient. Cookie had never admitted she had killed her own assailants, but the psychologist knew the former vice cop was quite capable of doing it. And the psychologist had noticed a certain change in Cookie after her recent trip to Washington DC that led the shrink to wonder. And she was sure the difference in Cookie wasn’t from a change of scenery. Something had happened in DC; something that had freed the former cop from her own nightmare. She was more relaxed, more focused. More together.

Just catch him and turn him over to the cops, the shrink reiterated. Let the courts throw the sonuvabitch in jail.

What if he beats the rap? Cookie persisted. He could you know. One of those he-said-she-said cases. He gets a high-priced shyster who rips your client apart on the stand... Next thing you know, she loses and winds up getting sued by the rapist.

Jesus! That’s pretty cynical, Cookie!

Shit happens, Doc. You know it does.

Just find him and let the cops arrest him, Cookie. That’s it. I’ll pay you your regular rate.

No.

Doc Jane slumped back into her chair, aghast that Cookie had turned her down.

I’m saying no to you paying me, Cookie corrected her friend’s wrongful assumption. Yes to taking the case.

I want to pay you.

Cookie shook her head. I owe you more than I can ever repay. I’ll do this because you asked me for a favor. Sort of balance out the ledger a little. I won’t take the case if you try to pay me.

Can I at least reimburse you for expenses?

Cookie gave that a brief thought then nodded her okay.

So you’ll meet with her, talk to her? See if there’s something you can do?

Cookie lifted her glass and held it in Doc Jane’s direction, waiting for the shrink to do the same. Have gun, will travel, the former vice cop smirked, offering a toast. Their glasses touched, and the shrink wondered why her former patient had chosen that particular phrase.

Chapter Two

Chrissy, Doc Jane began after all three women were seated in her office. This is the woman I was telling you about, Cookie O’Shaughnessy.

Chrissy gave Cookie a shy look, like a beaten dog. She had dark auburn hair, worn in one of those shoulder-length kinky-curly hair-dos, tied back with a dark purple band that ran from just above her forehead, past her ears, to the back of her neck. She wore no make-up, as if unwilling to draw attention to herself, but it had almost the opposite effect for it revealed her natural good looks.

Hi, Chrissy, Cookie said softly, staring at her, waiting for her to remake eye contact.

Hi, she finally managed with another brief glance.

Cookie is a friend, Doc Jane went on. And a former patient of mine.

That brought Chrissy’s head up. A patient? she repeated.

I was assaulted, Cookie informed her. Gang-raped by four men. Doc Jane saved me. Helped me rediscover myself. That last part was sort of a lie, but Cookie didn’t think the truth would do Chrissy any good. Besides, it was partially true. She had a new condo to reflect in.

You don’t look...

Like a rape victim? Cookie finished for her. I didn’t know rape victims had to adopt a certain look. If they must, they should look mad enough to kill.

Cookie, Doc Jane gently warned her friend. It had taken her quite a few sessions to get Chrissy where she was right now in her recovery and it was a very precarious state. A hard push one way or the other could set her back.

You look so pretty, so confident, like nothing ever happened... Thoreson noted, almost bordering on amazement.

Cookie slid forward in her chair. Believe me, it happened to me, Chrissy. Just as it happened to you. Your assault will always be with you. It’s too ugly to be forgotten, to be pushed out of your mind. But you don’t have to relive it. You don’t have to wear it on your shoulder like a goddamn patch.

Cookie! Doc Jane blurted. This was not the way she had anticipated this meeting would go.

Doc Jane is a rape victim, too, Cookie went on, ignoring her friend’s attempt to shut her up.

Goddammit, Cookie! the shrink protested angrily.

She is? Chrissy asked Cookie as if Doc Jane wasn’t sitting there.

Cookie turned to stare at her friend, waiting for her to confirm or deny.

I was sixteen, Doc Jane sighed.

You never said...

I didn’t yet see the need, Doc Jane replied. But I would have when I thought you were ready. The shrink added the last with a glare at Cookie.

Here’s the point, Chrissy, Cookie went on, ignoring the glare. Shit happens. But you don’t have to wallow in it the rest of your life. A friend of mine told me that.

I... I don’t know if I can get it out of my mind, the distraught woman sniffled. I’ve tried... but he’s still out there. I have no idea who he is, what he looks like. He could stand alongside me in the elevator, walk beside me on the sidewalk and I’d never know he was the man who took... took my life away from me.

That’s why I asked Cookie to sit in with us, Doc Jane said sympathetically. She’s a cop.

Was a cop, Cookie corrected her friend. Now I’m a private detective.

Private detective? You mean you think you can find this animal? Get him arrested?

I can’t make any promises, Chrissy, but yeah, I can maybe help track the bastard down.

And arrest him?

Whatever.

Cookie!

Whatever? Chrissy asked this strange woman who was sitting only feet from her, the force of her will overpowering. What’s that mean?

It means sometimes bad guys don’t want to be arrested, Cookie shrugged off-handedly, recalling the two Russians she’d buried in the mud flats of the Potomac.

I think that’s enough for today, Doc Jane proclaimed quickly, jumping to her feet. Cookie had never said in so many words, but the psychologist always suspected her former patient had murdered, or at least been involved in the death of her attackers. But the last thing she wanted was for Cookie to admit that now in a session with another patient. Doctor-patient confidentiality in that event would be right out the window.

Chrissy lifted herself from the couch she’d been sitting on, albeit reluctantly. It seemed her session was being cut short for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Can I buy you a cup of coffee? she asked Cookie timorously.

What did you mean by ‘whatever’ when I asked if you could get the pervert that assaulted me arrested? Chrissy asked hesitantly, bringing her cup to her lips as soon as the words were out of her mouth as if trying to soften the import of her question.

Cookie studied the younger woman closely, looking for something in her eyes that wasn’t revealed in her words. She looked defeated, worn out but with just the smallest life spark way back in her pupils. If someone fanned that spark, breathed new life into it, she would recover. If not...

A victim of sexual assault herself, Cookie recognized the look, the uncertainties, the internal conflicts, that raged inside Thoreson. She was in a very critical stage; a crossroads of sort. She was vulnerable; ready to be steered in any direction that might offer recovery. But which direction?

Criminals,’ Cookie began carefully, bad guys, commit crimes believing they won’t be caught. They think they’re invincible, too strong or too smart to ever be caught. When someone does catch them, they’re shocked. And that threat to their perceived invincibility often causes them to react violently; to resist as best they can. Sometimes they don’t know when to quit resisting." The former cop added with a fatalistic shrug.

Chrissy hashed that over while sipping her coffee. To her it sounded like this female private detective was surreptitiously telling her what she wanted to hear.

Do you carry a gun when you’re working a case? Chrissy asked, still dancing around the question that hovered between the two women.

I always carry a gun, O’Shaughnessy nodded. When you’ve been an undercover cop for awhile and you see what kind of whackos are out there, believe me, you carry a gun.

More hesitation from Thoreson. Have you ever shot anyone? she finally asked, plunging in.

I have, Cookie admitted, not liking where this conversation was headed, but understanding the reasons behind the questions.

Fatally?

That’s not something I want to talk about, Cookie answered quickly. A girl couldn’t go around admitting to near-strangers there were bodies in her wake, or where the bodies were buried. Loose lips sink ships. In Cookie’s case it could mean a long stay on Death Row followed up by a terminal date with the juice.

Chrissy mulled Cookie’s reaction until she was sure it meant the private detective had indeed killed someone. And maybe not completely in the line of duty. She leaned even closer to the private detective.

I don’t have a lot of money, Thoreson began, but if you find the guy who did this to me, and he resists... or even if he doesn’t resist...

Don’t go there, Cookie cut her off.

I’ll...

Don’t say another goddamn word! Cookie snapped loudly, destroying any pretensions of a quiet conversation and drawing the attention of customers at nearby tables.

Thoreson clammed up and meekly went back to her coffee as both women waited for everyone to lose interest in them.

Look, Cookie explained quietly after several minutes had gone by. Believe me, I understand your feelings, your hunger for revenge. But if you even hint at what you were about to ask and if later on I get in a struggle with this bastard and have to shoot him in self-defense, we could both wind up being charged with premeditated murder. We don’t want that. You don’t want that. This guy already stole part of your life, you don’t want his death to steal the rest of it, too.

That sounds like something Doc Jane might say, Chrissy complained.

She did. And it’s damn good advice. You keep seeing her. And after you get further along in your counseling, you ask her about that pistol she bought years ago.

She bought a gun? Thoreson asked incredulously. Doc Jane had struck her as a calm, cool professional. Perhaps a little too detached from real life. Certainly not the type that would own a gun.

She did. She went through the same thing we did, remember? So when you get that far, you ask her why she bought that gun. And then ask her why she’s never used it.

Cookie walked Thoreson home. The summer evening air was inviting and Cookie could tell her new client welcomed the company. It turned out they lived only a few blocks apart. Their condo buildings, both former grain warehouses, had probably been redone by the same developer.

So how long have you lived here? the private detective asked when they reached Thoreson’s building.

Oh, a couple of years I guess, a nervous Thoreson answered. She’d had her head on a swivel since they left the restaurant, flinching at every sudden noise, clutching Cookie’s arm tightly whenever a man approached through the pedestrian traffic.

Like it? Cookie persisted as she watched Chrissy flick a key card through the security lock.

I do, she answered, inputting a pin number after the lock recognized the key card. Well, at least I did, she said, backing off her answer. Now? Well I’m not so sure.

Understandable, Cookie nodded, following her client in. There were no security cameras in the entry way, at least none that Cookie noticed, and there was no lock on the second set of doors either.

Doc Jane said this guy may have followed you home that night? she asked Chrissy as she led the way to the elevators.

I think so... There was a man behind me the last block or so, but I’m not sure if he’s the one that... you know.

Uh huh. Was he the same man that got on the elevator with you?

Thoreson hesitated. I thought so. At least that was my impression at the time.

But you’re not sure.

Thoreson shook her head regretfully. I didn’t really pay any attention to him. There was an older couple on the elevator, residents I recognized, and they had my attention.

You know their names?

She sighed. No. But I’ve seen them lots of times. They live on this floor, Thoreson gestured as the elevator passed the tenth floor.

Cookie nodded her head, wondering if she’d given the cops that bit of information.

The elevator stopped at Chrissy’s floor and Cookie followed her new client down the hallway, her eyes sweeping walls and ceiling for security cameras.

If you’re looking for security cameras, there aren’t any, Thoreson commented as they reached her door.

Why’s that? Cookie wondered.

It came up at a Homeowner’s meeting several years back... you know, whether or not to put cameras in the interior hallways. The owners voted not to install them; privacy concerns.

Cookie nodded. Her condo building was also without hallway cameras, and for the same reason. She wondered if Chrissy’s association, in light of what had happened to Chrissy, was now rethinking their original decision.

This is it, Thoreson announced as she unlocked her door and showed Cookie in. Once, she would have made that announcement with pride. But now... well, things had changed. Both Chrissy as well as her home had been violated. Now neither felt safe.

Very nice! Cookie marveled honestly. It seems so much warmer than my own loft!

Really? Thoreson couldn’t help ask. How could the place where she’d been raped appear warm to anyone?

Cookie noticed how Thoreson stepped around an area near the couch and not far from the entrance though there was nothing out of the ordinary about the space. Had to be where it happened, she realized.

Did you do the decorating yourself? she asked Thoreson.

Chrissy nodded her head. Took a long time, but yeah. Little by little, she admitted but without any enthusiasm.

Where did you get the ideas? Everything seems to fit together so well! a jealous O’Shaughnessy wanted to know. Her own place seemed so blah... so lifeless. No personality. Just... new and efficient. Was that a reflection of her personality? New and efficient?

Lots of shopping. Lots of household auctions. It was kind of fun actually. But now... well, it doesn’t seem like mine anymore. It’s like it’s no longer me.

Cookie reached out a hand and gently stroked Thoreson’s shoulder in an attempt to offer comfort. I understand what you’re going through. I really do. And I realize it’s probably hard to divorce the two; your sense of home and what happened here. But you have to learn to separate them.

Yeah, a laconic Thoreson nodded. She paused for a moment, then shook her shoulders as if shrugging off a heavy cloak. Doc Jane told me the same thing. Maybe I can in time, but right now... her words trailed off as her eyes drifted to that invisible but dreadful spot on the floor. I can’t.

Well you’ve done a fantastic job decorating! Cookie exclaimed, trying to move back to safer ground. Could I get you to help with mine?

What?

Seriously. Compared to what you’ve done here, my place looks like a hospital. Or maybe an insane asylum. If you could at least take a look at it... maybe give me a few hints of how to breathe some life into it...

I suppose I could, Chrissy surrendered uneasily.

Tell you what, Cookie offered, seizing the moment. Why don’t you grab some overnight stuff and come spend the night at my place? I have a guest room that’s never had a guest. You can break it in for me. We’ll sit up and talk decorating all night, sleep in tomorrow, then have another look at the place in the daylight. What do you say?

Spend the night?

You don’t work Saturdays, do you?

No...

So let’s do it.

I...

Please, Cookie pleaded, desperate for decorating help, though she had another more pressing reason for asking Chrissy to stay over.

Chrissy Thoreson dozed off on one of Cookie’s sofas before ten o’clock and without finishing the single glass of wine Cookie had poured for her. They’d taken a quick walkthrough of the place and had barely gotten into talking about decorating before Thoreson started nodding off. A few sips of wine and she was struggling to keep her eyes open. The private detective wasn’t surprised. She’d recognized the exhaustion in her new client and knew the cause behind it. It’s hard for anyone to sleep, really sleep, if they didn’t feel safe. And the nightmares didn’t stop. Bringing Chrissy to her apartment and giving her a sense of being protected had been all that was needed for Thoreson’s exhaustion to overtake her.

Cookie put their wine glasses away, then gently nudged Thoreson awake. "Come on, Chrissy,

she said softly. Let’s get you into bed.

Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. Did I fall asleep? the groggy woman half-apologized.

It’s okay, Cookie consoled her. I’m kind of shot myself. Been a tough week. Let’s get you squared away in the guest room and then we can both crash.

You sure it’s not too much trouble? Thoreson asked, stumbling to her feet. I mean we haven’t talked much about decorating...

We’ll do it over breakfast, Cookie assured her.

Later, after Thoreson was tucked safely in her guest room, the private detective poured herself another glass of wine and cleaned her pistol, just in case she would soon get a chance to use it.

A refreshed Thoreson did a slow walk through Cookie’s condo the following morning, an enraptured Cookie at her heels. They’d slept in, ordered bagels and coffee from a nearby bistro that delivered, then plunged right into the decorating thing. By mid-afternoon Chrissy had a long list of ideas for Cookie.

Okay, Cookie began, working up to a request for further help. I like your ideas, but I’m sure I don’t have the same picture in my mind that you have. Can you give me a hand trying to find the stuff you’re talking about?

Chrissy mulled that over while she sipped the Jameson whiskey the private detective had poured for them. You mean like do the actual shopping and buying? she asked skeptically. The last thing Thoreson wanted to do was expose herself to another attack. But she didn’t feel safe staying at her home either. However she did feel safe with this female private detective.

I’ll be with you, Cookie added quickly. Maybe if you show me stuff, explain things to me as you go, I might actually learn something about this decorating thing. It might even prove to be fun.

Oh, it is! Chrissy replied excitedly.

So let’s spend the weekend shopping! O’Shaughnessy proclaimed. We’ll hit every decorating place you can think of, kick around some ideas, buy enough stuff to get started, do dinner at whatever restaurant is close-by when we get hungry and crash here all weekend!

All weekend?

Why not? I’ve got the room and you’ll want to keep an eye on the decorating progress. You know, make sure I don’t screw it up.

All weekend. Two more nights of sleeping soundly. How could she pass that up? Thoreson nodded her agreement as just the slightest hope that maybe life might once again return to normal crept over her.

Great! Now can I ask you a personal question? Cookie wanted to know.

Sure.

Your hair... is that your natural color? I’ve been thinking about going auburn...

That night, while Chrissy slept like a rock, Cookie lay awake, wondering how she was going to protect Thoreson while simultaneously looking for her attacker. Chrissy was obviously still too fragile to be left alone and unguarded, especially if the asshole that assaulted her was calling her on the phone, but there was no way Cookie could investigate the case while dragging her around. There were some things clients, potential witnesses, shouldn’t see.

Chapter Three

Cookie O’Shaughnessy strolled confidently into the precinct station that used to be her home-away-from-home, deflecting the appreciative stares from the male cops who didn’t know her and ignoring the glares from the ones that did.

She walked right up to the desk sergeant, a man she didn’t know, and gave him her sweetest smile.

Can I help you, Miss? the cop asked, drooling on his desk blotter.

Cookie O’Shaughnessy to see Captain Collins, she informed him with the flirtatious grin she often used to get men to do what they wouldn’t normally agree to do.

The sergeant picked up a desk phone and punched in the captain’s number. You have an appointment? he thought to ask after he’d already called.

Not really she admitted with her best little-girl smile.

Collins, Cookie heard her former boss grunt over the phone.

Uh, sorry, Captain, the desk sergeant struggled. But there’s a young lady here who would like to see you.

Well, does she have an appointment? the precinct captain growled.

Uh, no, the sergeant admitted with a blush of embarrassment.

Then tell her to make one!

Tell him it’s Cookie O’Shaughnessy, Cookie said sweetly to the sergeant.

Uh, sir? It’s Cookie O’Shaughnessy. If that means anything.

You goddamn right it means something, Sergeant! Get her ass up here right now!

The sergeant hung up the receiver, blushed again. He said to get your...

I heard him, Sergeant, Cookie chuckled. But you won’t need to show me the way. I can get my own ass up to the grumpy bastard’s office. Thank you.

I bet you can, the desk sergeant said wistfully to himself as he watched O’Shaughnessy stroll towards the stairs. She walked fine. Real fine. Maybe Collins wasn’t as old as the sergeant thought.

Cookie! Collins exclaimed as the former cop strolled into his office. He came forward and the two hugged briefly, then the captain quickly stepped back, as if embarrassed by his on-the-job show of emotion.

Captains aren’t supposed to be hugging their detectives, he admitted to Cookie, slightly ill at ease.

Well, I’m no longer one of your detectives, Cookie pointed out with a warm smile. "Not that I didn’t enjoy working for you, Captain. Anyway, you can hug me every time we meet as far as I’m concerned.

Thank you, Cookie. You always were one of my favorites... though I could never admit that when you were here. You understand.

I do, Cookie admitted sadly. The old she-slept-her-way-to-the-top talk that would have invariably arisen would have gotten both of them in trouble. Despite the fact their relationship had always been more father-daughter than anything.

You changed your hair color, Collins noted, going back to a welcoming smile. He twisted his head in both directions, as if judging the overall effect of the color change.

Cookie chuckled in a self-deprecating way, and turned her head slightly to offer him a different perspective.

I like it. Though I think I prefer your old brunette color, he added honestly. But that’s just me. New boyfriend?

I wish, Cookie grunted.

So looking for a new boyfriend.

More like bored silly, Cookie scowled. But a new boyfriend wouldn’t be unwelcome.

Collins laughed. If I were twenty years younger...

Your wife still wouldn’t let you go, Cookie finished for him with a grin.

Isn’t that the truth. So, what can I do for you? Collins asked hurriedly, turning back to his desk chair, embarrassed about the reminder. There’s no fool like an old fool he scolded himself.

I met a young lady the other day, Cookie started out, taking a seat in front of his desk. A Chrissy Thoreson.

Thoreson... Thoreson, the captain repeated, trying to jog his memory. Should I know that name?

Rape victim, Cookie answered, slightly embarrassed. Collins knew all about her assault, had actually been the commanding officer that had given her the assignment that led to her being raped. Cookie didn’t want to remind him of that connection, no more than she wanted any reminders herself.

Collins gave her his best straight face, his ruddy complexion hiding any blush to his cheeks. Thoreson. Now I remember. Pretty little girl, followed home, repeatedly assaulted in her own home... a condo off 5th if I remember right.

One and the same, Cookie nodded. She’s asked me to look into it for her.

Now Cookie, you know we don’t like private citizens sticking their noses into ongoing investigations.

I’m not just a private citizen, Captain Cookie smiled. I’m a private detective now, remember? Officially licensed by the state.

Private citizen, private detective. Pretty much the same, Collins came back.

Except I get to pack a gun and stick my nose into my client’s cases, Cookie reminded him.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. So what can I do for you?

A glimpse of the case file would be a nice start, the private detective suggested. Or at least the name of the lead detective. You know, so he can bring me up to speed.

I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Collins