Chapter One

Thief

 

The lock surrendered to my patient prodding of it, and the door swung open to reveal the apartment of Sibyl McCarthy, Chief of Police. I had nothing to fear as I had disabled the alarms and the most vicious animal that lived there was a bowl of goldfish. The place was ripe for the picking!

I slipped in the door and locked it behind me and went immediately to the master bedroom, and cased the place with eyes that had done this sort of thing a dozen times. After the obvious hiding places were eliminated, I reached under the bed and slid out a cardboard flat upon which rested an old lockbox. I had a pretty good idea of what I'd find in there. Three weeks ago when I had been bartending at Pat's Bar & Grill-a cop bar-she'd shot off her mouth about what lax security her own place had. She ought to have known better.

Back when I'd been a rookie, Chief McCarthy drilled it into my head that burglars came in two classes: amateurs and professionals, and that the former outnumbered the latter a thousand to one! She never dreamed that twelve years later (after I'd been handed my pink slip) that I would become a professional burglar, or that I would get my revenge by robbing her blind.

The lockbox opened to reveal a single key, just like I'd thought. Removing the key, I scoped the rest of the room, and spotted an antique steamer trunk sitting in an odd place. Upon closer inspection, I saw the drag marks on the carpet, and pushed the trunk aside to reveal a floor safe. No combination, just the keyhole. In went the key, and a turn, and the door was open to reveal a gold charm bracelet, several ropes of pearls, cash, and securities. I took the cash and bonds, and left the jewelry behind as a pointed insult.

I was about to close the safe when inside I spotted a red key; an ordinary key for a door, but blood-red. After a moment, I took it and then walked around the apartment and found a heavy door opposite the master bedroom. It was locked, but the red key fit and the door swung open to reveal a dark room which lit up when a motion sensor spotted me.

A dungeon! An actual dungeon filled with racks, hanging rings, whips on the walls, a set of leather pants flung casually over a slave kennel, and many more things than I had ever seen outside of a BDSM catalog. As I glanced around at stings, crops, and whips I realized what a godsend this was! I pulled out my iPhone and began to snap pictures of the place. This would come in handy if the heat ever got to be too much. I looked around in the hopes that Chief McCarthy had ever posted pictures of herself in leather, or whipping her husband, the mayor! But there were none; not surprising, of course. If any of this ever got out, both of their careers as the youngest police chief and mayor of a major American city would be finished. They would both be bounced out of office under a bigger cloud than the Rampart scandal.

At the back of the dungeon there was a door with shuttered slats on it. I expected it would be some sort of punishment cell, but instead it was a walk-in closet filled with hanging outfits for all sorts of fantasies: silk night-dresses, babydolls, black latex bodysuits, chainmail brassieres, and quite a few things that I didn't recognize. I dutifully snapped photos of them all. The leaders of our fair city had a dark side that would have made Darth Vader blush with shame!

There were also several cardboard boxes which appeared to be empty. The markings and labels on the boxes showed that they had come from an outfit called Brown Paper Bag. How appropriate!

Today was proving to be very profitable!

I returned the red key to the floor safe, and cleaned up what I'd disturbed. I'd been here far too long-ten minutes was my average time inside someone else's home-and was just heading for the door when I saw the knob move. Chief McCarthy's voice sounded out in the hall, and I backpedaled and hurried into the dungeon. Even as they entered, talking about how lucky it was that they'd managed to make time for a "nooner" I picked the lock on the dungeon door and slipped inside, and locked the door behind me.

The lights came on as I entered, and I cursed silently. The timer on the motion-lights was reachable, though, and a slight twist to 'five minutes' was all I could do. Then I ducked into the walk-in closet, hoping that they'd take time to mix a few drinks or spend some time talking.

Once in the storage closet I moved some of the boxes over and created a small wall against one corner in case I needed to retreat further. Finished, I moved a crate over to the door as a seat, and waited.

Mercifully, the light in the dungeon went out just two minutes before Chief McCarthy and her husband, Mike, came in. Through the slanted shutters I could see that they each had iced glasses in their hands and appeared to be laughing about something. Their carefree nature made me mad. While they giggled and played with their sex toys, the city government was falling apart. I wasn't the only one who'd gotten axed; twenty-four other good cops had gotten kicked off the force. Chief McCarthy and her mayoral husband had sworn that it was necessary because of the economy, and other trumped-up excuses. Most of my fellow pink-slipped buddies had become mall cops, security guards, or had rejoined the Army or Navy, fading back into the armed forces from which they'd come. I'd had no luck with any of that, only able to find part-time bartending work. That was the reason I had become a professional thief.

The Chief finished off her drink and looked up at her husband and tilted her glass back and forth suggestively. He smiled at her, and then, without warning, backhanded her across the face. The smack of his palm on her cheek was like a gunshot. But when she looked back at him, she was smiling.

"Again," she said, and he blasted her face with his palm, this time on the other cheek.

Mike McCarthy then took her glass and his and set them on a cocktail table set against the wall. He snapped his fingers at her, and she stripped before him. I was stunned. At the department, Chief McCarthy is called "McSharky" behind her back because she was such a terror: barking orders, and biting people's heads off for even petty infractions. She would have put a Marine drill instructor to shame, and was the most hard-driving officer I'd ever served under. But here in the dungeon, her politician husband snapped his fingers and she obeyed like a cowed schoolgirl in front of the principal. This was unprecedented!

I pulled out my iPhone and hit the video-record button. This was more than just revealing, it was damning. I'd been a professional burglar for just seven months, and already the talk at Pat's (a cop bar) was that they were building up a task force to catch me. While it was flattering, I felt sure that I could leverage some leniency, if they ever caught me; so long as I had this kind of proof!

Mike caught Chief McCarthy by her hand and threw her over his knee and spanked her little white ass with his hand. She didn't kick, didn't scream, and didn't protest at the spanking; she laughed, and whooped at his treatment of her. In seconds her butt was a flaming red, but all he did was stop using his hand and switch to a heavy wooden paddle that he yanked from the wall. The impacts were now small explosions on her behind, and he punctuated each stroke with an insult, getting darker and more demeaning with each one. "Bitch...slut...slave...phony!"

The Chief just laughed and yelled at each impact, and after third or fourth blow with the paddle she began to cry and her voice became a long wail of supplication. But, rather than evoke any kind of mercy from her tormentor, the mayor's arm of discipline seemed to gain in strength. His face darkened and his denunciations of her became vicious blasts of hate and damnation. His paddle switched from her ass to backs of her thighs and calves. These strokes fell upon near-virgin flesh, and from the Chief's cries I could tell that they hurt more.

As I watched the show I recalled Missy, an old lover of mine who liked to be switched and then fucked. She eventually ran off with an orthodontist who gave her a collar to wear day and night. Was that what was about to happen? No, because the Chief made Missy look like a nun by comparison!

In all the time I'd served under Chief McCarthy, I had only seen her smile once. To be fair, though, after my rookie days I'd been transferred to an outlying precinct and didn't have much contact with the main police plaza. Still, this sort of behavior was like nothing I'd expected from the Chief. Still, it was within the bounds of Rule Number One: what you do at home is your business; if it becomes public, then it's everybody's business.

At last Mayor Mike dropped the paddle and turned her over so that she was facing him. From what I could see, her face was streaked with tears, but she was looking at him with a smile that radiated gratitude.

"You're a bad girl, Sibyl!" He stood up and hauled her limp form to the far side of the room opposite my position, and manacled her hands to the wall. She hung there like a dressed pig ready for cutting. "Do you think you should be punished?"

"Yes, Mikey, I'm a bad girl! Punish me! Hurt me more!"

Was this the same woman who had dressed down four cops for using excessive force during a protest march on Market Street? Was this the same police chief who'd sentenced my best friend to a week of unpaid leave for showing up to work in a dirty uniform? Sibyl McCarthy was more twisted than a senior citizen's varicose veins.

Mike stood back from his wife, still hanging in her manacles, begging for more punishments, and then he laughed. It was a cold, humorless laugh. "No," he said, and ran a finger down her spine.

"Please!" she cried out. "Fuck me, whip me, and make me scream. I'm a bad girl; a very bad girl!"

"I know that, Sibyl," he said, leering at her, and leaning close to her. "But you're right where I want you; perfectly helpless, which is what I want. Now you have to accept what I'm going to give you."

"Oh?" she crooned at him, obviously liking his tone. Her face was alight with anticipation, and she was practically panting. Her back was bared, waiting to receive more blows, or perhaps a branding iron.

"A divorce!" he shouted, and reached into his pocket and unfolded the paperwork in front of her.

"What?" she gasped, and then stared at the paperwork. After a moment, the seriousness of it got through to her, and she wailed. "NO!"

"Yes, you pathetic little piece of trash. Did you think I was going to sit beside you everyday knowing what a phony you are. You may rule over one of the biggest police forces on the West Coast, but inside you're nothing but a sniveling little pain junkie." He punctuated his statement by walloping her on the ass with his hand. "Nancy Harding is prepared to back my candidacy for governor, and she brings a lot more to both my ticket and my life than you ever will." He laughed in a cruel way. "She's delightfully ordinary, too; needs a good father for her son, too."

"You're lying!" Chief McCarthy cried, struggling in her chains; the struggle was useless.

"I put in my papers for divorce six months ago, and I scheduled all the court appearances on days when you were out of town at conferences or making public appearances." He waved the paperwork in front of her. "I got everything I wanted: the car, the house at the lake, the time-share in Hawaii, the car, the boat, and I don't have to pay you a dime in alimony. All you get is this apartment. You should have heard what the judge called you in court." His laugh was cold again; the chief's scream was more high-pitched than before.

"Please, Mike, this isn't funny. Just take me down and fuck me. Don't torture me like this!"

"This isn't torture, you silly little bitch, this is payback! You canned my running mate in the mayoral race over a stupid overdue parking bill; your officers refused to allow me to use exotic dancers to entertain my backers; I barely won my re-election. It was all because of you!"

"They broke the law," she moaned, now hanging from her chains.

"Bullshit," he said, picking her up and slamming her against the wall. Her tits barely slowed her impact. "You did it to pay me back for all the times I wouldn't let you come. You got tired of me. I know you!" He forced her legs apart, dropped his pants, and slammed into her. He came in seconds and then pulled out of her. No tenderness, no caresses, he might as well have pleasured himself in a side of beef; she was just meat. Her hands rattled in her chains and he voice became a bleat of pain and terror. I could tell that she was hoping that this was just some form of extended humiliation. But from the savage expression on the mayor's face, I knew that it was real.

"Please, Michael, don't go! I love you. I need you. You're the only one who can give me what I need."

"It's over, Sibyl. It's all over."

"Code Pink!" she shouted, and then repeated it several times.

"Your safety word won't work, Sibyl," he sneered at her, pausing at the dungeon door. "This is for real. Fuck you, bitch!" he said and walked away. He slammed the dungeon door, and then slammed the front door, and he was gone.