Picture Postcards from L.A.: Erin

This story was written for the 2024 Crime and Punishment Story Event. The names and places have not been changed to protect the innocent or the guilty.

While this is a stand-alone story, reading last year's entry to this event, "I Fought the Law...," will provide additional context.

© 2024 Candy_Kane54

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I flipped the sixth and final photograph over and slid it across the table to join the other five in front of the soldier sitting there. He just sat there, silent, looking straight ahead, focused on the wall behind me. Getting no response, I stood up, walked around the table, and stood behind him, looking down at the photographs spread out on the table. Each one of them was a picture of a female soldier who had been assaulted, their faces swollen, bruised, and bloody from the attacks on them.

I knew he was aware I was behind him, but he refused to turn his head, maintaining his stare at the wall in front of him. I waited for the moment I would make my move, looking over to the two-way mirror, knowing that the Lieutenant was in the observation room behind the mirror, watching everything and taking notes. With a slight smile and a shrug of my shoulders, I made my move. Lightning quick, I grabbed his neck and slammed his head into the table as I growled, "I said, look at the pictures, Sergeant!"

His head made a satisfying 'thwok' as it bounced off the table, the sound of his nose giving away to the hard surface making me smile. He reared back, momentarily forgetting his restraints as he reacted to the sudden pain. "You fucking bitch!" he hissed as he struggled against the restraints keeping him in his seat.

I grabbed his neck and forced his head back down as I leaned in and pleasantly said, "That's Warrant Bitch to you, Sergeant." I knew I shouldn't enjoy this as much as I did, but one thing I detested was men beating up on women just because they could. To make it worse, the victims were all Privates and Corporals and beholden to his rank of Sergeant.

They had all been reluctant to admit that they couldn't handle the situation due to their training emphasizing being strong and not showing weakness. This sorry excuse for a man was one who obviously enjoyed using his power over them and preying on that reluctance. I wanted him to know that he wouldn't always be the one with the power. As the saying goes, payback can be a bitch, and I was willing to play the part.

I looked back up to the mirror and smiled, letting the Lieutenant know it was almost time for him to come in. I was sure that when I first entered the room, the Sergeant thought I would be the 'good cop.' He was wrong. "What's the matter, Sergeant?" I asked as I went around the table and sat down. "I figured that since you thought women enjoyed getting their faces smashed in, I'd let you enjoy it for yourself."

He gave me a look that he must have thought would make me drop dead, but the blood running down from his nose and dripping off his chin ruined the effect, so I just smiled and shook my head, refusing to do so. Before I could continue, the Lieutenant chose that moment to enter the room. "I'll take it from here, Warrant," he said as I got up and moved aside so he could sit down.

"Yes, Lieutenant," I said. He would play the 'good cop' now, so I quickly left the room and headed for the observation room to take notes...

July 1987

As I powered up the 405 past the Long Beach Airport in my Rally Red '66 Chevrolet Corvette Sting Ray coupe, the 427CI big-block V8 engine growled its desire to be unleashed. I loved how it immediately responded to my commands as I changed lanes in a futile effort to get through the traffic faster. I loved driving it, playing the clutch like a piano, taking advantage of every opportunity to let its full-throated growl out as I barreled up the road. Traffic was actually light enough that I could wind it out for a stretch, enjoying the feel of acceleration. I was looking forward to getting home and spending some time unwinding from my latest case.

I relished the feeling of a job well done. Not that the case had gone smoothly, like some, but I felt good about helping another woman get out of an abusive relationship. Marsha Whitman had responded to my ad in the Personals, asking for help with her fiancé, who was acting very paranoid and controlling, many times to the point of physical harm. Luckily, Marsha wasn't one of those women who blamed herself for the abuse, suffered low self-esteem, or thought that if she just loved him hard enough, she could overcome the abuse. It turned out that her fiancé had gone undiagnosed as being schizophrenic with homicidal tendencies, a dangerous combination that no amount of love could fix. I had called in Doctor Khoury, who owed me a favor. He had her fiancé diagnosed and committed to a psychiatric facility for treatment. Marsha could get on with her life with the fiancé now taken out of the picture.

Eventually, I saw the signs for the Rosecrans Avenue exit. I worked my way over to the right lane and off onto the exit ramp. I went west to Sepulveda Boulevard and turned south. I stopped at the Chevron station on the corner of Sepulveda and Manhattan Beach Boulevards to gas up my Sting Ray. It was one of the few stations that still sold leaded premium gas for classic cars like mine.

There was a Tuxedo Black '61 'Vette convertible at the pump as I pulled up. The driver was an older gentleman, who I assumed had bought the 'Vette when it was new by how he treated it. As was protocol, I got out of my car and came up to admire his car while he serviced it. He told me how his wife had really enjoyed their rides along the coast, and I twigged to the fact that she had passed by the way he referred to her in the past tense. We both commiserated over how few places were left to get gas for classic cars like ours. He commented on my car as he finished topping off his tank before I headed back to my car.

When he pulled away, I took his place and started pumping gas. I thought about how fortunate I had been to get my hands on my Sting Ray and how much I loved it. Thinking about what the man had said moments ago, I briefly thought about how Steph would have loved to drive this car before I sternly put that thought aside. "No regrets," I muttered as I paid for my gas. As I got ready to pull away from the pump, a Sherwood Green '63 Jaguar E-type roadster with right-hand drive pulled up behind me. Like I said, gas stations that sold leaded premium gas were few and far between, so seeing classic cars like that was commonplace here.

I pulled out onto Manhattan Beach Boulevard and headed west toward the beach, eventually turning off and pulling up in front of my house. As I pulled into the garage, I saw Rowan waiting for me in her van in the driveway. Rowan was an ace mechanic I had helped early on, and she had taken on the responsibility of keeping my vehicles running smoothly since then. She had been instrumental in helping me get my Sting Ray restored to its original condition and keeping it running. I chuckled at the memory of the horrified look on her face when I had once suggested running unleaded gas in it. I then got a stern lecture on how doing something like that would ruin the engine and how converting it to run with unleaded gas would kill its performance, so I never brought it up again.

I got out of my car, grabbed my bag, and walked out to meet Rowan. She was already out of her van and unloading her tools. From the look on her face, I could tell she was eager to get at my Sting Ray. Rowan was nearly my height, with her dark hair in a rakish pixie cut and expressive brown eyes that easily conveyed her emotions. As she approached me, she said, "It's time for a tune-up, Ray."

I handed Rowan the keys to the car and said, "Have fun." From the look on her face, I could tell my comment was unnecessary, so I added, "Can you look at my bike while you're here?"

I loved my bike, but it was quite finicky, spending more time in pieces than on the road. I knew Rowan hated it, and she immediately confirmed that by frowning before she said, "Ray, you really need to get rid of that piece of crap and get a real bike."

Rowan rode a 1981 FLHS 1340 Electra Glide Harley and considered anything else unworthy of being called a motorcycle. My bike was a 1980 BMW R100RT which placed it even lower than pond scum in her eyes, but she worked on it for me so she could get her hands on my Sting Ray. I turned and headed into the house, throwing over my shoulder, "Maybe I will someday."

"Jo said she'd be over this evening," Rowan said as I unlocked the door to the house and disabled the alarm. I had figured Jo had called Rowan to tell her I was coming home today, so I wasn't surprised that she had invited herself over tonight. Jo, like Rowan, had been one of my early cases, and ever since then, she had become my 'Girl Friday' and a 'friend with benefits.'

After entering the house, I went to my office and powered up my computer. While I waited for it to come up, I turned on the answering machine and called the LA Times to reinstate my personal ad in the Classifieds. It was a simple ad:

"1966 Sting Ray available for barter. Serious inquiries only. 310-545-4795"

I had put the word on the street that if you saw that ad in the newspaper, you could call it if you needed help. I also got a number of calls from people who took the ad at face value, so I needed the answering machine to help me winnow them out. It also helped because I didn't have to wait by the phone to answer it. Sometimes, it would be weeks before I got a call for help, and sometimes, it would only be days before getting a call. Most times, it was a problem that I could easily take care of, and occasionally, it would be more difficult. Only once did I get a call that I couldn't help with, and I directed them to the proper authorities for their problem.

When I hung up the phone, the computer was up and running. I used it to keep track of my clients, having built up a database of their skills and resources that I could tap into at a future time. I sat down and entered Marsha's information, hoping it would come in handy sometime in the future before moving Dr. Khoury to 'Retired' status. My database was substantial; I've helped many clients over the years since I came out here in 1975. It made me happy to know that I'd been able to help them out of what seemed like hopeless situations at the time.

Once I finished that, I went through the mail, mostly junk that went straight into the waste basket. Then I opened the lap drawer of my desk and went through the picture postcards stored there. I pulled out one that showed a view of Los Angeles from the Griffith Observatory in daylight. I admired the picture for a moment before turning it over, writing a message before addressing it, and putting a stamp on it. I went out to the mailbox beside my front door and put it in before raising the red flag to let the postman know there was outgoing mail.

With that done, I unpacked before changing into jean shorts and a tank top. I went out to see how Rowan was doing. I found her under the hood of my Sting Ray, and I admired the view of her ass and how it moved as she worked under the hood. Unlike Jo, Rowan was not a 'Friend with Benefits.' We were too much alike, both tops, to make a go at a relationship even if we had wanted to, but that left us being good friends with similar interests in cars and riding bikes. I chuckled at the thought that Jo had the hots for Rowan, but Rowan wasn't interested, preferring petite redheads. After a beat, I moved around to the other side of the car and asked, "How's it look?"

Rowan paused, looked up at me, and said, "I'm just about done. Everything looked good, but I went ahead and replaced the sparkplugs and adjusted the timing belt. The fluids are all good, and as soon as I replace the air filter, you're good to go." That said, she finished taking the wing nut off the carburetor cover, lifting it off, and exposing the air filter.

I watched quietly as Rowan quickly swapped out the filter and put the carburetor cover back on. She straightened up, a satisfied look on her face, and said, "There. Good to go." She carefully wiped everything off before lowering the hood, ensuring it was secure. I saw how she treated the Sting Ray like her baby and understood how she felt. We shared a look of pride before she stepped back and started gathering up her tools. Then she looked over at my bike with a look of resignation and headed toward it.

I had to laugh at the look on Rowan's face, making her grimace in acknowledgment of how she felt about working on it. At least this time, it was all put together since it hadn't broken down since the last time she had worked on it. Like my Sting Ray, it responded quickly and handled nicely when going through the curves while cruising up or down the PCH. It was a shame that it was prone to mechanical problems that often kept it in my garage.

I decided to let Rowan suffer in peace and headed back inside. I entered the living room and turned on the TV to watch the news. I opened the LA Times and went to the Local section to check out what was happening in the Beach Cities area. I wasn't looking for anything in particular. However, you could find some hidden gems occasionally that could be helpful in future cases.

A lot of the news was about the upcoming visit to LA by Pope John Paul II in September. This would be the first visit by a pontiff of the Church to the West Coast and his second visit to the US. I knew many of my Catholic friends were looking forward to it. I was conflicted since my lifestyle was condemned by the Church, making me feel like an outsider looking in. What kept me from turning away from the Church entirely were the few priests who tolerated my lifestyle even though they couldn't acknowledge it publicly.

My musings were interrupted by Rowan calling in to say she was done and was heading out. She handed me the keys and reminded me again that I really needed to get a real bike before heading out to her van and driving off. I closed the garage door and headed back inside, looking forward to seeing Jo tonight.

When Jo called to tell me she was coming, I headed out to the kitchen to prepare dinner. I loved cooking from scratch, learning how to cook from the many evenings spent with my mother in the kitchen preparing dinner for my family. After checking my supplies, I decided to make one of my favorites, Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe. Like my mother, whose parents came over from Italy before WWII, I preferred using tonnarelli, also called spaghetti alla chitarra, instead of the spaghetti you would typically find in the grocery store. It was square rather than round because it was cut from sheets instead of extruded. I loved its mouthfeel and texture in dishes with creamy sauces.

It was a simple dish to prepare, requiring only Pecorino Romano, ground black pepper, and some pasta water to make the sauce. I enjoyed cooking because some of my best thinking was done while working over the stove. As I gathered up the ingredients, I fondly remembered how Dad loved Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe and how Mom would 'tsk' over how he'd put additional pepper on his dish. My two older brothers would emulate him, making a contest out of how much pepper they could tolerate on their servings. Mom and I would just share a look and eat it as she prepared it, not wanting additional pepper to overwhelm the taste of the cheese in the sauce.

After cooking up the pasta, I worked on the sauce. I pulled a bottle of Trebbiano Spoletino out of my wine rack to go with dinner. I loved how the citrusy hints in this wine contrasted with the creamy texture of the sauce, enhancing the taste. I opened it to let it breathe as I finished fixing dinner.

With impeccable timing, I heard the doorbell just as I had finished saucing the pasta. I went to the door and opened it. A vision of beauty stood there, 5'9" tall with blue eyes and blonde hair pulled back in a low ponytail. "Hey, Ray," Jo said as she stepped up and air-kissed me.

"Hello, Jo," I said as I stood aside, let her go in, and followed after closing and locking the door. Jo was dressed like me, wearing jean shorts and a nice crop top that exposed her sculpted core. I admired Jo's ass as I followed her into the dining room, enjoying how it moved as she walked. Jo had been a model with the Clyburn Agency for several years and was as intelligent as she was beautiful. For some reason, Jo had decided that I couldn't get by without her help and became my business agent. I had to admit that having her take care of all the finances and legal details allowed me to spend more time and thought on helping people in trouble.

Jo turned to me, stepped up, and put her arms around my neck as mine went around her waist. Our lips met with a kiss that started chastely but quickly heated up as our mouths opened and our tongues plundered each other's mouths. Jo's taut body felt so good against mine as our breasts crushed together. I lost myself in the kiss until I ran out of oxygen and had to break the kiss or pass out. We both gasped as we tried to catch our breath, our foreheads touching as we stared into each other's eyes.

"What's for dinner?" Jo asked as we reluctantly separated.

"Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe," I replied as we headed into the kitchen. I picked up the plates while Jo retrieved the bottle of wine. We re-entered the dining room, and I set the plates on the table while Jo poured the wine. I sat Jo before seating myself beside her, and we dug in.

I watched as Jo tried the pasta. Her look of approval, on top of her exclamation of "Oh, my God, Ray, this is delicious," made the effort I took to fix it worthwhile. While we ate, we discussed current events, filling each other in on how our days had gone. We had both enjoyed the recent Wimbledon Women's final, watching Martina Navratilova beating the new upstart, Steffi Graf, who had won the French Open earlier in the year. We both agreed that Steffi would be a force to reckon with in the future.

Dinner was quickly over, and the heat in my pussy was getting hotter as we ended up gazing into each other's eyes. I could see the desire in Jo's eyes reflecting my own passion, and I knew her pussy was probably as hot as mine. Without any words needed, we got up and headed to my bedroom. By the time we entered my bedroom, we were both practically sprinting in our hurry to get naked and in bed. Jo had already shed her crop top, exposing her breasts when I turned to face her as I removed my top, the rush from the fabric dragging over my stiff, aching nipples sending impulses zinging through my body. We both toed off our flats and bent as one to remove our shorts and panties.

When we stood up, we clenched, our bodies molding together as our lips met. I could feel Jo's hard nipples poking the undersides of my breasts as mine were poking the tops of her breasts. Our tongues battled as we tried to become one, me trying to achieve the oneness I had only ever experienced with Steph so long ago. I angrily stifled that thought, wanting to enjoy this moment with Jo.

We eventually broke, gasping for air, as our foreheads touched and we gazed into each other's eyes. I could feel the heat of Jo's pussy against my thigh, burning me as I was sure my pussy was doing to her thigh. I guided us over to the bed, and we crawled onto it. I wanted to taste Jo, so I spread her legs and dove into her pussy, driving my tongue between her folds and gathering up her juices.

Jo put her elbows behind her knees, grabbing her ankles with her hands, spreading her legs wide to give me total access to her pussy. I snaked my arms around Jo's thighs, grabbed her breasts, and started kneading them, making sure her hard nipples were firmly grasped between my thumbs and forefingers. Jo started moaning, "Oh, God, Ray," over and over as I practically devoured her pussy, driving my tongue deep into her hole. Every time I hit a good spot, Jo would gasp, "Oh, yes, right there!" and I'd redouble my attack. Jo's breathing got more and more ragged, and her thighs started trembling as I did everything I could to bring her to orgasm. Her hips were rolling and thrusting, but I managed to maintain contact as she ground her pussy against my face. Every time my nose bumped her clit, I'd pinch her nipples, and Jo would gasp, "Yes!"