Death of a Heartless Sex Poodle - Or - A Naked Nonconformist Wrestles with Issues of Morality
an excerpt

Silky Maine, porn star extraordinaire. She’s going to be famous, whatever it takes. And if it happens to be fun and feel good, so much the better.

Detective Dash Lawson, Homicide. He believes in three things – law, order, and personal restraint. And not necessarily in that order.

“What’s your poison, Detective?” Silky asked, moving to the bar. “I know it’s barely dawn, but as they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Here, in fact,” she said, checking her watch. “And it’s been a hell of a night.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Lawson said, “and I don’t drink on duty.”

“How did I know you were going to say that?” Silky asked, raising her bourbon glass to him. “It must be the suit. Charcoal, pinstripes, tailored. You look like a by-the-book kind of guy.”

He leaned forward, legs spread, forearms resting on his knees. “I suppose I am. I like things orderly. Logical. Precise. Which is why I need you to answer my question.”

“Do you think I killed her?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

He studied her for a beat before answering. “You look like a fly-by the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl,” he finally said. “Smart, ambitious. The kind who doesn’t let anything get in her way.”

She smiled mirthlessly and downed the bourbon.

“Mona was a threat to you. You were the only one here with her in the studio, you can’t account for your whereabouts earlier this evening, and your prints are on the murder weapon. I’d be a bad cop if I didn’t think you were guilty.”

Silky swallowed hard. “You keep saying murder weapon, but I never saw any weapon. The only thing I touched was that throat choker.” Immediately, she realized the truth in both her statement and his. She had to fight down a sudden urge to vomit. “Oh God. You’re freaking kidding me.”

“That was almost believable. But then, you’re an actress.”

She blinked, not sure if she should be flattered or insulted. People outside of the industry rarely acknowledged her accomplishments, although she had gotten some favorable press for ‘Ghostbonkers.’ Of course, he’d also called her a murderess. So it was really a wash.

“Why did you touch it?” He had his notebook open again.

She sighed. “I don’t know. It just seemed so odd. Mona hasn’t worn a dog collar since that movie she did, ‘Sex Poodles’.”

Lawson jerked his head. “When was that?” he asked sharply.

Silky tossed her hair. “Let’s see. Two, no three months ago. Maybe. It’s hard to remember. They all sort of run together.”

“And you think the dog collar she was wearing was the one from the movie?”

“It’s hard to say. It looked like it, but I don’t keep track of her wardrobe or anything.”

“Wardrobe?” He arched an eyebrow, but declined further comment. “Who else was involved with the movie?”

“I’m not sure. Hack wrote it, you should ask him.”

“Maybe I will.” He strode to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Silky offered him a wave and a smile that slid off her face the moment the door shut. She flipped him off and turned back to the bar. Her bourbon was gone, so she mixed herself a salty dog. It was going to be a hellish day and since she was already well on her way, she might as well get totally plastered.

She paced the dressing room, glass in hand, licking the salt from the rim as she contemplated the predicament she’d gotten herself into. Sure, she’d wished Mona dead plenty of times. But so had everyone who’d known her for more than two minutes. Granted, the woman did have her good points, but they weren’t visible with her clothes on.

It was just bad timing, she reflected. Her big mouth, while useful in her line of work, had gotten her into a crap load of trouble this time around. And then she’d had the added bonus of stumbling across the body. Never a good position to be in. She was going to have to be ready with a better excuse for why she’d been in the studio at that time of the morning. It was only a matter of time before one of her costars pointed out how unusual that was. When they did, she had better have an answer. The truth would never do.

*********************************
Pierce Hardwood studied himself in the mirror, shirt unbuttoned so that he could see the way his chest rippled when he flexed his biceps. He twisted the faucet and splashed warm water on his face, enjoying the sensation as it ran down his neck and pectorals. Next, he wet his badger hair brush and dipped in into the wooden soap bowl. The scent of pine and musk filled the air as he lathered his cheeks and chin. Pierce only used the best razor when shaving, the Hommage Monte-Carlo. He knew it was the best because it was the most expensive and had even come in its own humidor, which he now used for storing condoms.

He wielded the razor with light, even strokes, delighted as always when the sight of his perfectly chiseled jaw line became visible once again. A close shave was important in his line of work. Women who ended up with whisker burn that marred their faces for their close-ups were likely to retaliate. He rubbed the faint scar just below his jawbone and winced at the memory.

Clean shaven, he finished with a spritz of lavender essential oil. It helped soothe his sensitive skin, and the women went crazy for it. At least the women he dated. Of course, they were always very appreciative of his entire package. That was how they’d been chosen in the first place.

He ran some gel through his highlighted tresses, making sure he had just the right amount of muss, then finished up his morning routine with some practice orgasm faces. It was hard to tell in the heat of the moment how he was coming across on camera. He felt it was his duty as an actor to make sure that his moments of pleasure were as attractive as possible. He owed it to his fans. This was why he kept mirrors above his beds at home, and also why he had blown-up posters of his better climactic facial expressions taped to the walls of his dressing room, a fact that many visitors found more than a tad disconcerting.

Dash Lawson found it disturbing. “Excuse me, Mr. uh, Hardwood? The door was open, so I . . .”

“Right. I suppose you’re here to talk about Mona.” Pierce leaned against the bathroom door frame and began buttoning his shirt. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re going to ask me.”

“I wasn’t, but I always appreciate a hasty denial.” Dash tried not to stare at the posters, although looking Pierce in the eye after viewing said artwork wasn’t much easier. “Since it wasn’t you, perhaps you’d like to tell me who it could have been.”

Pierce tossed a wayward strand of hair out of his eye. “I don’t know anyone who would’ve done it.”

Dash raised an eyebrow. “This is a novel approach. Most people I’ve talked to thought about killing her as often as they thought about eating. Or sex,” he added with a sideways glance at the poster.

Pierce grinned. “Nobody thought about it that much.”