Busted

         She never did press charges, which meant the surveillance tape had no business being in the evidence room. And neither did I. But I was guilty of man's most primal instinct. Can you really blame me?

         To assuage my paranoia, I looked over my shoulder at the door and then raked my gaze across the shelves of cubby holes, making sure no eyes blinked at me from behind airtight bags of murder weapons and forensic evidence. Convinced of my privacy, I leaned forward and punched play on the modest L.P.D. television.

         The tiny black-and-white screen palpitated with the rough flicker of Gabrielle pulling the oversized sweater, which she'd snatched from my closet that morning, off her body to throw it beside the mannequin. Then she unfastened the sash from her waist and pulled away the shirt that hid so much of her amazing figure. I bit my thumbnail sideways to stop grinding my jaws. She climbed acrobatically up onto the table and coiled herself around the mannequin, shimmying the dress off of it to slip it over her head. I wasn't interested in the rest; I punched rewind and watched her dance in reverse, backtracking every sultry movement. Then I hit slow-motion.

         The quality of this tape was low. I wondered if there was a master copy somewhere in higher definition that I could acquire. For now, my imagination picked up the slack, and I was content with the freedom to mentally embellish the images. Even in slow motion she got undressed sinfully fast, and I couldn't help but imagine how much faster it would be with my help. I played it back again. And again. My mind staggered with salacious fantasies, imagining how similarly her body might twist and bend if she were pinned beneath me. I gripped my knees so tightly that I damn near clawed through the fabric.

         I cannot be sure how long Hank was standing behind me.

         "Bo?"

         I leapt up and fumbled awkwardly to strike any button that would bail me out; unfortunately, the button I struck was pause. The picture froze on a particularly suggestive pose, which I struggled to obscure. "Hank!" I croaked, choking on a dry spot at the back of my throat. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

         "I was going to ask you the same thing," he said slowly, stepping into the evidence room. I grinned nervously, frantic for any satisfactory excuse.

         "I, ah – I was just – ah, just reviewing some security tapes on a case," I said soberly. My career demands that I be calm and convincing under pressure. However, Hank's demands him to recognize such deceptive posturing. I suppose that's what made us such a formidable team.

         "Hmm." He eyed the television suspiciously over my shoulder. "Ahh, that from the Silver Moon Boutique?"

         "Yeah, the theft," I clarified, matter-of-factly as possible.

         "I see." I knew he was suppressing burgeoning mirth. "And, ah, why were you watching it over and over?"

         "You know," I said with a stroke of sudden brilliance, "I just can't tell for sure if that's really Gabrielle. Despite all the evidence against her, I just want to be sure before I arrest her, you know?"

         I felt my argument was convincing, but my old friend saw right through me like a guilty criminal. "Hmm. Well, how about this?" he suggested. "Let's call Gabrielle in for a line up, and we'll ask her to do a strip tease. Then you can know for sure."

         My face must have been redder than hell because it sure felt it. I laughed anxiously. "I just don't want to arrest her just because of her criminal record, that's all. That would be unethical."

         Hank shrugged and turned to leave. "All right." I knew this wouldn't be the last I heard of it. But he seemed satisfied enough to put the interrogation on hold. One thing was certain: I had no business watching this tape. Why fantasize about a woman I'd never have? Being alone for the last three months was beginning to prey on my lust, and I suppose I wasn't dealing with it maturely. I was about to turn the television off and never think on it again when Hank stopped at the door.

         "Bo," he said curiously, glancing back, "didn't you say the store-owner decided not to press charges after all?" I was silent. Hank smirked. "Yeah. That's what I thought."