Officer Needs Assistance

Officer Karl Wilkes tore his eyes off the college boy to check his phone. The incoming call was one he’d been anticipating for weeks. He looked back up. The boy was Latino, and at second glance, damn familiar. His tight tan T-shirt showcased a pumped chest and narrow waist. His shorts revealed tawny, muscular legs with a fine down.

Stop staring and answer the phone.

How did he know the boy? The boy’s walk was sultry and confident. His muscular body reflected a disciplined workout. Despite the conservative haircut and textbooks, the boy seemed out of place. It could have been the sensuality rolling off him, but something made Karl think he belonged on a stripper pole, not on his way to class.

Answer the damn call, Karl.

As he clicked the TALK button, Karl saw the stoplight tattoo on the boy’s neck. Heat curled through him as vague memories formed. Oh, hell. I think I’ve had him. If he was who Karl thought he was, he was Hondure?o, unbelievably good sex, and his name began with a T. What was it?

“Uh…this is Wilkes. Lieutenant, I’m about to give that presentation about the profiling program. Do I need to scrub it?”

Lieutenant Corley might have been lousy at returning calls, but he wasn’t a prick. “No, that’s important. Just make sure you have your Plan A ready for Main Street at five this afternoon.”

Karl’s eyes went wide. “Wait, I’ve been asking about this for months. Why—”

“Wilkes, a federal wig’s son vanished last night, here in Houston. We’re almost certain it’s El Sistema.”

“Oh…fucking shit.”

“Exactly. Disaster. On the other hand, the problem you’ve been going on about finally has everyone’s attention.”

Karl had apprised the department that the occasional disappearance of male prostitutes outside of a couple hustler bars was likely a larger operation that didn’t just affect the “deviant” element. The white shirts at Main Street sometimes paid attention when gangs kidnapped women, but gay boys? Never. If any of them besides Corley had given a rat’s ass before today, Karl wouldn’t have known. “But do we have the device? And two detectives?”

“Checking on the first question and one, but not two. Weren’t you going to work on that?”

Karl huffed. “I’ve been scouring the region for agents who fit the requirements, but there’s nothing. Now if I’d been chosen for the Vice Unit, I’d have prioritized—”

“Christ, Wilkes, trust me. I know what this means to you. You’ll be on the unit once you’ve had a couple years under your belt. Everything you got by five tonight, clear?”

“Get back to me about the device, please, Lieutenant,” Wilkes said before his superior hung up. The hallway had cleared. Which room was C219? He heard his cousin’s voice coming from down the hall. “Officer Wilkes from the Houston Police Department was supposed to be—”

“Made it, Tanya.” Karl jogged into the brightly lit classroom. He saw her wince because he’d forgotten to call her Professor Dawes in class again. But he had a recovery plan, and he turned to the students. “Just because she’s my cousin doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have my head if I missed…this.”

There was the boy, and he clearly recognized Karl. The name came to him. Tomás. Tomás Torres, the alleged pizza delivery boy who was really a stripper, who was really a nude housecleaner, who, so it would seem, was really a college student. Karl gave him a quick smile and turned away, blood rushing to his groin as his mind now flooded with memories: Tomás in nothing but a jockstrap taking Karl’s dick in position after position. It hadn’t been much more than a year. Had he gotten that swept up in work? How could he have forgotten how good it felt to be inside that stud? And how much fun they’d had afterward, talking, cuddling, and laughing at stupid movies? Stop it. You have a presentation to give.

He cleared his throat and looked at his cousin. Her face was a mixture of bemusement and mirth, but it was clear she was waiting on him.

“So, uh, most of you are in this class because you’re about done with what West Harris Community College offers in criminal justice, right? After graduation, many of you will be considering the police academy, but for those looking to transfer to Houston Central University, the geographic profiling program is something the city is very proud of. As a graduate—”

“When will the police realize profiling is wrong?” The voice from the back of the room was loud, accusatory. Karl looked up. White male. Approximately twenty years of age. About five eleven. Thin frame. Ratty tie-dye T-shirt. Brown curly hair.

“Uh, geographic profiling is—”

“Youof all people should know what it does to minorities! But you’re blinded by the power of your badge.”

Karl arched an eyebrow. “First, young man. Why meof all people?” He knew he looked black, and nine days out of ten if someone asked him how he felt about something as a “black man” he didn’t blink. But he was also part German, Mexican, and Navajo. If some clueless kid was going to lecture him on the prejudice of appearance, he’d better—

“Alan, would you shut up and do the goddamn reading for once?” The new voice was Tomás. “You’re talking about offender profiling. The HCU program is geographicprofiling.”

“Here we go,” Karl’s cousin murmured to him. “I’ve been expecting this blow-up all semester. That ignorant loudmouth thinks he’s the god of social justice.”

Karl and his cousin listened as Tomás gave a textbook definition of geographic profiling. “Is that one a good student?” he whispered.