Interception

The knock on the door, although not entirely unexpected, caused a slight lurch in Jill's stomach. Reflexively, she touched the key around her neck, then gripped it briefly before slipping it back inside the neck of her blouse, where it dropped into the warm valley between her breasts and caused a momentary cold sting.

She had already risen from the couch, but held her place and decided to wait for another knock. She bit her lip, counting. After a few seconds it seemed clear that Jill's visitor had more patience than that, so she slipped on the chain and opened the door. The chain had been a wise move, she saw, as the door banged back against this restraint, shuddering slightly. The figure in the gap was little more than an outline against the inconveniently placed hall lamp, but she knew that hulking silhouette well enough. Her eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

“What do you want, Detective?” she asked, coolly. Hoffman leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming, and affected a sardonic pout.

“You used to call me 'Mark',” he chided her, and then – in a movement too fast for Jill to follow – he slipped one hand through the gap, twisted the chain and, somehow, unhooked it. Jill stepped back as Hoffman shouldered his way into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. All at once, she was conscious of two things. One, the detective's intimidating physical size, especially at such close quarters; and two, the fact that this was the first time she had met with him without John being present. In spite of all this, she gamely swallowed her apprehension and raised her chin.

“Get out,” she said, quite deliberately not yelling. She clenched her teeth a little as Hoffman raised an eyebrow.

“Or what, Jill?” he asked, mocking, propping his hands upon his hips as he did so. Jill's eyes flicked down to the holstered Glock thus revealed, and worse, she knew that he had spotted this tiny glance. “Well?” he asked again. Jill half turned away and folded her arms, gripping her elbows tightly.

“I assume you're here for a reason?” she said, over her shoulder, not meeting his gaze.

“Of course,” replied Hoffman, evenly, moving behind Jill and placing one hand on her shoulder with shocking candour. She bit back a gasp as his fingers strayed closer to her neck, over the fabric of her blouse and onto the bare skin without pause. To her surprise, his fingertips were curiously soft for a man with such a jagged edge to his persona. She closed her eyes for a second, but then snapped them open again and swung around defiantly. Hoffman's fingers remained where they were, so his hand fetched up beneath her chin, and now raised her face to his own.

“Ballsy, aren't we?” he asked, very quietly. Jill drew a deep, controlled breath, and this close she caught the scent of him. No cologne, just the merest hint of soap. She acted on instinct, reached up and slapped his hand away from her throat, then backed away, trying to move out of his reach.

Not fast enough. Hoffman grunted – unbelievably, he was still smirking – and tangled his fist in her hair, dragging her back into the circle of his arms, which tightened around her and lifted her off her feet as easily as if she were a kitten. Jill thrashed in his arms, but Hoffman breathed a guttural laugh into her ear before shoving her up against the wall and leaning on her with his whole body weight. For a moment, she squirmed furiously, until Hoffman gripped the back of her neck and squeezed until her vision swam.

“Stay still” he said, his voice still soft and steady, a thin veneer of gentility sheathing cold steel. Jill froze. “Now,” Hoffman continued, “perhaps we can have a civilized conversation. There's been a complication. The FBI are taking over the case. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” gasped Jill with what air remained in her cramped lungs. Hoffman, evidently sensing this, drew his hand away from the back of her neck and allowed her to move. She growled, rounding on him, but kept her hands by her side, fists clenched, as he regarded her with wry amusement writ across his eyes.

“There's an agent called Peter Strahm heading the investigation. Now, who do you think he's going to want to talk to first?”

“Me, I suppose,” said Jill, as sarcastically as she could muster, trying to keep the quiver from her voice. Distractedly, she briefly touched the back of her neck, where she was sure a hand-shaped bruise would soon be flowering.

“Got it in one,” Hoffman was saying. “In which case, I think we have ourselves a little opportunity here, don't we?” He offered a lopsided smile, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a flask of scotch. Jill watched as he tipped it back and swallowed a generous slug of the cheap liquor.

“I thought you weren't drinking any more,” she said.

Hoffman looked her up and down, his eyes soaked in scorn. “Since when do you give a fuck?” he asked, and stowed the flask once more.

“So what's this opportunity, Detective?” asked Jill, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

“I suggest you get to know Special Agent Strahm,” Hoffman told her. “Find out what he knows, what he suspects...you know the drill,”

“What?” said Jill, bewildered. “In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a person of interest in a serial homicide case, and that's only one step away from 'suspect'. You're suggesting it would help if I made eyes at the FBI? Good grief, Hoffman, even you can't be that stupid. You're not under suspicion – why don't you sleep with him, if you think it's such a good idea?”

“Very funny,” said Hoffman, but his gaze was far from amused, and in fact now looked as if it were filling up with hot blood. Jill tried to defuse the tension by turning her head away, but an angry snort from Hoffman told her that this was the wrong decision. Before she could step away he had reached out and taken hold of her upper arm, turning her around and bearing her down over the back of the couch, hands gripping her shoulders. It was over in half a second, before she could raise so much as a yelp, and now her face was pressed into the cushions and her protestations muffled. Jill dragged her head up, spat her hair out of her mouth and tried again.

“You don't want to do this...” she began, but was cut off as Hoffman leaned into her, applying pressure to her lower back and derailing her train of thought.

“I think I do,” he corrected her, “so don't try your cheap shit hostage negotiation on me, Jill.” The pressure increased a little. “Do you think I'm one of those strung-out lowlifes you see at the clinic? Come on. You're smarter than that.”

“I don't want to,” hissed Jill, all semblance of calm leaking from her voice.

“That's as may be,” replied Hoffman, calmly, “but be honest now. Do you think you can talk me down? Do you? Tell the truth and shame the devil, as they say.”

“...no,” breathed Jill, with the last of her equanimity.

“That's right,” Hoffman purred, and stroked her hair, the gesture incongruous under the circumstances. Jill bit her tongue to keep from crying out as his free hand strayed to the hem of her skirt, toyed with it for a second and then slipped up the warm white silk of her inner thigh. Reflexively she squeezed her legs together, but Hoffman said, “Don't,” and she sagged once more. His fingers found the soft-haired lips of her sex and now she whimpered, unable to stifle...what? All at once, Jill was unsure of herself, and her head spun as those probing fingers, still exquisitely soft and slow, slipped into the liquid centre of her and moved deeper yet, curling and seeking.

Oh dear God, was her only coherent thought now, the mantra squirrelling around in her hind-brain until she dizzied from it. She heard Hoffman exhale hoarsely and lean in closer as he found the spot he was seeking and zeroed in, thrusting his fingers in and out of her, right to the knuckle. Jill gasped aloud now, her back arching so forcefully that she almost squirmed free – except that escape was now light years from her mind. Something white hot exploded in her cunt; not the peak for which she was striving, but a plateau nonetheless. Jill groaned through gritted teeth and began to pant like a wounded animal as Hoffman delved even deeper into her, and now his thumb found her clitoris and circled it, teasing, taunting.

“Please...” she breathed, not even aware if she'd spoken aloud. Nevertheless, her plea drew a soft chuckle from Hoffman, who continued to play with her swollen clit almost as if preoccupied. Almost; Jill was dimly aware of his growing erection pressing into her bare buttock as she breathed.

“You only have to ask for it, Jill,” he told her, his rhythm still slow and even.

“Hoffman, please...” she began, but he tutted at her as if she were a recalcitrant pupil and, to Jill's dismay, withdrew his fingers a little with the faintest of slippery sounds.

“I told you,” he said, his voice now as soft as the blackest of sins, “to call me 'Mark'”

“Mark...”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me...”

“That's my girl,” said Hoffman, genuine pleasure colouring his voice. Jill, barely conscious, just about heard the clink of his belt buckle and the rasp of the zip.

At that moment, the telephone rang, the sound strident in the hot, heavy silence of the apartment. Only now did Jill cry out loud, and Hoffman drew back without ceremony and with a flagrant curse on his lips, zipping up his pants once more, loosing a frustrated sigh. Jill staggered to her feet, pushing her hair out of her eyes and smoothing her crumpled skirt back down over her hips with short, deliberate strokes. She kept her gaze on the floor – better, she felt, to look anywhere but at Hoffman's face – and moved to answer the call.

“Jill Tuck,” she said, still gazing into the middle distance, her fingers clutching the receiver so tightly that her knuckles shaded to white.

“Ms. Tuck, my name's Special Agent Strahm. I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said the voice at the end of the line. Jill squirmed and gave Hoffman the briefest of sidelong glances, which he seemed to interpret accurately enough, though wisely remained silent. “I was wondering if I might speak with you.”

“I don't see why not,” said Jill, keeping her voice perfectly steady and, now, staring down Hoffman from across the room. His expression was indecipherable.

“Tonight, perhaps?” came the question down the line. “I can be with you in a few minutes and I don't expect to take up much of your time,” continued Strahm. Jill, her gaze still locked with Hoffman's, waited for a response of some kind – any kind. She was afforded a barely perceptible nod, although she had no idea how he could have heard what the Special Agent had said to her. She finally tore her attention away from that penetrating stare and back to the conversation at hand.

“Of course,” she said, firmly. “I'll see you shortly,” and replaced the receiver. She took a few seconds' time out, drew a deep, shivering breath and turned back to Hoffman. He hadn't moved so much as an inch out of position.

“You'd better hide in the bedroom,” she said, firmly, her stance stiffly defensive. “If you go out the front now, he may see you.”

“Intend to,” said Hoffman, carelessly. “You be smart now, Jill. We stand or we fall together, you know that. Well...” he paused on his way to the bedroom and looked back at her, a slow, cruel grin developing, then raised his wet, slippery fingers to his mouth and licked at her juices, “...I'll see you later.”

The bedroom door slammed shut just as the doorbell chimed.