Her lips looked as though she had dabbed them with blood. She wore a no-nonsense blouse, unbuttoned almost to her navel. No bra, but then, her breasts...didn’t really need support. You could just barely make out her nipples. Her black skirt went to her ankles, but I could tell that she had a pair of thigh high boots under the skirt because her left hand held the hem of the skirt to her hip, flashing mostly leather, but a little skin….and the tiniest hint of cherry red panties. In her right hand. It’s dirty money. Blood money. It’s dead cops, and crying children. I remember when it began, and I knew where it would end. Here. Tonight. Right now. About ten years ago I put away one of the most notorious thieves that ever existed. I’m not talking about some pussy prick pick pocket, or cat burglar. This guy could steal your house and you’d never know it until it started raining. He was good. Too good. Not as clumsy as a magician, or as dull handed as a sculptor. When I arrested him, the. More

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