Chapter Fourteen – Complications

Marcus knew the only strategy that would save him from the brutality of the officer was to feign being a naïve, shy girl; it wasn’t too far from his own personality he knew and it worked.

The officer grabbed Marcus’ forearm and said firmly, “What are you doing out here this so late? It’s past curfew for kids.”

Marcus began to cry.

“Answer me, girl,” the officer said again shaking Marcus, still with a steely firm tone.

“I was . . . ah . . . ah . . . kidnapped,” he finally mumbled through the sobs.

“Don’t give me that shit, girl,” the officer said gruffly.

In the partial light given off from a streetlight, Marcus could see the officer’s badge: “42 – Cpl. Matt Smith.” He made a mental note of it, and then burst into a full-blown crying jag. His histrionics were not all faked; Marcus was truly frightened as to what was in store for him.

“What’s your name, girl?” Corporal Smith asked.

“Mir . . . anda,” Marcus said, finally calming down from his crying spell.

“Miranda? Miranda what?”

“Miranda . . . ah . . . Hartley,” he replied, suddenly remembering the name of one of the foster families he’d been serving.

“No ID, either?”

“They took my ID from my purse and they took my cell phone, money, everything,” he whined.

“What kind of story is that?” Corporal Smith asked.

Marcus was led to the squad car and shoved into the back seat. “Oh, my God,” he said to himself. “This is like the car that picked me up.” There was a heavy screen partitioning off the front and back seats. He tried the door handles, but they were rigid and moved only slightly; he realized he was locked inside the car.

The corporal pulled out a cell phone and began calling someone. The windows in the car were open and with the corporal leaning up against the car as he phoned Marcus could hear some of the conversation.

“Another runaway from the Browning estate,” he overheard. Then there was a pause as the officer listened to the party on the other end of the call.

“Yeah, OK.”

*****
A few minutes later, Marcus found himself in a familiar place: the Madison Heights police station in the identical same interrogation room in which he had found Jefferson Turner several weeks earlier. There were some routine questions by an Officer Heilemann, who called herself a juvenile officer. Marcus stuck to his story: His name was Miranda Hartley and he was a teen girl, aged sixteen. He said he was in foster care and he wanted to talk to his social worker.

Officer Heilemann was a middle-aged woman, tall and husky; she had a stern demeanor, but her tone of voice was surprisingly gentle. Marcus suspected the woman was a mother. She agreed to let Marcus call his “social worker.” She left the room, returning with a phone that she plugged in.

“You may make one call and one call only,” she said. “No more than three minutes.”

She left the room.

Marcus hurriedly dialed Amy’s number, hoping she hadn’t gone to bed for the night. It was only ten-thirty.

Amy answered on the second ring, and in a tired voice said, “Yeah?”

“Amy, it’s me, Marcus.”

“Yeah, why are you calling to so late? I was just climbing in bed, wishing Miranda was here with me now.”

“Listen, Amy, I don’t have but a minute. I’m in the Madison Heights police station and I’m here as a sixteen-year-old girl in foster care and you’re my social worker. My name is Miranda Hartley. I’ll explain later. I think they’ll release me to you . . .”

“What are you saying? Marcus. Are you drunk?”

“No just come and get me. Please play along with me. Remember I’m Miranda Hartley and I’m in foster care with your agency, OK?”

“But . . .”

“Just come, Amy, please. I’ll explain later.”

The door opened. Officer Heilemann walked in. “Time’s Up,” she said.

“This is my social worker on the line,” Marcus said. “She’ll come pick me up, if it’s OK.”

The officer smiled and took the phone. She and Amy talked for a few minutes and for the most part it sounded like a friendly conversation.

“She’ll be here in about forty minutes, Miranda,” the officer said.

“Is that all, then? Are you releasing me?” Marcus asked.

“Yes, dear. Just don’t find yourself out here again.”

“But, I was kidnapped,” he protested.

“Drop that story, kid. You’re practicing prostitution and we don’t take kindly to that out here. Just thank your lucky stars we’re releasing you to your social worker.”

“You don’t care that I was kidnapped.”

“Drop that line, kid. Nobody will believe you.”

*****
“Damn it all, Marcus . . . or should I call you Miranda?” Amy said. “I should have never given you the slightest opening to get yourself into such danger.”

She was visibly upset with him for going off on his own to pass himself off as a teen girl prostitute, but also with herself.

“Nobody would follow up on Jefferson’s abduction,” he replied, as Amy pulled her car out of the police department’s parking lot. Marcus looked at the digital clock on the Madison Heights Community Bank, “12:40 a.m. – 63 degrees.”

“Shit,” Amy said, her round face still registering disgust.

Marcus hated to anger her; she had become his closest friend and he realized he had never had such an intimate relationship with anyone in his life, unless it was his mother. He wanted to please her always and not only because she was his immediate supervisor, but because he respected her for her wisdom, her knowledge and her basic honesty. He wondered if he was in love with her.

He said nothing, realizing his friend needed time to settle down after receiving the call late at night and hearing that he was in police custody. They drove in silence for several minutes, eventually passing one of those cutesy signs so typical of nouveau riche suburbs. It read: “Leaving Madison Heights. Glad you enjoyed your visit. Come back.”

“That place gives me the creeps,” Amy said, breaking the silence.

“Trying to be so nicety-nice but so phony,” Marcus agreed.

Suddenly, Amy pulled to the side of the road; they were now in the central city itself. She stopped the car and leaned over and pulled Marcus to her, hugging him tightly and smothering him in kisses.

“You scared the shit out of me, Miranda,” she said, smothering his fragile body into her husky grasp.

“You could’ve been killed, darling,” she continued. “I love you so much, Miranda.”

Marcus began crying, finally understanding how close he may have come to such a fate. There was no question the folks who spirited him to the house in Madison Heights meant business. He felt comforted in Amy’s arms, protected from anything that could harm him.

“I need you, Amy,” he said. He knew she needed him as well, but not as Marcus but as a sweet tender girl named Miranda. And, most vitally now, he realized he was Miranda.

“I want to be your Miranda,” he said, lifting his face to take more of her kisses.

“You stink, Miranda, and your hair is a terrible mess, but I love you just the same,” she said, the words bringing forth a giggle.

From the heavy sweat he developed during his escape he knew he smelled badly; the mixture of the heavy perfume and dried perspiration, not to mention whatever stench he picked up from burying himself in the forest debris, formed a putrid mixture. Obviously, he looked bad, too, since the Madison Heights police never gave him a chance to clean himself up.

“Those scratches on your face and your legs and arms?” Amy said. “Tell me dear, what happened.”

As they resumed their drive back to Amy’s apartment, Marcus related the night’s experiences, including his suspicions as to what they intended for him inside the sumptuous Madison Heights mansion.

“You think it’s a ring for child sex, Miranda?”

“What else could it be? Look they picked up Jefferson through an apparent deal with the Harrisons who must be supplying them tender young boys like Jefferson and then they picked me up off the streets, just ‘cause I too looked like a tender teen girl,” he speculated.

“Is that why you dressed so outrageously, darling?”

He laughed. “I wasn’t outrageous, just wanted to look like a newbie on the streets, young and tender.”

She smiled. “You succeeded masterfully.”

“From the little Jefferson told us, and from what I experienced tonight, I think there’s something like that going on at that mansion and I think those keystone cops in that fancy suburb are being paid off. Perhaps, too, our model foster parents, the Harrisons, as well.”

“You’re making a lot of suppositions there, dear,” Amy replied.

They arrived at Amy’s apartment building, where Amy had an underground parking space; they took the elevator from the parking level to the apartment without being seen by other residents of the building. Marcus realized that his appearance as a banged-up teen girl might compromise Amy’s reputation in the building.

“Let’s get you into a shower, dear, and let’s look at those cuts,” Amy said once they entered the apartment.

She led him into the bathroom, pulling a fluffy pink towel out of the linen closet on the way. Despite his mild protests, Amy helped him take off his clothes, leaving him stark naked in front of her.

“I just love looking at your lovely body, Miranda,” she said. “Now let’s examine those cuts.”

She slowly ran her finger up each leg, looking at the many scratches; her touch was light and caressing and it excited Marcus causing his male part to stiffen. Fortunately, even at its stiffest, it was not overly large and intrusive. He loved feeling her fingers massage his skin as she moved to look at the marks on his arms and face.

“They look just like scratches,” Amy said. “Just wash each them fully and they should heal OK.”

“Maybe you can help me wash up in the shower,” Marcus suggested.

“Hmmmmm.”

*****
Later in Amy’s bed, the two held each other, neither initiating any overt sexual maneuvers. They talked softly to each other, Amy still expressing how worried she had been, while Marcus sought to assure her that he was able to defend himself.

“I think you’re right in your suspicions,” Amy said finally. “But how can we prove them?”

“Get Jefferson to testify,” Marcus suggested.

“Maybe, but will he?”

“He might, after I tell him my experiences.”

“But could you find that place again?” Amy asked. “You said you couldn’t look out the windows of the car, right?”

“Yeah, and that joint was off the road, probably hidden from sight by trees.”

They were silent for a minute.

“I just remembered something one of the officers said,” Marcus said. “He said something like, ‘she – I guess he was referring to me – must be one of Browning’s girls.’ Maybe that’s the name of the guy who owns the mansion.”

“Browning?”

“I’m pretty sure that was the name. Do you know it?”

“Haven’t you heard of Browning Investments?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”

“Well they’re based in Madison Heights and Paul Browning the founder lives there, too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Marcus admitted. “Weren’t they involved in one of those hedge fund scandals?”

“Yeah, they were, but they were cleared,” Amy said. “Now, they’re struggling to clean up their image.”

“Let’s tell all this to Emery,” Marcus suggested.

“Emery who?”

“You know, Emery Harrington, the assistant DA. You know, we’ve met him at Luke’s and I’ve had a few cases with him. He seems like a pretty dedicated guy.”

“Guess that’s a start,” Amy said, drawing Marcus to her. Neither were wearing any night clothes and they enjoyed the rest of the night relishing each other’s bodies.

*****
After Marcus explained that he had a “delicate” situation to present, Emery Harrington agreed to meet with him and Amy at four o’clock the next afternoon. They were led into the same tiny office they had visited before and Harrington’s desk was still covered by the same thick file folders and books. Amy had to remove several file folders from one of the room’s two straight-backed chairs before she could sit down.

“Sorry for the mess, but you can see we’re cramped for space out here,” Harrington said.

For a prosecutor who was gaining a reputation for being a fierce competitor in the courtroom, Harrington seemed to always display a warm, friendly demeanor in their meetings, Marcus observed. He was no less accommodating today, even though both Marcus and Amy sensed he’d had a harrowing day of work. They knew the DA’s office was short-staffed.

“Remember the Jefferson Turner situation, Emery?” Marcus began.

“Yeah, very well, Marcus, and I told you I needed more solid evidence, didn’t I?” Harrington responded.

“I think I’ve got it for you.”

Harrington nodded as if inviting Marcus to proceed. Instead, Amy took over the explanation.

“First of all, I need to ask you, Emery. Do you remember the lovely girl who has been drinking with us at Luke’s? Miranda?”

Emery smiled. “So?”

“I knew you would, Emery. You seemed to be quite taken with her, as I recall, and I kidded you about telling your Pauline?”

Harrington’s expression darkened, apparently at the sound of his longtime girlfriend’s name.

“Yeah, I remember. What has that got to do with this case?
“Well, Miranda’s here with us today,” Amy said, turning her head toward Marcus. “Meet Miranda.”

The assistant DA grew puzzled, but he examined Marcus closely, not saying anything at first. Then, as if a sudden realization had hit his mind, he nodded.

“My God! You,” he said accusingly at Marcus. “I thought you looked familiar. Of course, you could be Miranda.”

“It’s not against the law, Emery, for a guy to dress like a woman,” Amy said quickly.

“No, of course not, but still. Damn I can see how you could be a beautiful woman.”

Marcus smiled and then, assuming his more feminine voice, he said, “Care to buy me a drink, darling?”

“Anytime, Miranda,” Harrington responded with a smile.

“Let me explain all this, Emery,” Marcus began, but the assistant DA stopped him.

“Some other time, just tell what this has to do with the Turner case,” Harrington commanded.

Marcus and Amy spent another ten minutes, outlining how Marcus – dressed as a teenager named “Mariah” – had been literally kidnapped, taken to a mansion in Madison Heights, escaped and then picked up by the suburb’s police. They speculated, too, that the Madison Heights police department acted strangely, not seeming to care that they may have had a kidnapping case on their hands or that a child prostitution ring may be operating within their municipality.

“And your evidence is your own testimony, Marcus?” he asked when they were done.

“Well, yes, but then there were two girls who must have seen me pulled into that car. I sure we can find them, they seemed like regulars along Grove street.”

“Maybe we can get Jefferson to fully ‘fess up now, once we tell him what Marcus has learned,” Amy suggested.

“Possibly, but he’s not wanted to talk about it, particularly to anyone in law enforcement,” Marcus agreed.

“OK, sounds like you have a good lead, Marcus. Would you be able to find this mansion you talk about?”

“Not sure, I couldn’t see out of the car at all, but I did get a good look at the place just before I escaped, and I overheard one of the officers refer to it as the Browning place.”

“Browning?” Harrington said, unable to hold back the shock at hearing the name.

“Yeah, the big hedge fund guy apparently,” Amy said.

“No wonder the coppers out there wanted nothing to do with it. If it’s the Brownings, you have to know, that family runs the town,” Harrington said.

“Then you’ll look into it Emery?” Amy asked.

“This may be a case for the County Task Force on Prostitution,” he replied.

Harrington told Amy and Marcus to not do anything further; he promised he’d get action started and keep them informed.

“But Miranda,” he said, looking directly at Marcus. “Don’t do any more amateur detective work like that. You could easily have been hurt or even killed, but not before they’d have raped you. Lie low.”

Marcus and Amy got up to leave and Emery Harrington offered to lead them to the exit. As they walked he said cheerfully, “I still need to buy Miranda a drink sometime.”

Marcus smiled at him; it was flirtatious.

“Let’s say next Friday after work at the Irish Pub,” Harrington said, mentioning another popular spot not too far from the Opportunities, Inc. office.

Marcus look questioningly at Amy, who scowled but seemed to shrug her shoulders as if to tell him to do what he wanted.

“I’d like that,” he said.

“Ok, then, but you’ll have to dress like an adult, though. No more teeny-bopper look.”

“What about your Pauline, Emery?” Amy said, referring to the man’s apparent girlfriend.

“Oh her,” he said disdainfully. “That’s over. We’re done with each other.”

“That’s too bad, Emery,” Amy said. “She was a pretty girl.”

“Oh, she’s pretty enough,” he said, “But she dumped me after I turned down an offer to become a junior partner at Quinten and McBride. I don’t think she wants to live on an assistant DA’s income, but I couldn’t see myself working for such a hoity-toity law firm. As frustrating as this job is, I feel I’m doing some good here.”

Marcus was impressed with his explanation. As they got to the door, he looked to Emery, “See you about five-thirty then at the Irish Pub on Friday.”

“Wear something that’ll cheer me up, Miranda,” he said smiling.

As they exited, Amy grabbed Marcus’ arm, angrily pulling him out into the hallway.

“What was that all about?” she hissed at him, her words said in low volume.

“What do you mean, Amy?” he said, puzzled at her reaction.

“Never mind,” she said, seeming to retreat into a pout.

The pair had reached the screening post, where the three deputies charged with checking in everyone to assure no weapons were brought into the juvenile building were standing idly by. Since it was late in the day, few persons were entering the building. They waved at Amy and Marcus as they exited into the parking lot.

*****
“Since when do you like guys, Marcus?” Amy said as they began their drive from the juvenile center.

“I don’t like guys. I’m not gay,” he said, astounded by her question.

“My God, you were flirting with him.”

“Flirting? No, I wasn’t. He asked me for an after-work drink. What’s wrong with that?”

“No, he asked Miranda for a drink. Not Marcus,” Amy said, her voice rising in anger.

Marcus was puzzled by Amy’s reaction. Hadn’t she encouraged his dressing up as Miranda, supported his growing femininity? Hadn’t they spent hours together while he was in his Miranda persona?

“Well, either way, I’m just going to have a drink with him. I’m not going to bed with him.”

Amy said nothing for a few minutes. They continued back into the center the city, as if they were headed to Amy’s apartment. “Are we going to your place?” Marcus finally asked.

“I don’t think so,” Amy said. “I’ll just drop you off at your apartment. I’m tired tonight.”

“OK,” Marcus said simply. He wasn’t ready to accept Amy’s excuse; in the past, Amy had wanted Marcus (as Miranda) even when she was tired.

When they reached, 5th Street, Amy turned right, and headed to Marcus’ apartment. She said nothing more, except for a curt “Good night” as she dropped him off.

*****
Marcus had an empty feeling as he entered his apartment; the place was stuffy and felt oppressive; the windows had been closed and the afternoon sun shining through the windows had obviously heated the place up. Frankly, it had become almost routine for Amy and he to be together at night, often tumbling into bed together when they first entered Amy’s apartment from work. After a round of love-making, the two would shower together and then make dinner.

Always, Marcus would turn into Miranda, often wearing only panties and a light, airy nightgown that had spaghetti straps. He loved the gown since it left his slender shoulders and pretty arms exposed. Amy loved seeing him in it, often telling him, “You’re the daintiest of girls, Miranda.”

For her part, Amy often wore only a bra and panties that showed her strong, firm husky body. Miranda (for he was totally Miranda on these evenings) was enthralled by the soft rolls of fat around her tummy and the woman’s full thighs. But not on this evening. Marcus realized Amy’s outsized reaction over Emery’s invitation for a drink must have been jealousy. He realized that Amy may have been thinking that Miranda might lose interest in her in favor of a handsome young man.

Marcus took off all of his clothes and flopped naked onto his bed. He hadn’t turned on the window air conditioner and the room continued to be hot and stuffy. For some strange reason, he seemed to enjoy wallowing in the sweat that began to cover his soft flesh. He began to wonder what it would be like to be a defenseless woman in the embraces of a vibrant young man like Emery Harrington. He imagined himself without his male organ, with a flat crotch and a vagina. Perhaps, too, he’d have modest breasts, not big and full like Amy’s but rather, tidy, smallish breasts like a budding teenage girl.

The image excited him.

He looked at the ceiling, his eyes following a crack in the ancient plaster that went from the overhead light in the center of the room toward an outside window.

“I love being Miranda,” he said out loud. “I’m all woman.”

He fell asleep.

*****
Marcus awakened in the morning, smelling awful after his night of sleeping in his muggy room; he turned on his room air conditioner and rushed in to shower to prepare himself for the coming day.

Amy came in late to work that day. She walked through the office, greeting her co-workers, but doing so in a most curt manner, unlike her usually more garrulous morning entrances. She ignored Marcus, however, who had wondered how Amy would act after the previous day’s meeting with Emery. Marcus had expected that Amy might still be upset over his acceptance of a “date” with Emery, but he was unprepared for what he saw. Even in her rush to get by his desk, Marcus could see the woman’s face was flushed and her eyes red; it was obvious she had been crying.

The other women in the office obviously noticed the snub Amy gave Marcus, with Latesha and Mollie exchanging looks that gave away their conclusions that Amy and Marcus – already the subject of office gossip over their apparent “affair” – must have had a fight.

Marcus tried not to let his current issues with Amy interfere with his work. He had a busy day ahead with visits scheduled for the Hartley and Jenkins households. He felt he had neglected both families due to his efforts to uncover the apparent trafficking ring that involved Jefferson Turner. Yet, as Marcus attempted to review the status of the foster children in both households, his thoughts were interrupted by reflections upon how he may be betraying Amy, a woman for whom he truly held great affections and one that didn’t deserve to be cast aside by him.

Last night in bed, he had been enthralled with the notion that he was a fetching young woman who had won the fancy of a vigorous young man. Guilt flooded his mind. He was so confused. It was then the realization hit: his attraction to both Amy and Emery were those of a young woman. Yes, he was Miranda. Perhaps, Marcus no longer existed.
(To be continued)
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading and helpful story suggestions)