bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,
bmblbee
bmblbee
bloodclaim

Period Of Adjustment

PERIOD OF ADJUSTMENT
17/40
Author: BmblBee
Paring: What else? S/X of course.
Rating: Adult for language and M/M activity.
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to the Bee.
and she makes no money off them, or anything else. The Bee is broke.
Summary: The Rosebud Murders took an emotional toll on
everyone involved. Is love enough for a happily ever after or does
it take a hell of a lot of work and compromise to build a life together?
Spike and Xander struggle to find out.




Thanks to Petxnd for the lovely banner


As expected, Spike was shown to an outer office to wait for the
convenience of the man he had come to see. Spike suppressed the
huge grin that wanted to cover his face. He had been in law enforcement
long enough to understand that this was step one in the chess match
of suspect confrontation.

How long he was to be kept waiting depended on several factors. The
assumption of the subject's importance of himself, the level of guilt he
felt and the impression of power he wished to display.

Spike knew letting his impatience or temper show would give his
opponent the first winning move. Spike chuckled. What Mr. Jacobs
couldn't have known was that Spike had no other cases on his desk
right now. He had all the time in the world, and patience, after all,
was a virtue.

Setting his briefcase down on one of the worn chairs, Spike noted that
the waiting room was not as clean as it should be. The receptionist was
young, and clearly inexperienced. That along with the old furniture and the
magazines, none of which were less than a year old all combined to
scream "money is short".

Apparently Mr.Jacob's investment business isn't exactly booming.
'Hmmm' Spike thought. 'Very interesting'

Spike chuckled, checked the time on his watch, grabbed up an
outdated Sports Illustrated, NOT the swimsuit edition, and settled in
to wait.
Exactly 17 minutes later, the solid wooden office door opened and
a man in last years grey suit appeared, a strained smile on his lips.

"Detective Pratt? Please come in. I hope I didn't keep you waiting
but I am very busy today. I hope we can do this quickly."

Spike slowly uncrossed his legs, laid down his magazine, stood and brushed
the wrinkles from his dress pants. He picked up his case and smiled.

"No problem. I have plenty of time. I understand how shocked and grief
stricken you must be over Mrs. Miller's, your Aunt's, death and I assure
you I wouldn't dream of rushing through this investigation."

Spike breezed by the stocky man, sniffing the air as he went and found
what he was looking for. Mr. Miller was sweating profusely.
He entered the office and took the seat on the side of the desk.
Once seated, Spike took out a yellow pad and pen.
He then extracted his tape recorder, checked the batteries, and laid
it on the scratched desk in front of him.

"You don't mind if I record this interview do you? I only do it for
accuracy. I find it eliminates any misunderstanding later."

Jacobs still stood by the office door watching Spike make himself
comfortable and seething with anger. His business was in the toilet, his
bitch of a wife had maxed out more credit cards than he even knew
they had and his worthless kids were insisting on every new video
game and sneaker that came on the market.

When the old lady had died, Jacobs saw it as a way out. Just two
weeks after being told he was losing his house to the fucking government,
all his problems had suddenly floated away in the bath.
Literally.

The accidental death clause of the insurance doubled the payoff and
he could finally get out. Out of the business, out of the marriage, and
out of the state, with one certain big breasted Mindy Greene, receptionist,
on his arm.

'Now this.' Jacobs mentally cursed. 'The wheel of good fortune finally
started to spin for me and just when, after a month of erectile disfunction,
I can sense a woody of magnificent proportions on the horizon, this
fucking cop shows up and puts the brakes on everything.'
He had never felt more limp.

Willing his muscles to unlock and his fists to uncurl, Jacobs closed the
office door and sat down across form the detective who was annoyingly
fucking around with the buttons on his recorder.

"Record? Record what? I really don't understand why you are here.
Tragic as it was, my Aunt drowned in the tub. No bullet wounds,
no graphically severed throat, no hanging from the rafters. Accident.
Period."

Spike's eyebrows shot up. If nothing else Mr. Jacobs was certainly guilty
of felony heartlessness and misdemeanor stupidity.

Spike's eyes darted down to the recorder and he satisfied himself that the
inner wheels were spinning, picking up every word.

"Yes, well, I can see you are devastated by the loss of your beloved family
member, however, I'm sure my visit here can't be too much of a shock
now is it Mr. Jacobs? Didn't the Medical Examiner call and tell you that
there was some discrepancies in the condition of the body and he would
be conducting a full autopsy?"


Jacobs gasp.
"What discrepancies? What kind of a game are you playing Detective?
I'll have you know I have very influential clients. Judges, attorneys,
doctors, even your boss. Did you know the magistrate, Judge Ethan
Rayne is a client of mine? How do you think he would react if I called
and told him you were fucking with me, Detective?"

Spike cringed inside. No, he did not know Judge Rayne was affiliated
with this slime bag but if that was true, keeping this low key was going to
be next to impossible.

"Fucking with you? I'm not sure where that is coming from, Mr. Jacobs.
I am certainly not accusing you of anything and we are as anxious as
you are to get to the truth. Now, when my report is complete and the
autopsy is finished, everything will be put together and this matter will
reach the appropriate conclusion. Where were you on the evening
of your Aunt's demise? When was the last time you went to visit her?"

Mark Jacobs stomach fell to his feet and squirmed around his toes.
He looked silently into the eyes of the blank expression on the cops face
and tried to read what was there. Was he a suspect? Was this some
sort of payback initiated by a failed investor?

Suddenly a new phrase split through Jacobs brain like an Apache arrow.

MURDER SUSPECT.

Was he suggesting that he had murdered the old bird?
How much trouble was he in?

Jacobs felt himself start to hyperventilate. His face turned red and
his voice squeaked as his throat closed in.
"What? I haven't been to the home in weeks. I was here. Well, o.k.
not here, here, but I was in town, here. Having dinner, with my
receptionist. A business dinner. You can ask her. I did not......."

Mark Jacobs immediately stopped and took a moment to compose
himself. He reached across the desk, picked up the whirling tape
recorder and held it just inches from his lips.
Clearly and carefully he spoke into it.

"This interview is over, Detective. Any further questions should be
directed to my attorney. Good day."

He then hit the stop button, rose from his chair and handed it back.
Spike no longer made any attempt to hide his huge grin as he also
stood and offered his hand.

"You have been very helpful, Mr. Jacobs. More than you realize.
I'll be in touch."

Spike turned and walked out.
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