Little Napoleon
Title: Little Napoleon
Author: ken_r AKA Kenneth Renouard
Rated: mature
Couples will be CC as far as I can make them
Disclaimer: I make no claim on the characters. I am just trying to tell a Roswell story in another, more adult and earthier manner.
Rating: mature
WARNING, WARNING There may be content that offends some readers. If so, please give me the respect to go somewhere else to read and let me post for those who do like what I write. kr
If there are words not explained in the story, please request that I make them clear.
Summery: Strong women are running a police detective squad. A series of murders all with silver handprints and two leading detectives turn out to be alien themselves. Captain Kyle Valenti finds himself surrounded by aliens. Especially the one he just can’t keep his hands off of.
Political Grease: This is a term used in many organizations where promotions are highly subjective. It may come from the term, “Grease the skids of promotion.” This makes climbing the political ladder smoother by influence of some entity who has your best interest.
Perp: slang for perpetrator sometimes used for any subject in question. Whether they are arrested or not.
Characters:
Maria DeLuca, an exotic dancer who worked her way through college dancing at a strip joint, became a vice cop and finally, joined the unit run by Little Napoleon.
Max Evans, from a strange beginning, receives an Ivy League education, wants to serve society so he joins the police force, becomes detective and joins his boyhood friend, Michael Guerin.
Michael Guerin, another strange beginning, but he is found by the welfare service, joins the army and becomes a MP, follows his friend, Evans, into the detective squad.
Isabel Eventide is a jet setter, educated, lecturer, psychologist and party girl. She changes men like some women change shoes. Evans’ sister with similar strange beginnings.
Alex Whitman, joins police department to pay off student loans is a lieutenant in detective squad.
Kyle Valenti, captain of detective squad, is tough on both men and perps, believes women are for only one thing. He is asked to give up everything for the love of one woman.
Big Jim Valenti, former Roswell police officer is now deputy chief of metropolis police department.
Lieutenant Elizabeth Parker, known as Little Napoleon. Is head of detective squad, which investigates strange things.
Small blonde woman, found with the enemy after a shootout.
FIVE murders all having silver handprints on bodies.
It just keeps coming, "A DEAL SHE CAN'T REFUSE." How long can she hold out?
Little Napoleon
Little Napoleon stood in her office and gazed across the ocean of other desks through the windows of her office. The fact that she had a private office located in the rear of the large room that made up the detective squad was just another thing that annoyed the rest of the department. It was not like the other lieutenant’s office, which was originally build into the room near the door. The back office was clearly an add-on from the instructions of some serious grease from up above. Little Napoleon stood almost five foot three. She was slender with medium length dark hair and brown eyes that looked right into your soul. Maybe, that sight is what made her a great detective. Little Napoleon normally wore a dress when she was working in her office. In the field, she would be dressed in slacks always topped by boots. The boots did add almost two inches to her height. The desks before her were all manned by other detectives, who were thinking, reading or discussing, the various cases of the Metropolis Police Department. They clearly were part of a team. Little Napoleon, (you only called her that to her face if you wanted to get bounced on your ass,) had risen to the grade of lieutenant in her detective squad of “Strange and Unusual Cases.” They got all of the really weird stuff. That her small squad was even tolerated, was questioned by most of the department. First, it was the speed she had advanced in a department where promotions were notoriously slow. It didn’t take rocket science to see that she was an outcast. Her squad had become like the original “X Files.” The fact that any of these cases were ever solved was a testament to the efforts of Little Napoleon or better known as, Lieutenant Elizabeth Parker.
Her assistant was Maria DeLuca, a voluptuous, curvaceous woman who when last working vice, picked up two priests, a bishop and the chairman of the board of the local Methodist church. We could mention other religious occupations, but her boss, then Sergeant Kyle Valenti, just rounded them all up and hauled them all into court. The judge, himself a religious man, with disgust fined them all $500 apiece, ordered them home and charged them to think about their vows. When DeLuca wiggled her body before most men, you could figure that vows everywhere were flushed down the toilet. Sergeant DeLuca could have been a pin up girl in the thirties. She wasn’t one of those stick thin models that crowd the tube now. Looking at her showed that she was filled out like a well trained athlete. She was the example of what a cop would fight for. The truth was that she was the example of who a cop wanted by his side in a bar fight
Don’t let those curves and soft boobs fool you. The now, Sergeant Maria DeLuca, could kick your butt before you even knew you were in a fight. Once Deluca and Parker had cleaned out a biker bar. Then, to add insult to the many injuries, they, with DeLuca driving and Parker riding behind, stole the president of the biker club’s custom Harley, taking it back to the police station. To reclaim his bike, he had to show bills of sale for every custom item on it.
In court, most defense attorneys were so wrapped up in their wet dreams while ogling DeLuca and the almost teen-aged appearing Parker, that before they got their case laid out, the jury had already convicted the perp on the grounds that everyone wanted to please those two women. With Parker and DeLuca, you either fell in love or you ran in panic.
Lieutenant Alex Whitman was the name of the other detective lieutenant, from in the front office. He was in charge of all the rest of the men on the detective squad. Thirty men worked under Whitman and yet, Parker was given the same rank and pay grade as he was. That was so she could approach Lt. Whitman and request assistance when they needed it. Whitman didn’t like it, but he was told that if he didn’t support Lt. Parker, she would be raised to the rank of captain. The Former sergeant, now, Captain Valenti, made this clear to Whitman. Valenti didn’t want, “No damned woman working beside me.” He was all right with a woman under him, but above or equal to him was a no, no! Whitman could solve his equality problem with Parker the best he could. Valenti was sure that for Parker to hold the rank of Lieutenant, with only Sgt. DeLuca below her, she had to be sleeping with some one up above. It was crazy to make Parker and DeLuca their own unit, even crazier when it came down from above that Parker was to be given all the men she needed on her request. How in the hell did Little Napoleon get that much serious grease?
Under Lieutenant Whitman, a very good squad solved Murders, rapes and auto thefts. While Parker and DeLuca, wrestled with the burning man seen in the hills near Metropolis. They took months, but they solved it. Needless to say, the apparition of a man-like flaming figure running across the hill side, made whatever awards that the scouts were passing out that night, take second place. The flaming figure ended in a magnificent explosion, lighting up the whole campground and half the mountain. It made headlines. It made the national press. Parker’s report, was only read by the department.
It turned out to be Freaky Freddy who set himself on fire while cooking meth on an open fire. He did this in the hills above a campground, currently being used by a group of scouts having a campfire ceremony. The flaming Freddy, flaming in more ways than one, fell over the containers full of the volatile mixture he had been cooking. Some how that set off boxes of military grade C4 and primers. Of course the Valero brothers had stored those items close together for security. Then, they had placed both items nearby Freddie’s outdoor lab. The Valeros trusted Freddy and they knew that he never left his fire when he was making a batch. With Freddy watching their explosives, they thought it would be safe from so many thieves in the area. It was getting so that a criminal couldn’t trust hardly anyone any more. Freddy was reliable. His ever present shotgun assured the Valero’s that their stash of explosive would be safe. Safe, that is, from theft. Freddy didn’t promise anything else. The Valero’s were a throw back from the sixties. They had been the head of a Hispanic organization that wanted the southwest to secede from the states. Trouble was that now the idealistic Hispanic kids who followed the Valero brothers had graduated from college and like their Anglo hippy brothers, were now, all CEOs of major corporations. The ideology of their youth had given way to the six figure salaries of their adult lives. Who gave a damn about the revolutionary dreams of a bunch of kids when you had to pay off two Bemmers, a house in Four Hills and a Harvard education? No one wanted to revolt against this.
True, in the time Parker and DeLuca worked on Freddy’s case, Whitman’s boys had brought to justice four murderers, a major auto theft ring and five rapists from the campus of the nearby university. Still, Parker and DeLuca could now say, with certainty, that the flaming man was Freaky Freedy and the resulting explosion was caused by the actions of the Valero brothers, none of which were ever seen intact again. Bits of bone did show up from time to time.
Whitman had been what was called a ‘geek’ while in high school. Tall, slender, Whitman was no athlete. No one would have predicted that he would end up as a Lieutenant in the Metropolis Police Department, least of all Whitman. Alexander Charles Whitman, graduated with honors with a degree in Computer Science. Like most in his graduating class, Whitman found that for every job there were a dozen applicants with real time experience. He returned to college for another degree. The government promised that the recession would not last more than a year.
Once a famous man named Ronald Reagan, said that a recession is when your neighbor can’t get a job. That can easily lead to a depression when you are the person who can’t get a job. Alex found that the recession declared by the government became a personal depression for himself. A few Pollyanna fools believed what the government said that the recession would be over in a year. When Alex had approached the bankers with his transcripts they were more than happy to lend him student loans. Now, those same bankers looked at him with sterner faces; he was out of college and still no prospects of a job. Whitman had a hell of a lot of student loans to repay. The police were hiring as well as the Department of Corrections at the state prison. Whitman had been an honor student so he quickly signed up with the Metropolis Police Department, no prison guard detail for him.
Foot patrol gave Whitman sore feet and riding in a police cruiser all day gave him a sore ass. It was one day while lending muscle, standing guard while the crime scene investigating boys (CSI) did their thing, that the then, patrolman Whitman, saw a chance to demonstrate what he was born to do. The CSI guys were bitching about finding a computer that was encrypted. They hated turning stuff like that over to the Feds. The Feds could crack the box, they were the only group with the money and talent to handle encryption like this. CSI knew that whatever the Feds found would not be shared. When no one was looking, Whitman sat down and using what he had learned about the psychology of pass words, he had the thing up and running before the yells to, “Get the hell away from there,” had even died down. Now CSI would not have to think of approaching the feds, hat in hand, begging for favors. In house talent like this assured Alex of a promotion and a transfer to the detective squad.
The stringy Detective Whitman, had a metabolism that would not bulk up. He could eat a horse, or better a dozen donuts, and not gain an ounce. To build a reputation, Whitman spent most of his spare time in the gym. He took every self-defense course offered and on his own time he studied every book he could find on clandestine or black operations. The results were that Whitman could kill a man, using a spiral notebook, thirteen different ways. You should see what he could do with a ballpoint pen. He earned the respect of his men, not by his looks or his degrees, but rather by what they knew he could do in the field. His men worked hard and they were loyal to a fault. They would follow Whitman into hell itself. That didn’t keep them from bitching when he told them they had to work for Little Napoleon.
Captain Valenti was tough and smart. He went to college funded by a scholarship earned by the number of yards he ran in high school football. He majored in sociology and physical education. It didn’t matter what his major was, as his daddy, Big Jim Valenti, was one of the deputy chiefs of the department. Big Jim wanted a son he could be proud of so he placed, Kyle Valenti in the roughest part of town. Valenti never asked for backup which, in hindsight, was foolish. When he entered a bar, you needed a paddy wagon for prisoners and several ambulances for the wounded. So far, the wounded never included Valenti. With in a year, the honest people on Valenti’s beat were so over joyed with his brand of justice that they paid for every meal he ate. No one held up a joint when Valenti was expected to stop by for dinner. No one ran out without paying when he was sitting at the counter drinking coffee. Come Christmas time, Kyle Valenti had to drive his squad cars along his beat to carry the presents and gratuities that he was given. The professional girls in the area made offers a lesser man would not refuse. His athletic good looks made many of them think, they might even do it for love with Valenti. Kyle was careful about them. His father would kick his butt if he got into some scandal with one of the local whores. The pushers, the crack heads and the scum of the city all petitioned the ACLU to get Valenti moved. After Kyle had pissed off or hospitalized every bad guy in his district, daddy had him moved to detective. As a detective, he graduated to working vice. In vice, he rose to the rank of sergeant. Now, he was captain of the entire detective division. Unfortunately for him, this included Lieutenant Parker and her strange cases.
Officers who seem to have advantage in the department are said to have a “rabbi.” This came from the old days on the east coast where the predominately Irish Catholic police ran everything. The Jewish lads who wanted to serve the law found themselves at loss until they found within their own ranks, individuals who would speak up for them and assure the young Jews equal opportunity. These champions were called rabbis. Now, when your rabbi is your own father you can be certain that the skids of promotion will receive plenty of grease. But, even big Jim could not tell Kyle why he had been saddled with Parker, DeLuca and their ridiculous squad.
Most men held that women officers should be out working vice. When they were back in the office they should be practicing this vice with willing officers to get better at it. No one in the detective unit ever bragged of screwing either Parker or DeLuca, or at least, no one who ever lived to tell about it. Yes, DeLuca had been one hell of a decoy when she was working with the vice unit, but as soon as she met Parker, nada. She was as unapproachable as the lieutenant herself. Everyone knew that DeLuca wasn’t any virgin, but whoever she was getting it from, wisely remained silent. The squad wasn’t sure about Little Napoleon.
Kyle had a right to be proud of his unit. He, also, supported them. Kyle, as captain, might be in a political position, but as the son of a deputy chief of considerable power, Kyle didn’t bend to political winds. Kyle lived for his department. When his own men had to pull his hands off a defense attorney’s throat, it took papa considerable effort to pull in enough credit to hush it up. The attorney had implied one of Kyle’s officers had lied in court. Kyle did put the gym off limits that afternoon as he and a certain officer went ‘mano a mano’ in a work out. Kyle reported that he would always back his men, but if the men did things, which were stupid, like lying, Kyle would kick their asses until the end of the week.
Captain Kyle Valenti was not a happy camper when he found himself saddled with Lieutenant Parker. Kyle considered himself the greatest lover since that amateur, Clark Gable. Women working for him, were not something he completely understood. He had no idea how she got there and neither did Big Jim. Big Jim did get word down to his son to be careful. Parker reportably had a rabbi much above the power of Big Jim. “Son, make the best of it and cover your ass whenever you have dealings with her,” Big Jim cautioned. Kyle immediately pulled Parker’s record. That didn’t help. She had been turned down on the first cut of rookies of her class. She had been said to be too small. No matter, when the classes started up, there was Rookie Parker on the roster, her name had been penciled in by someone with considerable grease. Of course, she excelled in the written part of the training. Many of the men were recertified ‘Jocks’ who had to be forced to learn. They had made it by athletic ability so far. It was a come down to be told that they had to burn much midnight oil to make it through the school. Academically, the women rookies usually were superior. At first, Parker was low in personal defense, but by the end of the school, Parker was in the top five. She even had three reprimands about un-necessary roughness during training. When Parker made it to the detective squad, she brought along a certain vice cop named, DeLuca.
DeLuca made the physical part of rookie school with ease. She had been a singer for some time. That gave her an excellent set of lungs. She had been trained in ballet in her youth, but she practiced exotic dancing when she graduated from college. If the police department had wanted a recruiting poster, DeLuca would have been the woman to star on it. One chap in the crime lab, with the help of PhotoShop, had cobbled one up. It had the scantily clad DeLuca in a mini police uniform with a badge taped to her chest and little else. The poster read, “Come and work with me.”
There were 250 requests for printing of that poster the first day. Many lockers let their owners see the voluptuous DeLuca, inviting them to hit the streets, taped to locker doors. Her picture stayed with them as they did work those streets and was waiting for them when they returned. Even DeLuca had her own copy. The only statement from her was, “Boys, my boobs stand out a lot better than that.”
No, she would not consent to pose so the artist could get it right. Not many of the officers had ever seen her in the buff so they could only dream about the real thing. Her fantastic physical assets hid what Parker had seen. Maria DeLuca had a lot of street smarts as well as a good mind when it came to solving crime. The real loss, for many years, was that no matter how good she had been working vice, as a detective, she had few peers. Only Parker saw this in her.
Whitman’s lead detectives were Evans and Guerin. Evans was quiet and introspective. He came from a wealthy home and had an Ivy League education. With curley brown hair and light brown eyes, he must have been some sort of heartthrob in the debutant circuit. Unlike others in the squad, his sex life was unknown. Bragging about weekends was beneath the Patrician, Max Evans. Sometime in his life had rung the words of Theodore Roosevelt, “The privileged class owes a service to society.” Evans had no idea of when he first heard this or if it even could be attributed to the great president. He found a home in police work and enjoyed the challenge it gave him.
A detective was expected to wear a suit or, at least, a sports coat. Evans dressed impeccably. His suits cost thousands of dollars apiece. His shoes were not imported; it was believed that his family imported the Italian shoe makers instead. Still, you would find Evans always willing to crawl through the slime of the underworld the same as any other detective.
His partner was the taciturn, often belligerent, Michael Guerin. Where Evans stepped somewhere out of the social registry and dressed for it, Guerin, who having climbed out of the welfare system, did good to wear a jacket along with his Levis and tennis shoes. Guerin was a good street cop. It was known that although he would sit with the boys at the bar, Guerin drank very little, if any at all. Where the Evans family could sometimes even lean on the powerful Chief Valenti, Michael Guerin did not have the slightest idea of who his family was. He said he didn’t give a damn either. That was probably just bravado on his part. He was as surprised as anyone when it was announced that his boyhood friend, Max Evans, requested him as a partner in the detective squad.
Together, they found that they made a perfect team. In the interrogation room, they broke almost every suspect down. They would start with the burley Guerin grabbing the suspect and hustling them to the interrogation room. He always shouted out to the entire department, “Hey Lieutenant, Evans and I will have the perp in the torture chamber.” The surprise to the perp, was that it was Guerin, so rough on the outside, who appeared sympathetic to the prisoner. The fear came from his quiet mysterious friend standing in the background with a face as impassive as a hangman.
Interrogation always started the same way. Guerin would quietly start with the paper work. Name, date of birth and social security numbers were quietly recorded. For awhile, it would appear that the muscular Guerin was the perp’s best friend. Then, he would lean across the table and with his breath smelling of the onions in the cheese burgers that he continually ate, shout out his questions. After a time if the answers were not forth coming, Guerin would lean back and sigh. “I tried to be your friend. If you won’t talk to me, then Dr. Strangelove will talk to you next.”
Few of the perps remembered or even knew of that character from the old Peter Seller’s movie of the “Cold War” time. The next comment grabbed their attention. “You know, he studied under some of them reconstituted ‘Nazzies’ from the second war,” Michael would whisper.
That was the cue for Evans to come forth. Vincent Price had nothing on Evans. Maxwell Evans would look like he just stepped out of a gentlemen’s fashion magazine. The drama of slowly removing his gloves usually transfixed the attention of the perp. A Master’s degree in psychology, along with a degree in drama, as he opened his supply of dental picks, erupted in the now very quiet interrogation room. Guerin always sat on the same side of the table as the perp. From time to time, he would pat the perp’s shoulder lending him moral support. “I’d help ya if I could, but he’s the devil if he don’t slice someone up every day or so,” Michael would whisper. It was not uncommon for the subject to be removed from the interrogation room broken and in tears.
So far, no one had survived this drama for more than a day. Of course, they never put this show on unless they had a lot of evidence, Exploratory interrogations, were usually made by someone else in the department. Leave it to Little Napoleon who would cause them to change their usual pattern of interrogation.
Their number of arrests, the number of outstanding upcoming court appearances and the favor they felt had earned with Lieutenant Whitman, all added up to enough grease, they felt, to avoid being loaned to another squad, namely that of Little Napoleon. “Lieutenant, you can’t send us over there to work with those women. Look at the court cases we have to be free to attend. Will she notify us and give us time off to follow through all the impending cases? You need us to work for you here!” They both exclaimed.
“If you two bozos don’t get your asses over to that office across the room, there won’t be any one to work for here. That woman has enough grease to slide our entire department back to uniforms,” the lieutenant yelled. “And don’t forget that it is Lieutenant Parker and Sergeant DeLuca. I don’t want any of my men in the hospital, just because they were impolite to those women,” he continued.