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Crimes and Misdemeanors

Chapter One

Hearing the metal bars of his jail cell slam into place, one thought pervaded his extremely confused mind. He was seriously screwed. Nope, more than screwed, he was fucked. Royally fucked.

And for a change, it wasn't his fault.

Why the hell hadn't he remembered that Good Samaritans never prospered? They only got locked up in a steel cage on trumped up solicitation charges, he thought miserably as he surveyed his undignified surroundings.

As if he'd ever had to pay for it, he mentally snorted, throwing his orange jumpsuit clad body heavily onto the thin mattress that was supposed to pass for a cot.

All he'd wanted to do after coming home off a long, energy sapping case was have a beer, chill in front of his television and watch the game. Simple pleasures, right? Something that every man deserved after a hard day at the office, right?

A woman in a tight skirt and four inch stiletto heels had been the furthest thing from his mind. Damn it, sex had been so far off his radar that NASA couldn't even have sighted it. Admittedly, that little fact was a rarity, but no less true in this instance!

It was all Clooney's fault. That damned furball had been nothing but trouble since the day he'd rescued him from his abusive former owner during his beat cop days in Chicago. Now, the four legged demon had landed him in his own form of the doghouse. And his humble abode had steel bars and a questionable looking urinal, Morgan silently jeered, glaring toward the offensive steel receptacle in the corner.

It wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to him. He could admit that much to himself. But, damn, it was close. And it was that shaggy mule-headed so-called man's best friend's fault! He'd begged the damned animal to just hike his leg against the normal tree in the back yard. But after a week away from his master, Clooney had other ideas. Ideas that had involved snagging a pair of running shorts and a muscle shirt and going on a moonlit trek through the darkened streets of the city.

It should have been a freaking innocent endeavor. The operative word in that thought being SHOULD. But when in the history of his checkered past had anything ever been simple? Sometimes it had been through his own stupid choices that he got sucked into drama. But, this time...this time he'd been but an innocent participant in an unwitting game of "Name that Prostitute"!

He could hear it now. "Derek Morgan, come on down!"

Scrubbing his hands over his gritty eyes, Morgan shook his head morosely as he settled back against the cement block wall behind him and eyed the door to his cell. One thing was sure. If he was a sucker for a pretty face and shapely ass in need, his dog was ten times worse. And when they'd both heard a feminine scream emanating from a dark alley as they'd jogged down the street, neither could resist turning their heads toward the sound. And neither had been able to ignore it.

That had been mistake numero uno. It wasn't often that he cursed his mother's ingrained lessons. But tonight, yet again, being the gentleman had gotten him in trouble up to his eyeballs. Well, that...and the damned dog.

When he'd been running toward the doe eyed vixen nursing a split lip, his immediate thought had been that a deal with a customer had gone bad. Undercover cops didn't wear neon signs, after all. He hadn't a freaking clue that he and his dog had interrupted a bust months in the making.

And when he'd ran his hand down the chick's chilled arm, he had NOT been making a pass at her. And his offer of an escort back to his house so that she could make a phone call to her john...it had been a purely magnanimous gesture of support. NOT freaking solicitation.

But that wasn't how she'd seen it when she'd flashed her shield underneath his nose and narrowed her angry eyes on him. Oh, hell, no.

He had automatically reached for his back pocket, his every intention to identify himself as a federal officer. Of course, she had taken his sudden movement as a threat and his nose had been introduced to her Glock.

And so it was that his evening had gone from merely bad to a hell of a lot worse.

Now, he'd known from his days back on CPD that vice cops could be notoriously prickly. They were forced to dress and act whatever part they'd been assigned. Hooker. Dopehead. Didn't matter...what mattered to them was the job. So, it shouldn't have shocked him that the female version of the Terminator had him slammed against the brick wall of the building beside them and cuffed within seconds.

He'd pissed the undercover hottie off on so many dangerous levels. One for the alleged solicitation. And two, because, according to her, he wasn't taking the alleged allegation seriously.

Of course, his argument was that if he'd just allow her to identify himself, all the confusion would be cleared in mere moments. And she'd finally relented, reaching for his wallet.

His missing goddamned wallet.

Nylon running shorts held NO pockets. And thus, no identification.

She'd seen it as his opportunity to enjoy a cheap feel. Which he had. Immensely. It wasn't his fault that SHE was stacked. But it hadn't solved his current dilemma. Only complicated it. And then he'd found himself in the back of a squad car, bound for the 19th Precinct of DCPD, blue lights flashing in the otherwise dark night.

He'd endured the booking process with all the dignity he could muster, although the strip search HAD taken a toll on his ego. Who knew that standing in front of a hot woman naked could be so uncomfortable for him? Of course, usually when he was standing in his birthday suit with a girl, there weren't six additional sets of eyes watching.

Finally begging loud enough to be heard for his one phone call, he'd been forced to decide which colleague to seek help from. And therein lay his dilemma. There'd only been one real option.

Leading him to surmise, once more with feeling, that he, Derek Morgan was entirely fucked. Because there was no doubt in what he had left of his mind that when Jennifer Jareau arrived...she was gonna kill him.