This is Part 3 of 4 in our series on The Addicted Cop. If you have not yet read Parts 1 or 2, we recommend clicking on the attached links below.

Three times around the block in the last eleven minutes and each time she was still there, scanning the street, looking with interest at the passing cars, smiling a little at the ones occupied by single men - even posing slightly as they passed. Roaming slowly up and down the sidewalk, no more than thirty or forty feet either way, but always with an eye on the cars. She looked normal. Not some flashy/trashy over-the-top stereotype from a bad cable documentary, just... normal. He liked that.

And sure, she could just be waiting for someone she knew - her husband maybe, or a girlfriend - to swing by and give her a ride but by now he knew for sure what she was doing. She was working. A woman waiting for someone specific knows what car to look for, ignores the others, and definitely goes out of her way to avoid making eye contact with random men driving by, especially in a shabby neighborhood in a forgotten corner of a big city at late dusk. Not this woman. She was working - selling, to be more specific - selling exactly what he wanted. Needed. Craved even.

The fourth time around Jerry took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he pulled to the curb about twenty feet from where she stood, rolled down the passenger window, and waited to see if she approached him. If he had read her right she would know her part of the dance and approach his car, make contact, close the deal, arrange the date. Sure enough, here she came.

She leaned in through the window and Jerry saw she was prettier than most. Not an unrealistic Richard-Gere-Falls-for-Julia-Roberts-the-Movie-Fantasy-Hooker, but actually real-girl attractive, with a dimple when she smiled, a slight bump on the bridge of her nose, and a single, tiny mole above her right eyebrow. Now why did he notice all that? She seemed distantly familiar to him. Had he arrested her sometime in the past? Possibly. He had locked up a lot of people over the years and prostitutes were often good for their share of other criminality. No matter, she didn't make him as a cop; and anyway he was off the clock now and his need was fierce.

Less than thirty seconds to agree on service and price - practice makes perfect and Jerry had lots of practice - and she sent him to room 48 of the dingy little no-tell motel around the corner, with a promise to be right behind him. Jerry drove toward the motel, with pounding heart and dry mouth, eager for his fix. It was a familiar and welcome feeling of anticipation he loved, and one he loved satisfying.