by K. J. Emrick
From my satchel I took out my notebook and wrote down that name. I also sent a screenshot of the page to my personal email. A name and a face. It wasn’t much of a lead right now, but maybe after a conversation with Mrs. Timmins it would turn out to be more. A girl can dream, I guess.
Out of habit I go to reach for the coffee cup again. Thankfully, my phone rings before I can remind myself—again—that cold coffee is gross.
When I see the number, I answer right away. “Got a job for me now?”
Christian Caine sighs. He’s got a million different kinds of sighs and each one means something different. This is not one of his good sighs. Frankly, I think the man needs a vacation. He’s way too tense.
“I’m not calling you about a job,” he says, with another identical sigh. “This is something else.”
“Well, I’m busy tonight if you’re calling about a date.”
“Ha, ha. I can find my own dates, Sidney.”
“Ooh, you got a date tonight?”
“No, I don’t have a date tonight.”
“So you’re saying you can’t actually find a date?”
“I’m not calling about my love life, either.”
“What love life?” I tease.
“Right back at you.”
Well, he got me there. Laughing, I close my laptop up. “That’s cold, Chris.”
“Then you’re going to love this. What in the hell do you think you were doing trying to rob a bank?”
That gets me sitting up straight on my stool. “How did you…?”
“How did I know you were in a bank pretending to be some government official so you could trick them into giving you protected information?” I can hear him shifting the phone to his other ear, and then the sound of a door closing. He was keeping our conversation private, and that worried me even more. “What were you thinking? They have security cameras in banks, Sid. Did you really think you could just slip in and out of there without anyone noticing?”
“Nobody knows my face there, Chris, and I’ve done this act before. It always works.”
There was just a moment of silence on his end of the line. “You realize, don’t you, that you just confessed to a major crime, right?”
“Chris.”
“Don’t ‘Chris’ me. Bank fraud is the big time, Sidney, so make sure you pack your bags before they come to pick you up. You’re looking at ten years, minimum.”
“I am not!”
Several people in the café turn to look my way at my outburst.
“I am not,” I hiss more quietly into the phone. Smiling at the room to show them I’m not a maniac, I slip my computer back into its satchel, and head straight for the exit door to the street. “You take that back.”
“You tell me why you were at that bank. How about that?”
Out on the busy street, the hum of people talking and the cars on the street and a thousand other noises give me as much privacy as if I was in an empty room all by myself. “Look, I was there for a case. I was getting information. I didn’t steal anything.”
“Except you took a video of that guy’s computer screen.” His voice was full of disapproval. “Damn it, Sid. You’re just lucky this complaint landed on my desk and not someone else’s. You really could end up in jail for stuff like this.”
“Wait, so you’re not going to turn me in?”
“Keep pushing your luck and I just might. I can’t keep covering for you. It’s not good for my career. Or my blood pressure.”
Now that I know I’m not going to get arrested, my good mood is back. “I was just thinking that you need to relax,” I tell him brightly.
“I’m not joking. I can’t keep covering for you.”
“Sure you can. Know why? Because I’m cute.”
“You’re not cute. You’re gorgeous and you know it, but that won’t keep you out of jail if you don’t stay away from banks from now on.”
“That’s going to make it awfully hard for me to deposit my checks, don’t you think?”
“Sid, I’m serious. Promise me. No more banks.” I could hear the frustration beginning to leak into his voice.
“Okay Chris, I promise. No more banks. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“I was a flower girl once,” I tell him. “Does that count?”
“You’ve got your fingers crossed, don’t you?”
I lifted my two fingers in an X and kissed them. “Maybe.”
“Goodbye, Sid. Remember what I said.”
“No banks. Got it.”
He hangs up first, leaving me smiling ear to ear. I just love our little conversations. I know he’s going to scold me, and he knows I’m going to ignore his advice whenever it gets in the way of me doing my job. It’s a perfectly symbiotic relationship.
Chapter Three
The mail in my lockbox at the apartment complex was truly depressing. Two pieces of mail that were my neighbors, and not mine. I slipped them into the slots for the right people. Of the stuff that is mine, there’s a couple of bills, and a letter from St. Jude’s asking for donations, and an Abercrombie and Fitch magazine. I don’t know why they keep sending me their magazine. Every model in here is a size two. I’m a real woman, and I have curves… although I’d look absolutely fabulous in that coat. Ooh. Those shorts, too.
So I’ll keep the magazine for now, but my finances are going to have to turn themselves around before I start going crazy with new clothes. The bills can be shelved for a few days. Up in my apartment, the St. Jude’s envelope goes on the kitchen table. I like to donate to them when I can. Five dollars, ten dollars maybe, it’s not much but it’s what I can spare. If everybody in the country gave just that much it would be a real windfall for them. They’re a hospital for sick kids with cancer. How do you not give to a place like that?
Kicking off my uncomfortable shoes as I close the door, and unbuttoning the top of my blouse, I drop my satchel on the couch. My mind is running through the few facts I learned today on my new case.
Point one. Katarina didn’t just leave Barlow, she cleaned out every cent from two of his bank accounts. I have to believe that if she’d known about his two other accounts the money would be gone from them, too. So. What would a woman who’s in the country on a visa need all that money for? Certainly not to shop at Abercrombie and Fitch.
Point two. She had someone with her when she took the money out of the bank. I’d watched my cellphone recording of the security video a few times now and still don’t know what the other woman looked like. That hat she was wearing, and the way she kept herself turned away from the cameras, made it impossible to catch so much as a glimpse of her face. I could see her hands, though. She was Caucasian, with red nail polish on her fingers. Not exactly enough to identify her. Was she someone Katarina knew? Or, was she maybe forcing Katarina to take all that money?
Point three. Katarina was Facebook friends with a nurse named Louise Timmins. I was going to need to speak with her tomorrow. I didn’t know her home address, but I know where she works. So. Put that on my to-do list.
Point four. There’s one other friend of Katarina’s that I need to track down, this Carol woman that she kept talking to by text message. I need to look into that tomorrow as well.
Oh, and five: Christian thinks I’m gorgeous. Smart guy.
Not bad for a day’s work, especially considering that I avoided going to jail. I’d say I definitely earned my money today.
I’m halfway down the hall to my bedroom before I remember that package is waiting for me. Hard to believe I almost forgot about it, considering the thing practically brushes the ceiling just leaning there. Long. Rectangular. What’s long and rectangular?
Only one way to find out, I guess.
With a sigh that would have made Christian proud, I double back into the kitchen and get the package out of the corner to lay it down on the floor. It’s heavier than it looked. Have to give Barlow his props. He didn’t look that strong.
It’s j
ust my name and address on the white shipping label, typed instead of hand-written. No return address. The postage was prepaid and there’s one of those stickers with the amount paid on it rather than a bunch of stamps. That means this went through an actual post office somewhere, and that makes the chances of it being a bomb even less likely. Probably not a dead snake either, for the same reason. Which is good. I do not, do not, do not like snakes.
There are a few different postmarks. The one on top is from here in Detroit. The one under that is from Philadelphia, PA. The one under that is smudged, but with a little squinting I can read the name… Umm al-Qura? Where in the world is that? Hard to take a place seriously that starts with ‘Umm.’ How do you even pronounce that? I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of that place, wherever it is.
The tape along the sides gives easily to the edge of my scissors. I made sure not to cut too deep. Whatever was inside might be fragile or made of paper or something.
It could have been a dozen different things but when I open the flaps of the box and see what it really is… well, that wasn’t anything I would have thought of.
A rug. One of those really thin ones with a woven design and—I swear to God—tassels around the edge. It’s all rolled up on itself, which explains the shape of the box, and how heavy it was.
But it’s a rug. Who on Earth would send me a rug?
It’s nice, I have to admit. One of those oriental carpets. I tug out a little bit of it, unrolling it like a tinfoil package. It’s all reds and yellows and greens, woven in angular lines and smaller swirls all around. It must have taken someone a long time to make and now… well, I guess it’s mine.
I look over at my living room space, picturing it there on the floor. I mean, it’s a rug, and it should go on the floor, right? Or do you hang something like this on the wall? Nah. I’m not a tapestry kind of girl. It’s going on the floor.
Taking a good grip on the leading edge, I pull it all the way out of its box. There’s a smell that comes with it. An old smell. The smell of important things that have lasted for ages. Like the way a museum smells, or the inside of one of those really big libraries…
Three seconds out. That’s all I can see into the future, and right now, in three seconds, something big is about to happen. I mean big.
Something in me told me to run as the last of the rug came rolling out, but there just wasn’t time.
A cloud of dust plumes up suddenly, blinding me, making me cough and setting me back on my backside.
For some reason, I smell flowers.
It’s a long moment before I can clear the tears out of my eyes, and catch my breath, and when I look up again the dust is gone. The rug is spread out over my kitchen floor, tucked in around the legs of the table and pushed up against the sides of my cabinets. The tassels around the edge are tangled up with each other.
And standing in the middle of the rug is a man.
He’s tall, and he’s built. Broad shoulders and heavy arms folded over a barrel chest, a six-pack that would make Arnold Schwarzenegger jealous peeking out from that green vest he was wearing. The odd fashion choices don’t stop there. A wide silk sash belted his trim waist, somehow holding up a pair of gold silk pants that were full-on MC Hammer style. Pointed shoes and no socks. There were metal cuffs at both his wrists that looked like they were made from copper. There was a copper circlet around his neck. Copper earring hoops in both ears.
His skin was deeply tanned. His black hair was pulled up into a topknot, of all things. His face was all angles. Heavy jaw. Puffy lips. Bull neck. Deep, deep brown eyes and I kid you not, black guyliner.
Scrambling back along the floor in my pencil skirt and half undone blouse, still coughing out the last of the dust from my lungs, I was suddenly very aware that I’d left my satchel on the couch, and my .38 revolver was in the satchel. Kind of left me in a bad spot.
“How did you get in here?” I shout at the guy, loud as I can. “Get out! Get out of here right now!”
Sometimes men are just like dogs, and if you act all tough and shout a lot, they’ll back down.
Not this guy.
Kneeling down in those swishing parachute pants, he reaches out to me with one large, open hand. And then he smiles. “I can not ‘get out,’ my lady. I am bound to the rug, and the rug is here. Besides, you look like you could use a hand getting up. That skirt does not look very comfortable.”
His deep voice is edged with a rolling sort of accent. Arabic, I guess. I’d served in the Middle East when I was in the Marines and I was pretty sure this was the same accent. Round vowels. A musical rise and fall with each inflection. It was a nice voice. His eyes, now that he was close enough for me to see them better, aren’t exactly brown. There’re flecks of gold in them, and they lit up when he smiled. Laying there on my backside in my own kitchen, staring at this strange man who had literally popped in from out of nowhere, I felt… like I could trust him. There was a stranger in my apartment, and here I was giving him my hand so he could pull me up to my feet.
This was, without a doubt, the strangest thing that has ever happened to me.
“Uh, thank you,” I tell him, because it seemed like the thing to say. “Now, I don’t mean to seem rude to the guy who just helped me up off the floor, but do you mind telling me what you’re doing in my kitchen?”
“Ah,” he beams. With obvious pleasure, he holds his arms out wide and spins in a slow circle, taking in my humble apartment. “So this is your living space, then?”
“Yeah, it is. It’s not much but it’s mine and I don’t usually entertain strange men here. Unless I invite them in myself, I mean.”
He turns back to me and gives me a wink with one black-rimmed eye. “So you like strange men, do you?”
“That is not what I…! Look, this is my place. I live here, I work here, and it might not be a mansion on the hill with security gates and guard dogs, but it’s still my apartment.”
“It’s nice,” he says, almost apologetically. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. I mean, considering my last master was homeless, this is definitely a step up.”
Did he really just say that? “Your last master? Was homeless? What are you, like a butler for street people?”
One arm sweeps to his waist, and he makes a bow so deep that I have to step back to give him room. “I am but a humble servant, my lady. And now, it would appear that I am at your service.”
Okay. This conversation just dropped into crazyville territory. “Listen, this is getting too weird for me. You seem like a nice guy and all, but if you don’t go, right now, I’m going to call 911.”
His face wrinkles up in confusion, his brows knitting together over those amazing eyes. “What is nine, one, one? Ooh, if I call nine, one, two, then do I win?”
“That’s it!” I exclaim, going for the corded phone up on the wall. I only keep it for my P.I. business, in case my cell dies, or whatever, but right now it’s going to let me call the nice men in blue to come and remove a crazy man. “Okay buster, you asked for it. Hope you like handcuffs because you’re about to get really comfortable with a set.”
I can hear the man chuckling as I’m dialing, and when I look back he claps his hands together loudly. “Everyone always needs proof that I’m telling the truth. Very well, my lady. The first one is free. Make a wish.”
Halfway between pressing the nine, and the first number one, my finger hesitates. “Make a what now?”
“A wish. What is it you’re wishing for in this exact moment? Right now, as we are both standing here, what is it you would wish for the most?”
“You’re nuts,” I tell him. “Are you on any medications I should know about? Maybe something you skipped this morning?”
“No, I am serious. Trust me.”
Trust the big muscely dude with the topknot who just broke into my kitchen somehow? Right. Sure. “You’re asking me,” I say as my finger hovers over the dial pad on my phone, “to tell you what I’m wishing for right now?”
�
��Now you are catching on, my lady. Just, please, don’t wish for a ham sandwich. It’s been done. Be original. You strike me as an original kind of person.”
“So you want me to say something like,” and I don’t know why, but I actually took a minute to think of something really cool, “I wish for Hugh Jackman to marry me, and you’re going to make that happen?”
His smile turns into a frown. “Uh, no. I’m afraid not. There are rules to these things. Things I can’t do, as well as things I can. For instance, I can not make anyone fall in love with you.”
“Of course not. How convenient. Listen, buddy, I’m one number away from calling the police. You can take your magic show on the road or you can—”
“I can’t kill anyone.”
That turned my blood cold. Things just got real in here.
“That’s one of the rules, I mean,” he clarifies, waving a hand to reassure me that he didn’t feel particularly homicidal at the moment. “You can’t wish anyone dead. You can’t wish for the dead to come back to life, either, so no bringing Michael Jackson back for private voice lessons. Do you sing? You look like a singer to me. I knew a woman trapped in a golden harp once. She had the most beautiful voice you could ever imagine. There was some trouble with a giant, I think. Something about eggs.”
This whole scene had completely gotten away from me and I had the feeling that it was only going to get more bizarre from here. I didn’t think he was dangerous, necessarily, but he was definitely a whole new level of strange. With that in mind, my fingers finished dialing 911. “All these rules. Can’t do this, can do that. At this point, I might as well have wished for the ham sandwich.”
In front of me, on the countertop, a plate popped into existence, and on the plate was a ham sandwich with lettuce and cheese, cut in triangles just the way I like.