“You’re home Saff. Come on over and we can catch up and chat and do other things.”
Saffron needed other things, and set a time with Brad for late afternoon. She’d rock up at his place about 6:30 with Bollinger.
Brad is a part time high school lecturer who teaches Biology and Chemistry. Two great faculties. They would have great conversations using their knowledge.
Sex was always on the cards for them both and they usually participated with gay abandon.
“So, what’s new?” asks Brad after getting to ‘biblically’ know one another again. It was a great session as usual. Nothing wrong with that, dear congregation.
Brad is a decent citizen. He has a great love of Saffron and enjoys her company as well as the great sex. He knows that Saffron is so independent, in mind and wealth, that wishing anything more than he had, was beyond the pale.
It was in her early teens, at her parent’s Baptist Church that she met Brad, two years her younger. She initially thought of him as gawky, but soon warmed to him as a good friend. Were they ‘fuck buddies’ these days? She is not sure, but they enjoy each other’s pleasures without recourse. Sunday School sweethearts if you like, that never let go of it. Brad is also bi-sexual. Saffron never judged him, only to think that she had a 50/50 chance of him falling in love with her. Best not to get too close. Maybe Saffron’s heart strings to her beloved parents.
“So, what’s next?” asks Brad as he sloshed down the remnants of his Bollinger.
“There are a few things in the pipeline, but I think I’m going to retire from everything soon.”
“And at your age, what will you do? You are a qualified academic.”
“So what? What does that mean? Lectures, journal editions. Nah, don’t want it. I’ve got our little business humming and selling saffron, apples and caviar, which has a great demand, you have no idea,” Saffron smiles wickedly.
Brad likes that, gives her a passionate kiss on her soft lips and caresses her breasts. Soon, it is on again.
3.
After last night’s romp with beloved Brad, Saffron feels much more relaxed from her recent Los Angeles assignment. She wants to do some exercise in her gym room and catch up on a few good Hollywood movies or even better, British movies, which she has a penchant for. Don’t mention Bollywood, even though Saff does like the belly dancing.
‘Yes, we are fuck buddies’, Saff ponders. ‘He likes it. I like it. It’s like a physical and mental exercise, slash experience, all at once, complete with French Bollinger. And we are both as hard and tight as. It’s a win-win.’ Caviar rubs against her leg. She picks him up and rests him on her lap. Such a gentle graceful cat. A real temple cat, Shaloun Temple even.
She wants to get back on the Internet to see if anything has happened of interest. She has a private encrypted forum site on what they call, ‘the dark web’. Also has an ingenious way of providing would-be clients the codes needed to access the web site.
But today, Saffron is in no hurry.
She is loaded. Filthy rich. Make no mistake about that. The clients she engages pay her large amounts for her assignments. Why does she do it? Interestingly, she has even done a ‘pro-bono’ request, when her standard fee is US$2,000,000.
Saffron looks into her bathroom mirror. The mirror is huge and old fashioned, like the one but much bigger, that the nasty queen talks to about Snow White.
Saffron plays up to it. “Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all?”
Saffron, being a master of disguise, articulate in every aspect, talks from the mirror.
“Youare the fairest assassin of them all.”
Saffron smiles to herself, then with a drooping bottom lip, “Then am I not also the fairest of them all?’
The mirror replies:
“Yes, youare the most fairest assassin of them all in the land.”
Saffron laughs.
MANHATTAN
1.
Senior Detective Matthew Scott has obtained a warrant to enter the home of Franco Garcia and is waiting on his steps for the locksmith to arrive. His partner, Detective Barbara Custer, is at his side looking at her cell phone. No one wants to be called out for wrecking a colonial antique door.
Franco’s cousin, Carlos Lopez, had called the Police concerned that his attempts to contact Franco had no result. Actually, Carlos was pissed that Lucky wasn’t home to receive his delivery, which would have netted Carlos about four grand. However, Lucky was always home. A worry.
The locksmith drives a small shitty yellow van with a lock and key and phone number roughly painted on the side. Of all names, the business is called, ‘Locke’s Locks’.
“Don’t get down these parts much,” old Don Locke says as he waves to the officers after he parks his van.
He walks up the steps to them. “I don’t need to see anything except your badges. Then I’ll get this door open for you.”
Matthew shows him his badge and Don unzips his bag of tricks.
“This is a great lock, this one is,” he looks at the character and craftsmanship of the lock with admiration. “I haven’t seen one of these for years.”
“Will you be able to open it?” Barbara asks.
Don stops and looks at Custer with a frown. “Do you do your work well?”
Custer gets pissed and looks away.
“No electronics. Good old craftsmanship. Lots of tumblers. I’ll get it though.”
Don takes about four minutes, with his skilled tools and skillful know-how to open the door.
Matt says, “Would you wait out here until advised, as there may be other locks inside.”
“OK by me. I’m on a half hourly rate.”
Matt walks inside; Barbara follows and smiles at Don.
“Sorry lady. I didn’t mean to be rude, just doing what I know best.”
Barbara smiles again, “We’re cool. And thanks.”
The odor inside was rank and immediately assaulted their nasal passages like a rotting tsunami. It is now a week and a bit since Lucky received his last groceries. In fact, his most recent delivery is also rotting on his front steps.
Both detectives retrieve hankies and cover their noses and immediately put on gloves.
“I’m not sure I can stand the smell,” Barbara grimaces through her hanky.
“Hang in there. Do you have any perfume in your kit?”
“Yes, I do, and OK let me spray a bit on your cloth and on mine.”
“Call the Station and inform them that we need to have Franco taken away. At the moment, I am calling this a crime scene.”
Barbara Custer had to go outside, only as an excuse to call in the situation. She is twenty-seven, five feet four, and just made it into the force. Custer’s a red head, even there too. Short thick dark red hair in a bob that turns into the nape of her neck. An expensive cut. Easy to manage. She has a round proportioned face with neat white teeth. Brown eyes and an attempt at all times to be as attractive as she can. Custer has been in the New York Police Department for three years, and being a dux graduate, she moved into plain clothes