“Oh dear Mary, what a smell. Is there a dead horse in here?”
Matthew hurried him up the stairs to avoid seeing Lucky, or what was once Lucky.
“This one is electronic,” Don frowns as he inspects the lock on the third floor room. “May take some thinking.”
“OK, Don take your time, we will be down stairs when you call out.”
Matthew, now downstairs looks at Lucky. He is covered with dried red sticky stuff. He is bloated and on the very, very ripe side. Matt notices a bug on the rug near Lucky. He bends down to get a better view. It is a scorpion, albeit a crushed one with red goo over it, but it is a scorpion!
Matt was born on November 20th, two days left of a Scorpio. As a kid, everyone loves to know their zodiac sign and look at it over and over again, with repeated forecasts for all souls on Earth. Like it or not. Now aged thirty-three he does not check the horoscope pages as much.
However, Matt likes his association to Scorpio types like James Bond, Ziva David and Winona Ryder, who he loves in the arts. He is very good looking, six feet tall, impeccably dressed, chiseled jaw with bright blue eyes, and as square as: ‘be there or be square’. Matt grew up in a cop family. Good people. Frustrated with their fellow kind on many occasions, however these guys are the best. They look after us, sometimes at their own peril. Matt respects that. He knows that the community depends on him to do his job the best he can. And so, he does.
“It’s open,” comes the yell from Don up the staircase.
“OK Don, we’re on our way.”
“Detective can I go now? There aren’t any more locks are there?” He looks pleadingly. “The smell in here is making me feel real bad. I don’t think I even want supper tonight. Can I go?”
“Thanks Don, you can go and thank you. Now you know what our job entails.”
Don tips his cap to Matt and scurries down the staircase, squeezing shut his ruddy nose with his fingers, and towards the respite of his yellow van.
Barbara sees him out and thinks she hears him dry-reach at the back of his shitty van. She thinks to herself, ‘I can never use this perfume again’.
Matthew walks into the secured room. He is taken aback as he takes in the image. Large glassed cabinets on each wall, each with subdued lighting, and displayed on immaculate velvet trays, are layers of coins.
There actually is a glint of precious metal in the room from the gold and silver. Each coin has a small description under it. Not even a museum in New York might present like this. Matt’s mind conjures up the opening of King Tut’s tomb by Lord Carnarvon. He is a bit of a square, but a sentimental type square.
And stamps. Layers of stamps, orchestrated into sections, countries and the like. Matt isn’t a stamp man, but coins, known through the ages like Blackbeard, are more interesting to say the least.
Barbara walks in.
“Well, well, what is this?”
“A private collection, I suppose,” Matt replies.
LOS ANGELES
1.
No one crosses Ronald Sweet. No one. Not after his climb to prominence and power.
Following R.J.’s death, Ron Sweet demanded a result. Who sent via FedEx, a package containing venomous killer bugs?
The pressure was on the LAPD.
They had located the FedEx van the following day. It had been reported stolen the day before R.J.’s birthday party. The cops found it parked in the lower level of a shopping center within six miles from Sweet’s residence. No fingerprints, no CCTV images, except a grainy clip of the van being driven into the car park. The driver’s face was covered with a scarf. The driver would easily have disappeared into the shopping center on that busy Sunday.
After two weeks of no results from the LAPD, Ron Sweet engages a high profile private detective. A dude named Mr. Gotcha. His real name is Herman Richter and he actually has a resemblance to Gerhard Richter, the famous German painter. Herman is no painter. He served in Iraq and liked it. Ex- Ranger and looks like one. Purple star. He now runs his own business, as security is so big these days. Him and two other ex-Ranger mates do well, representing themselves with the slogan, ‘We get the Job Done’.
Ron liked that tone and hires Mr. Gotcha on the spot. He wants Herman to look into all aspects of his son’s death. And to follow a line on insect deaths, especially scorpions and anything else as weird as this.
Ron has demanded a report on the origin of the scorpions that killed his son. After a week, a report, free of charge from the LAPD, is forwarded to him.
He reads it. In summary, it states:
Insect identification classification.
Hottentotta tamulus.
Also known as the Indian Red scorpion, a species of scorpion, belonging to the family Buthidae.
It occurs in most of India, eastern Pakistan and the
eastern lowlands of Nepal.
It is considered the most lethal of all scorpions known to man.
The scorpion's venom affects the pulmonary and cardiovascular systems of humans, causing the lungs to fill with fluid.
They have the ability to stay in a freezer for the night and thaw out in the morning.
They can survive for up to a year without food and water.
Their coloration ranges from dark orange or brightly red-brown through dull brown with darker grey carinae (ridges)
and granulation.
Ron Sweet drops the report down on his desk. Runs his hand back over his head and lets out a shot of air. He clenches his fists.
“Bugs from India? Who has done this?” he screams to the sky. “And why, why the fuck, why? Why me!”
LONG ISLAND
1.
Saffron sits down at her large screen computer and powers it up. After a minute or so, she executes a few commands and mouse movements and reaches her Internet goal.
A site labeled: Saffron, Apples, Caviar. Or SAC for short. Nothing spectacular. No graphics or pics. Just a button that states, ‘Click here to enter Forum’ and another, ‘Send email’.
There is one outstanding message. She navigates to it.
It reads, ‘Wish to engage your services. When I click on the forum button it asks for a password. How do we communicate?’
Saffron does not really want any more assignments, and the excruciating validation process she goes through to obtain proof from the enquirer is still risky.
She keys in a reply, ‘Saffron and rare apples are available. Sorry, there is no caviar in stock at present. Please provide your residential address and I will provide you with an inventory of what you require’.
She thinks, ‘This might well be the last assignment for me. I can’t go on doing this forever until I get caught’.
That afternoon she receives the reply. It contains an address somewhere in Fredericksburg, Virginia. She does a search on the place and realizes it is a small town on the Rappahannock River. She frowns, as she does not do assignments in small towns. Too risky. However, if this might be the last one, she could be in for the dare. The address given, with no name, is Chatham Manor, 120 Chatham Lane, Fredericksburg, VA 22405.
Saffron