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She was sitting at my desk, focused on the blue screen of her SmartBoy. Sinister shadows cast on her face, which I could see through the transparent screen, shadows created by the reams of transcript that blended with the sapphire illumination.
I sat opposite and lit a cigarette. The modest sleep had done little to ease my aches and pains.
“You’re awake.” She didn’t look up and her voice was monotone, emotionless.
“Yeah.” I leant back in the chair and threw my feet up on my desk. The fake wood was decorated with dozens upon dozens of stains and scars; the result of years of cigarette burns, coffee rings and unwashed whiskey glasses. “What’re you doing?” I asked.
“Insurance forms,” she said. She still didn’t look up.
I took a few moments to enjoy my cigarette, and to enjoy the silence before I revealed what I knew. She said nothing, engrossed in her work; even the questions she’d been so eager to ask me before I’d slept, lingered unspoken.
“I solved your case,” I said. I blew out a cloud of smoke. “Most of it, anyway.”
“What?” Queenie stared at me; there was a mix of fear and confusion on her face. “What do you mean you’ve ‘solved’ it? You’ve been asleep barely half hour.”
“Exactly what I said.” I sucked more toxins into my lungs; the amber tip flared as I pulled air through and poisoned it. “You might say I had an... epiphany.”
“And?”
“And...” I dropped my feet from the desk and leant forward, “I just want to know why.”
“Why what?”
I sighed and placed the hitman’s SmartBoy onto the fake wood. Regan’s remained in my pocket. “’Seen alive thirty minutes ago.’” I studied her face as comprehension grasped her. It was a bittersweet feeling, one that sunk deep in my stomach. On one hand, there was the delight of getting one up on her and the satisfaction of being right, and on the other, there was the grief and misery of betrayal.
Queenie closed the screen of her SmartBoy and secreted it in her handbag. “I don’t know what that means,” she lied.
“Cut the bullshit; I’m not stupid.”
She sat back and folded her arms. “I’m sorry, Jack, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” She raised an eyebrow. “Besides, why would I steal precious artwork from my own gallery.”
“Insurance,” I said. “Weren’t you just submitting a claim? I imagine there’s a hefty pay out due for such a revered art piece, yes?”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “I’ve lost revenue by not having the real ‘Call of Narcissus’ displayed in Flare.”
“It’s very much the point. You’d be very rich from that damned missing statue, won’t you?”
“I don’t think...”
“You know...” I said as I finished the dregs of my cigarette and stubbed it out on my desk, “there’s one very important thing you need for an insurance claim like that. A crime reference number or at the very least, proof that you’ve tried reasonably enough to locate the missing item. For example, by hiring a private detective.”
“I hired you, Jack, because I trust you.” Her face told a different story; she was worried and scared. “There was no other reason.” She knew I’d found her out.
I withdrew another cigarette from the packet in my pocket. I placed the filter between my lips. “Queenie,” I said. I lit the end and took a drag. “Don’t play a player; I know you’re lying. You just need to admit the truth, that’s all.”
“I...I...”
I tapped the SmartBoy I’d placed on the desk, just to emphasize my point. “I picked up this little device from a mutual friend this morning. He tried to kill me.”
Queenie sighed, a look of relief passed across her face, and she grinned. “So, what now?” she said with a giggle. “You can’t prove anything.”
She was right. Not wholly. I had the hitman’s SmartBoy which was only half the story; the other half was in her handbag. Her SmartBoy. Both devices together gave a complete record of the attempts on my life. I was sure once I had that, threads would begin to unwind on this case, one after another, spiralling, unravelling until all that was left was the truth.
“Well, haven’t you got any reply?” she said. “A scathing insult?”
“No.” I let smoke pour from my nostrils. “But I want to know why you wanted to have me killed.”
“That wasn’t the intention.”
I knew this, the third hired gun had told me as much, but it was best to keep my cards held close to my chest; I wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
“Hiring three assassins wasn’t your intention?” I said.
“I didn’t hire them to kill you, just scare you a bit, distract you from the case,” said Queenie. “I’m sorry, Jack, if you thought I wanted you dead. I didn’t. I really didn’t. I just wanted to turn your attention elsewhere, away from the statue itself, away from me.”
“And what about Graves?”
“Who?”
“One of my informants. A friend. She’s dead thanks to your little scheme.”
“Is that the hooker you told me about?” said Queenie. “Who really cares if a someone like that dies?”
I slammed my fist into the desk. “Me! I care! You killed her!”
“No, I...”
“Not directly, but you did; you killed Graves! And you say you don’t care?” My voice decrescendoed from a shout to a whisper. “She died because of your goddamned selfish greed. Did you know she had a daughter? You left a child without her mother, damn it! You’re a damn cold-hearted bitch.”
She shrugged, and with little remorse, stood and walked to the window. She stared out into the void through the glass.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Queenie shook her head.
I took another drag of my cigarette. “Nothing?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about dead hookers. Or their children.”
I sighed. “Where’s the real Delartes?”
“Flare,” she said, still facing away from me. “There was never a fake statue; I lied. There’s few who would even recognise the real thing, nevermind know the intricacies of its design.”
“You wanted people to think it was fake long enough to grab the money and run,” I said. “The cops would take too long, and the longer the investigation, the more likely the truth would come out. Everything else was a diversion. You just needed proof that someone, me, had tried to find the damned thing.”
“Yeah.” She turned to look at me. A small smile graced her lips. “But you can’t prove anything.”
“I have this.” I tapped my hand against the hitman’s SmartBoy; Queenie didn’t know I needed her’s too. My eyes drifted to her handbag, which she’d left sitting on my desk, and I wondered how I could grab it without her noticing.
“What happens next?” said Queenie.
“That’s up to you.” I stubbed out my cigarette on the fake wood. “I think you should come with me to the police station.”
The woman laughed. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You know,” I said, “I was going to break up with you. Almost have, more than once. I think this situation pretty much cements the end of our relationship, don’t you?”
“It wasn’t my plan for things to turn out like this,” said Queenie. She moved a little closer and leaned against the side of the desk. “I honestly thought we’d made a good pair.”
“Was that before or after you decided to use me?” I folded my arms. “Drag me into your lies? Was any of it damned real? Is that why this all started?”
“It wasn’t all bad, Jack. We tried to make it work, didn’t we?”
“I guess.” I stood, pocketed the hitman’s SmartBoy discreetly and walked passed my ex-lover to the window where she’d just stood. I leant against the window ledge as Queenie turned to face me. “But it was all goddamned fake.” There was no way I was going to grab the incriminating device in her handbag without her noticing. I’d need to find a way to trap her instead, and I was certain I had a spare set of handcuffs in my desk drawer. “You only got with me to make money.”
“That’s not true,“ said Queenie. “I saw an opportunity and I took it. You’d have done the same.”
“No. I really wouldn’t’ve.” I stepped toward her. And closer to the hidden handcuffs. “I’m not like you.”
The woman laughed. “I don’t believe you!” she said. “We’re talking hundreds of millions of credits! You’d want for nothing the rest of your life!” Her voice turned soft. “You could join me, you know. A partnership?”
I moved closer, almost touching, face to face with her. “I... er...” And I kissed her, distracted her; she kissed me in return, and we embraced. The kisses were gentle and nostalgic. It had been a long time since we’d kissed. I reached for the drawer and the handcuffs...
Pain.
Her knee slammed into my damned crotch, and I buckled. Agony fired through my body, and she pushed me. Spots filled my vision. My eyes watered. I fought the urge to curl up in a ball and endure the excruciating pain in the foetal position. Through blurred sight, I saw Queenie grab her handbag and rush to the door.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said, “but I know you well enough to know that you’d turn me in to the police in a hot second.”
I braced myself against my desk, trying to straighten out. “Queenie...” She’d spared no sympathy for my genitals, and I fought against the enormous hurt in my lower regions.
“Goodbye, Jack. Forever.”
The door closed behind her.
Damn it.
I composed myself, pushed through the pain and gave chase. I flew out into the hall and ran, taking the stairs two at a time.
She’d already given herself a good lead by giving me a good hard kick in the balls.
Goddammit, it hurt.
I barrelled through the entrance doors of the apartment block, out into the street, and found nothing.
I looked around, left and right, up and down the street.
She was gone.
She was goddamned gone.
Damn it.
I stepped to return to my office and hands grabbed me from behind. A dark hood, reeking of a sickly-sweet scent, was thrown over my head and the world faded away. My senses dulled.
I drifted into unconsciousness.