365 Days (Part 2) | ✓

361. Detective

361. Detective: Write about a detective searching for clues or solving a mystery.

I'm very interested in unsolved mysteries, and this was one I found that I wanted to write as part of a story.

*

The man reeled back, away from the gun pointed straight at him. "I don't have it!" he said immediately.

"At least he doesn't play dumb," John muttered.

I hushed him. John had a tendency to blurt out things I preferred to keep secret in his attempt at sarcastic humor. In a much more professional voice than my cohort had used, I asked, "We know you had it. The Waldorf-Astoria records led us here."

He was a small man, with small eyes and small lips. The only thing not diminutive about him were his ears. Sheesh, they were like Dumbo's ears, if Dumbo was an old European underground hacker.

"I don't have it," he repeated. "I swear, I don't. It was stolen from me. I don't have it."

I glanced at John, who was baring his teeth at the European man like a rabid dog. Act tough, I told him. I don't remember this being a part of those instructions. Honestly, I would be such an efficient worker without John.

"Who stole it?" I asked, alternatively watching the man sweat and inspecting his little hideout. It was a dingy place -- the sort of thing that belonged on an A&E show. I wondered how long he had been forced to reside here because of this item we sought. Or maybe he was just dirt poor.

The words of the museum curator echoed through my mind, All who possess it encounter bad luck.

"I don't know," he said fretfully. He wiped his palms on his canvas pants. "It was a long time ago. Back in the 60s."

Me and John exchanged looks again. That was a long time ago. It might even be too long ago. Trails went cold after 50 years. It had always been a longshot that John and I would even find anything, but this was supposed to be our redemption case. I was a retired detective in shame after the failure of my last case. John was a newbie to the law scene and needed to prove himself. For some reason he chose to attach himself to me, although I had lost whatever glory I used to have long ago.

"Details, or we take you in," I said, stepping forward. John mimicked my movements.

The man licked his lips. "It was a woman. A Russian woman."

"Like Black Widow?" John asked.

"John?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

He had the nerve to grin cheekily. I didn't get any respect.

"Sorry, boss," John said.

The man gulped and nodded. "Y-yes. November 22, 1963."

Something in me twitched at that date. It was the day of John F. Kennedy's assassination. Surely that wasn't a coincidence...

"I only realized later... after seeing the pictures..."

"Of what?" I asked sharply, since he wasn't making much sense.

"The thief," he said, like it was obvious.

John started to walk around the room, glancing at papers and peeking into the refrigerator. The man's eyes trailed John, but he stayed in place and didn't complain. That might have been because my gun was still trained on him.

"Where are the pictures? Show us," I demanded.

The man rose unsteadily. "They're on Wikipedia."

John, shuffling through the contents of the fridge, straightened and looked over at the man. He had a can of Sprite in his hand. Milennials.

"For real?" John asked.

"They're famous photos," the man said tersely. "I stumbled upon them by accident and recognized my thief. I tried to find her for years." He shuffled over to a computer, which was surprisingly sleek for being around such dirtiness.

"But you never could?" I surmised.

He shook his head and started to boot up the machine. John popped open the stolen Sprite and took a swig, despite the look I gave him.

The man's fingers trembled as he googled "The Babushka Woman." I frowned, but I couldn't remember hearing about her. I kept my gun trained on him in case he tried anything funny, but I also watched the screen.

Google Images showed several technicolor pictures of a woman with a Russian babushka and a long coat, in what looked to be a park. A arrow pointed her out as different than the others.

The man raised a shaking forefinger to the woman. "T-that's her. That's the thief."

I frowned at the picture. This would require a lot of research... I hated the online research the most. Gaining permission to access old databases was the worst.

A loud slurp alerted me that John was right behind me, looking at the grainy photos. He didn't comment on them though. He asked the man, "Why are you so afraid?"

I looked at the pale and perspiring hacker. He had been through two wars and multiple underground dealings. He had possessed it, for Pete's sake. Why was he so afraid? A feeling of dread formed in the pit of my stomach.

"I'm sorry," the man said, "But you can't find it. It’s better where it is."

He reached under the desk to press something. John lunged at me and knocked me down as the world exploded.

*

Just a warning: This is the last true "story" of this book.