See "An Introduction to Detective Monica" for Full Disclaimers.
Part Three
Case Study & Surveillance Report DM5, 02/97:
Whoosh -- boy, it's been an interesting couple of days . . . Yeah, it's Monday. Night. And this may be a little fragmentary, it's gonna be long and I don't know when I'll be interrupted. Plus this is a laptop and I'm not used to it. Of course, I'm gonna send everything email then erase -- gawd, hope I don't manage to screw it up, I'm not used to a Mac!! At least not for umpteen years. (And how many is none of your business.) Oh -- MacIntosh, that is. A certain kind of Mac, I'm just-- uh. *ahem*
Sunday. Oh yeah, Sunday. !!!! Uh, that is . . . well, let me see if I can remember the precise sequence here . . .
I woke up late with the phone ringing its little tinny heart out and nearly threw it out the window. Then is when I discovered how stiff and sore I really was. So my first comment on the phone was something like, "Groooaaannnn . . . Awright, awreddy-OWWWWWWW!!!---'adyaWAAAAAAaaaaaant?" (That last being a plaintive-sounding yet pissed wail, sort of like a cat whose tail just got stepped on. A Siamese. A big one. Cougar-sized.)
All I can say is Duncan must be used to foreign languages -- he understood perfectly. Amazing! Well, after several more exchanges -- revoltingly cheerful on his part, and pitiful on mine -- he'd somehow managed to persuade me that after a massage and a hot shower, I'd feel great and we could go out to lunch. A really late lunch. (Yeah, I slept late; your point being??) Plus we could pick up my car. As if I was going to turn down an opportunity like that! But, in keeping with my cautious detective side, I made him persuade me. I whimpered a lot. Boy, that voice of his ought to be registered as a deadly weapon. When he gets all sympathetic and it goes sorta soft and really deep, a girl could-- Oh well, you know! However, I remained professional and made him coax me for a few minutes.
(Have I mentioned yet that he has this lovely English accent? Not that upper-crusty kind that makes you want to punch someone and has you checking suspiciously for horsey teeth and jug-ears. No, his is more 'used to be Cockney but the edges wore off.' And a hint of a Scots burr in there somewhere, occasionally. Kinda weird, I have no idea where someone who sounds like they're from London would get the Scots from, despite his name! [Accents speak louder than names.] But it does come up when he starts sweet-talking. And boy, can he- Sorry, never mind. Professional, professional!!)
Soooo, I hirpled out of bed (carefully) with much complaining, and nearly killed myself bending over to get a bikini out of one of my bottom drawers. Let's not mention what it felt like getting into the bikini. Sometimes I hate Spandex. (What, a guy like that, I'm gonna let give me a massage while I'm naked with just a towel thrown over me? On my bed, in my bedroom?? Let's just imagine an incredulous look here, shall we? I mean, I was going to be fighting my own inclinations enough, I knew I would need all the help I could get! 'Sides, I remembered the kiss from Friday night. It signaled Intentions, A Little Later. Believe me. I know.)
Of course I had to make a mad pick-up-and-hide-in-the-oven trip through the house to get any vestiges of my being a detective totally out of sight, which was unbelievably painful and entailed a lot of groaning and cussing. All that bending, you know . . . Although maybe I should've used the dishwasher, 'cause Duncan is unbelievably domesticated; the guy can cook and do laundry! Without dyeing all his whites pink from that one red sock he forgot. (Reminder: Check oven before preheating next time you use it!!!)
Fortunately I finished before he arrived, and was waiting downstairs in a nice, demure robe to let him in. My black silk kimono with the phoenixes, he complimented me on it, even though the stupid slippery silk belt never stays tied; the robe's always falling open and half sliding off of me. Thank God for the bikini. So he gives me a nice little peck, and after he pries my arms from around his neck, helps me slowly up the stairs, while I moan feebly and hang onto him quite a lot. For real, I have bruises like you wouldn't believe!! That damned hill . . . But it was nice, after all, because he ended up carrying me after about halfway up.
And talk about a massage! After he got done I almost felt we should've gotten married first! Almost. But the bikini did stay on, after all, although I was pretty worried there for a few minutes . . . but I managed to restrain myself. As usual, he was a perfect gentlemen. (Damn!!) Although, even with the massage and a 20-minute shower in the hottest water I could stand, I was still sore. But at least I could move without screaming. (Well, maybe not damn after all; my muscles couldn't have handled it.) At least he could tell I wasn't faking the soreness, with all those lovely purple and blue bruises, some starting to fade nicely into that nasty yellow-green -- bleahhhh. So attractive. I took one look in the mirror and blanched, which of course made 'em stand out even more. Oh joy.
So then we went to lunch, me chattering away as if I hadn't noticed a rather guilty look about him when I finally went downstairs. Well, obviously he'd been doing some searching while I was in the shower. I mean, what, did he think I wouldn't notice that my floppy diskettes on the desk in the bedroom were somewhat rearranged?? Why does he think they're so dusty? I just hope he didn't actually put any of 'em in the computer, those are only camouflage, and all that dust would really muck up my floppy drive. And since he has a Mac . . . all I can say is, if he manages to read any he may have snagged, I hope he likes 16th century madrigals and humor collections off BBS fido.net echoes.
I keep my real diskettes in saltine cracker boxes I've emptied out, up on top of the cupboards. Someone might think I have a real soup habit or something, with about 20 boxes of saltines hanging around, but that's all. If they even bother to search the kitchen. Plus I always file copies of my email on diskette, then erase every trace of 'em or any research from my AOL folder, on and offline, web cache, etc., once they're sent/received/read. Unless it's just minor personal stuff; gotta keep something there for people to find. And I never keep anything important on the hard drive, so I'm okay there.
Although I am beginning to worry a little bit about how dumb Duncan may think I am, since no matter what I find out about him, it all seems to point to the fact that he's truly a really nice guy . . . with some rather strange hobbies and friends, but not as homicidal as I was beginning to think. Maybe. Plus, of course, there's whatever the heck made him suspicious of me! Unless it's just the idea that I was tailing him Friday. But what if I've goofed some other way? Blast it, and I'm so close to getting my certificate! If I screw up this simple little class assignment, what will I do on a real case?? Although it's getting to be almost as important that Duncan likes me (I can work on re-aligning his impression of my intelligence later), which has me worrying even more.
This keeping professional bit is getting harder and harder, and I'm even beginning to wonder about my career choice . . . Stop that. Detached, remember? I can do this. It's part of the job. Deep breath; okay. Hey, and besides -- it's a class assignment! I keep forgetting, Prof. Karoly is so insistent on daily reports, just as if this were a real investigation. But what am I worrying about? If Duncan finds out, I just apologize all over, tell him it wasn't serious or for real, and how important the class is to me, swear up and down I'll destroy all records after the class, doing it in front of him if possible -- and just not tell him how much detail I was digging for. Right? If he can't understand a lifelong dream . . . well, phooey on 'im!
Well, lunch, while nice, was rather sedate. He seemed a bit vague, like he was thinking about something, and I started to stiffen up again. My muscles, I mean. Then he drove me back to Joe's and I got my car, thanked him, and drove off.
Needless to say, I was rather down after that -- so I buckled to it and really got to looking at the rest of the trash I hadn't had a chance to check over. (Where was it, you ask? In my garbage cans, of course! Where else do you hide stolen trash?? Remember 'The Purloined Letter'? The garbage man only comes once a week on our route, it's a bit rural, so it was safe; and we have huge garbage cans, not to mention all the recycling bins. Not likely someone would realize that not all the trash, if they go looking, doesn't happen to be my trash. Highly unlikely Duncan would have slipped out to search my garbage cans.)
I got those catalogs out again -- remember, the ones with the tacky swords and so forth? Also the auction ones. After nearly making myself dizzy with comparisons and checking things out with the magnifying glass, I came to two conclusions: 1) The circlings and stuff in the mail-order catalogs are from somebody other than Duncan. A couple different handwriting samples and so forth made that pretty clear. Besides, judging by his taste in clothes, food, beer and cars, I doubt if Duncan would be caught dead buying a repro sword. It must be either Richie or the other guys at the gym who were doing all that, and Duncan just gets 'em to keep his clientele happy while they're waiting for a particular piece of equipment in the gym to be free. Like the boring magazines in a dental or doctor's office. (Not that there's that much equipment! But later for that.)
Conclusion 2) The auction catalogs are the real stuff -- and he's serious about 'em, there was one with a starting bid of $25,340 and he marked it down as a must buy!!! WHERE THE HELL DOES HE GET ALL THIS MONEY??!!! Guess I'll have to break open that lesson on hacking financial institutions early; geeze louise, this is gonna be so fun if I flub and get caught . . . the school denies all complicity, of course, there's jagillions of warning stickers and legal disclaimers everywhere -- and that's before you even open the packet! Of course, I could ask Duncan to bail me out, he's obviously got the money . . . but when the charge is hacking into his financial accounts? Yah, right. Oy. Big oy. If I do it, better not be from my own computer!
But obviously these antique swords are very important. A weird assortment -- they had an Egyptian bronze sword in one catalog, a beautiful piece, and the page is totally virgin. No marks, no finger smudges (I checked with my print kit), it doesn't even look like someone breathed heavily on it, not once! Yet some 1854 US Army officer's saber, selling for only a fraction of the Egyptian sword's price and one of about eight others, almost identical, is heavily circled!! It's not even the one in best condition! And he wrote in next to it, "s/b Kemp's, always liked sbrs -- buy & chk!!! Hope 'tis, nsty char." Huh?? Oh gawd, a new name to check out!! That of a nasty character, apparently; which makes me nervous. If Duncan thinks he's nasty . . . I mean, this guy handles himself like he's a whole platoon of Special Forces!
Nice handwriting, btw -- large and clear, easy to read. Very bold. Obviously from a very self-confident character, assured and in control, he hardly ever scribbles even when writing fast. Emphatic too; he really dots those i's! Betcha he's pretty opinionated, probably hot-tempered and a bit moody, too, at times; but he mostly controls it. On the other hand, he must be great to have around in an emergency; decisive, fast reactions, doesn't waste time, Gets Things Done. A certain openness of mind is indicated, he's very free-flowing on some letters, but always legible. Comfortable with himself, mostly. Intelligent, too. Plus a certain loneliness seems to pop up somehow . . . and I'm not sure where that came from, but boy, I'm glad the school included that handwriting analysis course for free!
Wups, gotta go -- more later ASAP, Prof. K. Must go, fast!!
Monica
Student ID#0000000.01
Case Study & Surveillance Report DM6, 02/97:
Yiiiiiii, was that a close one last night! Barely had everything closed up in time . . . but keine probleme, no huhu, everything hunky-dory. Don't wanna get that close again, though!
Which is why I'm doing this in my car. A little cramped, and the notebook keeps wanting to slide off the steering wheel, but I'm managing. No little cute capture-and-record programs running on this machine, either; I checked that before writing yesterday's report, no fear! So I should still be safe. I hope. Especially if things keep going the way they've been going!
So, where was I . . . oh, yeah, trash. Almost done.
The rest of the auction catalogs were the same sort of thing; a strange assortment of swords circled, with various comments, usually with names -- I hate this, where am I gonna get the time to track down something like 28 names?!! Supposing, of course, they're not all aliases. And most are just a single name, nothing convenient like first and last names, oh no! If I'm gonna work here I wanna get paid! Anyhoohow, it all amounted to the following:
1) Duncan MacLeod is tracking down specific antique swords.
2) All of these antique swords are real -- i.e., they were used, not just for display or as an award or sign of rank or some such frippery nonsense. These suckers have been used in actual combat. A lot of them have nicks and so forth that haven't been polished out; others have repairs, described in painstaking detail in the catalogs.
3) Every single sword DM has circled has at least a name beside it, even if no other notes.
4) The styles and countries seem to be totally random; no patterns discernible at all, like from one country, one time period, one style of sword, blah blah. They're from all over the world, and I'll tell ya, there are a helluva lot more styles of swords than I ever knew existed!! Plus the names ditto -- every type of name I've ever seen, from everywhere, and some types of names I've never seen before! I tracked one particularly curious one down, and it turned out to be the sort of name a New Guinea tribesman would have!! That was also one of the weirdest swords, too -- yet it wasn't from New Guinea, specifically, but Malaysia!! Yeesh . . . and if you don't think that was fun, think again. Oh, my eyes . . .
Rider to #4: Only one pattern comes up, and that's a negative. (It would be.) None of the swords date back further than the late 1200's. (So, nu? Yeah? Don't ask me!!)
5) Those other notes -- they're all about things like the first one I mentioned. You know. "Nsty char." etc. Some unprintable. A few signs of temper about the latter type; couple of pages he managed to score through with the point of the pen!
Which all brings up just more -- you guessed it -- questions!!! AAAGGGHHH!!!!! What is Duncan's fascination with these particular swords? What makes them particular? Who the hell are the people attached to these names? Ex-owners? Auction house personnel?? Heirs, swordsmiths, engravers, collectors, WHAT?? And whatever the people are -- how the heck does he know that particular person is attached to that particular sword in some way, huh? Tell me that!
Not to mention -- if he bought all those swords, he'd be spending something close to -- well, an astronomical amount, considering how high the minimum starting bids are. This is serious money, folks. Not the sort of money a guy who lives modestly in an apartment and runs a half-failing gym would have to spend.
This is weirder than snake fur. And I'm beginning to get worried. You'd be worried too, when you start talking about $1 million! Or more. Give or take. And that doesn't even take into account his odd friends!! About which I haven't found out anything more, I haven't had time.
Which brings me to . . . wups, gotta switch files. The Prof. doesn't need to know this, but you're my friends . . .
[Save]
[Close File]
[New Document]
[Save As . . . ]
[confess.doc]
Ok, now we're private.
Another worry -- the reason why I had to get out of my report so fast last night. Yeah, Monday, when I lit out like a ruptured duck, 'member? Well, y'see, I was over at Duncan's and using his computer . . .
Don't ask me how it happened, I was trying to remain professional!! You know, keeping things light and flirtatious, right? Especially going through those catalogs Sunday and having all those other questions pop up, and realizing how much money the guy must really have, stashed away somewhere. (In a numbered Swiss bank account, no doubt; or maybe in the Cayman Isles, I hear they're pushing hard to become Little Switzerland when it comes to offshore banking arrangements.) And then, he appears on my doorstep bright and early Monday morning!! What is this thing the man has for early mornings? (Luckily I still had the oven stuffed full of most of my detective class textbooks and work -- whew! I had take-out Chinese Sunday night, didn't feel up to cooking, and I was depressed.)
Well, after the letdown of lunch Sunday, and being up half the night gnawing over those new worries, I was totally surprised, half asleep -- and not really dressed for company when the doorbell rang insistently. I mean, a T-shirt and panties? Yeah. Like an idiot, when I saw him at the door, I just opened it! Well, ok, the man has that effect on me, all right? The brain just goes right out the window, which can make things difficult. You try being a detective when your hormones are screaming at you! And I swear the guy has heavy-duty extra-torrid pheromones or something; every time I'm actually in his presence, my heartrate goes up and all I can think of is that gorgeous bod and face, and now that I've seen him in tight jeans, then not in- Wups, sorry, I told myself I'd be coherent in this. Or try.
Although my state of dress -- or undress -- seemed to have something of the same effect on him. Of course, maybe it was the panting -- I'd seen his car out the window from upstairs when I dragged myself grumpily from bed, and kited down the stairs so fast that I nearly took another purler headlong down 'em, which I could do without, trust me. I have enough bruises. Anyway, my chest was sort of heaving up and down, and the T-shirt was just long enough to barely cover the panties, so at first glance you couldn't tell if I was wearing anything under there or not. Anyway, his eyes glazed over for a few seconds, until he snapped his mouth shut and smiled at me.
Well, I tugged the T-shirt down, threw all that hair out of my eyes and invited him in . . . what do you think I was gonna do, slam the door in his face? Great way to win friends and influence people you're trying to spy on! Besides, you'd have let him in too, when you saw that smile.
So my knees were kinda weak, I sort of collapsed onto the couch and asked him to sit down . . . it's an old couch, you know, the kind with those hollows worn into the springs and cushions? Yeah, that kind. Well-lived-in, so to speak. He starts yacking about something or other, making a sort of rambling apology about lunch yesterday, I wasn't quite awake yet. Besides, to hell with lunch, he was here now, wasn't he? But pretty soon I begin to realize that we're both starting to slide towards the middle of the couch. Well, I tried to inconspicuously -- albeit reluctantly -- hitch myself back over to my side. This was not a success. For one thing, he noticed. For another, his eyes focused on my chest when I hitched, (well, hey, no bra, they bounced, so? I'm a girl!) and he got that glazed look again. For a third, he then slid over himself -- towards me -- and grabbed me. In a gentlemanly way.
Well, what's a girl to do? I haven't even read the Self-Defense chapter yet!! I cooperated with the inevitable. Enthusiastically.
(Read this one already? Want to see the next ones instead?
Here are the second and third stories in the series.)
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