{ASS} New: "Double Cross" by DG [3/9]

[diony...@hotmail.com]

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The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual
content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you
are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by
this type of material, please do not read any further.
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"Double Cross"

A Frank Stern Mystery

Š 1999 by DG (diony...@hotmail.com)

Chapter Three
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The next morning I got up late and ran some errands on the way to
my office. I work out of a small windowless room that is part of a
dry cleaning establishment in a strip mall. The rent is minimal, but
I still have problems paying it. It's really just a place to have an
answering machine and to meet with clients. I could easily work out
of my apartment, but people expect a detective to have an office.
I parked my van and bought a big cup of regular drip coffee at
the Starbuck's and took it with me to the Busy Bee dry cleaners. Mr.
Han, the Chinese proprietor, was sitting behind the cash register like
a statue. I said hello and he lifted one hand without changing
expression. I'm not sure he fully appreciates the romance and
excitement of having a genuine private eye on his premises.
To get to my office, you go through the doorway at the left of
the front counter and then turn right down a narrow hallway that ends
in a fire exit at the back of the building My office is on the left,
halfway down the hall. The solid wooden door says "Frank Stern,
Licensed Private Detective," in gold stick-on letters. Otherwise it
could easily be mistaken for a supply closet.
The inside is pretty drab. A huge, battered wood desk with
drawers that stick, two dusty metal file cabinets, a few old chairs.
I do have a decent computer, which looks out of place. The answering
machine was flashing one message, which is more than I get on most
mornings. I punched the message button and dropped into my swivel
chair.
Ten seconds later I was back on my feet and heading out the door,
my coffee left steaming on the desk. It was from Larry, the manager
of my apartment building - someone had just broken into my apartment.
It only took me fifteen minutes to get back home, but it seemed
like forever. I don't have renter's insurance, and I have a lot of
stuff in my apartment. It seemed quite likely that this was going to
be a very costly morning.
Larry was standing at the head of the little staircase that leads
down to my back door. He's a short, round guy who I've never seen
wearing a shirt. He looked up at me with a scowl and said "Gerri
called me a little while ago. Said she saw a guy leaving your
apartment, looked kinda suspicious. I went over, saw the door was
busted. I didn't call the cops yet."
He scratched a hairy armpit and glared at me, as if it was my
fault that someone had broken down my door. I didn't let the glare
bother me. Building managers always look at tenants that way,
otherwise they get bugged constantly about fixing things.
"Let's go take a look, see what's missing," I said, trying to
breath evenly.
I went down the stairs and looked at the door, which was ajar.
Judging from the splinters around the lock, it had been forced open
with a prybar. With a feeling of dread, I pushed it open and went
inside. My first impression wasn't a good one. My place had been
tossed, and it had been done roughly, by someone in a hurry. The
floors were covered with books, CDs, cushions, and whatever else had
been on my shelves and in my drawers.
"Motherfucker," said Larry. "They really messed the place up."
"Thanks for the observation."
I picked my way through the debris and went into the bedroom. I
have a safe in the back of my closet which contains my picture
collection and other miscellaneous small valuables. It had been
discovered, but was undamaged.
I went back to the living room. Larry was putting the couch
cushions back.
"Your TV and VCR and stereo are all still here," he said. "Not
busted or anything."
I nodded. It was starting to look like it wasn't too bad. It's
not like I have an expensive art collection or a drawer full of
jewelry. Then I remembered the pictures of Claire Ingleford, which I
had rather foolishly left on the coffee table.
"Shit. You see any pictures around? Five by sevens of a topless
brunette?"
Larry knows about my hobby, so he took this in stride. "Nope.
Think they got nicked?"
"Probably." I went into the darkroom and turned on the light.
It was also in complete disarray. My expensive enlarger was tipped
over on it its side, and I felt a stab of fresh anger. It didn't take
long to figure out that the negatives of Claire Ingleford had also
been stolen.
"I guess a thief sees a stack of topless pictures, he's gonna
grab them," said Larry. "Human nature."
"Makes sense," I agreed. I didn't mention that the negatives
were also missing, which made less sense for a burglar to bother with.
I started putting the darkroom back in order, and Larry went back
to straightening up the living room. Despite the scowl and gruff
attitude, he's not a bad guy.
An hour later the place was almost presentable, which is to say
it looked better than it did before the break-in.
"So what's the damage?" asked Larry.
"A Nikon camera body and a pair of binoculars," I said. "Plus
the pictures. That's all I can say for sure."
"Coulda been worse. Gerri said the guy wasn't carrying anything
big. Some balls, busting into a place in the middle of the morning."
"Did Gerri get a good look at him?"
"Nope. Said he was on the big side, was dressed pretty nice. He
had a hat, and she didn't see his face."
I chewed on that for a few seconds.
Larry said "So you wanna call the cops?"
"What do you think?"
He shrugged. "What they do is come out, poke around for a while,
ask you a bunch of stupid questions, make you fill out a buncha forms,
and then tell you to put on a stronger lock. It ain't like they're
gonna catch the guy or get your stuff back. On the other hand, if you
want your insurance to pay for the camera and binocs, you gotta file a
report."
"I don't have insurance. Forget the police. Maybe I'll look
into it myself."
"Hey, there you go. You gotcher self a new case. Lemme know if
I can help - I'd love to see you catch the bastard."
I nodded numbly, the utter futility of launching a one-man
investigation into an apartment break-in washing over me. If I was
serious, I should have dusted around for fingerprints before Larry and
I straightened up. The feeling of helplessness and anger that
accompanies a gross violation of one's personal space was keeping me
from thinking straight.
"You OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"I'll get your door fixed today. I'll see if I can put on
something that doesn't pry open so easy. We got insurance that covers
that sorta thing."
"Great. Thanks, Larry."
He patted me on the back in an awkward gesture of brotherhood and
waddled away. I decided I might as well head back to the office.
On my way, I remembered something that had been nagging at me
since I discovered the pictures were missing. I had never developed
the second roll of film, the one that had shots of Claire frolicking
in the ocean. I knew those pictures wouldn't be as good as the other
ones, but now they would be better than nothing. The film was still
in the little Olympus, which I hadn't seen in my apartment, and for a
bad moment I thought that it must have been stolen. Then I reached
behind me and found it on a folded blanket where I had hastily tossed
it during my ignomius retreat from Sparkle Beach.
I was feeling a little more cheerful as I parked in the strip
mall for the second time that day. Exercising more caution than
usual, I took the camera with me rather than leaving it in the van.
It was already past one, and I stopped at the Subway for a turkey sub
to go. It's actually pretty convenient working in a strip mall.
I ate the sub at my desk, washing it down with the tepid
Starbuck's coffee, and pondered the break-in. I was going to have to
become more security conscious, maybe install an alarm. I allowed
myself to luxuriate in a Charles Bronson fantasy of a silent alarm
that would allow me to show up at my apartment with a baseball bat and
a pair of pruning shears while a burglary was in progress. Then I
forced myself to get real.
The fact that the negatives had been taken from the darkroom
seemed very odd. You can't really see what's on negatives unless you
hold them up to the light and squint hard or load them into the
lightbox, and I had a hard time imagining a nervous burglar who was
ransacking the place for valuables bothering to do that.
My gut instinct was telling me that it wasn't a random burglary
at all, but that someone had broken in just to get the pictures. The
problem with this scenario is that it's just the sort of paranoid
fantasy that a down-and-out private eye would cook up in his head to
give himself something to do. I decided I would run it by someone who
would give me an unbiased opinion. Like maybe Gerri. My cock
twitched at the thought.
As it turned out, that wasn't necessary. I was scanning through
some newsgroups on the computer when my warning buzzer went off,
informing me that someone had opened the door at the other end of the
little corridor that led to my office. I installed the circuit to
give me a little warning when I'm going to have a visitor. Sort of a
nice private-eye touch, I think. It gives me just enough time to
sweep a pile of diamonds off the desktop into a drawer, or to make
sure my gun is loaded and in my shoulder holster, that sort of thing.
More realistically, it gives me a chance to zip up and put on the
screen saver.
This time I just spent the extra ten seconds trying to guess who
it might be. I didn't even get close, although I might have if I had
trusted my gut a little more. I opened the door in response to the
sharp knock and found myself facing a beautiful dark-haired woman
wearing a baseball cap and expensive-looking sunglasses. It was
Claire Ingleford.
"Come on in," I said, after gaping for a moment. "Have a seat."
To my relief, my voice didn't quaver or break. I sat back down in my
chair and she took the straight-back chair across from the desk.
We stared at each other coldly for several seconds. The fact
that she was here confirmed beyond a doubt that she was behind the
break-in, and celebrity or no, I was pissed. Not so pissed that I
couldn't appreciate her looks, however. She was dressed simply in
black slacks and a silver silk shirt that clung enticingly to her
breasts. The top three buttons were undone, exposing a few inches of
smooth tan cleavage.
She took off her cap and sunglasses, put the sunglasses in the
cap, and set them next to her chair, staring at me all the while. Her
eyes were a beautiful shade of dark green, and very wide. With her
makeup on and her hair pulled back, she was much more recognizable
than she had been on the beach. She wasn't quite a classic beauty,
but the little imperfections in her features only enhanced her
powerful sex appeal. Her face was a smidgen too wide, which made her
look playful and catlike. Her lower lip was maybe a fraction too
full, which just added to her sensuality.
Finally the silence began to seem ridiculous. "Claire Ingleford,
the actress, right?"
She nodded. "Would you be surprised to hear that I recognize you
too, Mr. Stern?"
"I can't imagine from where."
"Sparkle Beach. Yesterday afternoon you were taking pictures of
me, sneaking around with a little camera hidden under a towel. Enrico
chased you off and got your license plate."
Nothing like getting right to the point. I didn't want to
confirm this directly, but it seemed childish to deny it.
"Enrico - he would be your friend the burglar?"
"I don't know what your talking about," she said, with a complete
lack of conviction.
We stared at each other again. This time it was Claire who broke
the silence.
"I want to buy back the pictures. I'll give you two thousand
dollars for the negatives and any prints you've already made. And if
you're stalking me, I want you to stop immediately."
"I'm not stalking you."
She shrugged. "Then you won't have any problem leaving me alone
in the future." I noticed she was tapping her foot nervously against
the leg of the chair. She seemed to be very tightly wound, as if she
was holding herself together by force of will. It took a certain
amount of guts to show up alone at the office of a creep who had been
sneaking pictures of her, I had to give her that.
"I did have the pictures at one point," I said. "But they were
stolen out of my apartment this morning. If I'd known that someone
was willing to pay two grand for them, I guess I would have been more
careful."
I wanted her to admit, at least indirectly, that she was behind
the break-in. What I really wanted to know was why she was so anxious
to get the pictures.
"All right, lets stop playing games," she said. "We both know
some of the pictures are still in your possession. The ones of me in
the water."
I nodded. "OK, no more games. Do you mind if I ask why you're
so anxious to have the pictures?"
"Not that it's any of your business, Mr. Stern, but I don't want
to see them in a sleazy tabloid. I'm trying to clean up my image.
But don't get any ideas about raising the price. Two thousand dollars
is more than fair."
It hadn't occurred to me that a tabloid would be interested. But
since the pictures were taken while she was cavorting in public, it
would be perfectly legal to publish them.
"You posed in Playboy six months ago. How is this any
different?"
I could see her jaw muscles working as she gritted her teeth.
"It's complicated. It has to do with my movie deal. And it's really
none of your business."
"All right, forget I asked. I don't have the pictures here in my
office, but I can get them to you by tomorrow." Actually they were in
the camera which was sitting on the desk right in front of her, but
there was no way I was turning over the film before I had a chance to
look at it myself.
"I want them as soon as possible. I don't want you shopping
around for a better offer, showing them to everyone in town in the
process."
She was deliberately trying to annoy me, and I tried not to let
my irritation show. "If we strike a deal for the pictures, then
you'll have my word that I won't do that. If that's not enough, I can
give you a signed contract for the pictures."
I opened a file drawer and took out a blank contract with my
letterhead. "If I break a contract you can complain to the state and
get my license revoked."
She waved the back of her hand at the contract. "Forget that.
Can you get me the negatives and pictures by tonight? Say ten or
eleven?"
"Yes. The price is two thousand dollars cash plus a Nikon 3800
camera body and a pair of 8x10 binoculars."
She looked genuinely confused.
"It's OK if they're used," I added. "It's just that the camera
is hard to replace, and has sentimental value."
Comprehension dawned. "He didn't."
"Oh yes, he did. He also left my apartment looking like the
inside of a dumpster."
"Oh fuck, did he really? If that's true, I'm sorry." She
sounded sincere, and I suspected Enrico was going to experience a
sudden decrease in nookie. Poor guy.
She said "I'll see what I can do. If I can't recover those
items, will you accept an extra five hundred instead?"
"All right."
"Then we have a deal." She stood up and held out a card with a
Beverly Hills address hand-printed on it. "Bring them by tonight."
I stood up and as I took the card, I couldn't resist peeking into
her cleavage. I caught a glimpse of a full curve of breast and black
lace trim. It hit home that I was standing a few feet away from a
famous actress and sex symbol, and I was suddenly star struck.
"I'm looking forward to seeing your movie, Ms. Ingleford. What
was the name of it again?"
She gave me a tight smile. "Wishing Her Life Away."
I nodded knowingly, as if the title had been on the tip of my
tongue. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.
She put on her hat and sunglasses and said "So you're really a
private detective?"
"That's right - Frank Stern, P.I., at your service. If there's
ever anything you need help with, just let me know."
She looked around my shabby office with an expression of
emasculating disdain.
"Sure. If I lose a cat or something, maybe I'll give you call.
See you tonight." She walked out, closing the door quietly behind
her.
I cupped my balls at the door and said "Bite me." It didn't make
me feel much better.
I paced around the office, trying to think. It had been quite a
day, and it was still only early afternoon. Eventually a few synapses
managed to fire, and I went to the computer and looked up the number
for a guy I know at the Enquirer. I don't think you'll be surprised
to hear that they have a lot of voyeurs on their staff.
He answered on the first ring.
"Chuck Werner, what have you got for me?" His voice sounded like
he was gargling gravel chips, the result of getting punched in the
throat some years ago.
"Chuck, it's Frank Stern. How's it going?"
"Frank, good to hear from you. Heard about that mess you got
yourself into last month- you lookin' to borrow money for bail?" He
laughed, and I held the phone away from my ear until he was finished.
"No, the charges were dropped."
"Great, great. So what can I do you for?"
"I'm trying to get an idea of how much some pictures might be
worth. Let's say I had topless shots of a well-known TV actress.
Close-up and sharp, and taken on a public beach so no legal problems."
"We might be able to use that. You don't want to tell me who?"
"Sorry."
"No, that's OK. Would you say this goes against her reputation?
Like is this going to surprise people?"
"No, she's posed nude in the past. Great tits."
"Hmm. See, we have to block off the nipples for our rag. So it
would just be like her in a bathing suit. If the fact that she's
topless isn't a shocker, like with a princess or something, it's not a
huge deal. We might put a shot like that in our 'Celebrities about
Town' section. That would pay from two to four hunnert bucks."
"OK, that's sort of what I figured. Thanks, Chuck."
"You bet."
I sat on the edge of my desk and reviewed the situation for a few
minutes. Obviously I would take the two thousand. I would have taken
it even if I could sell the pictures to a tabloid for more. I do have
some scruples, and my strict personal rule against exploiting the
people I take pictures of lets me sleep better at night. But Claire
Ingleford had no way of knowing that, and she had clearly made a
highball offer. The question was why. I didn't find her explanation
particularly convincing, to say the least.
My thoughts were interrupted when the warning buzzer sounded
again. This time I used the extra ten seconds to stash the little
Olympus with its valuable cargo in a hiding place I have behind one of
the file cabinets.
No knock came, so after a minute I opened the door. A clean-cut
young man wearing a blue uniform was standing there, his knuckles
raised as if in mid-knock. I suspected he had been listening at my
door.
"Are you Frank Stern?" he asked politely.
I admitted it.
"Sergeant Martinez, fourth precinct." He flashed his shield at
me.
"Come on in, Martinez," I said reluctantly. Fourth precinct cops
weren't my favorite people in the world.
He shook his head. "Actually, they want to talk to you back at
the station. I'm supposed to drive you over right now."

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Comments are welcome.

DG
diony...@hotmail.com
DG's Story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm

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