“How do you know about this case?” I snapped grabbing her arm.
Using my tie she slowly pulled my face closer to hers,
“I have my contacts,” she smirked.
Throwing my tie back playfully at me she reached into her black embroidered purse and took out a small blue bottle of cologne. She sprayed it on, smiled and said sexily,
“You like it?”
“Not my kinda thing,” I answered quickly. “How much do you know about this case?” I snapped. Back to the important stuff.
“Enough to put your worries at an end,” she said as she stood up. Her eyes looked as though they were purring at me as she whipped her eyelashes, paced around my wooden desk and began to massage my shoulders, “In more ways than one,” she whispered in my ear.
“You haven’t told me your name.” I stood up as I watched her swing around and sit on the desk. She took a cigarette out of her black bag, using my desk-lighter to light it, paused, and said sweetly,
“Name’s Brandy, Brandy Bourne. Already know your name… detective man, Richard Wilson,” she took a long drag on her cigarette, now stained with her lipstick, it shone like red rubies,
“I need you to help me, help you,” she said glancing at the door. “Are you expecting anyone?” she asked as if she was slightly fearful.
“No, it’s just you and me here.”
“So let’s get down to business,” she said seriously. “August 7th a terrible crime took place, remember?” she drew on her cigarette again.
“Very much do so,” I was now as serious as her.
“In the end, no-one was found guilty of killing Mrs. Jacobs, Rothwells daughter. So what if I could help you to find out who it was?” she said now putting out her cigarette and crossing her legs. “Just last week Mr. Rothwell’s mansion, robbed, he was killed. All his money gone, possessions taken and the thief disappears,” she said simply.
“All that was left was one black glove next to the radiator in the kitchen, where he got in just before shooting Rothwell,” I said thoughtfully.
“People are talkin’. Say it was the Griffin mob. Who knows? Could be true,”
“He was known as a great gambler, always involved with the Mafia kind of people wasn’t he?” I was thinking everything aloud.
“Sure, nearly lost everything quite a few times, maybe this time he couldn’t pay them back. They warned him. He wanted to find a way of not paying. They killed him, took everything,” she said as though relieved to get her idea out “but I ask myself…the Mafia? Oh shucks, they have better things to do and that man had a lot of enemies, lets just see what we can find out”
“Now we can’t prove it. We need proof, hard proof or someone will come after us for accusing them, maybe even the Mafia itself.”
“I got to go, but meet me tomorrow, 9 o’clock at the Red casino, Don’t be late.” She left as gracefully as she had come in like a swan bearing its beauty. She had ignored my last comment. I wished I hadn’t said it.
I looked down and realised she had left me her number on the desk where she had sat. It was written on a small white sheet of paper in delicate writing and on the other side the time and place we were meeting the following night. It was now quarter to seven and it was getting dark out. I finished putting my papers away.
I left that night at about 7:30 after pondering my thoughts and reaching back into my swollen mind to find the crime scene back in August. Picturing the frozen body in the family room by the old antique chair that had broken under the weight of Mrs. Jacobs’s fall. Remembering Rothwell’s face when he found out, shock, horror, guilt and gloom, rolled into one ball, he grew weak shut himself away for days without food. So depressed, would spend all day thinking about something…no one knew what. It could’ve been guilt. But no one knows. I needed to do some serious research.
