Tag: Serial Fiction

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 9
by A. Catherine Noon

Steve stood in the small waiting area to the left of the hostess station, wearing a dark green shirt that highlighted the peridot of his eyes. His black pants highlighted other things that she decided to ignore.

“Hi, Sara,” he greeted warmly. “Shall we?”

Dinner passed in a blur. She ordered something with a white sauce and chicken, but focused most of her attention on Steve. He had an engaging smile and an avid curiosity. She listened through their entrees to a varied discussion of current events and music. Then came time for dessert.

“Okay, Sara. I’ve talked for nearly the entire time. Tell me about you? What do you do, when you’re not waiting in traffic?”

She thought for a moment and then smiled. “Shall we order something first?”

“Of course! I thought you’d never ask.”

They negotiated about several of the items on the dessert list and settled on a chocolate lava cake and two cappuccinos. He sat back in his chair once the waitress took their menus and studied her.

“Well, I’m a private investigator,” she told him. She’d decided to be honest on that front, at least, even though she’d given him a fake name.

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up. “What’s that like?”

She laughed. “Boring, mostly. I collect information and sort through it.”

“You must learn a lot of interesting things about people,” he countered.

She shook her head. “Not really. Mostly spousal problems. It’s not a very pretty job. I do security consultation as well, but that part of my business is going slowly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. He picked up his wine glass. “To success in your business.”

She smiled and clinked his glass with her own. “To success.”

After dessert they took a walk along the district, window-shopping. After a couple blocks, he slipped his hand into hers. “I’m getting tired of walking, I think.”

She looked up at him. “We can go back.”

“I have an espresso maker,” he said casually.

Her heart started to pound. “I like espresso. Usually as a mocha, though.”

He grinned. “I happen to have milk and cocoa, you know.”

“Okay,” she agreed shyly.

“Shall I drive?”

She thought about it. Her car would be safe for the night where it was. “Sure.”

They didn’t speak much on the drive back to his condo. It wasn’t far from downtown. The building was quiet, a lone doorman in a black uniform at the front desk. He greeted them silently, smiling and discreet, and she wondered if Steve often brought women home.

Then she wished she hadn’t thought that.

His condo was on the top floor, twelve flights up. It overlooked the city, the lights spread out beneath them like a blanket of stars. He set the living room lights on a dimmer so they could still see outside. The carpet was a light ivory color and set off the brown leather of the couch. A glass-topped coffee table sat in front of the couch, and a large plasma monitor centered on the wall opposite. A low credenza below it held gleaming entertainment equipment and several volumes. The kitchen counter to the right overlooked the living room and a closed door on the left led to the rest of the condo.

“This is nice,” she complimented.

He smiled, pleased, but said nothing. He left his shoes by the door and she mimicked him. He went to the kitchen to start the espresso machine and she sat on the couch, looking out on the cityscape and relaxing.

“Here you go.” He spoke from next to her elbow, startling her a little.

She took the small cup gratefully and sipped. “This is great!” she blurted. It had just the right mix of chocolate and coffee.

“Good,” he answered, and sat down next to her. He set his coffee on the table and laid his other hand along the back of the couch behind her.

Her heart started to pound as he leaned closer to her. She set her cup down as his lips brushed hers, managing to find the table by luck alone.

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
Chapter 7

by A. Catherine Noon

The Valet Captain shooed her away from the main valet line and had her pull up around the block at a discreet waiting lot, in sight of the front door but out of the way of clients alighting from the valet line. Rachel smirked. It figured that there was some fancy way to divide the rich from the not-so-rich. She wondered if it were déclassé to have someone waiting for you. After about fifteen minutes, when a midnight-blue Mercedes pulled in behind her, she realized that this wasn’t the equivalent of the servant’s quarters.

Her quarry emerged from the Spa, fresh-faced and coiffed. Her nails flashed fire at the sun and Rachel suppressed a surge of jealousy. The woman looked entirely relaxed and composed, as opposed to Rachel, who suddenly felt wrinkled and used up. Rachel fished in her purse for a cigarette, hoping one had fallen out of the pack, but no luck. She sighed, resolving to go to the bank and deposit her check in person, so she could withdraw a twenty and go purchase another pack.

Mrs. Dawson waited for all of five minutes for the Valet to retrieve her red Audi, and then folded her long legs into the driver’s seat and took off. Rachel scrambled to keep up without being obvious, cutting off several cars in the process. Mrs. Dawson almost clipped a bicyclist and Rachel concluded she either didn’t know how to drive, or just didn’t care.

Rachel bet on the latter.

They rode through several busy streets and then came to a quieter section of town. Mrs. Dawson pulled up in the parking lot of a quiet little restaurant called simply, “Mario’s.”

Rachel knew for a fact the place didn’t open until dinner.

Rachel pulled up on the street a half a block down and waited. Mrs. Dawson floated delicately inside, the Maitre’d holding the door open for her and glancing up and down the street before he shut and locked it. Rachel itched to get out and explore but something made her stay put. After maybe a half hour of nothing happening, she stretched and glanced to her left.

She only just caught it: on the second floor facing the street, the curtain twitched. Rachel watched a moment or two longer and then took out her mobile phone just to make a show of calling someone, even though she didn’t actually dial. Rachel looked at her watch impatiently, and peeked under her lashes at the window.

Just between the gap in the curtains she could make out the gleam of a face. She couldn’t see anything clearly other than the cheekbone, but whoever it was watched the street. As Mrs. Dawson exited, the unknown watcher leaned close to the glass.

It was a woman! Rachel blinked in surprise and eased back a bit so her own eyes were hidden by her car’s window frame, just enough so she could see the woman’s chin. Her eyes, in that brief glimpse, gleamed clear blue, and she wore minimal makeup. Her lips glowed an angry red, pressed together disapprovingly. They watched until Mrs. Dawson pulled away.

Rachel sighed and let her go. The strange woman glanced at Rachel and raked her gaze across the car from the headlines to the trunk. Rachel pulled out her mobile again and made a show of dialing and looking at her watch. She even gesticulating a couple times like she were having an argument and the woman with the red lips finally retreated from the window, the curtains at last lying still against the glass.

Rachel figure that was her cue to leave and found her way back downtown to her office.

When she stopped at the 7-Eleven, they were out of her brand of cigarettes. It just wasn’t her day. First the man with the Porsche got away without exchanging phone numbers, then she lost Mrs. Dawson, and now this.

On a whim, she bought the kind Viktor had, $2 more than she usually spent.

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

Chapter 5

Rachel gaped at Viktor, until her legs cramped against the edge of the couch. She sat back, feeling pole axed. “What are you saying?”

Viktor tossed the papers back on the desk. One of the photos of David slipped forward a little and she could see it, upside down.

“Doug and Constance Greene are not that boy’s parents,” Viktor repeated. “That isn’t even their name, I would wager.”

“Then why would he be worried for them?” Rachel counted. “When he called me, that’s the first thing he asked.”

Viktor just studied her. His blue eyes, clear like sapphires and about as warm, didn’t blink. She couldn’t even be sure he was breathing, except the smoke from his cigarette moved around him. She wanted to ask him for one, but his manner intimidated her.

“He called you?” Viktor asked finally. “Where? Here, or your mobile?”

“Here, why?” she asked. “It’s a public number, Viktor. Why the intrigue?”

His expression changed and she realized he thought her naïve. “If he is a prisoner of someone, how could he find your number? If he is a runaway, why would he know you are looking for him?”

She stared at him, feeling unfriendly. Part of that was because those were good questions, and partly because she didn’t have the answer to them. “So why are you involved?”

“You need to be careful, Rachel,” Viktor responded. “There is more going on here than you know.”

She felt a chill. “Viktor…”

He stood, startling her. “I must go. But be careful. Lay low on this case for now. Just a few days, okay?”

She stood, facing him. “Viktor, it’s not like I can just stop – ”

“You’ve got two other cases. Take your pictures and let this go for now.”

It was only after he’d left that she thought to wonder how he knew what her other two cases were.

“Dammit,” she muttered, locking the door to the office. She sat down at the desk and realized she’d forgotten to ask Viktor for a cigarette. The scent of his tobacco was still strong around her chair and she breathed deeply. She wanted to quit, maybe she should just bite the bullet and not buy any more. They just smelled so good…

Idly, she fished out the picture of David from the folder where it lay on the desk. A shock of unruly dark hair topped a young face, innocent and clean of whiskers. She pulled the photo closer, trying to see if there was any sign of stubble or if David’s whiskers just hadn’t grown in yet, but she couldn’t tell. His eyes were a clear hazel greenish brown, a bit of yellow right around the irises. A light band of freckles dusted his nose, a small, pert thing that seemed almost like an afterthought. His mouth was wide and his teeth white as he smiled, but his eyes remained serious. She wondered about the photo. Constance Greene had given it to her as though she was handing over something precious.

If it was an act, it was a good one.

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

Chapter 4

Rachel froze. Viktor Khrushchev sat at her desk, a cigarette in his hand and a smirk on his long-nosed face. His clear blue eyes laughed at her even though he made no sound.

“How the hell did you get in here?” she demanded.

He sat back and his smirk widened into a grin. His teeth flashed whitely against his face, too white for a smoker – but then, Viktor had had his teeth whitened last year, to fool ‘the ladies.’ She wasn’t impressed.

“I told you, Rachel, you should have changed your locks. At least get a Medeco.”

“I can’t get a Medeco without the Landlord’s approval and he’s got to be there with me,” she snapped. “Besides, would it keep you out?”

“It would be better than that crap you’ve got now,” he shot back, smile falling off his face with what should have been an audible thud.

Her stomach clenched. She finally let go the door handle when her hand cramped. “What are you doing here?”

He studied her. “Put your bags down, Raych. I’m not here to hurt you or something.” His tone was faintly disgusted.

She knew better. Khrushchev was a soldier for the local Russian mob and she knew of at least three murders he’d committed. The police didn’t even know his name.

She turned and set her toiletry case on the file cabinet and hung her clothes in the closet. When she turned back, Viktor was watching her carefully and she felt a chill tickle her spine. She shivered.

He smiled, seeing it, leaving his eyes cold and predatory. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

“About what?”

“Sit, Rachel,” he ordered, crossing one leg over the other. “Please.”

It was the ‘please,’ more than the order, that did it. She sat on the couch, grateful she’d made up her bed before going to get her shower. “What do you want, Viktor?”

“You are looking for a boy, a David Greene, yes?”

Rachel gaped at him, keeping her expression blank by sheer luck. She couldn’t figure out why the Russian mob would care. Nothing she’d found so far led anywhere near any kind of organized crime with the parents, and the boy was a model student. Until this incident.

“Please,” Viktor growled, losing patience. “I already know you are. What I want to know is, why.”

“Why?” she echoed, surprised. “You want to know why?”

He glared at her, a shadow of what must be his more threatening persona. He didn’t unleash it on her often but she got the same sick feeling in her stomach upon seeing it. “The parents hired me to find their missing boy,” she told that predator, in an effort to make sure it didn’t decide she was something that interested it.

“The parents.”

“Yes,” Rachel repeated impatiently, rummaging on her desk. “Doug and Constance Greene.”

He studied her without speaking for several moments. He’d shaved recently, his face was smooth and unblemished.

“Right here.” Rachel brandished the file over her desk.

Viktor leaned forward without warning and snatched the file from her hand before she even registered movement. She stared at him, unsettled. He ignored her, leafing through the file with a frown. He looked up and saw her staring at him.

“These people are not the boy’s parents.”

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

Chapter 3

Of course, you know what they say about good intentions. The alarm went off precisely at eleven and she nearly knocked it on the floor trying to get to the snooze bar. She blinked muzzily out the window and fished for her pack of cigarettes. Only one left.

The broad-leafed tree outside her window waved gently in the breeze, the leaves flipping softly back and forth and creating mesmerizing patterns. She lost herself in it and didn’t realize she’d dozed off until the alarm buzzed again.

“Dammit!” Her cigarette was mostly ash by this point, dwindling to nothing in the ashtray. She sat up resolutely and scrubbed her face.

She felt better after a shower in the building’s small gym. She wandered back to her office, her bag clutch in her hand, and saw a door ahead of her open. She sighed, knowing what was coming.

“Miss Carmichael? Is that you?” The familiar voice of her landlord preceded the rest of him into the hallway. He hadn’t needed to ask, obviously, but he thought it would ‘smooth social interaction.’ She knew this because he told her it was his technique for dealing with all his tenants, as though he forgot she was a tenant too.

“Hi, Mr. Singh. How are you today?”

“How am I today?” he repeated in his sing-songy, overly-friendly voice. “I am just peachy today. I have two more tenants that will move in on the second floor, Miss Carmichael.” He beamed at her. “And how are you today?” He really wasn’t as flamingly gay as he sounded, he was just that friendly. He made her tired.

“I’m good, Mr. Singh. I have a break on a case and I finished another case, so things are moving along well.”

He stepped closer to her. “You should come over to dinner on Friday, Miss Carmichael,” he said in a quieter voice, like it was a secret. “My sister’s friend is here from India and her son is with her. He is a very eligible bachelor, you know!” He beamed at her, showing all of his pearly-whites in an overexuberance of dental perfection.

“Mr. Singh,” she started.

He held up a hand. “Say no more, Miss Carmichael. I understand.”

She doubted he did, but refrained from frowning at him by sheer will.

He bent even closer, so he was only a few inches from her ear. “Just think about it.” He stood up quickly, as though afraid of being too intimate with a single woman in his hallway. “Have a good day, Miss Carmichael!” He disappeared into his office without waiting for a response.

She sighed and walked into her own space and closed the door. She set the bag down on the unmade couch and only then did she realize she wasn’t alone. She whirled.

“Still sleeping in your office, huh Raych?”

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
by A. Catherine Noon

Chapter 2

The phone rang, startling her a little. “Rachel Carmichael,” she greeted without looking at the Caller I.D., her cigarette bouncing in the corner of her mouth. She slipped off her shoes and shrugged out of her jacket. The gun went on the desk for a moment until she could unload and clean it and she moved around behind the desk.

“Missus Carmichael?” The voice sounded young, and panicked.

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Missus Carmichael, this is David. David Greene?”

Rachel almost fell getting into her office chair. David was the name of the missing teenager. Her luck couldn’t be this good, could it? “David,” she said more warmly. “You’ve worried a lot of people, David. Not least of which are your parents.”

“Are they okay?” David asked wildly. He sounded breathless and not as relieved as Rachel would have expected.

“Are your parents okay, David?” she echoed, mostly to buy time to think. “Of course they are. They’re very worried about you.” She paused. “Where are you?”

“No!” David shouted. “I can’t tell you that,” he said more calmly. “I just need you to stop looking for me, okay?”

Of all the… “Your parents hired me to find you, David. You’re underage and missing. That doesn’t give you a lot of options in the eyes of the law, you know.”

“You’re not the law, though, are you?” David countered.

That seemed to Rachel to be a little too astute for a fourteen-year-old. “What makes you think that, David?” she hedged.

She heard his panicked breathing on the other end for a moment. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, just stop looking!” The line went dead.

“David?” she called futilely. “Dammit!” She resisted slamming the phone down only because, if she broke it, she’d have to replace it. What she really wanted to do was throw the stupid thing out the window.

She sat back in her chair and put her legs up on her desk. She caught the ash of the cigarette before it landed on the carpet, but only just. She finished that one and started another one without getting one iota of inspiration.

She fished out the contract from her inbox, the one that Doug Greene and his mousy wife Constance signed. Mr. Greene’s signature was loopy and illegible, the scrawl of a busy man. Mrs. Green’s was more controlled, precise and neat. Rachel ran her fingers over the signatures absently. They both were indented slightly, like they had been pushing down with some pressure when they signed.

What that meant, Rachel had no idea.

Dammit! She hated it when cases refused to be clear. Why would David want his parents to stop looking for him?

Then her mind, up until now fuzzy with the desire to sleep, kicked awake.

The first thing David asked wasn’t ‘Why are my parents looking for me,’ like most runaways would ask. It was, ‘Are my parents okay?’ Why wouldn’t they be? What would make David worry that his parents, who did the expected thing of hiring someone to find their precious teenaged boy, might not be okay?

That didn’t really have an answer yet. But Rachel was determined it would. She got up, resolute now, and got ready for bed. She set the alarm for eleven and turned off the ringer to the phone. At least the rent was paid, so she could afford to take a day or two looking into the Greene’s background.

Besides, she thought as she had a final cigarette before bed, you could never be too careful about your clients. It paid to know who Mr. and Mrs. Greene were, and why their fourteen-year-old would be worried for their safety.

Rachel got under the covers on her couch gratefully. She finally had a case worth waking up for.

Welcome to the world of Rachel Carmichael, self-employed Private Detective and Security Consultant. Join us as we follow Rachel on her adventures and, hopefully, on the path to quitting smoking!

The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

Chapter 1

Rachel Carmichael stubbed out her cigarette grumpily. She kept quitting, but kept starting back up. Stupid habit. She smoothed her lips together, deciding there was still enough lip gloss to be respectable. She popped a mint in her mouth and pushed off the wall.

Seven different bars tonight, and so far, none of them were the right one. A peel of laughter split the night ahead of her and she froze. Maybe her luck was changing.

Her quarry had great taste in shoes, and a better budget than Rachel. Maybe if she quit smoking, she could afford shoes like that, she thought sourly. The woman was tall, even with the four-inch come-fuck-me stilettos. Her long blond hair spilled down her back in a perfect curtain, cut off in a neat line and hardly moving in the breeze.

The man with her was short but muscular. He still wore his suit, but the tie was stuck in a pocket. He was liable to lose it, carrying it like that; but from the look in his eye as he watched the woman, he didn’t care about his tie. He followed her, stumbling a little, toward the parking lot.

Rachel snapped four pictures of them before they were even in sight of his car. He had a nice ride; a black Mercedes that was deceptively large and spacious. The windows were tinted and allowed little light through, but they obliged by engaging in a prolonged make-out session right against the side of the car. His hand disappeared up the slit in her dress and she moaned. Rachel would have bet money the sound was faked, theatricality at its best. She snapped another two shots and returned to the shadows.

She added up what she had so far and decided to call it a night. Her watch told her accusingly it was nearly four in the morning. She sighed bitterly. Yet another night she’d been up past the witching hour. At least this time, she’d caught the quarry. This paycheck would pay the rent on her office for the next three months.

Since she lived there, that was a good thing.

She parked in the lot below the building, the early morning hush closing in around her like a hand. She rode the elevator up to her floor, hardly speaking to Jim in the guard station. She unlocked the door, the inset window proclaiming, “Rachel Carmichael, Private Detection and Security Consultation.” Funny, but she’d thought the second part of her company name would attract more clients, and more interesting work. So far, all she’d gotten were three angry husbands and a missing teenager. She was bored, but at least it was her own business.

She threw her purse on her desk and pulled another cigarette out of the dwindling pack. As the flame bloomed and she took a deep breath, she wondered for the fifth time that night if she ought to quit. She inhaled again, staring out the window.