The Accusing Parlor

The turnout at the deMontesque house was fairly impressive for short notice. This was good for me, I wanted to work a crowd today. Plus, even if I was wrong I'd sound right in a larger room; the hasty--and delayed--Google search had already confirmed my theory. As Alice entered, I ran my pipes:

"You're all probably wondering why I called you here. Good.

"When the dame here came to me first, I was admittedly distracted by the lamb's gams. This is probably why it took me so long to figure this one out. Broads kind of have that effect on me, I'll admit. Anyway, when I first cased the joint, I started to work on a theory. This was a little too focused to be your average smash-and-grab job. If anything, they knew what they were coming here for and how to find it. Meaning, they had to already know about the missing gemstone.

"Next, I needed to try and figure out the kind of person who could get into a place like this. Security ain't lax, but it's not exactly Fort Knox either. For that, I staged a break in: came here the other night and tried to climb in. I'm a pretty spry guy," I ignored a couple of scoffs, "but it was a challenge for me. This means the guy was either a pro, or he didn't actually climb in through the window.

"Now, when I met the chick of the house this morning, I discovered something. Hopefully, you're following the pattern that's developing. Either that, or I'm rambling again. So, before you cats all fall asleep, let me ask Alice something. This morning, you dropped your candy bar into a glass. Why'd you do that?"

The dame spoke up, "When I was little, my mom taught me to do that. Kept ants off my chocolate."

"Exactly. And what did we find when I started?"

"A candy bar in a glass. You told me that was the mark of some international art thief."

"The Sommelier, yes. Actually, that's french for Wine Steward. It was a red herring. No, the real thief," I pulled on a pair of sunglasses before continuing, "is actually in this room!"

The collection of gasps was rewarding. Only three, but still worth it.

"Even more shocking, the stolen rock wasn't actually the meat."

This got more gasps: almost everyone this time. Worth all the sawbucks in the world.

"See, I did some internet research on this missing gemstone, the Fuschia Falcon and I discovered something important: it doesn't exist. There are, however, a bunch of Smash Bros. screenshots that fit the description. This wasn't about the gemstone at all, was it, Alice?"

She faked surprise well. "What?"

"How much did you insure the gem for?"

"What!?"

"How much?"

"Ten grand."

"And how much will your insurance company be paying out?"

"Should be ten grand..."

"I wasn't asking you, I was asking him!" I turned and pointed to a stocky man in glasses and suspenders.

"Who's he?" Alice asked.

He introduced himself, "Bob Johnson. I represent your insurance company. To answer your question, Mr. Turner: Zero dollars. Thank you for figuring this out."

The only question I haven't answered yet: how do I tell Franklin that we're not getting a check for this one either? On the plus side, insurance company's letting me off on Accessory to Fraud Charges...

It Takes a P.I. to Catch a P.I.

It was near midnight when the last light finally went out. I had parked my heap just beyond sight and staked out for my opportunity. If I knew anything about psychology, it was this: if you want to understand a bird, you've gotta walk a mile in his shoes. Seeing as I still didn't know our perp's brand, figured I'd fake it and try just walking as he did: on the night he stole the Fuschia Falcon!

Climbing the gate was a cinch, and without any guard dogs or night watchmen keeping an eye out, slinking across the grass was almost easier. Unfortunately, without the use of Franklin's flashlight, I was doing the cell-phone-as-a-light-source thing. I didn't even know I'd found the right window until I felt the warm interior air escaping through the broken window. I peered into the gloomy trophy room I'd been in earlier--it was empty; of people anyway, the furniture was still there. I searched the murky night for some way to shimmy in through the broken frame. Finally decided there was none, and hoisted myself in clumsily. I'd made it halfway through before losing my balance and crashing to the ground.

I was sure the noise had woken someone, there was an electric feeling in the air of something getting up. Cursing the lack of a partner, I hastily explored the room for anything I'd missed earlier. I re-checked the shelves and the upturned box on the floor. In the pale light of my phone, I noticed a smudge on it which I hadn't noticed earlier: it was the same brown as the wood, but in this light it didn't reflect. There was no way I could snap a photo of it, as my only camera was currently also my light source, but I could try one thing: I wiped a small part of it onto my finger and tasted it. Chocolate. I should have known.

The door burst open before I had a chance to try anything else, light flooding the room and obscuring the tasty evidence. It was the dame who'd hired me, standing in a half-open robe and, I'll say it, some really sexy lingerie.

"Turner? What the hell are you doing?" She asked, both frustrated and perplexed as she hastily closed her robe.

"Investigating." I said, with all of the confidence I could muster. "I'll, uh, have some answers for you in the morning. Can you bring some photos of your precious rock to JP Licks around 11? I may have something for you then."

Sept 1st Strikes Again

For those concerned, the Fuschia Falcon is not going by the wayside. There is hope yet, and after a daring break-in, er, recreation, I may have blown this case wide open. Or, I may just like saying that to seem like I know what's up. Either way, there's a small problem:
My case notes are somewhere in that pile...

The Peppermint Red Herring

After a quick tip from one of our readers last week, I did a little research on this bogus-sounding jewel, the Peppermint Rhinestone. Rumored to have disappeared from somewhere in JP over the last few weeks, this little rock is causing a bit of a problem for some of the other local dicks. Similar deal, but not from the deMontesque household--some folks from France or somewhere, Montagne or something.

Two gems taken in the same neighborhood in a short period of time. It's starting to sound a bit like there's a cat burglar prowling. I had heard something about one a little while back, maybe our gonif is back in town? Seems a little more likely than our Usual Suspects--pretty sure Busey and Glenn Beck are both away for now.

Not wanting to be late for a meet with Alice, I headed out to her place. "Best place to start is at the scene," I remember reading in a book once. Although I take that with a grain of salt, this was the same book that told me not everything comes out of a Pulp novel holds water. I say the best place to start is the end, but I guess the beginning will do in a pinch. I pulled into the driveway of the deMontesque house and locked my heap up. The place was far from a dump, and the inside looked even better. It was one of those places over by Pond Street, those really slick stacks of bricks with gardens in the fronts and fences made from something other than chain link between the neighbors. I flashed my ticket at the man who answered the door and stepped inside before he could protest--or even read it.

Alice appeared within a moment and told the man not to worry about me. He looked even more bewildered, but she whisked me toward the back of the house before he could string a question together. The room she lead me to had books scattered all over the floor and cabinet doors left open. There was an empty shelf, and a wooden box lay open, face down on the floor.

"This is where the Falcon was, I take it."

"Yes, until it was taken."

"Well, obviously. I'm guessing you have no idea who would want to do this."

"Yeah. No idea."

"Let me take a look around here."

The wooden box was maybe a foot square, four inches deep. Using the end of a pen, I pulled part of it up and looked under: thing was completely empty. I looked around the room for a point of entry. The window had been shattered, and I stuck my head out through the gap. It was only a few feet to the rosebush below. Easy to get in or out. As I stepped back, my foot crunched some of the glass deeper into the carpet.

"Whoever it was came in here," I observed, "Wanted it to look like a robbery, but the real target was the stone."

The blonde grinned ear to ear. "I knew I'd picked the right guys."

Real men never blush, so I didn't. "Glad I didn't disappoint."

I kept looking around the room. "Odds are he wore gloves, so fingerprinting would be useless. Only prints we'd find are, I'm assuming, yours and the stiff by the door."

"My Husband, yes."

"No cleaners, maids or anything?"

"Nope. None."

"Lovers?" I offered.

"No! I'm faithful."

Stubbed my toe on something and muttered a curse under my breath. It had been the edge of a bookshelf, and my foot had set all of the tchotchkes wobbling. A drinking glass on one of the upper shelves tipped like it'd gone over the edge with the rams, and went over the edge, spilling out onto the carpet. Only what was weird about this was that instead of water or a shot of white, it was a half-eaten candy bar. The glass shattered, flecks of it stuck in the chocolate.

"What was that?" deMontesque asked.

"Not sure. Candy bar in a glass."

"Maybe it's a calling card?"

I said nothing, but it was possible. I would have to do some research before I could come back to her with it. I suggested she locked the door and not let anyone in until I came back. Otherwise, the place seemed to check out, and it didn't look like I was going to get anything else out of it. Clambered back into the flivver and drove back to the office--had to get some dark slacks on and haul ass to my undercover gig.

The Fuschia Falcon

Those of you still checking in from time to time may have noticed a slight lag in service. Not to make excuses, but this is 'cause Franklin and I have been making headway on that Undercover Case we vaguely referenced a little while ago. Now that the op is winding down, we can share a little: We called it the Mystery of the Missing Money, and we posed as a pair of birds on the nut and on the dole, trying to find paying gigs. Due to witness protection and other legal mumbo-jumbo, we can't give you any more detail than that.

However, back to the babe who came in while Franklin and I were wrapping up the Firebug Case: did I mention the gams on her? Quite a dame she was. We lead her into the office and made her comfortable with a cup of coffee. She asked if we knew who she was, and we admitted she had the bulge on us there.

"Alice deMontesque," she introduced herself with a slight drawl.

I asked how we could help her on such a fine day.

"There was a robbery at my home last night, and something of incredible value was taken."

Franklin chimed in, "Why didn't you go to the Flatfoots with it?"

"Let's just say that we like our privacy at home."

"And what was taken?" I added.

"The Fuschia Falcon, a rare diamond from Russia."

Franklin and I looked at each other for a moment.

Hopeful, the dame asked, "So you've heard of it?"

"Nope, not at all, ma'am." Franklin replied.

"What's so special about it?" I threw in, pretending to know about jewels.

"It's known for its perfect clarity and a slight pink imperfection. It's embedded in a bird-shaped pendant."

"Where was it when you lost it?" Franklin continued.

She seemed a little puzzled, "I didn't lose it, it was stolen from our house over by Jamaica Pond."

I copied down the address.

"So, why pick us of all the dicks you could ask?" was Franklin's final question.

"I saw your work on the Arson case and knew you were the guys to see."

We left her in the office and chinned outside for a minute. Franklin had one problem, he needed a couple of weeks for a test, getting a permit for his bean-shooter. We need the case, and we needed a win, so I agreed to go it alone. It put me behind the eight ball, but there were men who'd climb Everest naked for a dish like her; I just had to find a necklace.