Knock. Knock.
Two knocks at my door. One right after the other. They came in a pair which isn't odd. Today was my birthday in another lifetime. But no time to celebrate now. I had a mystery to solve. Someone was knocking at my door, and I was determined to know who.
"Who's there?"
I said as heartily as I could muster to detract from my suspicion. The door creaked open. This was taking too long. One leg draped in a crimson red dress sexily slid through the small opening. I could tell whoever it was likes to make an entrance. The rest of her body quickly followed her leg as most attached bodies do. She was tall. But not too tall. Just tall enough for her height. I couldn't help but stare at her with my eyes which I kept open for a suspiciously long time without blinking. She had to be the one that knocked on the door. Another case closed. She moved toward me at an intriguing pace. Not too fast, but just fast enough for me to think this thought. I could tell she was thinking the same thing. She sat down in a chair in front of me. I leaned back, stoically resting my hand on my chin to hide my enthusiasm. I love opportunities to appear mysterious. Time to play the waiting game.
I won.
"Do you have a light?"
"We all have a little light inside us. Some brighter than others."
I read that on a mug somewhere. I knew it was a lie.
"I meant for a smoke."
She pulled out a cigarette. That's when I put it together. She wanted a lighter.
"Of course. My apologies. You want a lighter."
Nothing gets past me.
"Nothing gets past you."
Don't I know it. Her eyes met mine and we looked at each other.
"So you're a detective?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm a curious girl."
I could tell she was telling the truth.
"I am a detective. The name's Don DiMaggio. "
"The legendary, Don DiMaggio? They say you've solved every case that's come across your desk."
"Who's saying that?"
"People."
"I guess that's another case closed."
"Impressive. You passed the test. My name's Tracy."
"I know. That's what you just said."
"Someone is trying to kill me."
"It's not me."
"If I thought it was you, would I be here asking for your help?"
"It's hard to say. We just met."
Which wasn't true. We had met once before when we didn't know each other. It was a movie set. I was undercover on a drug bust for a casting studio run by the cartel. It was an audition for Irish Spring scented fabric softener. She was an actress reading lies. She was good. Too good. She knew how to dominate the room. But I would never cast her. It's hard to trust someone that can convince you your sheets are soft when you know the truth. I never slept again without a gun under my pillow.
"I like your office. It looks like the perfect place to passionately have sex with someone you just met."
"I guess I should fire my decorator. It's supposed to look like an office."
"Maybe I misread you, detective. I assumed we'd bonded over enjoying lives that are a little more adventurous."
"What makes you think that?"
"The holes worn in your leather jacket. The motorcycle helmet resting on the mantle place. The excitement in your eyes when I walked in, and the fact that you haven't taken them off my body. Am I supposed to believe you’re just an upstanding pillar of society, or are your secrets as dirty as mine? My eyes are up here, detective."
I looked up at her eyes. She was right. She was right about a lot of things. Maybe there was a time I hungered for the spotlight of danger. Every man has his limits. I spent too many long lonely nights hopped up on hops in underground beer-pong dens, gulping my self destruction, and staring down God’s mockery at the bottom of every cup. No matter how hard I tried to fight it, I'd always be flying solo.
"How do you know someone is trying to murder you?"
"After I performed last night, I found this note in my dressing room at the theater."
She reached down in between her breast, and began searching around. Her other hand reached into her purse, and pulled out a piece of paper. I read it out loud. I read everything out loud.
"I'm going to kill you tomorrow.'
At the bottom was a picture of two stick figures. There was one that had scribbled long hair, and a bloody hatchet sticking out of the head, which was supposed to be Tracy. The resemblance was uncanny. The other figure has a bald head, and beady eyes, but I didn't recognize him.
"This could be a bogus threat. Maybe someone's just trying to scare you."
"I guess you could always wait until I’m dead to find out."
She was smart. You could tell she'd been around the block a few times. Women tend to get lost easily.
"So you'll take the case?"
I wanted to answer with something sarcastic, but I could tell she had been through enough already.
"I'll do what I can."
"How can I ever repay you?"
"With money."
She giggled. It wasn't a joke. I actually wanted her to pay me with cash.
"Maybe there's something else I can do for you?"
I've done this dance a million times, and it never goes well. There's just no easy way to kindly tell someone you're super gay without coming out to their face. I hate you, Dad.
"Maybe some other time."
She energetically leaned in over the desk, and delivered a warm kiss on my cheek. My eye started spazzing out of control. It was over. I was still gay. I guess you were wrong, Dad.
"Thank you, Detective. I feel so much safer with my life in your hands."
"Just doing my job."
"Do you think you'll be able to solve it in time?"
"I one hundred percent guarantee I will figure out who is going to murder you. "
I reached into my desk, and pulled out my pistol. I aimed it at Tracy, and shot her. Now I knew for certain, without a doubt in my mind, I was the murderer.
Case closed.
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