*****
Lilja’s thoughts today have gone somewhat to Skot, but they have also travelled about and wandered in many other directions. She lies on the dark gray couch beneath a warm, brown blanket, ensconced amongst the rich red pillows in her comfortable pajamas, having some hot tea. Her clothing shows a warm, creamy white, somewhat in contrast to the other dark, earthy tones of the apartment, any invading light from outside succumbing to the dark curtains. A tall, black floor lamp gives gentle illumination to the living room, a warming cast spreading out from its place near her.
She holds her drink close, letting the steam waft up from the piquant brew, inhaling of the black currant aroma before having another sip. She starts, sitting up straighter, her arm going out instinctively to balance the mug as her cat bounds up onto the couch.
“Dali,” she chides, though her tone does not discourage the animal in the least, the large feline nuzzling up to her, purring quite audibly.
A warm curve traces her lips, though, as she settles back down, sipping more of the tea, her left hand petting over Dali, the cat rising up on its legs to press into the affection. She then moves her hand up to scratch behind his ears, something the long-haired, gray mackerel tabby cat obviously enjoys, focusing his big green eyes on her, giving a single meow.
“Miau,” she replies in a cute tone, putting on her best cat imitation, scrunching up her eyes and nose and bringing her face closer to his as she continues the scritching.
She spares a glance to the television, the volume so low as to barely be heard, then she has another generous sip of her tea. She sets the mug on the nearby end table, then reaches for the open paperback which has been set facedown near her.
“Dali, I can’t read this if you are on it,” she smirks, for the large mongrel has indeed set his right front paw on the cover, though he moves it away as she pulls.
Her resuming of reading the science fiction novel is shortly interrupted as Dali butts his head into her once the petting has ceased for too long. She hardly notices, her left hand going back to stroking, and the feline settles down, close in against her, adding his warmth to that held in by the blanket. He does not display any disappointment during the short breaks that she uses her left hand to turn the page, though his colorful eyes pay close attention.
She eventually pauses in her reading, setting the book aside and picking up the mug, having more of her tea. She seems to just as quickly forget the novel, her eyes pointed at the screen of the forty-eight inch, high definition, flat screen television. The talking heads relay more news. She zones out, her hand resting against Dali’s ample rib cage. He looks up at her, curious, silently pleading for attention. After a moment of this observation, he gives forth one, short, high-pitched mewl.
Lilja blinks, then looks down at him, smiling, “Miau,” she says again, moving her head side to side, and he gives forth another vocalization, then rises up, stretching and he springs down, padding over across the living room to the kitchen. When he arrives at the bowl on the ground, he turns back, giving a more insistent noise.
“Fine,” she exhales, eyes rolling, and she sets the book and mug of tea on the end table then rises from the couch, the blanket falling away, mostly onto the sofa, though a bit trails off to the dark, maple wood flooring.
She straightens on her socked feet, stretching gingerly, emitting a groan and grimace as though from body aches. She takes a moment to loosen up, though a light grunt and furrow of her brow indicates more sensitivity, so she stops, walking over to Dali, who rises up from having lain on the floor, giving out a series of talkative, impatient mewls.
“Joo joo, katti,” she says, talking back in a higher pitched tone than her usual, angling her head forward, eyebrows raised, which only gets a louder, more demanding meow.
He then follows her as she opens the cabinet, weaving within her legs, nuzzling and headbutting as she brings forth the bag of dry cat food, shaking a serving into the bowl. Dali quickly gets to munching, eagerly snatching the small morsels into his mouth, then raising his head to eat.
She sets the bag on the counter top instead of immediately returning it to its place, and she leans up against it, cocking a hip into the closed door of the cabinet below, her right arm sliding down, a bent elbow also offering some support. Her eyes unfocus as thoughts again wander, her head moving in a barely perceptible bend to the left.
Her musings meander to him, and though she is not the best at recognizing her own feelings or admitting things to herself, she does wonder how he reacted to her absence at the library today. She also ponders if he may have found anything new or figured out anymore of the curious puzzle which lies shrouded in such mystery. She then thinks on how he may be in general and what has occupied his time, and then if he might would want to have another date sometime.
She does not immediately notice she now has a dreamy smile on her lips.
*****
The three men stand on the loading dock, the rickety, paneled garage door opened. Coat collars are raised against the chill, residual precipitation hanging in the air like the tattered remnants of a gray curtain.
“How do you like this old warehouse?” Gnegon asks of the two police detectives on his payroll.
Alec peers over, eyes narrowing almost to a squint. Quain meanders out to the edge of the raised concrete, looking out into the misty afternoon, all colors muted by the gloomy weather. The man’s beefy partner looks at him, but when it seems no one else will talk, he turns back to the gangster, pitching a comment.
“It’s old.”
“That it is,” Gnegon chuckles, nodding slowly. “Ah,” he turns as another man walks rapidly over, delivering a steaming mug of strong, dark coffee, from which a tentative taste is taken then an affirming nod given before he returns his focus to the other men, musing, “I retired this one years ago. It is small, too much inside the city, too risky. I prefer the larger, more secure warehouses on the outskirts … or I did.”
He takes another sip of his drink, “Are you sure you gentlemen will not have some?” he offers, slowly walking more toward where Quain stands. “Sasha makes wonderful coffee,” and to emphasize, he has more of his.
“Nah, thanks, I’m good,” Quain says, and Alec only shakes his head, his preference well known and apparently not being offered.
“It is difficult in a city like this,” Gnegon resumes his musing tone as he joins Quain in looking out over the gray-cloaked, dripping wet environ. “Coastal cities have it much easier … like Antwerp or Los Angeles!” he announces the last as though having recently come to the conclusion, giving something of an aside comment. “They have everything in abundance in Los Angeles.”
He takes another sip of his hot coffee, the other two men content with waiting. “Shipping further inland is riskier and the logistics.” He shakes his head, “And now with this vigilante giving me so much trouble,” he says the word like a curse, his thin lips curving into a frown. “It is beginning to cut into my profits,” he adds, his eyes narrowing, then he pulls in a deep breath, turning, looking to the interior of the place. “So I have decided to dust off this relic, and it is not modern, no electronics, and I shall not use them. No cameras, no computers.”
The two cops share a look, then Alec peers down into the depths of the building, noting that some men in jumpsuits are at work and some crates and boxes are on the shelves.
“Well, you’ve got something going on,” he notes.
“Yes, I do,” Gnegon nods, “Would it surprise you to know that there is coffee in those?”
“Coffee?” Alec wrinkles up his a face. “Drugs?” he posits.
“No,” the other flatly answers. “The coffee is not camouflage. Coffee is a vastly traded commodity. I do engage in some legitimate business. Other crates hold cigarettes. Coffee and cigarettes, two things we’ve turned into quasi-necessities.” He eyeballs the two men for a moment, taking stock of them, continuing with his own stimulating drink. “I understand you have questioned my men regarding the
attack on the warehouse.”
“Hey, if any of them are complaining, they should have been more-,” Alec begins, but he stops as the other raises a hand.
“They failed in their duty. I spent money on better cameras, even hired in more guards, and they still did not stop the vigilante. They deserve more punishment than they have had so far.”
“The intel is all over the place,” Quain informs, turning to better face Gnegon, hands in his jacket pockets. “According to them, we’ve got a perpetrator who is invisible, a shadow, inhumanly fast, a ninja, short, tall, thin, large, hell the truck driver even said he thought it might have been a kid.”
“What?” comes the gangster’s incredulous response.
“Yeah, so we’re still trying to get more solid information.”
“That is a shame,” Gnegon adds, “Well, as I said, this is cutting into my profits, so your pay will be reduced.”
“Hang on a moment,” Alec tenses.
“No, I will not,” the other turns to face him fully, speaking smoothly, his naturally narrow eyes fixed unflinchingly on the man. “This is hurting me and my business, so why should I continue to pay you at the regular rate? But there will be a nice reward to you both if you stop this pest.”
“Fine,” Quain clips, the word serving to placate his partner.
“Besides, I have not been idle,” Gnegon announces, reaching into the pocket of his dark topcoat to retrieve a basic looking, black flash drive, offering it to Quain who perks his eyebrows before removing his own hand from his jacket, taking it.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“An unfortunate girl named Marina Potchak went missing from her home in Lviv,” he begins, casting an offhand remark. “Probably nothing of note for the authorities here, but a great concern for her family and friends, of course. It appears she fled to a farmhouse outside a small town not far inside Poland, and it seems she was possibly there against her will.”
“Okay. So?”
Gnegon turns to Alec, letting the moment stretch, having another sip of his dwindling drink. “There is information on that drive. Affidavits, photographs, reports from the local police. The poor girl was murdered along with an older man who may have been an accomplice, her lover, we are not sure, but both were found dead at the scene, from multiple gunshot wounds. Those of the girl were delivered by a P90 submachinegun, a known weapon of choice for our vigilante.”
Quain gives the man a studied look before speaking, “Are you saying the vigilante murdered this girl?”
Gnegon blinks to slightly wider eyes, brow rising, “No, I am not, but you will take the information there and work in conjunction with very cooperative members of other law enforcement groups, and I think you will find that such a conclusion is inevitable.”
“There’s more than one P90 out there, Gnegon,” Quain remarks, reasonably, “And a ballistics report would show that it was not the vigilante’s weapon, since I am,” he slows his speech, raising his eyebrows, “assuming this information is not entirely accurate.”
“I am not concerned with such trifling details, and do not bore me with some idea that only those who deserve it are in prison. We are well aware of the system in which we operate,” he adds, “Now then, I have handed you something that may well aid you in taking care of the pest.”
“The vigilante is already breaking the law,” Alec speaks quickly over the end of the other man’s utterance.
“I recall saying something to the effect of ‘do not bore me’,” Gnegon presses, again setting piercing eyes upon the large man. “I am aware that vigilantism is against the law, and I am also aware of the politics involved in the execution of law,” he iterates the last word with a noticeable measure of cynicism. “You policemen know how helpful or harmful the general public may be in that. Now, do you think the public would be more helpful with a person who fights criminals or one who is a cold-blooded killer?”
“We get the point,” Quain interjects into the ubiquitous tension between the other two men.
“Do you?” Gnegon turns his focus, “This vigilante is very good at what he does. You must be aware of this and the potential threat it implies, and I presume you are also aware that this person could be very difficult to catch. So, if you continue to prove incapable of catching him, and if my own measures continue to prove incapable of thwarting him, then maybe the public will help stop a kidnapper and murderer of young girls. Hmm?”
“Right,” Quain concedes, “We’ll look into this,” he gestures outward with his pocketed right hand, where the tiny storage device now reposes. “You say there is information on local police there who will be cooperative?”
“Very cooperative,” Gnegon reminds, “And since the girl was carried over international lines, Interpol has assigned an agent. You will also find his information in there, and he will also be very cooperative.”
“Interpol?” Alec perks his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Gnegon quips, looking pointedly at him. “You don’t think you two are my only ‘friends’, do you?” and the man adds a smirk after the loaded question.
Chapter Five
He brightens to see her here this morning, a warm smile taking his lips, just as one paints hers with a slightly coquettish tinge in response.
“Good day, Miss Perhonen,” he greets.
“Good day, Mr. Felcraft,” she returns, her head even dipping a bit, those deep, blue eyes peering up at him, “How are you?”
“Oh, I am fine,” he informs, following as she leads the way into the room, his gaze traveling subtly over her figure, “You were out yesterday. Are you alright?”
“Yes,” she nods, looking back at him.
He thinks he spies some satisfaction in her from his inquiry, but she is not the easiest person to read. He has noticed how inward she may seem, and he knows she is a very private person, also respecting the privacy of others. He finds that commendable.
“I was just feeling a little out of sorts,” she expands, finding herself compelled to offer him something else.
She is, indeed, a very private person, an aspect she has learned from the culture in which she was reared, and though he has not pried further, she wants to give him more. She walks to the table, turning, standing with her hands held in that manner that seems a default state of hers, looking something like a hostess.
He sees that she wears all black today, not entirely out of the ordinary as he comes to learn her wardrobe and style whilst at work. She has on a form-fitting turtleneck, opaque stockings, a knee-high skirt and side-zip, taper-heeled ankle boots. Her lush, red hair holds in a high ponytail, a vibrant contrast to the dark clothing.
“Thank you,” he says, noting that there is the usual thermal pitcher of coffee standing on a tray set on the table, along with the two mugs and additives they prefer.
“You are welcome,” she smiles in return.
He walks very near her as he goes to set up his laptop, and he is pleased to note she does not step away.
He engages her in some small talk throughout the afternoon’s work, mentioning the young lady, Amanda Honeycutt, who he learns is a newer member of the staff and serving as something of an assistant to Lilja as part of her general duties. He tries to indirectly find out what Denman wanted here, but he gets nothing of that from her. He is left wondering if it is because there is nothing to say, or if she is just adhering to a concept of professional courtesy. He wants to press, but he shan’t.
He also finds himself equally relieved and worried. Her being out yesterday means Denman did not meet her, but he suspects the man will be back. He is imminently concerned what may happen between them. This makes him also consider formally announcing his presence to his adversary, something over which he shall mull.
The time finds itself inexorably passing, and he looks up at her as he is packing his computer. He knows she is also done for the day, as the two had exchanged such information during their sporadic conversing.
“Would you like to join me for some coffe
e?” he invites her.
She walks over to the table, smiling quite warmly.
“Or tea?” he adds, grinning as his eyes spot the pitcher then look back at her.
“Oh, coffee would be nice,” she answers, noting his gaze, “We Finns drink a lot of coffee.”
They share a further deepening of their grins at this, a light chuckle emerging from him.
It takes her a little more time to finish up and then the two of them take a short stroll to a nearby café, the weather proving nice enough after the recent rains. They soon find themselves seated at a small table, outside in the more exclusive rear section, their steaming coffee in front of them.
“What brought you here from Finland?” he begins, once they have settled in and had an initial sip of their respective drinks, “If you do not mind my asking?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she offers a polite smile, then, “It’s really not very easy finding the type of position I have, especially if I stayed in Southern Finland, and I had some other … personal issues that compelled me to want to get away.”
“Ahhh,” he nods, noting the hesitancy, not wanting to pry and thankful for her sharing, “I came here to examine the book, of course, but it is a very lovely city.” He casts his eyes about.
She does the same, looking around the area, observing quite closely even within the calm motion.
“I served for one year in the Finnish Defense Force, with some subsequent refresher trainings,” she announces, and he perks his eyebrows, looking back at her, “I was Military Police.”
“That is impressive,” he says with obvious sincerity. “I have never served in the military. My health disqualified me.”
“Oh?” she bids, bringing her mug up for more sips, using both hands, the touching tips of her fingers noticed, her eyes staying on him.
“I grew up with quite a severe case of asthma, which does crop up from time to time in my family,” he explains, “Though no one personally recalls as serious a case as mine. Still, it is well under control now, if not nearly gone. It bothers me very rarely.”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 8
