Genie for Hire

by Neil Plakcy

  GENIE FOR HIRE

  A Biff Andromeda Mystery

  by

  Neil S. Plakcy

  Copyright © 2013 Neil S. Plakcy

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Great thanks go to my critique group: Miriam Auerbach, Christine Jackson, Christine Kling and Sharon Potts, for all their help. Thank you also to Kelly Nichols for a terrific cover.

  This book is for Jacoplax’s Brody Baggins, a sweet golden retriever with a great interest in squirrels. And, of course, for his daddy.

  Smashwords Edition

  1 - Stolen Files

  “You must help me, Mr. Andromeda.” Sveta Pshkov was a slim blonde in her mid-forties, with breasts that had been surgically enhanced and a Russian accent that was all natural. She leaned forward across the desk, and her girls bunched up under her low-cut nylon blouse. “You are only one I can trust.”

  Biff knew a flirt when he met one. He was a big man, six-four, with a muscular build and a deep tan. There was a hint of the Oriental around his eyes, accentuated when he smiled. Sveta’s body language said she appreciated his physical attributes.

  “Tell me about your problem,” he said, leaning back in his ergonomic chair, the only contemporary touch in the room, which otherwise resembled a Middle Eastern seraglio, with an Oriental carpet, frayed from centuries of travel. Several kilims, flat woven tapestries in geometric patterns, hung over the plain drywall, and a fan with woven paddles moved the air lazily overhead. A glass door led from his office to the tiny room out front, where a receptionist would sit if he had one.

  “Is a theft,” she said. “Someone steal digital files from my studio this morning.”

  Sveta’s photography studio was a few storefronts down from Andromeda Investigations, in the Aventura Beach Shopping Center at the northern border of Miami-Dade County. She specialized in boudoir photos women could give to their husbands or boyfriends. “The files that were stolen,” Biff said. “From a camera?”

  She beamed. “From computer. I move to digital some years ago. Much cheaper, no developing, no cost for film. I take courses at community college in Photoshop.”

  “Impressive. These digital files—they contained photos of a woman?”

  Even though they were alone in the room, she lowered her voice. “Young woman, maybe twenty-five. In this country only year or so. She want pictures as gift for husband.”

  “Would you say these photos were X-rated?”

  “She is naked,” she said. “But everything very tasteful. Is what I do.” She sighed, a deep, theatrical exhalation that could have come from a character in a Tolstoy novel. “I come to this country from Ukraine when I am thirty years old. I live with my cousins in Sunny Isles Beach. Five adult and six child in three-bedroom apartment. I am very successful in my country, so is difficult.”

  Biff did not say anything, nor did he make any notes on the white lined pad in front of him.

  “I am photographer in Ukraine, so I start business here. Is many Russian people here, who like speak their own language.”

  “And this woman you photographed was Russian?”

  Sveta nodded. There was a sizable Russian community in Sunny Isles Beach, just over the causeway from his office, a Little Moscow without the snow, the art-filled subway system or the communist legacy. You could buy Russian-language DVDs, read the news in a newspaper printed in Cyrillic characters, eat borscht and pelmeni, or hire a Russian-speaking escort from a selection on Craig’s List.

  “Would you like a glass of tea?” Biff asked, nodding toward the Russian samovar that sat majestically on a teak table in the corner.

  She smiled. “Yes, would be nice.” Biff noted her surreptitiously adjusting her blouse for maximum effect. As she did, her elbow knocked against a brass oil lamp on the corner of his desk, and Biff jumped up to grab it before it could fall to the carpet.

  Returning to his chair after relocating the lamp to a more secure location, he pointed at the samovar; the flame at the bottom ignited and began boiling the water. If Sveta noticed that Biff hadn’t touched the urn, she didn’t say.

  “Did you turn over the photos to this woman?” he asked.

  Sveta nodded. “Three days ago. She come in to pick them up, and pay in cash. Is very happy. Then this morning, husband come to my condo for original files. He does not want anyone else to have.”

  “Your condo? Why not just come to the studio?”

  He turned to the samovar, shook tea leaves into the brass pot and placed it in the cradle on top of the gleaming urn.

  “Is like he want to say that he know where I live. Or that maybe I have files on laptop with me. I am trying to be nice to him, take him to studio to get file from computer. But when I arrive I see back door has been opened, and many files have been deleted.”

  “Including the ones of his wife?” Biff asked.

  “Yes.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose loudly. “He is very bad man, in Russian Mafiya. Make me very frightened.”

  “Is it possible that something else was the point of the theft, and these files were just taken because they were there?”

  “Who would want other pictures?” Sveta asked. “From children birthday parties and such like.”

  Biff had the sense that Sveta wasn’t telling him the whole truth, but he pushed that aside for the moment, surprised that she had added parties for kids when her specialty was erotic photos. “You do that kind of work, too?” he asked.

  “I am good with children,” she said. “People hear that.”

  Biff nodded, then reached over to the ornately carved cabinet beneath the samovar, and pulled out two tall glasses with elaborate painted holders. He picked up the brass teapot as Sveta said, “I am very frightened of this man, Mr. Andromeda. He make much threats if I do not give him all files with pictures of his wife. My business finished. Maybe even hurt me.”

  Startled, he slopped some of the hot water onto his hands, which stung as redness blossomed on his fingers and palms. He dropped the pot on the cradle, rubbing his hands on his khaki shorts and white polo shirt. He focused on them for a moment, sending healing energy through his veins until the redness faded.

  “You can help me?” Sveta asked, ignoring Biff’s problems. “Find who stole files from my computer?”

  “Why don’t you call the police?” Biff picked up the teapot once more, and carefully poured tea into the two big glasses. “Report the crime, get them to investigate?”

  Sveta laughed harshly. “Police have many problems. My photos very small one for them, but big for me. I must get files back quickly and be sure thief does not keep copies.”

  He turned the spigot on the main chamber, releasing hot water to dilute the tea. “Honey?” he asked Sveta.

  “Please,” she said, flattening the vowel so the word sounded like pliss. Biff remembered a woman he had known years before who spoke English just like Sveta, though Sveta had her beat when it came to oompa-loompas. But then, that was back before there were plastic surgeons operating out of shopping malls and sixteen-year-old girls getting breast augmentations as high school graduation gifts.

  “I’ll help you,” he said, remembering that other woman, Farishta, with a combination of fondness and irritation. In any case, he was glad of the work. With the recession, women were looking the other way when spouses cheated, companies were skimping on background checks, and missing persons vanished for good, solid reasons. He had many skills, but he could only use them to serv
e others, not for his own benefit. It was impossible, though, to tell that to Florida Power & Light, AT&T, and the Internal Revenue Service. Hence his need for clients.

  He sat back down behind his desk and turned to his computer, where he opened a new file for Sveta. “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Douschka Ovetschkin.”

  He filled in the appropriate blanks in the contract. Then he sent the file to the printer. “Do you have any idea who might have broken into your studio and stolen these computer files?” he asked, lifting the tea glass and inhaling the fragrance. His favorite blend, oolong with coconut. It reminded him of tropical islands and girls in grass skirts. For a moment he closed his eyes and focused on the scent. But when he opened them again, Sveta sadly had not been replaced by a hula dancer, or, for that matter, Farishta.

  “I am not knowing anyone to want them,” she said. “Beyond Mr. Ovetschkin.”

  Biff noticed she hadn’t touched her tea, and nodded toward the glass. He wasn’t Russian himself, but he’d lived among eastern Europeans for a long time, and knew their rituals. Drinking tea was an important part of social interaction. Sveta lifted the glass to her lips and drank, slurping noisily.

  When the contract was finished printing Biff handed it to her. She glanced at it. “What is wish?” she asked. “Contract says you will grant me one wish?”

  “Do you wish me to find your stolen files?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Then there you go. Sign right there.” She gave him a retainer of five hundred dollars, and he promised to invoice her for the balance, or return any unused portion. When the formalities were complete, he stood up and said, “Let’s go take a look at your studio.”

  When he stepped out from behind the desk, Sveta noticed his slippers, black satin that curled up at the toes. “Funny shoes,” she said, smiling. “Look like elf.”

  “Not exactly,” Biff said, his upper lip rising in displeasure. His fingertips tingled, as they always did when he was tempted to zap someone into unconsciousness for a dumb remark, but he simply opened the door and ushered Sveta outside.

  His office was wedged between a used bookstore and a shop selling wheelchairs, walkers and portable toilets in a neighborhood center anchored by a Publix grocery and a home décor superstore. They walked under the cantilevered overhang, past the Haitian café, where the teenaged waitress lazily swiped at the tables in preparation for the lunch rush. Sveta’s was the last storefront, but instead of going in the front door they walked around the corner and then turned left once more to the access drive behind the center. The early February morning was fresh, with low humidity, sun and just the hint of a breeze.

  “Why don’t you wait over there,” Biff said, pointing to a stand of Australian pines between the center and the apartment complex behind it. He walked slowly to the back door of Sveta’s studio, opening his senses to whatever he could discover. He had an acute sense of smell, fifty times better than any bloodhound. His vision was well above average; he could read a license plate on a moving car a quarter of a mile away. Like a dog, he could hear up to 100,000 vibrations per second. These qualities served him well as a detective.

  He began about a foot from the door, evaluating the area. Sveta had locked up after discovering the break-in, but Biff could see the pry marks in the frame. Either the burglar was not experienced enough to pick the lock, or he preferred brute strength.

  The clear weather meant that there might still be physical evidence outside Sveta’s studio. It was a high-traffic area, but most of those who passed were in vehicles—delivery vans, garbage trucks, and so on. It was easy for Biff to wipe them out and focus on any human beings who had stood by the back door.

  Humans shed over 30,000 skin cells an hour, wherever they are, and those who are tuned into the right psychic frequencies can use that residue for tracking. Biff closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He opened his third eye, the metaphysical gate to higher realms, and flexed his fingers and toes, letting the energy flow in to him.

  The strongest presence was Sveta’s; she had been through that door many times. Once he established her unique signature, he isolated it and concentrated on other energy floating in the air. He recognized traces of the skinny, tattooed UPS delivery man, and the short, muscular woman who worked for FedEx; both came to his office door now and then.

  A strange kind of energy floated in the air, one which interfered with his perceptions. There was something oddly familiar about it, but he pushed it aside and focused inch by inch on the area around the door. The strongest signature that did not match someone he knew belonged to a young man, approximately thirty years old. Molecules of his cologne remained in the air, and Biff detected traces of citrus and spice, with woody overtones. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of scent, based on years of experience, and he ran through the catalog in his head, beginning with those he knew to be most common among men of that age.

  There was no immediate match, so he expanded his search. What if the man was foreign-born, using a scent that connected him to his homeland? He went through a catalog of Russian fragrances, Latin American ones, even French ones that a Haitian might wear, though he didn’t believe the man who’d stood outside the door was black.

  He began to get frustrated. It was not normally this hard for him to make connections. He was forced to isolate the specific elements—a fizzy lemon-ginger, cardamom, cedar and patchouli, with hints of incense and musk. The elements clicked into place and he recognized the scent as Acqua di Parma Colonia Intensa, a high-end men’s fragrance from Italy.

  But the man was not Italian; Biff was sure of that. He spotted a few dark hairs on the ground, and picked one up. He sniffed it, and placed it on his tongue.

  “Jewish,” he said out loud. “And Russian. Interesting.” He recognized chemicals secreted by Jews, due to their Semitic heritage and the effects of circumcision, as well as an aftertaste of vodka and cooked cabbage.

  He focused again on the skin cells the man had shed, knowing now the man’s ethnic background and approximate age. He isolated those characteristics and then recognized the metallic tang that accompanies the presence of steroids in the body. “A bodybuilder,” he said. “No wonder he could break through Sveta’s door so easily.”

  With the thief’s characteristics identified, Biff walked into the back office of Sveta’s studio, following the man’s trail. It was a small room, crowded with light tables, filing cabinets, and a portable clothing rack of filmy negligees and feather boas. A toy chest full of props for children to play with while being photographed stood in the far corner.

  The walls were lined with photos Sveta had taken. Some were older, with Sveta’s Ukraine address in Cyrillic characters on the mats. Others were more recent. All the women looked dishy, whether from nature, makeup, surgery, or gauzy filters. Interestingly, there were no photos back there of children or their parties.

  Biff followed the thief’s progress around the room. He had opened file cabinets and rifled through papers, and his touch was everywhere in the room, as was his scent. Biff’s nostrils dilated as he sensed the man’s increasing agitation. By Sveta’s light box, there was a dramatic drop in the man’s anxiety; he had found what he was looking for.

  Sveta peered in the back door. “You are finding evidence?”

  “Yes.” He described the man based on his interpretations. “Do you recognize anyone like him?”

  Sveta frowned, horizontal lines rising on her forehead. “Most people who are hiring me are woman. For own pictures, or children. No man like that come here for much time.”

  Biff nodded, then stepped past Sveta, back to the service drive. It was harder to trace the man’s progress out there, because of the competition with other humans and their scents, as well as the degradation that occurred from the effects of sun, wind and humidity.

  Closing his eyes and reaching his hands out, he took small steps down the service drive. “Mr. Andromeda!” Sveta called to him. “Is truck coming!”

&nb
sp; Biff appreciated the notice, but he knew the delivery truck was approaching before it had even turned the corner of the building. He stepped smoothly out of its way as it passed, pulling up at the back door of the medical equipment store.

  He resumed his progress, zeroing in on the skin cells the young Russian man had shed as he passed. The trail stopped at a parking space under an Australian pine. “You are able to find him?” Sveta asked, coming up to where he stood. “Man who stole files?”

  “I need to do some thinking,” he said. “I’ll get back to you. But I want you to make a police report anyway. Even if it’s just for the insurance, getting your door fixed.”

  “If you are saying so.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew down the service drive, stirring up the decaying leaves under the Australian pines, filling the air with moisture and tiny bits of mold and pollen. In the midst of that small maelstrom, Biff sensed once again the energy he had felt outside the door to Sveta’s studio.

  This time, though, the signature was clear. The combination of power, passion and ancient magic could belong to only one. Farishta. The idea that she had returned, after so much time, nearly overwhelmed him. He stumbled and reached out to a tree for support.

  Then everything went black.

  2 – Gym Rats

  “Mr. Andromeda! Mr. Andromeda!”

  Biff opened his eyes and looked around him. He was slumped against an Australian pine, with Sveta hovering beside him. He took a deep breath, which turned into a coughing fit, and then he blew his nose loudly into a linen handkerchief embroidered with his initials. As his strength returned he stood, towering over Sveta, who was at least a foot shorter than he was.

  “You will be all right?” Sveta asked, putting a dainty hand on his lower arm.

  “I’ll be fine. Just a little hiccup.”

  He resisted her efforts to walk him back to his office, and trudged back around to the front of the center and to his office door by himself, touching his fingertip to the painting of the eye there as he entered. To customers it represented the “private eye,” of his title; to him it meant the mystical third eye of dharmic meditative traditions, which he used as part of his investigative techniques. It was a sort of touchstone to him, in the way that religious Jews pressed their fingertips to the mezzuzot they placed at the entries to their homes.