by Kim Knight
Most definitely, the plumbing for one, she thought.
The kitchen tap leaked, the water pressure from the shower was low, but it was home. And all she could afford on her modest salary.
Glancing around it felt as if the walls were closing in on her. Her ex’s—Satan's voice, started to mock her in her mind's eye. Hugging her arms around her body, Madeline paced the cool tiled floor. The urge to take a shower and wash away the memories of him overwhelmed her.
One bad break-up. We all have them! Get a grip Maddie, she scolded herself on the way to the bathroom.
Madeline stripped naked and ran the water. The pipes jumped to life and coughed out a trickle of water.
She rolled her eyes. “I need a plumber. This is ridiculous.”
The water dripped slowly from the limescale invested shower head. As the temperature rose, steam fanned around the bathroom. This caused Madeline's claustrophobic anxiety to increase tenfold.
In the mirror, she took in the woman she had become. At five-foot-five, with a slim, but curvy build, and milk chocolate skin. To an outsider, it would seem she had the world at her feet and was stress free. Truth be told, she felt anything but this.
Her heart was broken. And her career no longer excited her. With a deep breath, she tied her curly hair up on top of her head, then, with a heavy heart, she pulled back the mouldy shower curtain and stepped under the water.
2
One Woman Down
Detective Janssen
Across Amsterdam That Evening…
“Janssen, you in position?” the voice spoke into her left ear.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
Detective Janssen moved her gaze over the canal.
The water was still, and the multicoloured boats were stationed on the river. Next to the bank, muddy water appeared to be pitch black now that the sun had long departed, and the moon shone over the city. As Janssen stood by the lamp post along the canal, the trees that lined Amsterdam’s pebbled street rustled in the wind.
Flipping the collar of her coat to shield herself from the bitter weather, she discreetly tapped her ear to turn up the volume and drown out the partygoers around her. She listened in via her earpiece as her team went over the strategy she had given them. Silently, she nodded to herself in agreement.
Good. They’re clear on how things would play out tonight.
She shifted her gaze up and down the street and took in the busy footfall of tourists and locals. They weaved in and out of view as she looked for the suspect. It was cold, damp, and she hated going undercover in the seedy area of the city. But it was necessary for the case she was closing in on.
She moved the synthetic hair of the wig across her cheek. “Yeah, I’m over by the canal. Everyone get into position,” she demanded.
“Yes ma’am,” her team of men chimed in in unison.
As much as she hated the habit, she pulled out a smoke, lit it, then filled her lungs with nicotine. For years, she’d been trying to quit.
“Roger, I’m inside now,” one of her officers confirmed.
“Good, everyone ready?” She smirked and pulled on her cigarette.
“Roger,” her team responded.
“Okay. I’m in front of the bar,” she said.
“Roger, got ya,” her partner’s voice said into her ear.
“Where are you?” She glanced around through the crowd passing by.
A loud group of boys walked past her, obscuring her view. The smell of cannabis wafted from the young men. With the relaxed laws on the drug in the city, all she could do was shake her head. She wanted to reprimand them for smoking in the street but, she had bigger crimes to focus on.
“I’m coming your way now,” Detective Logan Gibson said into her ear. “You wanna head inside?”
“Yeah, beats standing on the corner,” Janssen said. “You know how many men have approached me?” She let out a frustrated breath and examined her nails.
Gibson laughed into her ear. “I bet you look great in your wig and heels.”
“Fuck you, Gibson,” she snapped with a giggle. “I told you, I don’t do dick. These drug dealers are fuckin’ up my love life. My girl’s at home waitin’.”
Her partner’s and her team’s laughter roared in her ear again.
Janssen steamed a giggle. She focused her attention on the patrons headed into one of the bars, a few paces away. Her gaze roamed up and down the street once again as she looked for her suspect.
He better put in an appearance soon, she thought.
That’s if he was as predictable as he had been from the surveillance done over the last few weeks.
A tourist had turned up dead in the toilets of a restaurant this side of the city. Turns out she had a dud ecstasy pill. She wasn’t the only one, there had been a few cases. Both citizens of Amsterdam and visitors who flocked to the liberal city.
The supplier, from what she and her team had placed together, was a small-time drug dealer, an immigrant from Morocco, north Africa. It was her intention to close in on him, have him stripped of his European citizenship, then sent back to his native country.
He’s a liability Amsterdam doesn’t need. While the soft drug cannabis was legal, higher class drugs were not. Especially fake ones that could cause fatalities.
Janssen lifted her chin, narrowed her eyes, then focused in on a figure making its way through the thick crowd. She could make out the confident walk of her partner, Gibson.
He was six-foot-two, athletically built, and on an average day, he’d proudly don a shirt and tie. This evening, he wore a Nike cap with his hood over the top of his head to mask his face, baggy dark denim, and a pair of Timberland boots.
Gibson adjusted his earpiece, then his caramel eyes met with hers through the sea of people. If she were into men, she’d melt in a heartbeat. Gibson was gorgeous, in a handsome but rugged way.
Not the ‘clean cut’ detective you’d expect. He wore battle scars from his younger days. Born and bred in Jamaica, his parents were immigrants who came over to Amsterdam when he was fifteen. They had come over when his father was posted here for his work.
He nodded and winked at her.
She lifted her chin again to acknowledge his greeting.
“All right, I see him. He’s coming your way,” Gibson said to the team. “Everyone on standby, please.”
Janssen took one final pull on her smoke, then moved her eyes over the crowd to find their suspect. He was tall, tanned skin, and had curly hair with a full beard. He was dressed casually in dark denim and a heavy winter coat.
“Okay, I’m going in.” She stubbed out her smoke on the ground.
“Roger,” she heard in her ear.
Leaving the lamp post, she headed over to the bar entrance. With ease, she swung open the door, stepped over the threshold, adjusted her eyes to the dim light, and looked around.
The tables were busy with drinkers. Waitresses moved swiftly, back and forth, balancing trays. In the background, soft dance music played, and the girls twirled around on their poles.
A few of her undercover team moved around the room, blending in. They sipped their drinks, spoke to locals, all while keeping one eye on the entrance of the bar. Each of them made eye contact with her, one by one, and she nodded discreetly to each of them.
“All right, I’m in, Gibson,” she said.
“Cool, I’m right behind you.”
“What do you have on him.” She headed over to the bar.
“He picked up on the other side of the city. Drove over, parked up, and now, it looks like he’s ready to do business for the night.”
Janssen frowned, leaned on the bar, then tapped her ear. “And his suppliers, what about them?”
“Don’t worry, sweet-pea. Uncle Gibson’s on it,” he teased in response. “There’s a team of men swooping in on them as we speak.”
Janssen raised an eyebrow and looked around the room at her team. They had all heard the conversation. Discreetly they exchanged smiles.
He made his way over to a table with plain clothed officers, high-fived them, and took a seat. To the outside eye, it looked as though he’d just met up with friends.
“What can I get you.” She heard a voice behind her.
Janssen spun around and widened her eyes at the barmaid.
Stay focused, she reprimanded herself.
One thing she hated was the distraction of pretty girls on a job. A smile graced her lips just as her eyes settled on the crack of the woman’s cleavage, then made their way down her body.
“I’ll take a Heineken.” She licked her lips.
The barmaid was none the wiser to the lust in Janssen’s eye.
She scooped up the empty beer bottles on the bar.
“Coming right up.” The barmaid turned toward the fridge and bent over.
Janssen’s gaze didn’t move from her behind.
The barmaid reached for the bottle of beer, her hips swaying.
“Eyes on the prize, Janssen,” Gibson’s voice announced in her ear. “Leave that ass alone. He’s just walked in.”
“Shut up, I’m focused.”
She stemmed a smile, then slowly turned around to lock eyes with Gibson across the room.
He was focused on Ali, the suspect by the entrance.
Ali nodded to a few of the patrons, then took a seat in a booth over by the men’s toilets. It wasn’t long before Janssen saw a few drinkers huddle around his table. They made small talk, from what she assumed, probably over a deal. After a bit, Ali and his men rose from the table and headed to the men’s room.
“I’m moving in,” Gibson said. “I wanna see if he’ll supply me with anything.”
“Right behind you,” Janssen confirmed.
Once Gibson made his way to the men’s room, Janssen casually spun around on her bar stool. She looked around through the crowd for her men. The undercover officers had spread themselves strategically around the room. She glanced behind her, Gibson moved over toward Ali and tapped him on the shoulder.
Gibson glance over his shoulder and look around the room, he nodded to an officer discreetly, to signal him to follow his lead.
Janssen turned around to face the bar and waited for the word in her ear that it was time to make an arrest. She listened in to the men’s conversation. She overheard Gibson cutting a deal with Ali over some cocaine and pills.
As Ali fell for the bait and started to discuss prices, she smiled to herself, then turned around to eye-fuck the brunette with the amazing tits as she brought her drink over.
“Here you go, that’s two euros fifty, please.” The barmaid placed a bottle of beer on the mat in front of her.
Janssen pulled out her wallet and handed her a note.
“Thank you, beautiful.” She kicked herself for flirting. “Keep the change.” Unable to help herself, she winked at her.
The barmaid took the note and threw back her head with a laughter, then moved on to serve the next customer.
While she listened to the deal taking place in the men’s room, Janssen watched the woman at work. Every time the barmaid bent down and reached into the fridge to retrieve a beer, Janssen chewed on the inside of her lip.
“So how much?” Gibson’s voice boomed into her ear, causing her to stop assaulting the barmaid’s curves with her glare. She straightened her back and listened in closely to Gibson.
“For the pills and the coke?” She heard him say.
“Call it sixty euros, and we’re cool,” Ali said.
“Show me the goods, man. What’s up? You can trust me,” Gibson said.
“Hold up. Here’s a sample.” Janssen imagined Ali pulling out a bag of cocaine and pills. “The purest powder you’ll find this side of the city,” Ali boasted into her ear.
“Sixty euros? Is that all,” Gibson said.
Janssen’s expression became serious as she listened.
“That’s a small price to pay for a prison sentence,” said Gibson, “or deportation huh, Ali.”
“Ahhh, fuck. You fuckin’ feds, man.”
Janssen looked around the bar, took a headcount of the barmen, then nodded to her team. They all made their way over to the men’s toilet. Janssen threw open the door in time to see Gibson pin Ali up against the grimy wall of the men’s bathroom, with one hand behind his back.
“You’re under arrest,” Gibson’s deep voice bounced off the ceramic tiles and around the room.
Two men left the cubicles and tried to exit.
Janssen blocked their way. “Not so fast.” She held up her Politie badge.
“Over here, please.”
She pointed to her left, and one of the plain-clothed officers took them to one side.
“Fuck you, man. I need to make money,” Ali whined.
Janssen turned around only to see that Gibson had the suspect under his firm grip.
“Not like this you don’t,” Janssen said. “People are dead because of you, ya piece-a shit.” She stepped over the threshold of the bathroom.
Ali spat at her in response. “Bitch,” he yelled.
“Aye, that’s no way to speak to a lady,” Gibson shouted protectively and gripped him by the neck.
“Get off me, pig,” Ali protested.
Janssen dodged his phlegm and rolled her eyes. “Thanks, I’ve been called worse,” she said, then proceeded to read him his rights as Gibson cuffed him.
“What’s going on?” a male voice called into the bathroom.
Janssen glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with one of the barmen.
“We’ve had to make an arrest. Sorry for the disruption.” A short pause passed. “Someone handle this please.” She nodded at one of her team to help the barman.
One of the officers move the barman to the side, then pulled out his notepad.
She moved her focus back to the arrest at hand.
Gibson now had Ali cuffed and ready to go. He led him out of the men’s bathroom, through the club, then to the car that waited for him outside.
She moved deeper into the bathroom. A pungent aroma of urine assaulted her nostrils and she held her nose. Stepping over the piss on the floor, she cleared each cubical, checking for lingering partygoers, then left the room.
The main bar area was full of uniformed police. Patrons sat around with stunned looks on their faces. The men that had been in negotiations with Ali were now in cuffs too.
Janssen felt a wave of satisfaction. She had her man.
Her phone rang, and she fished it out from her inside pocket, then headed outside the bar, so she could hear.
“Detective Janssen,” she said into the device, then pulled off the wig and shoved it into her coat pocket.
“Detective, we need you over by Amsterdamse Bos now,” Sergeant Baas’ voice roared into her ear.
“What’s up?”
“It’s a girl. We’ve got another one.” His voice took on a somber tone. “She’s been found dead in the woodland area.”
Janssen took a deep sigh and moved her eyes over the crime scene in front of her. The cuffed men were being led out to the cars. Gibson was stood by a vehicle with Ali in the back.
The road along the canal had become busy. Locals and tourists stood around to watch the Politie in action outside the bar.
“Fuck me,” Janssen said after a beat. “I’m over on the other side of the city. I’ll be there soon.” Janssen cut the call and jogged over the Gibson.
“I’ve got go,” she whispered. “A body’s been found over by the Bos.”
Gibson peeked at her from underneath his hoodie. “Another girl, or someone else?”
His jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. His eyebrows met in the middle.
Janssen recognised this as the telltale sign that he was about to lose his shit. She’d worked with him for five years and knew him well.<
br />
“It’s a girl.” She looked away. Her eyes roamed over the patrol cars and flashing lights.
“What the fuck I can’t—shit!” Gibson ran a hand over his beard. “All right cool,” Arms folded over his chest, his eyes roamed over the scene in front of them.
His mind was ticking, she knew it.
After a beat or two, he spoke, “I’ve got everything under control here. I’ll meet you over there once I’ve got these guys back at the station.”
Janssen nodded in agreement, then set off to her car.
Fishing out her keys, she opened the door, then got behind the wheel. She tossed her wig on the back seat and glanced at her watch.
It’s eight-thirty at night, already.
She started the engine, then made her way over to Amsterdamse Bos.
3
The Hand of Fate
Madeline Sloane
The Next morning…
“Oh my, God.” A steady current of fluid gushed, spraying Madeline in the face. “Damn it!”
She struggled to stem the water that overflowed from the bathroom pipe. “Who the fuck actually lives like this?”
She threw down the piece of piping that snapped off in her hand, then shut off the shower. Wrapping herself in one of the worn, rough towels, then padded barefoot into the living room. Goose bumps covered her flesh. It was a chilly start to the morning. She noticed the clock on the wall showed six-thirty.
In half an hour, she was due at work.
Fetching her phone from the table, she unlocked it, pulled up a contact and pressed call.
“‘Elloo,” the sleepy male voice answered.
“Hello, sorry to wake you, Mr. Fitz,” she said hardly sorry. “It's Madeline Sloane. I rent the one-bedroom apartment about twenty minutes from Amsterdam Centraal.”
“‘Elloo, everythin’ okay?”
“No.” A trickle of water dribbled behind her, and she glanced over a shoulder. “The pipe’s just burst in the bathroom.” She pulled the towel tighter around her. “Hold on.”
