Chris Orcutt [Orcutt - A Study in Crimson

A Study in Crimson

A Prequel to the Dakota Stevens Mystery Series

by

Chris Orcutt

A Study in Crimson

A Prequel to the Dakota Stevens Mystery Series

by Chris Orcutt

Copyright 2018 by Chris Orcutt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews. This work is registered with the U.S. Copyright Office.

First Print Edition: 2018

First Ebook Edition: 2018

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

ISBN-13 (Print book): 978-0996278393 (Have Pen, Will Travel)

The publisher of this work and cover artist is Have Pen, Will Travel Publishing. Book cover image, Inscription lipstick hugs and kisses, (stock photo ID # 676186567) by Golubovystock, used under license from Shutterstock, Inc.

Also by Chris Orcutt:

Nick Chases Great Escape (A Comic Novel)

I Hope You Boys Know What Youre Doing! (Short Stories & Poems)

A Real Piece of Work (Dakota Stevens Mystery #1)

The Rich Are Different (Dakota Stevens Mystery #2)

A Truth Stranger Than Fiction (Dakota Stevens Mystery #3)

The Perfect Triple Threat (Dakota Stevens Mystery #4)

The Man, The Myth, The Legend (Short Stories)

One Hundred Miles from Manhattan (A Novel)

The Ronald and Other Plays (Plays

Perpetuating Trouble (A Memoir)

www.orcutt.net

For Sir Arthur Conan Doyle & Ian Fleming,
the two peerless masters whose creations
inspired me to become a fiction writer.

Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, said Stamford, introducing us.

From A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

One-Way Ticket

I no longer worked for the Bureau, but the Director had summoned me to headquarters, so I was going, and that was that.

My lack of resistance surprised me. Maybe its something they subliminally program into you during your training at Quantico: If the FBI Director summons you to Washington, you go, no questions asked.

At 4:30 a.m. on a Monday, there was a knock at my door. The Director had sent two agents from the Manhattan field office to pick me up. After waiting in the hallway while I dressed and wrote Ashley a note, they drove me downtown in silence, handed me a ticket for the 6:00 a.m. Amtrak, and dumped me in front of Penn Station. They didnt even wish me luck. Boarding the train, I noticed the ticket theyd given me was one-way. This was mildly disconcerting. Either the Bureau was being cheap, or they knew I wouldnt be returning to Manhattan.

The train slogged into Union Station half an hour late. In the great hall upstairs, another pair of reticent agents whisked me out to a car. We sped down Pennsylvania Avenue to that behemoth, sandy brown building whose overhanging top floor looks as if it will shear away at any moment and topple to the sidewalk: FBI Headquarters.

Descending into the garage beneath, we drove around for a while and finally stopped at a guarded elevator. Id heard about this elevator when I worked here, but Id never seen it. Unarmed but dressed in my best Hickey Freeman navy pinstripe suit, I boarded the elevator with the agents. One of them inserted a key and punched a button. The doors closed and we rose quickly to the top floor.

When the doors opened, the agents led me into a waiting room and pointed to a chair. I took my time sitting down; I didnt want them thinking I was taking orders. They strode away, leaving me in the hands of Mrs. Greer , a homely older woman whose frigate-sized desk formed an imposing barrier between the waiting area and the heavy double doors of Director Reevess office. Mrs. Greer typed fast enough to provide electricity to Appalachia, and she wore headphones attached to a Dictaphone. I didnt think people still used those things, but apparently Director Reeves did.

Excuse me, Mrs. Greer, I said. Do you have any idea what the Director wants with me?

No, Mr. Stevens, she said, continuing to type. But he should be with you shortly.

I settled back into the chair to wait. This outer office was a sensory deprivation chamber. There were no clocks, and because Id been in a rush this morning, Id forgotten to put on my watcha vintage Omega that had belonged to my grandfather. There were no windows. There were no magazines, no reading matter of any kind. The only sound was the relentless, mercurial clicking of Mrs. Greers computer keys, like a thousand tap dancers running the New York City Marathon.

It all seemed calculated to wear down the resolve of the visitor, to impress upon himin this case, methe power of the man with whom you were about to meet. Even the air itself seemed party to the conspiracy, perfectly odorless as it was, and seemingly composed of the minimum amount of oxygen necessary to sustain human consciousness. For all I knew, this wasnt even the real waiting room; this could be a special one for people the Director wanted to torture before granting them an audience. A single mirror behind Mrs. Greers desk forced me to stare at myself. I suspected that the Director had a camera behind the mirror so he could observe my every expression. Or was the mirror there only to make me paranoid?

Nobody came out. Nobody went in. Nobody called. Nothing happened but the incessant clicking of those keys. Mrs. Greer could have been typing gibberish, and I had no way of telling otherwise. Time crawled across a desert. I began to seethe. What was this about? Why had I been rudely roused at four thirty this morning and summoned to Washington? I hadnt done anything illegalat least not that I knew of. Maybe I hadnt completed my exit paperwork properly when Id resigned last year. Or maybe they wanted me back and the Director was going to make a personal plea. Yeah, right.

Across the room a water cooler gurgled, but there were no cups for it. Another subtle torture device. After a while I found myself staring at the beige carpet, trying to find a stimulating pattern in it. Eventually I closed my eyes. Heat was building under my suit, and I became aware of a prickly sensation on my neck. By now Id been waiting for at least an hour, and I was plenty irritated. To calm myself, I breathed slowly and deeply, and meditated on something pleasant: beautiful redheads.

I remembered the cinnamon redhead bank robber who had whispered promises of sexual favors in exchange for letting her go; luckily my partner was with me, so I didnt take her up on her very enticing offer. I thought of the more strawberry than blonde, and married, waitress at the diner on Broadway, and how often I found myself there flirting with her. I thought of curly redhead Bernadette Peters, whom Id seen in Annie Get Your Gun from a second row seatclose enough to observe the perspiration beading on her upper lip. And lastly I thought of the petite Texas redhead whose name I never learned but with whom I made out in the most remote nook of Strand Bookstore near Union Square. A heady bouquet of lilacs stuck out of her shoulder bag. I had literally pinched myself at the time, because I couldnt believe my luck: a redhead with soft lips, and the piquant aroma of my favorite flower wafting around us.

Mr. Stevens?

When I came to, the little Texas firebrand was gone, sadly supplanted by Mrs. Greer.

The Director will see you now, she said.

Already ? I said, getting to my feet.

Theres no need to be sarcastic, young man, she said.

To hell there isnt, I said, but Im not going to argue with you. So, wheres Oz? Through there?