Stolen Goods

[SweetAsSuga]

This RP is closed for Pix



Six AM donned bright and clear, but the woman buried beneath the covers of the King sized bed was anything but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Groggily, Grace Simpson felt around for the snooze button on her alarm clock, which was tuned to a radio station that was incessantly blaring One Direction.

"Oh god, who can wake up to this shit." Grace moaned as she pulled a pillow over her head. But the radio would not be ignored. Sitting up, Grace grabbed the clock and threw it against the wall, leaving a slight dent and black mark in the slate-blue paint. Grace climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom where she turned the hot water on full blast and climbed into the shower, letting the water pelt her back and shoulders. Never a morning person, she wondered why she always set her alarm for so early. Good intentions and all that nonsense. She always meant to work out in her home gym or go for a jog, but by the time she eventually dragged herself out of bed, all Grace wanted was a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee.

She made the short drive down to her office, a small brownstone apartment building that had been renovated into offices. She shared the building with an accountant, a child psychologist, and a psychic. Walking into her own space on the bottom floor, Grace wasn't shocked to see Celeste already seated at her desk, a cup of coffee perched on the edge of the desk, steam still rising off the top. Grace grabbed the cup and inhaled the heavenly aroma.

"What's on the ticket today, Celeste?" She asked her secretary, a woman in her mid-50's who had a soft grandmotherly feel about her complete with floral dresses and reading glasses that hung off a chain around her neck.

"You have an appointment in about a half hour with a new client. Then this afternoon Mrs. Chambers is stopping by."

"Let me guess, Chintzy got dog nabbed again." Grace smirked. Mrs. Chambers was forever forgetting that she had dropped her dog off at day care or that the dog walker had him and, therefore, always believed that he had been taken and was being held for ransom. Mrs. Chambers was eighty-seven and should have been put into a nursing home long ago, but there was no one to look out for her, it was just her and that damn dog.

"Tell you what, Celeste," Grace leaned her hip against the corner of the desk, "let's have Chintzy waiting here when Mrs. Chambers comes in. Then I'll take her home and see that she gets a good dinner in her."

Celeste patted Grace's hand lovingly.

"You always do look out for that poor lady."

"Alright, now that's settled, I'll be in my office. Let me know when my appointment gets here."

Thirty minutes later, Celeste knocked on Grace's door. "Ms. Simpson, your 9:30 is here."

"Let him in." Grace smiled, not once looking up from the computer where she was rapidly typing an email to her sister who was currently backpacking across Europe - a trip funded partly by Grace as a graduation gift to her little sister.

The door opened wider and Celeste stepped aside to admit the new client.

 

[Pix]

Sam Marlowe had reservations about stepping into an innoc-- well for the most part, innocent private investigator's office to drag her into the business he was partaking in currently. Times were tough, criminals were plentiful, and they were more brazen tan ever. This was America in 2012, everyone had become a whore and all were willing to do something dirty to cover this month's rent.

However, Sam was about to walk into this PI's office, because he had heard a variation of the same treatise about America's downfall with a twist. Grace Simpson was supposed to be the very best PI this side of the Mississippi, ready and willing to do whatever for her client no matter how risky, but she was reported to be true, an advocate for her client until the bitter end. Sam had heard one particular story that made her seem more like a Joan of Arc than Mata Hari, but he knew someone with as many police ties as her could not be fully trusted, and maybe that was a good thing.

A door opened in front of Sam with a smiling older woman on the other side. He was surprised. It was like driving on the freeway and drifting off in a daydream and being surprised when your exit comes up much faster than you expected. He shook his ead, knocking out the cobwebs. This is where he needed to be. Simpson was the person he needed. She could track down the goods, or at least be the person to go 100% trying to find them.

The older woman told Sam to sit down. He was in off-wite chinos, a brown belt, a blue Van Heusen dress shit covered by a sport coat that match is pants, the typical attire for any day. Sam was tall, about six feet two inches. He carried a large frame, he was naturally wide and carried some bulges where most people didn't like but they seemed to fit him. He wasn't someone to be mistaken for a movie star, but his hair could rival anyone that tried to stake a claim on it. His hair was light brown and thick enough to make rope out of, but didn't curl, at worst it seemed like the ocean on a tough day.

Sam quickly was told to stand after he was told to sit. The older woman smiled and told Sam that Ms. Simpson was ready to see him. Sam stood up and walked into the office.

He saw the woman sitting at the desk. She was beautiful, no doubt, but not someone you write poems about....no supermodel, no actress, no pop star, but beautiful nonetheless, someone who could make Sam Marlowe commit. It's gonna be that much harder, Sam though to himself.

"My situation may be irregular," Sam said to the beautiful Grace Simpson, "but I hear you're the one to help me."

 

[SweetAsSuga]

Grace smiled up at her client as he entered the room. He was a vaguely attractive man, not the kind to make hearts skip a beat, but nice enough that a woman might give him a second glance.

"How can I help you, Mr...Marlowe?" Grace asked, glancing down at the file that Celeste had placed on her desk. It contained only the briefest information on Sam Marlowe, nothing more than his name and a phone number.

Odd, thought Grace, usually Celeste was able to come up with a bit more information on a new client so that Grace had at least a vague idea of who she was dealing with. It seemed that Mr. Marlowe liked to live off the grid, which immediately raised red flags in Grace's mind.

"My situation may be irregular," Sam said, "but I hear you're the one to help me."

"Of course. Why don't you have a seat and tell me your situation and we'll see what I can do to help."

 

[Pix]

"Well, you see Ms. Simpson," Sam started smoothly not hesitating to admit to this pseudo-law enforcement officer of his nefarious lifestyle, "my goods that have been taken from me did not come to me above board, in fact I do business in the underworld. Men and women who have acquired certain artifacts without permission come to me to sell them. Because they are...for lack of a better word...stolen, I offer them a less than fair price for their wares. That's okay, because they spent nothing on them. I then find a discreet buyer who is willing to part with a large sum of money to take the merchandise off of my hands. In short, I am a fence."

Sam sat back relaxed. His posture was evident of a lifetime of taking the easy way out and cutting corners. He had spent his life being the smartest guy in the room more or less, and had used his wits to fulfill his id.

He smiled his mouthful of pearly whites and leaned forward. He lowered his voice to a level quieter than his previous introduction to the P.I., "Now, a certain high priced piece of property I acquired recently is of concern here. It's the kind of item that if I was able to get it to the right buyer, I could finally move down to the Caymans and retire...and finally use that bank account down there that I have been filling up with no withdrawals since I was 21."

"This item was taken from my storage facility, Ms. Simpson. And I want you to help track it down."

 

[SweetAsSuga]

Grace sat back in her chair, feet propped up on her desk, as she surveyed Mr. Marlowe. His words tumbled out rapidly, though he tried to push the bravado through in his tone. She listened intently, weighing the pros and cons (no pun intended) of the job. Once he had finished speaking, Grace let her feet fall back to the floor as she leaned in, her elbows now propped on the desk.

Sam Marlowe was leaning back in his own chair, his posture now cool and confident. Grace had never been one to appreciate people who operated under their own rules, thinking that they didn't have to work as hard as everyone else and taking the easy way to earn their fortunes. But even she had to admit that there was something about Sam Marlowe that was...intriguing.

"Mr. Marlowe," she spoke slowly, wanting him to pay attention, "it's not my place to judge a client. I am not a police officer. I do not work with the law unless it suits me. So, I can be perfectly honest in saying that you do not need to worry about me informing any type of law enforcement about you and your dealings. However, I am going to need you to be one hundred percent honest with me. That means, should I take your case on, you and your life are an open book to me. Anything and everything I need to know you will not hesitate to tell me. Is that clear?"

She waited for his answer before standing and heading for the door of her office. "Then we have a deal. Now, take me to your storage facility."

 

[Pix]

Marlowe smiled and stood. "Of course," he told the private detective.

Together, Marlowe and Simpson walked out of the office to the street where Sam's towncar was parked. It was a roomy sedan and a driver got out to open the back door for the client and the P.I.

"I don't like taxis," Marlowe kept that grin on his face, "Of course, Ms. Simpson, if you like you can follow us, but I'd think a ride together provides an opportunity for us to get to know who each of us is in bed with now...so to speak."

That sly grin stayed frozen on Marlowe's face as he walked over to the towncar and sat in the back. He poked his head with that grin on his face out of the door and asked, "So, are you coming?"

 

[SweetAsSuga]

When she saw the town car and driver Grace had to admit that she was a bit impressed. Obviously Marlowe was doing well in his chosen...profession, even if it wasn't completely above board.

"I don't like taxis. Of course, Ms. Simpson, if you like you can follow us, but I'd think a ride together provides an opportunity for us to get to know who each of us is in bed with now...so to speak. So, are you coming?"

Grace looked at him, that sly grin on his face as he looked up at her from the backseat of the car. It was an obvious challenge. He wanted to see whether she had the guts to do it, to really and truly take him on as a client.

"Of course, Mr. Marlowe. Now scoot over." Grace said as she climbed into the backseat beside him. The car pulled away from the curb and into traffic. As they drove, Grace pulled out a pad of paper and a pen from her over-sized bag. While many in her field had gone digital, Grace preferred to keep things old school.

"Now, fill me in on all the details of the case. And don't leave anything out, every little detail is vital."

 

[Pix]

Sam sat back and relished in the fact that the attractive private dick had taken him up on his offer. He sat in the back of the town car and gave a comfortable breadth between them. He didn't want to creep her out, it was business after all.

She asked him to expound on every little detail and pulled out the archaic pen and paper. Sam was a little surprised that he was looking at a spiral notepad and not and iPad, but he also felt more comfortable.

"I'm glad you still go all analog," Sam said, "a permanent footprint of these dealings on the internet could ruin my business."

Sam looked at his hired detective and smiled. He made sure to make eye contact before he gave a sincere, "Thank you," as he patted her wrist gently.

He pulled his hand away and brought it to his brow and he rubbed it with focus. "Here's the thing," Sam started, "Nearly one half of a truckload of Grey Goose vodka was taken from my storage facility. And it boggles my mind, because it had to have been somewhat of an inside job, but my guys are truthfully oblivious. On top of that, the vodka had just come in a few hours before it went missing."

Sam leaned forward and pulled a bottle of 18 year old scotch from a cubby in the back of the car seat in front of him. He pulled a paper cup from the side of the town car and poured himself a double shot.

"Care for a drink, Ms. Simpson?"