The Key--Chapter 2

approximately 2046 words

"The Key" 

Chapter Two
Tuesday Morning

Joe shuffled the morass of paper that he'd assembled to describe old man Marchan’s financial empire. The SOB was ripping off Bambi, his floozy wife, that was for sure.  It wasn’t easy, but he’d found where Marchan hid his money.  He let a satisfied grin twist his mouth.  The harder it was to find stuff, the more satisfying the search.

         He peered at his computer screen while he scrolled through corporate financial statements.  Marchan had constructed an incestuous brew of faceless corporations, one owning another in a bewildering cascade.  He’d traced one company that owned itself through six different intermediaries.  No wonder Bambi couldn’t figure it out, not that she was the sharpest knife in her kitchen.  At least she’d brought him an interesting puzzle to solve.  Better yet, she paid him to do it.

         He stood, stretched, and headed to the storeroom behind the main office for coffee.  Back here, everything aligned in neat and proper order.  The coffee maker sat next to a gleaming, stainless steel sink.  The cot he kept there for late nights stood ready with clean sheets and military corners.  Spare clothes hung in a pressed array. 

         He really needed to clean up the front office.  He’d even left pizza boxes on the conference table last night. 

         When he retrieved cream for his coffee from the refrigerator, the sight of a cat food can reminded him that he needed to feed Lucyfur, the alley cat he seemed to have adopted.  Or maybe it was the other way around.  He pulled the can out, grabbed a spoon, and opened the back door.  A gray-striped tabby dashed between his legs, her tail held high, and meowed a greeting.

         Joe  grinned.  “Well, good morning to you, too, Miss Lucy.” 

         Meow?  She ran her head against his trousers and purred.

          “Yeah, I know. You want your food. Well, here ya go.”  He squatted and spooned the stinky food into her bowl, then scratched between her ears while she chowed down. 

         Somehow, this little ritual made his office seem more like home than the apartment he shared with Toby.  For sure, Lucy was nicer to him than his live-in boyfriend, even if she was just a cat.

         The chime built into his doormat announced that a customer had entered the front door. He returned to the front office, closing the door behind him.  The new arrival, a willowy brunette, looked to be about his age or maybe a bit younger, say early twenties. She shouldn't look that good, not with no makeup. 

         She pierced him with icy, blue eyes, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.  She was a puzzle waiting to be solved.  Just what he liked, although if she were a hunky male it’d be better.

         He strode around his desk, and extended his hand.  “Good morning, ma’am.  I’m Joe Hatcher.”  Now that he was closer, she seemed taller than he’d first thought, nearly equal to his six feet.  It was almost like she’d used her clothes and posture to make him underestimate her. 

         Time to flash his I'm-a-good-guy dimples.  “What can I do for you?”

         She barely touched his calloused hand and spoke with a frosty contralto.  "I'm here to engage your services." 

         Her words sent more tingles jittering down his spine, like she was casting a spell or something.  Not that female wiles would work on him. Still, there was something about her. Something otherworldly. 

         Anyway, she was a customer, and an interesting one at that.  He scoped her out more closely and suppressed his surprise. What was a classy woman like her doing in a flea-trap joint like Acme Investigative Services?  His typical client reeked of cheap, drug-store cologne, but this woman's subtle scent murmured exotic promises.  Joe's rumpled suit screamed Walmart, while her outfit, an immaculate, business-like mix of chiffon, gabardine, and high fashion,  bespoke Niemen Marcus. Her shoes alone probably cost more than a month's office rent.  For sure, she was loaded, which meant she could pay. 

         Besides, she was a contradiction, a woman like her hiring a PI like him made her  an enigma to be unraveled.  She didn’t need the kind of challenging puzzle Bambi Marchon brought him to be interesting.  Any problem this woman brought would just be icing on the cake.

         He ran his fingers over his stubbled chin before removing a stack of financial reports from the plastic guest chair.  “Have a seat and we’ll see what we can do for you.” 

         She ignored the invitation to sit and instead surveyed the office. Her gaze roamed over the cracked plaster, the broken linoleum floor tiles, and the stale pizza boxes that littered his battered conference table.  Her straight bangs dangled across her brow, partly masking her eyes, but they didn't hide the sneer on her lips. In contrast to the long bangs, her hair was buzzed short on the sides, nearly as short as Joe’s razor cut. It was like she couldn’t make up her mind between channeling Annie Lennox or Princess Di. An indecisive client could be a hassle. Still...money and mystery. The perfect combination. 

         He put his dimples back in place. Maybe he should try complimenting her.  "My mother's really into shoes.  I wonder, could you tell me where she could get a pair like the ones you're wearing?  They're beautiful." 

         Woman always like it when you notice their shoes. Still, he cringed inside, not only at mentioning his mother but at his groveling tone. It didn’t help to think about the acid comments his boyfriend Toby would make if he saw Joe debase himself in this way.  On the other hand, Toby would make acid comments regardless.

         She glanced down at her leather pumps and sniffed.  "You can't just walk in and buy these.  SIgnor Artioli only takes orders by subscription, in Milan."

         By subscription?  Bespoke shoes?  Who knew?  But then he seemed to recall a news item about Saddam Hussein and Bush the Elder using the same Italian shoemaker.  Must be this one. Ironic, but she didn't seem to be one to appreciate irony.

         Before he could formulate an answer, a car drove through the strip mall’s parking lot, its radio blaring hip-hop and its bass thumping.  Her gaze settled on Joe’s scuffed suede shoes, and her expression soured, as if she’d bit into an apple and found him inside.

         It didn't look like his charm offensive was working.  Maybe he wasn't as suave as he thought.  Hating himself for being a phony, he retreated back to his chair behind the desk where he could hide his Hush Puppies and waited. The overhead fluorescent light flickered and buzzed, casting a harsh glow over the cramped office. 

         Her mouth pinched. "This may have been a mistake."

         Joe’s heart sank, but he just shrugged.  "There’s a reason you're here."  He nodded again at the chair on the other side of the desk.  "You may as well take a load off and tell me why you came."

         She hesitated a beat before pulling a hundred bucks of silk scarf from her Gucci bag and spreading it on the seat.  She perched on the edge like a prim sparrow.  "You do private investigations."  It wasn't a question.

         Joe nodded.  "We specialize in finding things, but yeah.  We do investigations."

         Reaching into her purse, she produced a plastic bag with a metal object inside.  "I have acquired a key."  The baggie clunked when she placed it on the desk between them.

         Joe poked it with a forefinger.  The baggie held an odd-looking key, perhaps six inches long, and made of what appeared to be corroded brass or maybe silver.  His nub of curiosity pinged, but he kept his tone nonchalant.  "Yup.  It's a key.  What about it?"

         "I would like to learn what it opens."

         Joe frowned.  Keys open locks.  She must be interested in what—or who--was locked up, not what it opened.  "May I look at it?"

         She shrugged.  "Of course."

         He dumped the contents of the baggie onto his desk.  The key thumped when it hit the surface.  A golden chain clattered out as well, snaking around it. Someone had etched something, letters maybe, on the key's tarnished surface. 

         Joe ran his fingers along the haft, where two symmetric sets of teeth protruded from the top and bottom, more like little nobs than the teeth of a conventional key.  The haft ended in another blocky nob.  He nudged the glittering chain with a knuckle and revealed a tarnished metal tag  with “Polhem” stamped into it.  "It looks like something Mr. T might have worn. Who’s Polhem?  The owner?  And is that real gold?"

         She stiffened.  "I'm sure I wouldn't know." From her manner, she couldn't give a crap.

         He picked up the key for a closer look.  "Shit. It's heavy.  What's it made of?  Lead?"  The weight dragged at his fingers. The damned thing must weigh several pounds.

         "What are you, a metallurgist or a detective?  What difference does it make what it's made of?"

         Maybe he didn't need money that badly after all.  Still, the key was a puzzle, that was for sure.  And so was she, even if a nasty one.  He firmed his mouth and said, "You indicated you wanted to hire us for an investigation.  Does it involve this key?"

         Exasperation flitted across her pale features.  "I told you. I desire to learn what it opens."

         "Okay. Where did you get it?"

         "I'm not at liberty to say."

         Joe tried to not roll his eyes.  "Can you at least give me a clue? Does it open a door or something else?"  He peered at it. "It's got some kind of script on it. What language is it in?  It looks old, too.  Do you know it's age?"

         "I know nothing of its provenance.  The script might be Ogham, but it might be something entirely different.  It is what it is."

         "Uggam?  What language is that?"

         "Ogham.  It's an ancient script for writing Gaelic. Sixth century or before."

         Joe didn’t react to the mention of sixth century Gaelic, but he'd finally managed to squeeze a useful answer from her.  It might even explain why she was here and not talking to some other PI.  "So, you're telling me this key's like fourteen hundred years old."  Joe didn't bother to hide his disbelief. It looked old, but nowhere near that old.

         "I didn't say that. I said the script, the way of writing, dates from the sixth century.  I have no idea how old or new the key is.  Are you sure you're a detective?  I'd think you'd have better listening skills."

         "Look, lady--"

         "My name is Elise." 

         Ice queen Elise, apparently.  No last name, either.  Figures.  "All right, Elise.  You don't seem to know anything about this key except where you got it, and you won't even tell me that.  How do you expect me to find out what it opens?"

         "Really, Mr. Hatcher." She sniffed.  "You're the detective.  If I knew how to answer that question, I would scarcely have need of your services, would I?"

         He narrowed his eyes. She was a piece of work, that was for sure.  Still, he really could use the money, and the dual mysteries of the client and  the key were, well, irresistible.  If the inscription on the key really used sixth a century Gaelic alphabet, he knew exactly where he could get it translated. At a heavy emotional cost, to be sure, but his mother could do it.  But that meant most likely reason she had chosen him for her investigation was that she knew about his mother and her academic speciality.  That, together with her phone number, was enough to get him started.  Besides, he was almost done with Bambi’s job, so he may as well take this one.  "My rate is five hundred a day with a two-day minimum."

         She stayed cool as diamonds at Tiffany's.  "I know your rates. I brought enough for five days."  She pulled out a neat stack of twenty-five brand-new hundreds, stapled together like you get when you cash out at a pawn shop, and placed them on the table. She added an embossed business card to the pile of cash.  "Text me when you have the answer.  There's a bonus of an equal amount if you find an answer in the next five days."

         Twenty-five hundred.  Like it was pocket change.  It just added to the mystery that was Elise.  He picked up the business card.  Written in elegant, minimalist script, it displayed a phone number, the name Elise, and the text, "Designing the future from the past."  What kind of screwy business slogan was that? At least the phone number was another bit if information about her, another window into the mystery that she posed.  He fingered the crisp bills and said,. "I'll give it a go, but I can't guarantee answers, and for sure not in five days." 

         "Don't worry.  If you take longer, I won't care.  I'll most likely be dead."