Sipping an Iced Latte

Sipping an Iced Latte
WC: 299

I sat in the café and watched as he sipped on an iced latte and talked to a curvaceous blonde.  She was definitely out of his league, but there was something in the Spring air that made her stay and listen to his game.  He must good with women: She didn’t pick up a loose brick from the nearby construction and smack him upside his head.

Colin McMurray’s wife, Fiona, hired me to follow him, to gather as much evidence for an upcoming divorce filing.  She heard the rumors  of his activities, but she needed concrete proof of his illegal and immoral acts.  She wasn’t vengeful, she just wanted to protect her children and herself financially from what his lawyers would try. 

In the four weeks I’ve been tailing him, I’ve caught on video him soliciting known prostitutes, slipping thick, unmarked envelops to two councilmen.  I garnered photographic confirmation of trysts with her administrative assistant, her sister, and to my shock, his sister-in-law.  I believed I had enough to show Fiona, but my partner disagreed.

“One more week,” he said.  “One more week, and she’ll have enough to nail him but good.”  I didn’t want to, but I agreed.  What harm could come waiting a week?

I looked at the woman and a strange feeling came over me.  It felt as if I had seen her before.  But where, I couldn’t quite remember.  I took another sip of my own iced caffeine drink and watched him interact.  He was leaning over, whispering in her ear.

“Shoot,” I screamed.  I bolted out of my chair and rushed outside.  I remembered where I had seen.

I was too late.  She was standing over him, slipping a Beretta back in her bag.  A red stain on his yellow Polo was growing bigger.