Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part XII

The "Thrilling" Conclusion

Flak dug his hands deeper in the pockets of his trench coat. He thought about the sitcoms he hated the most: the comical misunderstanding resulting from a character talking on and on about something to someone who thinks or knows something completely different. Like, say, Jack is going on about his special spicy meatballs to the new chef who thinks all this talk about "balls" is because Jack is gay. It always made Flak squirm. He hated to be embarrassed, even for someone else.

And as he listened uncomfortably to Janey's mule-like bray, he was embarrassed for her. Lucky no one else was around.

"Oh, Petey...stand up straight. And wipe that silly grimace off your face." Janey patted Flak's cheek. "Haven't I told you that you have to look confident to be confident? Don't you want them to take you seriously?"

"Janey...Janey..."

"You're babbling, Peter," she said, hands on her hips like an old schoolmarm. Or a teenager pretending to be one.

"You're dead!" Flak finally blurted.

"Haven't we been over that already? Sit down, Petey. Have a drink." And Janey went to the bar, pressed a martini glass into Flak's hand, shook a mixer and, very deliberately and carefully poured him a drink. "Sorry, honey. No cherries." Flak sat down heavily on the couch. Janey pulled up a chair across from him, spun it around and straddled it, arms over the back, chin on her hands.

"Are you ready for the story now, Petey?"

Flak sipped the martini. The cold ran down his chest like mercury in a thermometer -- thick and slow.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not if you know what's good for you, Petey!"

"You always know best, Janey."

"That's my boy! OK, Petey. Here's the deal: I rounded the corner, got out of the car, and blew it up by remote control."

"Oh Kay."

"It's not that complicated, really. The mob's been doing it for years."

"Hm."

"OK so far? Good boy, Petey. Now, here's the deal. You are going to solve the murder of Laine Bannister. We are going to call the press here to get the video of you capturing the killer. The resulting fame will catapult you into the highest echelons of power. You'll be nominated for commissioner next year, of course, when Grant retires. From there, it's only a matter of time: Mayor, Governor...the sky's the limit!"

"Great plan, Janey. But how am I going to solve the Bannister murder? I hope you have something for me because I've gotten nowhere so far..."

"Petey, you big dumb cutie. I killed Laine Bannister!"

Flak laughed, splashing his drink onto his lap. "Janey! That's silly!"

Janey's face turned pale and grim. "Don't you ever underestimate me, Peter Flak."

"Oh, I won't. But you'll have to do more than just say it for me to believe it." Janey stared icicles at Flak for a moment. Then her eyes warmed. She leaned over, lifted a green gym bag and dropped it on the coffee table with a clank. She unzipped the top.

"Have a look...don't touch it!" Janey said, slapping at Flak's hand, or more specifically, his fingerprints. "It's all there: Icepick, claw hammer, letter opener, electric nail gun, exacto knife, granite paperweight, and that silly Lucite publicity award shaped like a pyramid we won for your Super Cop story. All in resealable plastic bags, at least what would fit. I bet the blood isn't even dry!"

Janey smiled expectantly at Flak, waiting for a reaction. Flak didn't move. But he did notice an audible click and a flash of red from somewhere behind Janey.

"But, why, Janey? Why did you do it?" Janey spat inelegantly, and stalked over to the couch. She sat down next to Flak, leaned in close, whispering in his ear.

"For you, Petey. All for you."

"Janey, I..."

"I love you, Peter Flak. Love me, Petey," she pleaded. "Right here, right now. Before they take me away. Just this once, and it'll be enough forever."

Flak stood, abruptly. Janey's grip slipped from his arm. She fell on the floor with a thud. She quickly stood and fixed her suit, checked her hair.

"Petey, I..."

"Janey, you are under arrest," Flak pointed at her with a dramatic flourish. "For the murder of Laine Bannister."

"Wonderful, Petey, but you can do that after. For the camer..."

"You have the right to remain silent."

"Ooh...handcuffs! Peter, if that's what..."

"Anything you say can be used against you..."

"What are you doing? Not here. Not now!" Janey's head whipped back and forth in a panic, then stopped short as she faced the round black lens of a Channel 5 news camera and the disapproving scowl of Samara Steele, reporter.

"Oh, Petey," she said, straightening her posture and licking her lips. "Touche."





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Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part XI

Flak took a deep breath, exhaled on his hand and sniffed.

Minty fresh.

He licked his lips, took another deep breath, visualizing himself a lot calmer and his heart beating a lot slower than it was right now as he prepared to insert the key card that would unlock room 215 of the Carstairs Hotel at the request of his recently dead publicist, who, he expected, he would find behind the door.

I can't imagine how this can be good for me. Janey would tell me to leave now and send someone else.

Flak rubbed his temples.

But Janey's dead. Or behind this door.

Irony gave him headaches.

He put the card in the slot.

"So! What have we here?" Flak jumped back from the door as Samara Steele strode smartly down the hallway. "A rendezvous with a secret source? Or, perhaps a rendezvous of another sort, hm?"

"Steele," Flak said, regaining his posture and mustering a nervous sort of condescension. "This is police business."

"Yeah, and this is First Amendment business!" Steele boomed. Flak was impressed. She was just as dramatic live as she was on TV. Shorter, though. Regardless, he wasn't ready to face whatever was behind that door with a reporter. Especially one without a camera.

"Listen, Steele. You're smart and you're cute." That should butter her up! "You'll get your story. But I can't let you in here." He narrowed his eyes. "There's too much at stake."

"Really, Flak," Steele said. "Like what?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Where's your camera?" Flak asked.

"Coming up the back stairs. He'll be here any minute. We can go live like ..." she snapped her fingers under Flak's nose... "that."

"Look," Flak said, trying to achieve some sort of 'I'm-on-your-side' tone of exasperation, "wait by the stairs with your cameraman. I have to go in there alone."

Steele bit her lip. "I'll get the story?"

"Exclusive. Do you see anyone else here?"

"Don't screw me, Flak," Steele threatened.

"Not unless you ask," Flak said. Good one, Flak!

Steele turned on her spiked heels and stalked back down the hall toward the stairwell. He admired her ambitious, merciless gait.

Then he slipped the key card into the door, waited for the soft click of the lock mechanism, jammed the handle down and shoved the door open, stumbling as if he'd been pushed from behind. Thus, it was from the floor that he saw her -- the shiny patent leather boots, the fishnet stockinged legs, the wide -- too wide -- leather skirt, the cream-colored silk blouse accented by a chain of gold links. The smiling face, the professionally whitened teeth, the lipstick just a little too red. The big brown eyes and painted on eyebrows. The dark bobbed hair sprayed to perfection, the hair of someone ready to pitch, to sell and any time, any place.

Janey.

"Petey! So nice of you to drop in."

"Janey!" Flak croaked out loud. "You're dead!"

"Rumors, statistics and lies, Petey," Janey said. She knelt down next to Flak and smiled a wide-mouthed grin. "I thought you were a detective." Then she stood up and laughed. And laughed some more.

Flak was getting uncomfortable. This was more laughing than was appropriate.

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NEXT TIME -- Part XII: The thrilling conclusion!

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