Cookie

Cookie

By Ursula Kathrine Spiller

Copyright 2015 Ursula Katherine Spiller

2nd edition 2018

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Track One – Hi, I'm Cookie

Track Two – Getting Started

Track Three – Lying Low

Track Four – Awesome Twosome

Track Five – See and Be Seen

Track Six – Puzzling the Pieces

Track Seven – Close Grip

Track Eight – The Past Ends Today

Track Nine – The Undiscovered Country

Track Ten – Flight

Track Eleven – On the Road Again

Track Twelve – Between the Pages

Track Thirteen – Fiat Lux

Track Fourteen – Jenga!

Track Fifteen – Bonus Track

About the Author

Track One – Hi, I'm Cookie

You know, for someone like me, my mind can be surprisingly one-track at times. Usually, it's more like a fifteen track railway station, plus subway, plus possibly an airport for long-distance procrastination. But that's mostly okay. The fifteen tracks are very useful to have for a private detective.

Hi, I'm Cookie, by the way, and I'll be your narrator for the time being. (Note that I said narrator, not author. Should anyone telling you a story in a book ever claim to be the author, they're lying.) While Cookie isn't the most flattering name, it's worlds better than Cokes, which is what my brother always called me, even if people occasionally mistake me for a stripper or something. I did try that once – the stripping, not the coke – but it was not exactly a good idea, so now I'm stuck with using my mind. It says so on my business card. So there, bro.

On this day of all days, I'm here for murder. Not committing one, just solving it. That is not exactly my specialty; I'm more the type to stalk philanderers, but you know how it goes: you get up one ordinary day, walk down the street reading a file absentmindedly (using two of the fifteen tracks to read and walk at the same time without bumping into any pedestrians or lamp posts) to a café, and suddenly, BAM, you're in the middle of a murder investigation. Could happen to anyone. Did happen to me. (And a good thing, that too. Philanderers are too boring to read about.)

I guess maybe I should tell you that while it is thankfully not a daily occurrence to get entangled in a murder investigation, it's not a completely unheard of thing to happen around Orsino either. Orsino being my city. The more quick of you might have realised by now that this city is entirely fictional. I would have called it Metropolis or Gotham City or some such, but I wouldn't want DC after my ass, so Orsino it is. Think New York flavour like you know it from all those rom-coms; just make sure you add catalysers to the cars and mobile phones to peoples' hands; we're not in the Stone Age after all. Could you even imagine doing detective work without a damn mobile phone? I mean, really, I don't even remember how I managed when I started out. My phone, for example, is one of your regular smart phones. It's the latest Historia model. The one with the 'making History today' jingle running up and down on TV? No? Anyway, it of course has a decent camera, a voice recorder app (that one's particularly useful), as well as all the storage space I could pack on it without breaking it, and access to the C14 cloud server that's advertised as being as safe as it gets (not that you should trust cloud servers – I don't), in case I collect too much data for my baby to handle, which I always do. I even added some other... err... modifications. Like a mobile phone tracker (for locating philandering bastards and bitches), and I might or might not be able to listen in on the police radio. Maybe. Maybe not. At least nobody's ever caught me doing it. People tend to overlook me, and if I were to pass you on the street, you probably wouldn't notice me either. Another thing that's useful as a private detective. I look entirely ordinary. Ordinary eyes (no flecks of green, or grey, or sparkly gold, or what have you), medium height and weight, and long-ish hair. Long-ish, because it always starts out at chin length, and then I forget about it until it's down to my shoulders and all frazzled from never getting a haircut. Right now, it's apparently long enough to pull back into a pony-tail, since there is no hair falling into my eyes, or worse, in front of my camera lens, and you could most likely see my two earrings, if, of course, you would notice earrings when looking at a hiding, bleeding person. One of the studs says 'OK', the other is a smiley face. The kind of optimism I could use right now – pronto, if at all possible. Anyway, visible earrings, no hair falling into my face... damn, that probably also means that I'm due another cut.

But, no, no, you're right. This is not the time to get distracted by something that I never spend so much as half a minute per month thinking about. I'm here for that murder investigation. Taking crucial picture evidence and everything. I should really stay focused. Get my shit together, collect evidence, make sense of it, and present it to the authorities. Can't really leave Terrence hanging. Terrence, is very important in this story, as you'll soon see. He's also solely responsible for occasionally narrowing down my fifteen tracks into one, leading to some darkened corner with a bed in it.

Officer Terrence Toledano. Which would be his full name and title. I run into him every now and then with work related things. Personally, I think the Inspector just got tired of listening to my admittedly not always coherent ramblings and just sent Terrence to deal with me for him. Not that I mind. Terrence is about ten years older than me. (I think. I always have to count backwards to make sure I even remember exactly how old I am. Is it November yet? No, wait, August. Oh, good, I didn't miss my birthday.) Age aside, damn, that man looks good. He's also really nice, actually listens and sometimes even understands, and he always has something uplifting to say. Then again, I did help solve that one planned kidnapping-going-on-murder case where the husband I was supposed to follow tried to get his wife out of the picture via hired rookie assassin. Incidentally, I had been listening in on his phone call and could prevent the whole thing from ever taking place. Earned myself some favours with the police force for that. Granted, most of those I double and triple encashed, but it's a start.

None of that really explains why I'm hiding behind a bush, waiting to take a picture though, does it? Not even Terrence, who might be one-tracking my mind but doesn't have anything to do with my being here either. So I'm gonna do one of those flashback thingies that authors seem to be overtly fond of and tell you how this whole drama started.

So, yeah, that ordinary day I was talking about was a Tuesday. You don't have to write that down, it might as well have been a Wednesday or Thursday. Not a Monday, because you always remember the day the weekend is over; not a Friday, because of Friday night and weekend prospects, obviously; not Saturday or Sunday, because, well, it's the weekend. Not that my work binds me to a Monday-through-Friday schedule, but you tend to pick up the general mood, and I do make myself, or else I forget not only the day of the week, but possibly what planet I'm on. I'm picking Tuesday, because I'm pretty sure that's what it was. Actually, strike the Wednesday, I think I remember seeing either a Tu or Th on my calendar that morning before going out. Glad that's settled. Now, for what happened that day.

I grabbed the file of the case I had accepted the day before from my desk and hurried out of the house. I don't really have to hurry to a workplace with a grumpy boss to order me around, but if I don't stick to some basic framework, my life tends to spin out of its axis. Not a pleasant thing to watch, let me assure you. That frame includes getting my ass out of bed and out of the house before nine in the morning. Like every day, I was heading towards my favourite café, two streets down. The owner knows me and always has my coffee ready the moment I come through the front door. Another reason for me to be on time: if I were to be late, my coffee would be cold. Plus, I have that odd thing about not wanting to disappoint people. Why I think that coming to a café five minutes late would be disappointing to the guy running it remains anyone's guess, but to me it kinda matters. It makes me feel like I'm reliable, and I really have to be able to at least believe that I can rely on myself. Did I mention I have issues? Nothing too bad, but just, you know, issues. (Don't try to tell me you don't have any.) Bear with me.

I read through the file while walking, which is not as hard to do when you know your surroundings like the back of your hand and stick to that whole framework I mentioned. The case was nothing special; in fact, it was kind of boring. Missus absolutely certain that her old man cheats on her with his secretary. Not only boring, but cliché as well. From what I gathered, she is in no way interested in him, but, of course, nobody else is supposed to have her trophy husband either. Jeez. In that marriage, I'd cheat too. Not that I condone cheating, of course – and why be in a relationship if you don't want to be? – but she didn't deserve any better. Definitely not with her own revolving back door, which I absolutely did not investigate because I was bored. Either way, I took some amount of pleasure from the prospect of telling her that she was right. (Sure, the financial and legal fallout would be detrimental to the cheating husband, provided nobody informed the husband's lawyer about the wife's nocturnal adventures, which I absolutely would not do. At all.)

As you can see, my life is positively riveting when the highlight of my day – or possibly month, actually – is the prospect of telling off a client. I'll tell her off in a very subtle way naturally; can't have the word on the street be that I insult customers. Like I said, hunting down philanderers is not particularly engaging, but it keeps my mind busy and some money on my bank account.

I opened the door of the café. It's one of those doors that have bells hanging over them that jingle when you walk in. Despite that, we're not in the suburb or some quaint village. Orsino is a megacity (hence the earlier comparison to New York), and I live right smack in the middle. The city layout is thankfully designed in such a way that you can be at the centre of the hubbub, only two streets away from the financial district that regularly overflows with insane amounts of traffic, and yet the street you live in is a cosy little thing with a flower shop on one side and a bakery on the other, the big rush hour noise merely a background buzz, interrupted only by the occasional siren. I don't live near the financial district though. Not quite. I'm close to the only marginally less noisy shopping street. Lots of tourists around that one, I can tell you. (Though for some reason they usually don't think of crossing those two streets to the much calmer and more picturesque area I live in. I guess that's tourists for you, right there.) On foot, I can reach the financial and a bit further down the business area in about an hour. Though I don't have much reason to go there. For the suburb, you definitely need the subway or possibly busses (for god's sake, don't take a taxi!). It's a great city for living, really.

Cookie, darling! Like a clockwork! Charlie greeted me with my coffee ready in his hand.

Another reason to be on time. That is actually quite nice to hear. It sounds like you've accomplished something, even if it is just stepping through the door at nine o'clock sharp.

Good morning, Charles. Always a pleasure.

Charlie brought my cup of coffee to my usual table. I think he even sometimes tells other customers to sit somewhere else, just so I can have my seat by the window.

How is the case-load? he asked, as per usual.

Not too bad, I said, also as per usual. This one, I tapped on the file on the table, might even have some entertainment in it for me.

Charlie chuckled. He knew what I meant. You run into weirdoes in every job, but in mine, they usually add paranoia, jealousy, and other quirky little oddities that can really annoy the fuck out of you if you let them. I don't let them. I figured out how to just have them amuse me, and Charlie knows that.

Does it? he asked. Client or target?

I leaned forward conspiratorially, even though there was only one other customer in the café, and she was sitting too far away to hear a word of what I said. Client, I whispered.

Make sure you get the money before you have your fun then, he suggested, making me laugh.

I am the picture of discretion, you know.

But only the picture, dear. He strolled off again, probably to get my breakfast. It's the same every morning, and whenever it's not, I tell him I'm feeling adventurous. My silence equals 'the usual'.

He probably placed the breakfast in front of me at some point, but I don't exactly remember that, since I was reading the file again. I remember eating it though. I love his pancakes; they're something else.

I wonder if it's truly just the idea of showing my client that she was an idiot that makes me remember this case enough to even tell you about it or if I'm starting to put together a picture of the murder case in my head that I'm still not completely aware of. I can never quite tell what my brain is doing with or to me, so I wouldn't know. Either way, the fact remains that I was more focused on that case that mid-week morning than I had been in ages, and if you remember how I started this story, you might have realised that focus is not something that comes to me easily. Maybe it was just the day. Maybe days starting with a T make me concentrate more. Maybe names starting with a T make me... oh, dear. No, names with a T are not good for my concentration. Though I don't think I thought of officer Toledano at all during my reading of the file. I must say that I am most impressed. In retrospect. At the time I didn't realise what I wasn't thinking about, obviously. Nothing around me registered. It's like that: I'm either all there or all not there. I don't do anything in between. Consequently, since I was all there and on the case, the interruption baffled me for a second or two.

Excuse me? Miss Daalman?

I never mentioned that this was my name, did I? Well, it is. Of Dutch origin, or so I'm told. It's not like I was ever there in my life, myself. Since we're talking names, the name on my birth certificate of course isn't Cookie, it's Corinna. Corinna Mable Daalman. Just another piece of information for the road.

I turned around to see the woman I had noticed on the other side of the café earlier, now standing next to my table, leaning in. She looked like money, but too nervous to just be a jealous wife. Smart red jacket, matching skirt, classy white blouse, expensively coiffured wavy air falling over her shoulders, discreet jewellery: merely pearl earrings, a small gold locket, and a plain gold ring.

Yes? I said.

Her eyes flickered to the side and back to me. Corinna Daalman? she asked again. Hence my mentioning my name before. It could have got confusing, otherwise. Well, maybe not. You're not stupid after all.

Yes, I confirmed – again. I'm not half bad at dealing with potential customers. It's still something I have to force myself to do, and I have to think about every little nicety I throw at them. All those social conventions are confusing as hell to me. Amusing to read on others, frustrating and difficult to keep up myself.

Have a seat, Miss, I added. Most people would make that sound like a question, hinting at the fact that the other person should introduce themselves, but I don't do that on general principle. In this case, I'd have done it even less, because I wouldn't have wanted her to feel cornered. She was fidgety enough as it was.

Thank you, she said, taking the seat across from me and holding out her hand. Harding, she said, Barbara Harding.

Pleasure, Miss Harding, I said. I think I was smiling. That one does come without me having to consciously make an effort, which I'm quite glad for.

I found it interesting that she didn't correct me when I called her Miss, given her gold ring on her left ring finger and filed that for later.

What can I do for you? I asked.

She bit her lips and then rushed out: You prevented the Gallagher murder two years ago, correct?

'Thank you for reminding me that the last time I did something substantial was two years ago, missy.' No, I didn't say that out loud; I'm not that easily distracted.

Miss Harding, I started, leaning forward a bit, trying to look serious. It's not like me to be modest, but that was a coincidence.

But the outcome remained the same.

I shrugged. I can't argue with that, but wouldn't you want someone who actually achieves the goal they're after?

You achieved that too, didn't you?

What an odd woman. I had realised then already that a comment like that probably meant that she was after something that she wouldn't directly tell me about, or maybe something she didn't even know about. The tracks in my head had already started printing a timetable for the trains, I could feel it. Either this case would turn out to be interesting enough to keep me busy, or it would appear interesting for a while and then turn out to be completely boring. Either way, I couldn't possibly resist.

Point, I allowed. So I ask you again, what can I do for you?

She cleared her throat, took a small data stick out of the chest pocket of her jacket and put it on the table. I am the department head of the development division of Moore Incorporated, and I have reason to believe that one of my employees is stealing information.

I looked at the stick but didn't pick it up. Moore Incorporated owns pretty much every other company that manufactures electronic devices, including Historia, which you might remember from earlier.

This contains all the information you will need about the employee as well as the data he might have stolen.

I firmly sat on the urge to snort. It was such a silly statement that I had to sit very firmly. Miss Harding, I answered, no offense, but, no, it does not contain all the information I will need. If it did, you'd already have your answers and wouldn't be here.

I... she sounded nervous again, ... I would also need the stolen material back.

If this is about data, he's probably made copies if he hasn't sold it already. Getting information back is not like retrieving a necklace.

We have reason to believe that he did not copy the information. Nevertheless, he might already have made a... deal.

I tapped the stick. And I will find the reason for that on this?

She hesitated. No.

I did not hold myself back from rolling my eyes. Like I said, this does not contain all the information I will need.

Look, she leaned forward, apparently trying to involve me more to get me to do what she wanted. Depending on how interesting the thing was she was about to tell me, that might or might not work. I can't exactly have Mister Moore hear of this little problem I'm dealing with.

I raised an eyebrow.

I am responsible for the people I hire. That explained the secrecy. I do a thorough background check on each and every one of them. That explained her personal involvement.

Maybe it was a spur of a moment thing. Maybe he just suddenly needed the money, I said. Not every crime is committed by a criminal mastermind after all. Most of the time, it's just an idiot being even more stupid than usual or thinking that he is smarter than he is.

I highly doubt that, but either way, it won't matter when or why he decided to do what I suspect him to have done. He did do it, and I hired him.

There wasn't really a reason for me not to take another case, it wasn't like the one I had would keep me busy for long anymore, if at all.

You want me to bring you evidence that your employee stole from you and to retrieve the stolen material, I recapped. Correct?

She hesitated before nodding. I didn't know what to make of that hesitation, so I stored it along with the wedding ring in the back of my head. (Information like that, I store like a shopping list. Even if I forget what an item was, I remember how many there were, and that helps to remember what is missing.) At the time, I thought it to mean that she already had proof and just didn't want to give it to me on the off-chance that she was wrong and would give an outsider – me – ammunition to blackmail her.

Alright I said.

Does that mean that you'll take the case?

I take two hundred per case, plus eighty an hour, plus possible expenses, I listed in one breath.

My sudden acceptance startled her. Good. I don't like it when people don't think along for the ride. It's their case, not mine, in the end.

Martin, she breathes out a name, clearly relieved though still tense. His name is Martin Cannom.

I do like it on the other hand when they play along. It's much more fun that way. For me at least. Everybody else often feels like I'm making fun of them. Which, well, I do.

Where can I reach you, Miss Harding?

She blinked. That's it?

I shrugged. "That's it. You can give me the two hundred right now or have them transferred to my bank account. I can't guarantee that I will