09 July, 2013

The Best Detective on the West Coast - A Short Story

I can still remember the day Myrian threw herself into my office, victim of the outside rain’s relentless lashing as her delicately heeled pumps flattened small circles on the faded Berber beneath her. The rain had caused her stockings to cling to her long legs, and her once illuminated black hair streamed sodden down her face in long windings strands, gently tracing the lines of her jaw as the water dripped rhythmically onto her leather purse in small taps.

Myrian was classically beautiful: jet black hair, wide dark eyes, and cheekbones you would need a Sherpa to climb. Her long lashes were wet with tears and pathetic fallacy, as she looked up through them and to where I sat in the worn wooden desk I considered my first home.

“My husband is missing,” she barely got the words out before she walked – shaken – to take a seat on a chair once filled with similar weeping eyes, “I heard you were the best.” She looked desperately at me.
I allowed myself to process a small smile as I jerked my head in agreement. My grey eyes remained collected and calculating, mouth gently pressed enough to show concern that came with years of doing this type of work.

Over the next few days I spent the majority of my time tracking Myrian. I watched her go to work, drive to and from appointments, and I stayed outside her house for any signs of her husband, at her request. I knew better – he wasn’t coming back.

Myrian claimed her husband Nate took off during an argument the pair had during dinner. Myrian accused him of cheating on her after she found a pair of women’s panties in his car. He claimed innocence, and Myrian wanted desperately to believe him but couldn’t. They fought and Nate grabbed his keys and sped off in his Porsche.

They found Nate’s car a few days later in the creek. It looked like it hit a tree, spun out of control and pin balled down the escarpment before landing in the November-chilled rapids. Myrian tried to convince me it was foul play – some scorned mistress who couldn’t own him so she destroyed him. They found evidence of a struggle in the Porsche – broken stick shift, scratched upholstery, and footprints on the inside of the windshield, card door, and passenger side window. She was convinced it was murder.

They never found Nate’s body. The police were sure once the Porsche crashed into the ravine that Nate drown, his body swept away by the current that lead directly to the Pacific Ocean – their home in Vancouver made for a direct route that bypassed the harbour.

The funeral service was lovely, they had a memorial stone replacing the traditional casket – you can’t bury ‘nothing’.  Myrian invited me, heartfelt gratitude at my fruitless efforts. She also paid me handsomely, a crisp white envelope filled with my very exclusive salary which corresponded with my title of best detective on the entire west coast.  

Two weeks later I read in the news that Myrian was officially broke. Turns out Nate’s money was tied up in offshore multi-account banking, and upon his death the accounts were drained by whoever else was in on them. The house, the cars, all the money was gone. I felt like I should have warned her but that’s just how the cookie crumbles.


It’s a good thing the outside parking lot of her condo was empty or anyone walking by could have heard the fit of giggles and moans coming from the beautiful car. The downside was it had a very, very small interior, and Nate was very, very large. She was just fine with that.

He cupped her breasts in his large hands, gently kneading them with his fingers as his mouth found its way to the base of her neck. He trailed his tongue lightly up her collarbone, licking the beads of sweat developed by their late night rendezvous off her skin like it was sugar. She moaned and slipped a hand in his expensive slacks, feeling him become uncontrollable for her. His breath hitched in his throat, as his moan wavered; he wanted her too badly to keep playing these games much longer.

Nate leaned over the passenger’s seat, tightened his grip around her, and started to pull her on top of him. He tried to position his legs over both seats and recline the driver’s side with one hand. The weight of both their bodies and the angle was too much for the imported gearshift, and Nate heard it crack. She sucked in a gasp as she stared at him wide-eyed, hands slapped over her mouth and she looked at the damage to his gorgeous Porsche.

He smiled and grabbed her neck to pull her down onto him again. They began to grind together in unison as their bodies started to overheat. She cried out as she got closer, nails clutched into the soft leather headrest, as her body started to quiver. She could feel his pulse racing and his motions quicken as they both reached their peak, her long nails unknowingly raked along the delicate leather of the driver’s seat, as his shoes bucked against the side and windows of the car; his frame much too large to rest anywhere else.

When their blood stopped its ferocious drum line, and their bodies cooled in the inside of the car subjected to the November air, they decided to go through with it. They both drove out to the ravine, the one that flows right into the ocean. She got out a few metres behind, and watched him jump out of the car as soon as it hit the tree. He rolled to the ground just as the car came to a stop, steam hissing from the radiator of the popped hood. She helped him push it enough so it started to glide down the bank, watching it pick up speed as it crashed into the trees and into the freezing water below.

They had it all figured out. He’s fake his death so he could run away with her, knowing his wife would contact someone to try to find him. He wouldn’t be found. He had several offshore accounts they could use that would last them the rest of their lives and then some, plus the large sum of money she’d receive. He hated his wife. She used his money and controlled his life. He needed to be free.

He sipped his cold beer, staring out onto the glassy surface of the Caribbean water. The waves lapped gently onto the white sand and the sweet-smelling breezes of coconut and palm leaves filled the umbrella. He looked over at the woman beside him and smiled. She turned her head and smiled back, her grey eyes sparkling.

He’d been in love with her for years, since they were teenagers. She left to pursue her police dream, eventually rising in ranks. 15 years later she relocated back to Vancouver to set up her own business.
He could finally be happy. He had his money, his freedom, and the love of his life. It also didn’t hurt that she was best detective on the west coast either.

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