Case File # 12 chapter1
CHAPTER 1
Stepping on the edge, the sight before me is overwhelming. Looking to the horizon, as far as I can see, I feel a sense of insignificance. I am an ant, trudging on the vast, gray earth. But I am not an ant right now; I am myself, on the edge of a high precipice, atop a very high escarpment.
The wind blows softly on my face, caressing my skin with sensations I never thought I could feel. The noonday sun is on top of my head, yet I couldn’t feel its heat. Only the mild chill from the wind keeps me company. I stare at this sight, spreading my arms, accepting the magnificence lay before me. And I feel free.
I look below me, and I see the finality. At first, I feel fear, snapping at my consciousness. I am on the verge of a high cliff, on the summit of this awesome sight. At the same time, I am on the verge of my finiteness, on the apex of my morality. Yet, strangely the fear vanished, evaporated, replaced by comfort. A few inches, and I will cross over. On the other side, there is deliverance. With that thought, I feel at peace.
I take one step forward. And now, I am falling. The wind now changes from a soft, mellow breath, to a ravaging, horrid, flow. My arms are still stretched to the side, like a bird falling from its nest, catching its lift in order to fly. Except, I don’t have wings; I have arms. The scenery rushes by the corner of my eye. The height from which I fell from is not that high, yet I feel like I am descending slowly. But the surge of wind, the rush of scenery convinced me that my fall is on a constant velocity. The rules of gravity applied.
The ground below is coming near. Then, everything goes blank.
************************************************************************************
“Sir, are you there?”
I wake up sitting on my office. The rain is still pouring outside. Outside my window, right behind the chair I am sitting on, the lights of the city glared. The street below is not busy; only a few pedestrians ambled by, either with opened umbrellas, or raincoats, some in thick jackets. A high school student talking on her cell phone is standing under the awning of the coffee shop across the street, shielding herself from the deluge of the night. A few blocks away, a well-dressed lady is holding up her black umbrella, walking towards 35th away from the coffee shop. Nothing strikes me as odd in this scenery. Just another rainy, February night.
I wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my lips, using my sleeves as a handkerchief. I try to stand up and I almost stumbled; I didn’t realize that my legs went numb. Looking at the wall clock, it says 7:43. I don’t remember falling asleep, or if I did, what time I last felt conscious. So, I can’t be sure how many hours was I sitting on my chair. I flexed my legs a bit, restoring some circulation, until I can feel from them again. I stand up and I limp my way towards my office bathroom.
I opened the lights, and yellowish light bathed the ceramic surrounding of the small cubicle. Looking at the small mirror, I recognized myself. Yet, I feel estranged somewhat. Is this really me? Am I the one looking at this mirror? If only this image winked, or maybe grinned, then a lot of questions would be settled. I let this thought slip pass, as I turned the faucet on. Water spilled, and I cup my hands, splashing my face, partly to wake myself up, and maybe to wash away some of the grime on my lips. Drying myself with a towel, I shut the lights of the bathroom off.
I look around my small office. It’s non-descript; wooden floors, high ceiling, a small deskfan beside my messy table, case files scattered all over. A corner lamp on the right is the only source of illumination for my office; I have my desk lamp too, but its off. The only decoration I can say of, is the pink blinds adorning the only window, although I don’t want to touch it, on account of the accumulated dust. I have Jennifer coming in early each day and although she insisted on straightening my place, I never pressed her to clean my office. Still, whenever I come in, the trash bins are always empty, ash trays are clean, and my coffee maker already brewing.
“Sir, are you there?”
I briskly walk towards my table, punching the intercom button answering to the other unit by the secretary’s desk outside.
“I’m here Jen. Is there something up?”
“Sir, a lady wishes to see you right now.”
“Does she have an appointment?” A stupid question actually. Whenever a potential client comes and sets a meeting with me, Jen always briefs me about it, or in case I am not in, leaves a small note on my desk. I don’t see any notes around here, and my calendar for today has nothing on it.
“No, sir. Shall I ask her to come back tomorrow?” In her voice, there’s a slight tremble on it, so it means, the client insisted on seeing me now. Glancing at the wall clock, it is still too early for me to leave anyways. 7:56.
“Its okay, she can come in. Give me five minutes. Oh, you can go home later, I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the help today Jen.”
“Anytime, sir.”
************************************************************************
I sit down on my chair, and I light up my Marlboro reds. I am about to open my desk lamp, when my door opened slowly, and a beautiful lady floats in. I use the term “float”, because of the way she walks. Languid, yet alive. Just like a stream or a brook on a secluded mountain trail; a traveler would notice this small body of water, especially after walking for hours, but a local would pay no mind about it. Keeping her posture and poise, I see no sign of exertion from her. Very natural, yet only a few can recognize its distinction. Behind her, I see Jennifer slinging her bag on her shoulders and grabbing her leather overcoat from her chair. She smiles at me, and I acknowledge it with a nod, then she closes my office door.
“Are you Detective Murakami?” Just like her walk, her voice and her diction is alive and impassive at the same time. People have their way of talking. Accents, nuances, a particular stress on some vowels perhaps, a person’s voice can reveal a number of things about the one who speaks, from their upbringing, to their educational attainment. Yet, hers is devoid of any of these. Who is she?
“Yes. And you are…” I put my cigarette on the half-filled ashtray as I stand up.
“Do you accept clients at this late of an hour?”
“I told my secretary to let you in.”
“And now I am here. My name is Naoko O’Hara.” She extends her hand, and I accept it.
“Please sit down.” She nodded, and we both take our seats, I on my chair, she on the client’s. A silence ensues; the falling rain pat-pat on my window, my desk fan whirring valiantly to keep me cool.
“I apologize for the unearthly warmth here in my office. And for not seeing you immediately. Were you waiting long outside?”
“No, its ok. The temperature is fine, and I was not waiting that long.” I turn my desk lamp on so that I can see her much better. She is wearing a blood-red evening dress with the small spaghetti straps on her shoulders. On her neck, a simple gold necklace with a diamond stud. A Cartier watch on her arm, Gucci purse on her lap. Her hair is straight and long, flowing all the way beyond her shoulders, but from this angle, I cannot tell how long it really is. No makeup, only a lip balm enhancing her lips. She is a bit broad-shouldered, yet her arms are proportioned to it. My guess is she’s 5’7” or so. She smiles, or is it a smirk? Then she crosses her legs, revealing their fine shape through the slit of her dress. On her feet are black evening shoes with heels. Unpainted nails. A rich client for today huh? Then again, I don’t do this for the money.
What is this beautiful woman doing in my office at this hour? My mind wondered.
I stand up, and take a look at the scenery on the streets below. As expected, there is a car outside. Judging by its lights and its logo, it’s probably an E-class Mercedes Benz. Figures. No woman, no matter how refined she is, would dare venture out on a February rain, wearing a night dress and open-toe evening shoes, without a car. Probably a chauffer waiting inside.
“So, what can I do for you, Miss O’Hara?” I turned at her. The smile/smirk is not there anymore.
“It’s actually Mrs. O’Hara. And I need your help.” Married. She opens her purse, a gold-platted cigarette lighter and a pocket of cigarettes in hand “Do you mind?”
I shake my head, and I point on the my cigarette ashtray, my Marlboro’s almost to its end. She lights her cigarette, and as she inhales, I pushed my ashtray nearer to her.
“I heard you are a very capable investigator, Mr. Murakami. You were highly recommended my by friends.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.” I wonder who her ‘friends’ are. I’ll find that out soon.
“And I heard that you are particularly good in finding.. missing people.”
“Most of my successful cases were of that nature.”
“Uh-huh. And its actually that that I need your help. I want you to find someone for me.” She crossed her legs again, this time the other leg on top. I can see in her eyes that she is testing me, measuring my worth. This used to bother me back then. Now, I just use this to motivate myself, to fan the embers of interest for the case.
“And who do you want me to find for you?” I reached for my pen, and I open my notes, scribbling “Case# 12, O’Hara, missing person = “
“I want you to find my husband for me.” She takes another puff of her cigarette. The rain outside never ceasing, the dark skies threatening civilization with a low thunder.
************************************************************************
n.b. stay tuned for chapter 2!!
Stepping on the edge, the sight before me is overwhelming. Looking to the horizon, as far as I can see, I feel a sense of insignificance. I am an ant, trudging on the vast, gray earth. But I am not an ant right now; I am myself, on the edge of a high precipice, atop a very high escarpment.
The wind blows softly on my face, caressing my skin with sensations I never thought I could feel. The noonday sun is on top of my head, yet I couldn’t feel its heat. Only the mild chill from the wind keeps me company. I stare at this sight, spreading my arms, accepting the magnificence lay before me. And I feel free.
I look below me, and I see the finality. At first, I feel fear, snapping at my consciousness. I am on the verge of a high cliff, on the summit of this awesome sight. At the same time, I am on the verge of my finiteness, on the apex of my morality. Yet, strangely the fear vanished, evaporated, replaced by comfort. A few inches, and I will cross over. On the other side, there is deliverance. With that thought, I feel at peace.
I take one step forward. And now, I am falling. The wind now changes from a soft, mellow breath, to a ravaging, horrid, flow. My arms are still stretched to the side, like a bird falling from its nest, catching its lift in order to fly. Except, I don’t have wings; I have arms. The scenery rushes by the corner of my eye. The height from which I fell from is not that high, yet I feel like I am descending slowly. But the surge of wind, the rush of scenery convinced me that my fall is on a constant velocity. The rules of gravity applied.
The ground below is coming near. Then, everything goes blank.
************************************************************************************
“Sir, are you there?”
I wake up sitting on my office. The rain is still pouring outside. Outside my window, right behind the chair I am sitting on, the lights of the city glared. The street below is not busy; only a few pedestrians ambled by, either with opened umbrellas, or raincoats, some in thick jackets. A high school student talking on her cell phone is standing under the awning of the coffee shop across the street, shielding herself from the deluge of the night. A few blocks away, a well-dressed lady is holding up her black umbrella, walking towards 35th away from the coffee shop. Nothing strikes me as odd in this scenery. Just another rainy, February night.
I wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my lips, using my sleeves as a handkerchief. I try to stand up and I almost stumbled; I didn’t realize that my legs went numb. Looking at the wall clock, it says 7:43. I don’t remember falling asleep, or if I did, what time I last felt conscious. So, I can’t be sure how many hours was I sitting on my chair. I flexed my legs a bit, restoring some circulation, until I can feel from them again. I stand up and I limp my way towards my office bathroom.
I opened the lights, and yellowish light bathed the ceramic surrounding of the small cubicle. Looking at the small mirror, I recognized myself. Yet, I feel estranged somewhat. Is this really me? Am I the one looking at this mirror? If only this image winked, or maybe grinned, then a lot of questions would be settled. I let this thought slip pass, as I turned the faucet on. Water spilled, and I cup my hands, splashing my face, partly to wake myself up, and maybe to wash away some of the grime on my lips. Drying myself with a towel, I shut the lights of the bathroom off.
I look around my small office. It’s non-descript; wooden floors, high ceiling, a small deskfan beside my messy table, case files scattered all over. A corner lamp on the right is the only source of illumination for my office; I have my desk lamp too, but its off. The only decoration I can say of, is the pink blinds adorning the only window, although I don’t want to touch it, on account of the accumulated dust. I have Jennifer coming in early each day and although she insisted on straightening my place, I never pressed her to clean my office. Still, whenever I come in, the trash bins are always empty, ash trays are clean, and my coffee maker already brewing.
“Sir, are you there?”
I briskly walk towards my table, punching the intercom button answering to the other unit by the secretary’s desk outside.
“I’m here Jen. Is there something up?”
“Sir, a lady wishes to see you right now.”
“Does she have an appointment?” A stupid question actually. Whenever a potential client comes and sets a meeting with me, Jen always briefs me about it, or in case I am not in, leaves a small note on my desk. I don’t see any notes around here, and my calendar for today has nothing on it.
“No, sir. Shall I ask her to come back tomorrow?” In her voice, there’s a slight tremble on it, so it means, the client insisted on seeing me now. Glancing at the wall clock, it is still too early for me to leave anyways. 7:56.
“Its okay, she can come in. Give me five minutes. Oh, you can go home later, I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the help today Jen.”
“Anytime, sir.”
************************************************************************
I sit down on my chair, and I light up my Marlboro reds. I am about to open my desk lamp, when my door opened slowly, and a beautiful lady floats in. I use the term “float”, because of the way she walks. Languid, yet alive. Just like a stream or a brook on a secluded mountain trail; a traveler would notice this small body of water, especially after walking for hours, but a local would pay no mind about it. Keeping her posture and poise, I see no sign of exertion from her. Very natural, yet only a few can recognize its distinction. Behind her, I see Jennifer slinging her bag on her shoulders and grabbing her leather overcoat from her chair. She smiles at me, and I acknowledge it with a nod, then she closes my office door.
“Are you Detective Murakami?” Just like her walk, her voice and her diction is alive and impassive at the same time. People have their way of talking. Accents, nuances, a particular stress on some vowels perhaps, a person’s voice can reveal a number of things about the one who speaks, from their upbringing, to their educational attainment. Yet, hers is devoid of any of these. Who is she?
“Yes. And you are…” I put my cigarette on the half-filled ashtray as I stand up.
“Do you accept clients at this late of an hour?”
“I told my secretary to let you in.”
“And now I am here. My name is Naoko O’Hara.” She extends her hand, and I accept it.
“Please sit down.” She nodded, and we both take our seats, I on my chair, she on the client’s. A silence ensues; the falling rain pat-pat on my window, my desk fan whirring valiantly to keep me cool.
“I apologize for the unearthly warmth here in my office. And for not seeing you immediately. Were you waiting long outside?”
“No, its ok. The temperature is fine, and I was not waiting that long.” I turn my desk lamp on so that I can see her much better. She is wearing a blood-red evening dress with the small spaghetti straps on her shoulders. On her neck, a simple gold necklace with a diamond stud. A Cartier watch on her arm, Gucci purse on her lap. Her hair is straight and long, flowing all the way beyond her shoulders, but from this angle, I cannot tell how long it really is. No makeup, only a lip balm enhancing her lips. She is a bit broad-shouldered, yet her arms are proportioned to it. My guess is she’s 5’7” or so. She smiles, or is it a smirk? Then she crosses her legs, revealing their fine shape through the slit of her dress. On her feet are black evening shoes with heels. Unpainted nails. A rich client for today huh? Then again, I don’t do this for the money.
What is this beautiful woman doing in my office at this hour? My mind wondered.
I stand up, and take a look at the scenery on the streets below. As expected, there is a car outside. Judging by its lights and its logo, it’s probably an E-class Mercedes Benz. Figures. No woman, no matter how refined she is, would dare venture out on a February rain, wearing a night dress and open-toe evening shoes, without a car. Probably a chauffer waiting inside.
“So, what can I do for you, Miss O’Hara?” I turned at her. The smile/smirk is not there anymore.
“It’s actually Mrs. O’Hara. And I need your help.” Married. She opens her purse, a gold-platted cigarette lighter and a pocket of cigarettes in hand “Do you mind?”
I shake my head, and I point on the my cigarette ashtray, my Marlboro’s almost to its end. She lights her cigarette, and as she inhales, I pushed my ashtray nearer to her.
“I heard you are a very capable investigator, Mr. Murakami. You were highly recommended my by friends.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you.” I wonder who her ‘friends’ are. I’ll find that out soon.
“And I heard that you are particularly good in finding.. missing people.”
“Most of my successful cases were of that nature.”
“Uh-huh. And its actually that that I need your help. I want you to find someone for me.” She crossed her legs again, this time the other leg on top. I can see in her eyes that she is testing me, measuring my worth. This used to bother me back then. Now, I just use this to motivate myself, to fan the embers of interest for the case.
“And who do you want me to find for you?” I reached for my pen, and I open my notes, scribbling “Case# 12, O’Hara, missing person = “
“I want you to find my husband for me.” She takes another puff of her cigarette. The rain outside never ceasing, the dark skies threatening civilization with a low thunder.
************************************************************************
n.b. stay tuned for chapter 2!!
posted by Gendo Ikari at 3:42 AM
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