Chapter 3. Sunday, June 24, 9: 30 Somewhere in New York’s Beautiful Hudson Valley
Stan Goldman was rooting through the refrigerator for a cold beer when the phone rang. He had gotten an early start mowing the lawn, as the day was predicted to be a scorcher. He had finished the front section and decided to take a little break before starting on the back section, which sloped down to the forest that bordered the property.
Normally, this being the last week of the month, it would have been Barb’s turn to mow the lawn. But a few days ago she had left him.
“Barb” was retired Detective Barbara Moore, his partner for a time on the NYPD and later, after they had both retired hoping to live a relaxed and stress-free life off the proceeds of their best-selling book about the case that had made them famous, “The Bronx Crux Murders”, his partner in life.
And, for a while, things had gone pretty well. They had had their ups and downs, as any couple did. Barb was a bit headstrong and needed taming and Stan had taken on that role with gusto and a strong right arm when visits to their basement playroom had been necessary.
Financially, they had been OK. Of course, over time, royalties from the book had dwindled. No matter how horrific the crucifixion murders they had dealt with were, the criminal element managed to come up with brand new horrors to displace it from the headlines. That was not even to mention the various political scandals, celebrity indiscretions and royal family dramas which competed for the fleeting attention of the public.
Fortunately, they had invested their advance from the publisher in a solid, boring portfolio of blue chip stocks and bonds that spun off a respectable, but not lavish income stream. Combined with Stan’s pension-Barb hadn’t served long enough on the Force to have earned one-they had enough to lead a dull, but comfortable life.
But that hadn’t been enough for Barb’s restless spirit and that was what had led to their breakup. One morning, several months ago, as they were enjoying a leisurely breakfast after a night of particularly vigorous love-making, Barb had smiled at him sweetly and handed him her phone telling him, “Check this out, Stan.”
It was an article from some financial rag. The headline read “Crypto Up Again for Sixth Straight Day”.
“This guy doubled his money in a bit over a month,” she said pointing to a picture of a twenty-something fellow in shorts and a ragged T shirt who looked like he could badly use a shower and a shave.
“Come on, Barb,” Stan had replied. “I never worked the fraud squad, but I can tell a scam when I see one.”
“It’s not a scam, Goldman. It’s the future. And just my luck to be stuck with an old fogey who is still in the Stone Age.”
“Stone Age, Moore?” He picked up a spoon. “Bronze Age at least, wouldn’t you say?”
She stuck her tongue out. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Goldman. Just think what we could do with all that money. A nice trip to some Caribbean resort this winter; maybe re-do the bathroom.”
“I dunno, Barb; I’m not a wild risk taker like you.”
She’d left it alone, but continued bringing it up almost every day, showing him more articles about people who’d gotten rich trading in crypto. And she had been particularly amorous in bed. One night she had pulled her hair back into a pony tail, knelt over him and gently took his cock into her mouth. Her tongue swirling softly around the head, she had brought him almost to the brink of coming, then slid her body up, her breasts brushing against his belly and took him inside her, riding him like a rodeo cowgirl until he emptied himself into her, his head spinning.
The next morning he’d agreed to make a modest investment. Over the next week or two that had grown and she’d talked him into selling some of their bonds and putting more of their nest egg into those strings of 1s and 0s. Soon, it was by far their largest investment.
That is, until a week ago when he logged on to check their account one morning and found the site blocked. ‘What the fuck?’ he’d wondered. He switched to The Times, and there on the front page was the headline, “Crypto Exchange Declares Bankruptcy.”
“Moore!” Stan had yelled, knowing that Barb was lolling in bed after another passionate encounter. “Get your tight little ass down here on the double!”
She had soon appeared, wearing just her Green Bay Packers T shirt that stopped somewhere above the spot where Stan had enjoyed some of his most pleasurable moments.
“Geez, Goldman, what is it? I’m not giving you a hummer now. Not happening.”
“Very funny, Moore,” he had spat. “What isn’t funny is this!” he said pointing at the computer screen.
She squinted, her eyes still glazed from sleep. “Shit!” she had muttered.
“Yes, shit! That’s what our money is now, Moore, shit. I should never have let you talk me into this, blow jobs or not.”
She looked up at him, obviously distressed. “What can I say, Stan? I thought it was a great investment. Everyone is into crypto these days.”
“Well, I don’t care what everyone is into,” Stan had replied. “Our book isn’t selling, and I don’t have a fucking clue how we’re ever going to replace what we lost.”
“I’m sorry,” Barb had replied, looking on the verge of tears.
“Not as sorry as you’re gonna be,” he had added. “Downstairs, now!”
“Please, Stan, how was I supposed to know?” she had protested, but as she spoke those words, she was heading towards the stairs that led to the basement.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Barb had moved without resistance to the heavy wooden frame that Stan had had a carpenter friend of his build. “Do you want my shirt off?” Barb had asked.
“Suit yourself, Moore,” Stan had replied. “As long as your tight little ass is bare for the cane.”
She had pulled the shirt over her head. Stan loved her tits and he figured she was hoping that the sight of them would mollify his anger. ‘Not this time, sweetheart,’ he had thought.
She bent over the frame, ass up and fully exposed. Most times they did this, Stan let her grip the crossbar without securing her, but he was really pissed and didn’t think she could hold still. “I’m going to strap you down,” he had told her. He had fastened the straps securely around her wrists and ankles and encircled her waist with the padded belt. “You’re getting a baker’s dozen. Hard ones.”
“Oh, God,” she had groaned shaking her head.
“This is deserved like none of the others, Barb,” he had announced as he chose a thick, flexible rattan from the cabinet that held a variety of instruments of chastisement, swishing it through the air loudly enough that he could sense Barb cringing as he measured his position behind her and slightly to the left.
“Are you ready?” he had asked.
She had shaken her head. “No, Stan, please,” she had begged. He had reared back and struck hard. The rattan had made a satisfying “Thwack!” as it struck her ass flesh, leaving a white line that quickly began to darken.
He had heard Barb suck in a deep breath, but she kept quiet. Then, he had struck again.
By the time he had given her six, her ass was bright red, decorated by six angry looking wheals. He had paused to admire his handiwork, stroking the hot flesh as Barb whimpered and pleaded for him to stop.
“I’m so sorry, Stan. I was a fool,” she had said, tearfully.
“You were, Barb,” he had replied. “And this is one of your mistakes that can’t be fixed.” He swung the cane hard against her ass.
By the time he had delivered the next six strokes, she was howling and sobbing. Her ass was a mess of nicks, bleeding in a few spots. “One more, Moore.” He swung as hard as he could. He had wiped the cane with alcohol and stormed up the stairs, leaving Barb to think about the foolish choices she had made and talked him into making.
That afternoon, he had descended the stairs and released her. Without looking at him, she had picked up her shirt and scurried up the stairs, and into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her. That night, Stan had slept in the guest bedroom.
They had spent the next two days more or less avoiding each other. He had noticed that she was walking stiffly, but otherwise seemed OK, especially by the second day.
The following day, he had run out to the grocery store and the farm stand along the main highway. When he had arrived back at the house, Barb’s car was gone and so was Barb. On the kitchen table was a note that read: “I’m sorry, Stan. I’m going to stay with my brother in Seattle. I need to think about whether we are really good for each other. Please don’t try to contact me.”
Of course he had ignored her request and tried calling and texting her numerous times, but had gotten no reply. She was gone, maybe for good, leaving Stan alone in the house they had bought together.
‘Well, I’d best get on with life,’ Stan had thought to himself. The first order of business was that now he needed to earn some money to replace the capital that vaporized along with that of thousands or maybe millions of others. Sure, there would be class action lawsuits, but they would take years and he’d be lucky to get a penny or two on the dollar because from all indications the assets had vanished into thin air.
He and Barb had offered themselves as PIs for various jobs, but the income had been minimal. Before that hadn’t mattered, but now it did. He’d need to contact everyone he knew from the old days and see about juicing up their web site (he supposed he’d better delete Barb’s name from the site).
And now the phone was ringing. He glanced at the number-a string of digits that didn’t correspond to the coordinates of anyone he knew. He almost never answered such calls; they were almost certain to be spam selling scam car repair insurance or medical plans, but he was lonely and a bit desperate. He hit the little green button.
“Goldman and Moore…uh, Goldman Detective Agency. How may I help you?”
“Is this Detective Stan Goldman?” The caller was a man, fluent in English, but with a trace of an accent, a bit singsong.
“Yes, this is Goldman. To whom am I speaking?”
“It’s Lennart Björklund from Uppsala, Sweden. I don’t know if you remember me from the Ikea murder case several years ago?”
Stan searched his memory. A dead body of a Swedish visitor had been found behind the Ikea store in Queens and the case had led back to Sweden. He remembered that Björklund had provided critical help in solving the case, which involved a transatlantic gay love triangle. They had never met in person, but had had many email exchanges and a number of phone conversations.
“Yes, I remember it now. How are you Lennart?”
“The same, only older. I’m Chief Inspector now.” He had been an ordinary detective when Stan had interacted with him before.
“Congratulations!” Stan said.
“I’m not sure that’s something to celebrate. It’s mostly a pain in the ass as you Americans say. I read about your famous case, of course.”
“I suppose you would have. It’s not every day you see a crucifixion, let alone two, or, actually three, if you count my partner. At least not since the fall of the Roman Empire.”
“I understand you are retired now.”
“Yes,” Stan said, a bit hesitantly. ‘At least before Moore blew our life savings,’ he thought.
“But you do take cases as a PI?” Lennart asked.
“Yes, I do, if the circumstances are right,” Stan replied, trying not to sound over-eager.
“I have a little problem that you might be able to help me with,” Björklund continued. “There is a shadowy organization called the Syndicate-based most likely in China- that is working with the North Korean government.”
“They have recently been responsible for some serious trouble here in Sweden-kidnapping, attempted murder and assorted other bad deeds. There is a North Korean defector, a woman, who was exposing their dark secrets to some human rights activists here in Sweden. They tried to take them all out, but fortunately we were able to stop them at the last minute.”
“I see,” said Stan. “But how can I help you?”
“There is a Human Sex Trafficking conference happening in a couple of days in Tokyo. Two of my female officers and a third woman, an American professor, are getting awards for their work with the defector. We fear that the Syndicate could try to grab them to exact revenge. I want someone experienced in these sorts of things to keep an eye on them.”
“Don’t you guys have a sort of FBI that can do that?”
“We do. They’re called SAPӦ. And frankly they made a bit of a mess when things went down here. Plus if they get involved the Japanese may take that as an insult. After all, the police there would like to think they can keep people from being killed, which normally they do an excellent job of, of course. So, I’d prefer something private and discrete.”
“I see,” Stan replied. “But why me?”
“I know your work. Plus, as I mentioned, one of the women is American. We will of course pay you for your time. Five thousand per day, minimum of five days, plus all expenses-airfare, hotel, meals, any equipment you feel is necessary.”
“Five thousand? Not those Swedish things?”
“You mean Krone?” Björklund replied. “Certainly not. US dollars. Twenty thousand up front.”
Stan thought for a moment. “I’ve never been to Tokyo and don’t speak Japanese.” He imagined himself lolling in one of those Japanese baths, being fed sushi by a geisha. ‘Did they still have geishas?’ he wondered.
“Same here,” Björklund said. “But you’ll do it?”
“I suppose as favor to an old friend I could.” Stan didn’t let on that the money would come in more than a little handy.
“Will your partner, Detective Barbara Moore be involved?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so. She’s currently working on another case.”
“I see,” Björklund said. “Interestingly enough, the American professor also happens to be named Barbara Moore.”
“You’re joking, right?” Stan said.
“Not at all.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a fairly common name.”
“She’s the daughter of one of your Senators, a billionaire as well, by the name of Hobart Moore. He ran for President in your most recent election.”
Stan didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to politics, but he did know the name, though he hadn’t known about his daughter. “He didn’t do very well as I recall.”
“No, I don’t believe so. What is your email? I want to send you some information-pictures of the women you’ll be keeping an eye on-they are all quite attractive, by the way. I will wire the money directly into your account first thing tomorrow morning if you provide me the co-ordinates. We will arrange an eticket for the flight from New York to Tokyo and the hotel accommodations. You should be ready to leave tomorrow. Are we agreed?”
Stan was too stunned and too much in need of both the money and the chance to get back in the saddle to argue. “Yes,” was all he could think of to say.
