$2,700,000 in so-called conflict diamonds and I just got a run in my pantyhose.
I am writing this in the hope that it will somehow reach you before they kill me.
You will recall having met me once, Mr. Commissioner, when I received a Police Department bravery citation for having foiled, as they say, an imminent robbery at the Stillwater Trust on King Street in Rubytown, as that section of the city is called. They were giving away free toasters when the Attempted Rob occurred. I spilled a glass of red wine, do you remember? Not during the holdup attempt. I mean at the reception following the award. On your white linen suit.
I am a female police detective, twenty-nine years old, five feet, eight inches tall, and weighing one hundred and twenty-three pounds, which is slender. My hair is a sort of reddish brown, what my mother used to call auburn. I wear it cut to just above the shoulders, what my mother used to call a shag cut. My eyes are green. I look very Irish, although Watts is a British name, I think, although Olivia is Latin, which Iâm not. My friends call me Livvie. I am a single woman, Mr. Commissioner; I notice from the newspapers that you are recently divorced, by the way; my condolences. My weapon is a Glock nine I carry in a tote bag, but this was taken from me along with all my identification when I was locked in here. A black woman brings me my meals. She is armed with an Uzi.
I have not been killed yet because they are waiting for orders from someone higher up. I canât imagine why anyone would want me dead. Then again, nothing is ever simple in police work, is it, Mr. Commissioner? I guess you know that better than me. Or perhaps even better than I. I donât even know where I am. Otherwise I would give you the address and make things really simple. But I was driven here blindfolded from the underwear factory. Which makes it somewhat complicated. So I guess Iâd better take it from the top, and tell you everything that happened, and get this report out of here somehow. Then maybe for the love of God you can piece it all together and get to me in time.
Letâs start with Margie Gannon and me, or perhaps Margie and I, having an after-hours beer last Monday night in a bar called OâMalleyâs a few blocks from the station house. Margie is sometimes partnered with me, although Iâm known in the squadroom as âLivvie the Lone Wolverine,â which of course is the female tense of âThe Lone Wolf.â Margie has blond hair she also wears short, and blue eyes, and we make a good team together, partnered or otherwise. We were sipping beer when these two detectives from the Oh-One waltzed over to join us, nice guys we worked with once on a joint narcotics bust sometime back. (I was surprised, to tell the truth, that the little police action back then hadnât netted at least somebody a citation, but I know you have a lot of other things on your mind.)
Anyway, Frankie Randuzzi, who is with the Oh-One, and was on that Colombian bust I was telling you about, is getting married in June, and he was showing us this rather modest diamond engagement ring, I must say, but you know how much detectives are paid in this city, donât you, even First Grades like Frankie and me. The guy with him, Jerry Aiello, another paisan, couldnât help remarking that heâd seen bigger chips than that left by cows in a pasture, to which Frankie replied it was a legit diamond and not one of these diamonds had cost some kid in Africa the loss of an arm or a leg. I didnât know what the hell he was talking about, excuse the French, Commish.
Margie, it so happens, knows quite a bit about diamonds. She has been married and divorced twice and has therefore sported engagement rings of various sizes on the third finger of her left hand, moreâs the pity I have not. In fact, she is fond of telling the boys around the squadroom that she gets divorced every six years and shot every three,
I am writing this in the hope that it will somehow reach you before they kill me.
You will recall having met me once, Mr. Commissioner, when I received a Police Department bravery citation for having foiled, as they say, an imminent robbery at the Stillwater Trust on King Street in Rubytown, as that section of the city is called. They were giving away free toasters when the Attempted Rob occurred. I spilled a glass of red wine, do you remember? Not during the holdup attempt. I mean at the reception following the award. On your white linen suit.
I am a female police detective, twenty-nine years old, five feet, eight inches tall, and weighing one hundred and twenty-three pounds, which is slender. My hair is a sort of reddish brown, what my mother used to call auburn. I wear it cut to just above the shoulders, what my mother used to call a shag cut. My eyes are green. I look very Irish, although Watts is a British name, I think, although Olivia is Latin, which Iâm not. My friends call me Livvie. I am a single woman, Mr. Commissioner; I notice from the newspapers that you are recently divorced, by the way; my condolences. My weapon is a Glock nine I carry in a tote bag, but this was taken from me along with all my identification when I was locked in here. A black woman brings me my meals. She is armed with an Uzi.
I have not been killed yet because they are waiting for orders from someone higher up. I canât imagine why anyone would want me dead. Then again, nothing is ever simple in police work, is it, Mr. Commissioner? I guess you know that better than me. Or perhaps even better than I. I donât even know where I am. Otherwise I would give you the address and make things really simple. But I was driven here blindfolded from the underwear factory. Which makes it somewhat complicated. So I guess Iâd better take it from the top, and tell you everything that happened, and get this report out of here somehow. Then maybe for the love of God you can piece it all together and get to me in time.
Letâs start with Margie Gannon and me, or perhaps Margie and I, having an after-hours beer last Monday night in a bar called OâMalleyâs a few blocks from the station house. Margie is sometimes partnered with me, although Iâm known in the squadroom as âLivvie the Lone Wolverine,â which of course is the female tense of âThe Lone Wolf.â Margie has blond hair she also wears short, and blue eyes, and we make a good team together, partnered or otherwise. We were sipping beer when these two detectives from the Oh-One waltzed over to join us, nice guys we worked with once on a joint narcotics bust sometime back. (I was surprised, to tell the truth, that the little police action back then hadnât netted at least somebody a citation, but I know you have a lot of other things on your mind.)
Anyway, Frankie Randuzzi, who is with the Oh-One, and was on that Colombian bust I was telling you about, is getting married in June, and he was showing us this rather modest diamond engagement ring, I must say, but you know how much detectives are paid in this city, donât you, even First Grades like Frankie and me. The guy with him, Jerry Aiello, another paisan, couldnât help remarking that heâd seen bigger chips than that left by cows in a pasture, to which Frankie replied it was a legit diamond and not one of these diamonds had cost some kid in Africa the loss of an arm or a leg. I didnât know what the hell he was talking about, excuse the French, Commish.
Margie, it so happens, knows quite a bit about diamonds. She has been married and divorced twice and has therefore sported engagement rings of various sizes on the third finger of her left hand, moreâs the pity I have not. In fact, she is fond of telling the boys around the squadroom that she gets divorced every six years and shot every three,
Similar Books
