[0]

It was raining.

All night long.

It had been.

There was a certain pace to it. An ambitious rhythm, a consistency unlike most things that went and still would go unaccounted for after the wicked wet night.

It was mildly acidic. Leaving behind only the faintest sensation hinting that it even burned at all.

I could taste it. I could smell it. I had loved it. 

It felt like betrayal.

Still a long way to go.

[I]

01:41:16 am

It was raining harshly when the intercom, linked to the long-faded, ash-wooden door, suddenly buzzed out of current stress. The ash-wooden door was a luxury born out of necessity, while ages-old intercom tech neatly attached to it was but a vague hobby bordering on pride.

The crystal clear raindrops carelessly swept away the thick dust layer that had long ago grown on the two-meter long windows stretched behind me, as I later stretched a calloused finger to casually press the violet button with an outdated cable that squirmed out of it like a snake.

For a heartbeat or two, my world only consisted of the consistent beats of the raindrops, which were almost musical, when the wooden door creaked open not gracefully and all the smoke and dust of the outside material world rushed inside, all the commotion of this outside world intruded on my quiet, personal hellish mediation.

Lifting my head slowly, I clearly saw that on my modest-enough door-mat was standing a woman whose appearance did not easily suggest such habitual modesty. The neon-light of the street behind illuminating her clean-cut outline looked almost staged.

I could easily select that she had one of those faces resembling that of an angel yet those droopy, shiny eyes looked terribly out of place, more like those of another sort of twisted deity.

A visit at this late an hour could only hint at trouble.

I could see my late-night visitor seemed to be keen on dramatic entrances, that or she wasn't sure she'd barged into the right place.

I couldn't blame her.

"Are you Costello?", She finally asked as she hesitantly stepped further inside. She had long wavy hair stubbornly bleached until it shone, tucked under a weird hat that must've been the current fashion going on in those days, and her walk soundly spoke of borderline egocentric tendencies.

I waved her at a leather chair, pulling out a single stick of cigarette out of the carton in my pocket.

Lighting it, I answered confidently between clenched teeth: "Sure is. How can I help?"

"I've heard that you're the sort of man who can make... problems disappear." Her hair shone unnaturally pale, her blue eyes strangely illuminated in the musky dark of the small room. 

I wondered where she'd heard that, but not so much her strange choice of words, as I had lit my cigarette. She didn't seem bothered, which was strange. 

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Depends on the problem." The answer seemed to amuse her, causing her to flash what might have been the slightest of grins. 

"I can assure you, Mr. Costello, I wouldn't ask you anything that would risk your passing behind the designated repertoire."

"Then I can assure you in return that we may come to an agreement still." 

The cigarette tasted as sweet as what I imagined her violet gloss might have.

"Though I couldn't catch your name."

"Oh, you can call me Ms. White." 

I did not care to ask her if that was her true name. She knew mine, which was a start.

"You see, Mr. Costello, I have a problem. One that may prove fatal if not controlled. I believe that yesterday at around 7 am, someone broke into my office and stole some files. Files, which were confided to me, and could, prove catastrophic if they were to find themselves in the wrong hands."  

"I am not a file-broker." File-brokers were often hired to handle any digital theft; I usually handled old-fashioned analog investigations.

"I know." There was a pause, a deep silence, rudely intruded by the harsh raindrops continuously

beating against the long window. Thunder occasionally bellowing its lungs.

It wasn't too hard to guess what she was really asking.

"They were not digital."

"No. They were physical copies. Which is exactly why I need someone in your repertoire?"

"I'm guessing you do not want the police to get involved."

Under the piercing darkness, I could imagine her grinning. There was no need to answer.

"I could try finding them, but I will need details. I also wanna know if these files are discriminating in any way or if they are of criminal value. The actual contents do not concern me."

"Mr. Costello, are you getting scared or paranoid?" 

The abrupt way the question was put, it was all I could do to try not to choke on the smoke.

I didn't mean to answer.

"I'd say cautious would be more fitting. I tend not to get in touch with the police as long as I can manage, we wouldn't want them to get involved, for the sake of the investigation. So I'd prefer you answer the question."

"They're not." 

"And the details? How were they stolen?"

"I'd left them on my office two nights earlier. When I'd realized my mistake, I hurried to my office yesterday morning, which is secluded from the rest of the floor with wooden panels, only to find that the files were gone."

"No one's seen anything.", I observed.

"No,", she said. "It was at least an hour before the day-shift would have started. Bu-"

"Thought so. I suppose I could start with examining the office floor, the exits, talk to some janitors, maybe even some contacts.. Overall, you're not giving me much to go with, Ms. White." 

"But," She emphasized, "Our outer security surveillance may have caught something. Here."

She handed me a picture the a4 size, printed on hard paper, it was a still frame pulled from security footage.

I glanced at it; the picture was black and white, completely unaware of the gray part that the human morality extended to, so no excuses were allowed.

"I'll take the case."

It wasn't a matter of luxury.