The Conspirator's Agenda



  The Conspirator’s Agenda

  Anthony T. Scott

  Copyright 2013 – Anthony T. Scott

  Published by Irish Lion Media

  Formatted by Irish Lion Media

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  Some people follow orders, and others obtain order by following their instincts. Nick Larkman was the second sort. The day he got canned for pursuing an investigation on his own, off the precincts time, caused immediate suspicion. Why would an unsolved murder that was only two months old be closed in the first place, and labeled as cold, and then virtually eliminated from the records at the precinct? When something seemed foul, it usually was.

  Your average detective sticking their nose down at Nick and his special skills and methods of solving a case were nothing new to him. He really didn’t give a shit either; he got results, and he didn’t need the detectives be his buddies. He made friends with people who could help him, and that he could rely on—that certainly wasn’t them. Nick also got a kick out of watching the other detectives clench their jaw and tell him good job when he solved a case that seemed like it had no leads whatsoever. Visually, with his scrawny physique, abundant tattoos, and multiple piercings, Nick was the guy most cops would assume did a crime. He hadn’t done one of those…for a long time, let’s just say.

  Now Nick was staring down at pictures, papers, and small trails of possible evidence. It was sprawled out all over his kitchen table and a bottle of Gentleman Jack was off to the side. He called it his thinking tonic…and over the years some of the best ideas to solve a case had been done via the company of a jigger of Jack and an impulse to work outside of the box.

  “Okay, here’s what I know,” Nick said, talking out loud. His cat, Hatchet, was sitting on the corner of the kitchen counter watching him. “Meghan Gleason did tricks because she wanted to—not because she had to. Rich family, well connected, smart. They are trying to say her murder was due to a mugging—case closed and hard to solve. Yet, there is no evidence of anything to support that. It doesn’t add up on any level, and why would an affluent family allow a case to be closed? Embarrassment…maybe, but I doubt that’s it.”

  Nick paced around, looking at the graphic images of Meghan on his table. He’d made it a habit to make sure he had copies of cases a long time ago so he could work on them whenever he had the whim, and the case file for this murder was exceptionally important since everything had been wiped out at the station.

  There was one source for Nick to go to - Max. Max was the one and only guy that he could trust with all he had. He’d come from the same neighborhood growing up and had managed to break away from the “accept what life dealt you” mentality that existed in the small subdivision filled with cookie cutter homes, and closed curtains after dark. After all, you couldn’t hide the secrets that happened after dark if you invited prying eyes into your home.

  Nick lifted up the loose floor board in his kitchen floor and neatly tucked all the evidence into the waterproof box in there. He swallowed another jigger of the Gentleman, and then he made his way out the door. It was 11 p.m. and he’d have minimal chances of meeting any opposition on his little outing. It was time for most of the detectives to be hanging out at Scully’s, and enjoying some beer and women. At minimal, Captain Avery would be there, and avoiding any encounter with that dick was a good thing in Nick’s eyes.