Of Monsters and The Innocence Within

A Coffee, Muffin, and Murder

 "Two Caramel Frappuccino's! Order for Stan!"

The Starbucks on Madar Street is, as usual, busy, so busy in fact that no one takes any notice of the man who has been sitting in a middle booth for the last two hours, a book opened to no particular page, no coffee in sight, whose eyes are trained on the entrance door.

A couple of college kids stroll in, eager to get out of the August heat and sate their afternoon caffeine craving. One in particular catches the man's attention. Blonde braid hanging over an oversized t-shirt that makes the ripped skinny jeans seem a ridiculous apparel choice. Short. Pale. Brown eyes framed in grey, gawky glasses. An exact match to the picture in the file.

He watches the antsy twenty-two-year-old while she waits in line, fidgeting with her backpack straps, pulling on the ends of her shirt, adjusting the textbooks in her arms and pushing her glasses back up her nose. He'd almost think she was cute, if he hadn't been told to kill her.

Well, kill. Now there's a very definite, very no-nonsense word. And he hadn't been told specifically to kill her. At least not yet. More like scare her. But, scare is sooo class to kill, after all, people live to be scared to death. Still, no matter how much he wanted to end this stupid babysitting assignment, he had to see his orders through and not slip up. Like his last partner. His very dead partner.

He remembers to flip a page of the book and move his pen over the notebook page, writing random words, and more often than not, outright squiggles. Appearances, appearances.

The assassin wishes he can take out a gun and release a few rounds at the unsuspecting ceiling. That would definitely clear this place out and I could interrogate the girl and be on my merry way. He smiles at the thought. Then frowns. Gun shots, plus screaming people, equals police and a lifetime in the one place he would rather avoid. He doesn't like bars. He's more of an open windows person, really, but prison doesn't look kindly on inmates with a passion for interior designing. He looks up to watch his target.

Katherine Wells steps up to the pick-up station, grabs her iced coffee, and thanks the barista before turning around to brave the Texas weather. She reaches for the door, is about to push it open, when a blue flyer on the wall catches her attention. 'Flo's Detective Agency: Doing what the rest of them can't since '89'. The subtitle under it says, 'Private Investigator. Affordable pricing. Call for appointment,' the number listed beneath it. She looks around, shakes her head, and turns to go. I must be out of my mind. There's no way a detective agency would be able to help me. She pushes the door open, takes a step and stops. But, I do need help, and what the heck, it couldn't hurt to check it out. If they aren't able to help me, maybe they can at least point me in the direction of who can. Katherine steals another quick glance around the shop, then snatches the flyer off the bulletin board and stuffs it in a textbook and hurries out.

An elderly couple find a now empty middle booth and hurry over to claim it. A piece of paper with ink squiggles, forgotten on the table.

Two hours later, downtown, in the Embassy Suites hotel, Room 205, a phone is ringing. The assassin picks up the burner phone on the second ring. That was relatively quick.

"Hello, Flo's Detective Agency. This is Mark. How can I help you?"

A timid female voice answers, "Uh, hello. I-um. Do you investigate suspicious deaths?"

"That depends. Who died and what makes you think it was suspicious?"

He can hear the girl take a deep breath and hear the slight crack in her voice when she says, "I believe someone broke into my father's house and killed him."