Genie for Hire

GENIE
FOR HIRE

A Biff
Andromeda Mystery

by

Neil
S. Plakcy

Copyright
© 2013 Neil S. Plakcy

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in
whole or in part in any form.

Great thanks go to my critique group: Miriam Auerbach,
Christine Jackson, Christine Kling and Sharon Potts, for all their help. Thank
you also to Kelly Nichols for a terrific cover.

This book is for Jacoplax’s Brody Baggins, a sweet golden
retriever with a great interest in squirrels. And, of course, for his daddy.

Smashwords
Edition

“You must help me, Mr. Andromeda.” Sveta Pshkov was a slim
blonde in her mid-forties, with breasts that had been surgically enhanced and a
Russian accent that was all natural. She leaned forward across the desk, and
her girls bunched up under her low-cut nylon blouse. “You are only one I can
trust.”

Biff knew a flirt when he met one. He was a big man,
six-four, with a muscular build and a deep tan. There was a hint of the
Oriental around his eyes, accentuated when he smiled. Sveta’s body language
said she appreciated his physical attributes.

“Tell me about your problem,” he said, leaning back in his
ergonomic chair, the only contemporary touch in the room, which otherwise
resembled a Middle Eastern seraglio, with an Oriental carpet, frayed from
centuries of travel. Several kilims, flat woven tapestries in geometric
patterns, hung over the plain drywall, and a fan with woven paddles moved the
air lazily overhead. A glass door led from his office to the tiny room out
front, where a receptionist would sit if he had one.

“Is a theft,” she said. “Someone steal digital files from my
studio this morning.”

Sveta’s photography studio was a few storefronts down from Andromeda
Investigations, in the Aventura Beach Shopping Center at the northern border of
Miami-Dade County. She specialized in boudoir photos women could give to their
husbands or boyfriends. “The files that were stolen,” Biff said. “From a
camera?”

She beamed. “From computer. I move to digital some years
ago. Much cheaper, no developing, no cost for film. I take courses at community
college in Photoshop.”

“Impressive. These digital files—they contained photos of a
woman?”

Even though they were alone in the room, she lowered her
voice. “Young woman, maybe twenty-five. In this country only year or so. She
want pictures as gift for husband.”

“Would you say these photos were X-rated?”

“She is naked,” she said. “But everything very tasteful. Is
what I do.” She sighed, a deep, theatrical exhalation that could have come from
a character in a Tolstoy novel. “I come to this country from Ukraine when I am
thirty years old. I live with my cousins in Sunny Isles Beach. Five adult and
six child in three-bedroom apartment. I am very successful in my country, so is
difficult.”

Biff did not say anything, nor did he make any notes on the
white lined pad in front of him.

“I am photographer in Ukraine, so I start business here. Is
many Russian people here, who like speak their own language.”

“And this woman you photographed was Russian?”

Sveta nodded. There was a sizable Russian community in Sunny
Isles Beach, just over the causeway from his office, a Little Moscow without
the snow, the art-filled subway system or the communist legacy. You could buy
Russian-language DVDs, read the news in a newspaper printed in Cyrillic
characters, eat borscht and
pelmeni
, or hire a Russian-speaking escort
from a selection on Craig’s List.

“Would you like a glass of tea?” Biff asked, nodding toward
the Russian samovar that sat majestically on a teak table in the corner.

She smiled. “Yes, would be nice.” Biff noted her
surreptitiously adjusting her blouse for maximum effect. As she did, her elbow
knocked against a brass oil lamp on the corner of his desk, and Biff jumped up
to grab it before it could fall to the carpet.

Returning to his chair after relocating the lamp to a more
secure location, he pointed at the samovar; the flame at the bottom ignited and
began boiling the water. If Sveta noticed that Biff hadn’t touched the urn, she
didn’t say.

“Did you turn over the photos to this woman?” he asked.

Sveta nodded. “Three days ago. She come in to pick them up,
and pay in cash. Is very happy. Then this morning, husband come to my condo for
original files. He does not want anyone else to have.”

“Your condo? Why not just come to the studio?”

He turned to the samovar, shook tea leaves into the brass
pot and placed it in the cradle on top of the gleaming urn.

“Is like he want to say that he know where I live. Or that
maybe I have files on laptop with me. I am trying to be nice to him, take him
to studio to get file from computer. But when I arrive I see back door has been
opened, and many files have been deleted.”

“Including the ones of his wife?” Biff asked.

“Yes.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose
loudly. “He is very bad man, in Russian
Mafiya
. Make me very
frightened.”

“Is it possible that something else was the point of the
theft, and these files were just taken because they were there?”

“Who would want other pictures?” Sveta asked. “From children
birthday parties and such like.”

Biff had the sense that Sveta wasn’t telling him the whole
truth, but he pushed that aside for the moment, surprised that she had added
parties for kids when her specialty was erotic photos. “You do that kind of
work, too?” he asked.

“I am good with children,” she said. “People hear that.”

Biff nodded, then reached over to the ornately carved
cabinet beneath the samovar, and pulled out two tall glasses with elaborate
painted holders. He picked up the brass teapot as Sveta said, “I am very frightened
of this man, Mr. Andromeda. He make much threats if I do not give him all files
with pictures of his wife. My business finished. Maybe even hurt me.”

Startled, he slopped some of the hot water onto his hands,
which stung as redness blossomed on his fingers and palms. He dropped the pot
on the cradle, rubbing his hands on his khaki shorts and white polo shirt. He
focused on them for a moment, sending healing energy through his veins until
the redness faded.

“You can help me?” Sveta asked, ignoring Biff’s problems.
“Find who stole files from my computer?”

“Why don’t you call the police?” Biff picked up the teapot
once more, and carefully poured tea into the two big glasses. “Report the
crime, get them to investigate?”

Sveta laughed harshly. “Police have many problems. My photos
very small one for them, but big for me. I must get files back quickly and be
sure thief does not keep copies.”

He turned the spigot on the main chamber, releasing hot
water to dilute the tea. “Honey?” he asked Sveta.

“Please,” she said, flattening the vowel so the word sounded
like
pliss
. Biff remembered a woman he had known years before who spoke
English just like Sveta, though Sveta had her beat when it came to
oompa-loompas. But then, that was back before there were plastic surgeons
operating out of shopping malls and sixteen-year-old girls getting breast
augmentations as high school graduation gifts.

“I’ll help you,” he said, remembering that other woman,
Farishta, with a combination of fondness and irritation. In any case, he was
glad of the work. With the recession, women were looking the other way when
spouses cheated, companies were skimping on background checks, and missing
persons vanished for good, solid reasons. He had many skills, but he could only
use them to serve others, not for his own benefit. It was impossible, though,
to tell that to Florida Power & Light, AT&T, and the Internal Revenue
Service. Hence his need for clients.

He sat back down behind his desk and turned to his computer,
where he opened a new file for Sveta. “What’s the woman’s name?”

“Douschka Ovetschkin.”

He filled in the appropriate blanks in the contract. Then he
sent the file to the printer. “Do you have any idea who might have broken into
your studio and stolen these computer files?” he asked, lifting the tea glass
and inhaling the fragrance. His favorite blend, oolong with coconut. It
reminded him of tropical islands and girls in grass skirts. For a moment he
closed his eyes and focused on the scent. But when he opened them again, Sveta
sadly had not been replaced by a hula dancer, or, for that matter, Farishta.

“I am not knowing anyone to want them,” she said. “Beyond
Mr. Ovetschkin.”

Biff noticed she hadn’t touched her tea, and nodded toward
the glass. He wasn’t Russian himself, but he’d lived among eastern Europeans
for a long time, and knew their rituals. Drinking tea was an important part of
social interaction. Sveta lifted the glass to her lips and drank, slurping
noisily.

When the contract was finished printing Biff handed it to
her. She glanced at it. “What is wish?” she asked. “Contract says you will
grant me one wish?”

“Do you wish me to find your stolen files?”

“Yes, please.”

“Then there you go. Sign right there.” She gave him a
retainer of five hundred dollars, and he promised to invoice her for the
balance, or return any unused portion. When the formalities were complete, he
stood up and said, “Let’s go take a look at your studio.”

When he stepped out from behind the desk, Sveta noticed his
slippers, black satin that curled up at the toes. “Funny shoes,” she said,
smiling. “Look like elf.”

“Not exactly,” Biff said, his upper lip rising in
displeasure. His fingertips tingled, as they always did when he was tempted to
zap someone into unconsciousness for a dumb remark, but he simply opened the
door and ushered Sveta outside.

His office was wedged between a used bookstore and a shop
selling wheelchairs, walkers and portable toilets in a neighborhood center anchored
by a Publix grocery and a home décor superstore. They walked under the cantilevered
overhang, past the Haitian café, where the teenaged waitress lazily swiped at the
tables in preparation for the lunch rush. Sveta’s was the last storefront, but
instead of going in the front door they walked around the corner and then
turned left once more to the access drive behind the center. The early February
morning was fresh, with low humidity, sun and just the hint of a breeze.

“Why don’t you wait over there,” Biff said, pointing to a
stand of Australian pines between the center and the apartment complex behind
it. He walked slowly to the back door of Sveta’s studio, opening his senses to
whatever he could discover. He had an acute sense of smell, fifty times better
than any bloodhound. His vision was well above average; he could read a license
plate on a moving car a quarter of a mile away. Like a dog, he could hear up to
100,000 vibrations per second. These qualities served him well as a detective.

He began about a foot from the door, evaluating the area.
Sveta had locked up after discovering the break-in, but Biff could see the pry
marks in the frame. Either the burglar was not experienced enough to pick the
lock, or he preferred brute strength.

The clear weather meant that there might still be physical
evidence outside Sveta’s studio. It was a high-traffic area, but most of those
who passed were in vehicles—delivery vans, garbage trucks, and so on. It was
easy for Biff to wipe them out and focus on any human beings who had stood by
the back door.

Humans shed over 30,000 skin cells an hour, wherever they
are, and those who are tuned into the right psychic frequencies can use that residue
for tracking. Biff closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He opened his third eye,
the metaphysical gate to higher realms, and flexed his fingers and toes, letting
the energy flow in to him.

The strongest presence was Sveta’s; she had been through
that door many times. Once he established her unique signature, he isolated it
and concentrated on other energy floating in the air. He recognized traces of the
skinny, tattooed UPS delivery man, and the short, muscular woman who worked for
FedEx; both came to his office door now and then.

A strange kind of energy floated in the air, one which
interfered with his perceptions. There was something oddly familiar about it, but
he pushed it aside and focused inch by inch on the area around the door. The
strongest signature that did not match someone he knew belonged to a young man,
approximately thirty years old. Molecules of his cologne remained in the air,
and Biff detected traces of citrus and spice, with woody overtones. He had an
encyclopedic knowledge of scent, based on years of experience, and he ran
through the catalog in his head, beginning with those he knew to be most common
among men of that age.