Stacy
Short Story
She’s sure of her target. She’s just waiting for the right moment to strike.
.
I once read about some ancient South-American tribe who used to stick the heads of enemy warriors on spikes. Charles Hamilton has stuck his across the wall of his office. Four rows of faces cut from newspapers stare at me with the self-assurance of success. Each is that of a CEO who once ran a company later swallowed by Hamilton’s HBC Enterprises.
I’m musing over the sinister implications of these clippings, when I become aware of Hamilton tapping his gold fountain pen against his desk. As soon as I turn, he throws the pen down and sits back clasping his hands in his lap. Beneath a crown of silver hair, two black snake eyebrows arch. “Nice perfume, Lieutenant Stacy,” he says, in his usual slick tone, from behind the enormous L-shaped desk. “And other than to parade your conspicuous beauty, I can’t see any reason for yet another visit. As I said last time, I’ve told you everything I know.”
The carpet feels springy beneath my feet, as I pace a little, nervous of what I’m about to do. Summoning a professional detachment, I turn and fix him with a cold stare. “This time, I think you’ll be very interested in what I have to say, Mr Hamilton.”
