The Cynthia Brodnax Detective Agency was a sand-coloured building set on the edge of Coney Street and Friar's Gate. It was an unassuming building, the sign out the front fairly discreet. Inside, the detective agency's secretary, Roscoe Jocelyn was filing papers. He moved quickly, his scarlet nails tapping out a quick rhythm on his wooden desk. Case summary, evidence, police report, internal reports, invoice of charges, all placed where they needed to go in their folder. The folder labelled, alphabetised and colour coded. He looked over to Ester, who was staring at something on her desk. She yawned and got to her feet. "I'm going to do a coffee run, anyone want anything?"
The only other person in the office, another detective, Gertie raised her hand. "Latte, medium, extra shot, no sugar. Thank you, sweetheart." She was currently watching through security footage, her eyes tired and red-rimmed.
"Nothing for the coffee prince?" Ester trilled, stopping by his desk. She had not given up teasing him for last week, when he just so happened to have been on his way back from Starbucks and suspect she'd been chasing had ran straight into him. The distraction had helped her catch the guy, at least. Even if it came at the price of Roscoe's ego. "May we all be so lucky as to catch criminals using nothing but a cappuccino, caramel macchiatto and skinny mocha."
"Actually, Miss Wang, the mocha was half decaff," he glowered.
"My mistake. Catch you later, coffee prince. Love you!" she said, her dark hair catching the light as she hurried out of the door.
Roscoe sighed into his files. It was only then he noticed something odd in the file he was working on. It was incomplete, which happened sometimes when a detective had been taken off a case or Cynthia had considered working something in her own time and she had to take on something more urgent.
It was a string of forgeries, all sold from local auction houses. They'd been sold recently, too. The forgeries were only discovered when a second copy of one of the pieces had resurfaced in the estate sale of an old art collector. It had caused a panic, and in the past two weeks another three forgeries had been revealed. The auction houses were all in Aldrect, centred around a particular district of the city, no less, with only one or two further afield. He got a pencil and a compass, circling the areas around them to see if there was a particular overlap. They'd need somewhere where the large canvasses and other materials could be delivered without drawing attention, as well as somewhere the chemicals needed to age the prints wouldn't be out of place. It had to be some kind of disused shop front or industrial complex. In order for easy transportation, they'd have to be close to a main road, but... Roscoe began to narrow his search criteria down further, sketching over the map with his pencil as he thought.
Finally, he'd made a list of three locations. He checked property deeds online to find the most promising one, trying and failing to chase the owner of the large warehouse down through shell company after shell company. He looked over at Gertrude, still completely engrossed in her work, and made his decision. He'd go to the warehouse himself. Sure, he wasn't a detective, but he helped Ester out sometimes. He wasn't just some air headed good for nothing secretary. He'd scout it out, take photographs and solve the case. All before they'd even had the chance to notice he was gone.
Roscoe got to his feet and grabbed his coat from the rack. He was about to run out the door, but checked his reflection in the small mirror on Bobbie's desk first. He brushed a spec of dust from his beige overcoat, and reapplied his lip gloss. Perfect.
It didn't take him long to get to the warehouse, and he approached cautiously, having parked a good distance away. He felt his heart thud in his chest as he crept around from the back. They were close to the river here, and he could smell it in the air. He moved, turning the corner, and crept towards the entrance.
There was the sound of raised voices. He froze, pressing himself to the corrugated iron. He was by the door now, and could hear them more clearly. Suddenly, the door burst open and a large man with a cigarette hanging from his mouth glanced down at Roscoe. He was stiff with terror, half-way to a garbled explanation when the man grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him inside.
"I said, no extras! What the hell are you playing at, keeping a bloody spy at the door?" Roscoe whined and closed his eyes as he heard something click just next to his head. The cocking of a gun. "Well," the man said. "You'd better play nice if you want to get him back in once piece."
Roscoe opened his eyes, looking across at the people who now held his life in their hands.