Two Traps

1

Chief listened carefully to one of his best employees and then shook his head.

"Cord, we can't take the case from them. First, traffic accidents are not in our jurisdiction, and second, the accident did not occur in our precinct. The officers of the Southern Department also have orders they must fulfill, and we have neither the legal right nor the professional or ethical basis to take the case away from them."

Cord nodded.

"I see. I hadn't really hoped on it, but it was worth asking."

"I'll tell you this: if you don't have urgent work today, take the day off. Take a rest, and tomorrow you'll get back to work with renewed vigor."

"Thank you. So, I guess I will."

The big plus of Chief as a leader was that he demanded the highest level of effectiveness from his employees and not for them to work from dawn to dusk. Therefore, he quite often gave the officers regular days off, if they needed them, sometimes even when the employees themselves did not even ask for them.

***

While Cord was in Chief's office, Force brewed tea, removed all the documents from the table, and put a plate of delicious oatmeal cookies on it, which had been bought yesterday by pure chance.

Cord came into the room, slightly annoyed.

"He didn't allow it?" Force acknowledged.

"Nope."

"Like I said."

"It seems to me that this was not an ordinary road accident."

"Why would that man bump into you on purpose? And even if he really wanted to kill you, why not take a truck to ram you, for example?"

"Yeah, hell knows. Maybe I'm reading too much into it in vain. I am really in a hopeless mood."

With a smile, Force pushed the plate with the delicacies on it to his friend.

"Eat a cookie."

Cord turned the sweet over curiously in his hands.

"With chocolate sprinkles or what?"

"As you know, chocolate contains tryptophan, and that cheers you up," Force said rather importantly. "It will be useful for you."

"Thank you."

A friendly conversation over a cup of tea dispelled Cord's gloomy thoughts a little, and the cookies gave him an idea. Since he had been kicked out of the office to rest today, it would be worth getting up to some other things.

2

Force grew up in a poor family. In the village where he had been born, it was impossible to earn a lot of money, but by and large, there was no need: the land fed you. His family had a vegetable garden, a cow, a goat, about twenty chickens (their numbers varied as his mother sometimes wanted to make chicken broth), and an amiable dog which was so fond of people that instead of threatening and barking at them it always ran up to lick them. And such a life had been completely satisfactory for the youthful Force.

For his father, however, it was not. His father (at that time his real one) was very ambitious; he wanted to get out from the ass of the world1 to the people (mother always answered: "Fool, why would people need anything from the ass?"), and therefore unwittingly placed a burden on his son: he paid a lot of money for the elite two-word name of Force Majeure. Such names were often given to the children of the rich, and therefore the person who wore such a name was by default considered more privileged than others. He could jump the queue to get through reception at the doctor's, and in some areas (such as politics or jurisprudence), with such a name it was much easier to reach the heights.

However, his cunning dad did not consider that, besides an elite name, a person should have money, influence, and reputation. And for a simple country boy, these things were just not there. So when he was sent to study at the best school in the city (which took him because of his name, by the way), Force's happy childhood collapsed into oblivion.

In general, up to a certain age, children do not know about the social differentiation of names. Even more so, they have no idea about any "Force Majeure", but they do know a thing or two. For example, if you are quiet and cannot fight back, you are a wuss. If at the same time you are fat, like a roll, you are a double wuss.

Force was in big trouble. Until the end of high school, everyone bullied him: both boys and girls and even the aging P.E. coach, who forced the chubby boy to do extra physical exercises for the amusement of the crowd.

So Force graduated from high school and looked to the future with fear. How could one live when one was such a weakling? This answer was unknown to anyone. Force, not being a fool, came up with a solution: he would develop intellectually, not physically. Yes, they can offend him, but then he could take revenge; he would be smart and tough.

For the good of this mission, he chose an educational institution that was not so obvious—the Police Academy. Not obvious because to enter there would have been better after serving in the army or if one had normal physical abilities. Force had neither one nor the other. However, he found a way out of the situation: he chose the specialization, which was the least demanding physically, namely that of a tactical investigator.

It was considered to be for nerds. But Force, who had no illusions about himself, was quite happy with that. In the program, there was practically no physical education (which at the academy was not called that but was named "general physical preparation"). Still, there were many subjects related to analysis and prediction.

And it was at the academy that Force met his best and only friend Cord, with whom he subsequently began to go through life.

3

As expected, Dia was transferred to a unit for the most important people. Therefore, it was not surprising to stumble upon two bodyguards in black suits.

"Who are you here for?"

"To see Diadem."

"Name?"

"Cord." The investigator showed his credentials.

The bodyguard nodded.

"What do you have in the package?"

Cord opened it. The bodyguard pulled aside the edge of the bag using his index finger and looked inside.

"Only those?"

Cord nodded.

"Go on in."

***

Dia, half-sitting on the bed (to call it a cot would have been blasphemy), with a slight grin on her face, was looking through get-well cards. She held a few of them tightly in her hands, but the largest part of the pile was on the bedside table.

"Oh, awake already?"

The girl smiled and handed him one card.

"Do you want to read?"

"I wish you a speedy recovery!"—it was handwritten, and below was a shitty postcard verse.

"Fans?" Cord chuckled, putting the card on the bedside table.

"Sycophants," Dia sighed. "As soon as everyone had learned that the princess was in the hospital, they began to send flowers, postcards, and oranges. Just look around!"

Cord, even at the entrance, had smelled the steady aroma of citrus fruits. When he entered, he noted they had gone too far with them: oranges were lying on the floor, on the windowsill, near Dia. Where they were not lying, there were vases with flowers: roses of various types, chrysanthemums, tulips, and others whose names Cord did not even know.

"See that!" Dia tried to spread her arms but gasped in pain.

"How are you?" Cord asked, alarmed.

"Yes, well, it seems okay." Dia smiled crookedly. "My ribs hurt a little, and it is unpleasant to raise my arms, but otherwise, everything is fine. The doctors said that I had no internal injuries and the rest would heal. You were hurt too, no?" Dia pointed to Cord's face.

He touched his forehead and grinned.

"An ordinary bruise, no big deal."

"By the way, I'm wondering why you came to see me so late," the girl reproached. "I thought I'd wake up with my hand in yours, as you waited forever for me to wake up! And you were nowhere to be found!"

"At first, they didn't let me in, and then they got distracted. Seems like your father came to see you?"

"Yeah. Have you seen the guys?"

"At the entrance to the ward?"

"Yeah. Bodyguards. Security, everything," Dia grimaced.

"Said the princess, who walks the streets alone, bumps into strangers, and then goes with them to the cinema."

"But this is different!" Dia raised her index finger. "Anyway, it was you who crashed into me, so don't tell me that! It'd be better if you finally told me where you disappeared to!"

"I was working," Cord said deceptively, "I decided to distract myself from all my worry a bit and occupy myself with something."

"Did it help?"

"It helped more when I saw you alive."

"That's so sweet!" Dia smiled. "And I have a bold question!"

"What?"

"What's in the package?"

"Well, uh-uh..." said Cord, sounding confused.

"If you brought more oranges, I'll kill you!"

Cord smiled apologetically and handed her the package.

"Oranges!!! Noooooo!!!" howled Dia so loudly that one bodyguard burst into the room. "Oh, never mind, it's okay, I'm sorry." Dia smiled at him. The bodyguard nodded and left. Dia continued in a whisper. "Such a jerk! I thought you would be more attentive and guess what a girl needs— Why are you looking at me like that?!"

Cord took the pose of the ancient thinker: he propped his head on his hand, smiled mysteriously, and stared at the girl without blinking.

"Why. Are you. So... Looking at me like that?" Dia narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Take an orange," Cord commanded without changing his position.

"Sooo..." Dia put her hand into the bag and grabbed an orange. "It's light!"

"Now look closely at it."

Along the middle of the orange was... an incision?

"This is—" she began, bewildered.

"Crush it!"

"Huh?"

"Squeeze it!"

Dia squeezed, and the orange broke easily in half. Inside was some foil crumpled around something. Dia curiously began removing it.

"Wow! Chocolate!" the girl looked admiringly at Cord.

"In each 'orange' something tasty is hidden," Cord stated. "I don't know what you like, yet, so—"

"Wow! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Dia immediately fished a bar of chocolate out of the foil and eagerly, in a manner that was not at all aristocratic, stuffed it into her mouth. "Yum, yum!"

"And how could you think I would not think of something more interesting than oranges!"

"Yes, I'm— Hmpf!"

Cord kissed her.

4

Force has done an excellent job today, so he decided to treat himself to a delicious dinner. On such occasions, he and Cord used to go to a small family café near the headquarters.

The "wind chimes" rang over the door as he entered, and the owner of the cafe cordially greeted his beloved guest.

"Force, my good friend! Come in, make yourself comfortable!"

"Good evening," Force greeted him. "What do you have on the menu today?"

"What do you want? Something light? Or maybe something meaty?"

"Do you have pork with mushrooms with a cheese cap on top? Buckwheat with gravy? And compote perhaps, and, uh-uh... Some rolls with jam and the noodles in the broth too."

"And for you, as usual, triple portions?"

Force nodded and walked over to an empty table.

***

The waitress began to bring Force the dishes he had ordered: warm, not scalding, chicken broth with noodles and two halves of a hard-boiled egg, then his favorite dish—the pork (Force believed that anything baked under a cheese cap tastes a thousand times better), and finally, the fresh rolls for dessert.

An unfamiliar voice interrupted his pleasant reflections on tonight's dinner.

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

Force glanced up from the meat that he had been carefully slicing at the source of the sounds. They appeared to be those of a middle-aged woman, who, when looking at her, only brought up one association: a red-haired bestia2. If not for the outlandish pink hair color, the characteristic would have fit her one hundred percent. As it was now, only fifty.

The bestia smiled affectionately.

"Do you mind?"

Force looked around.

"B-but there are a lot of empty seats."

Every time he met a beautiful woman, he began to stutter with excitement. His curse.

"There's only one next to you," the bestia replied languidly. After doing away with politeness, she simply sat down opposite him.

"I-is there something you w-want from me?" Force squeezed the fork so hard that a little more—and it would have bent.

The bestia smiled playfully.

"You are the one and only Force Majeure, the famous tactical investigator?"

"The one and only?" Force was so surprised that he stopped stuttering.

"The case of the trucker. The stolen bust case. The case of counterfeit banknotes. I think you know." The bestia erotically leaned right towards him, showing a very outstanding trap for a man's gaze, and conspiratorially whispered: "I think you know what I want from you."

"No, I don't know..."

"Conversations."

"About what?"

The bestia smiled and leaned back in her chair.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself! You may have heard my nickname: Pink Flaminga."

5

Cord had taken out two oranges and Dia one "orange" and now she was breaking open the next one.

"How long will they keep you here?" Cord asked.

"Papa says that the day after tomorrow I will be transferred to another hospital, a foreign one."

"Your father is not satisfied with our medicine?" Cord chuckled.

"Not a medicine. Journalists. Look out the window."

"There is no need. They're crowded in the foyer."

"Uh-huh," Dia nodded. "The guards don't let them get close, but you know, it's still annoying."

"I know. I also don't like to have anything to do with them. But will you call me when you get back to the city?"

"Of course! And by the way, I have an idea. How about a dinner party?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you can come to visit us, and we will have supper. You, me, and my dad."

"Uh-huh... Is that really a good idea?"

"My dad really wants to meet you."

"To look into the eyes of the man who almost killed his daughter?"

"No, no," giggled Dia. "To meet her boyfriend."

"Oh, so we're dating?"

"Oh, so we kissed purely by chance?" Dia teased him.

"Yes, I do so official certify," Cord waved his hand.

"You know," Dia mused, "it's true. We need to verify our relationship with the Tsarist lawyer..."

"Seriously?" said Cord in surprise.

"Ha-ha! Of course not! Do you think that since I am part of the royal family, I have to observe a bunch of formalities?"

"Honestly, yes, I thought so."

"Hmm. Then throw an orange at yourself please!"