A Greeting Card in a Bouquet

1

Flaminga should have been at work two hours ago, yet she was nowhere to be found.

The editor-in-chief was nervous. She was the only one among the staff who knew about Flaminga's secret past and understood exactly why the former prisoner held onto her job with such a firm grip. It was thus extraordinary that she was absent today.

One thought kept going through the editor's head: She was not there for a reason. She's not here because something happened to her.

Flaminga had insisted that her last article be published without significant revisions. They even had a petty argument about the ending.

"Where does that fit in?" the editor grumbled. "What a cheap and inappropriate pathos!"

"Everything should remain as it is," the journalist had said as she stood her ground.

Okay, let it be. The editor gave up and left everything as it was, but now she could not get rid of the thought: What if Flaminga was right and the article really put her in jeopardy?

The editor looked again at the electronic clock on her desk. 11:03.

It was now two hours and three minutes that Flaminga had been missing.

***

The entire day passed, grating on her nerves, and the closer it got to evening, the more pressure the editor was under. She had decided to pay a visit to Flaminga after work and find out what was going on.

At the end of the working day, having taken all the sedatives she had, she called a taxi and went to the home address of the journalist. During the trip, she clung so tightly to her bag to stop her hands shaking that the taxi driver even asked her if everything was okay.

"Everything's fine."

No, everything's not.

***

Flaminga lived on the seventh floor of a nine-story small-family block. Luckily the elevator worked; otherwise, the editor wouldn't have made it to the floor.

She froze for a moment before ringing the doorbell. Then, taking a deep breath, she pressed the button. There was a trill beyond the door, but nobody opened it.

The editor pressed the bell again, and again, and again, but it was useless.

She knocked on the door.

"Flaminga! It's me! Please open up!"

She definitely should have heard the blows on the door. But behind the door, there was no sound of trampling steps or any other sounds showing that someone was in the apartment.

"Aye, ma'am, what's with all the racket?"

The editor turned around, seeking the source of the voice. The neighbor's door was wide open, and in front of it stood an unshaven man in blue sweatpants and a T-shirt with a stain of unknown origins. He was looking with displeasure at the troublemaker.

"Is Flaminga home?" the editor asked tensely.

"Who?"

"Your neighbor."

"How should I know? Am I supposed to be watching her or something? You, however, are making a lot of noise and disturbing honest people who are trying to rest."

"Do you have a spare key?"

"To her door?"

"No, of course not, to your own!"

"Don't be rude." The man lazily approached the woman. "Did you try the handle?"

"Do you seriously think that doors are not locked in your area?"

The man silently pressed the handle and pulled the door towards him.

The female scream that followed woke the baby downstairs. The baby screamed too.

2

Today was Wednesday, which meant it was time for an evening film. Dia chose a nice movie about a guide dog which had helped his blind owner find his genuine love. However, in the middle of the picture, the faithful dog was run over by a car and died at the veterinarian's operating table. Although the film ended well—the blind man's beloved helped him get through his loss and then married him—there was no limit to Dia's indignation:

"What did the dog do!" she swore, lying on Cord's lap. "Why did the plot need that drunk driver?!"

"Apparently, they wanted to add tension. So that the blind man did not make their date and his beloved thought that he had left her."

"Let's say that's true. But they could have saved the dog!"

"Yes, I agree."

"I told you! And I also didn't understand—"

Dia stopped short: her husband's work phone was ringing.

"Who could need me at this hour?" Cord frowned. "Forget them."

The phone did not agree with his assessment and continued ringing.

"You'll have to take it," Dia said and reluctantly sat up.

"Okay, then take out the cassette for now."

Cord went to his desk. Since they had made the nursery, the corner next to the window had become his "office". Not the best, but not bad either.

He picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"Good evening, Cord, I'm sorry to bother you," Chief's voice was heard coming from the receiver. "We have a new murder."

It seemed that the case must be unusual: the boss never called Cord at home.

"Who was it?"

"Pink Flaminga."

Cord froze. Wow.

"Did you call Force?"

"I didn't get through. Forensics has already left, and now I'm also on my way to the crime scene. Will you see if you can contact Force?"

"Yes, of course, I'll start calling right away."

"Good. Hang up."

Chief hung up. Dia heard the concern in her husband's voice and said:

"Cord, is something wrong?"

"Pink Flaminga was killed."

"Oh my God!" Dia gasped.

Cord had already dialed Force's number. He picked up the phone after the fifth ring:

"Hello?"

"Hi. Why aren't you picking up the phone? Chief can't get through to you."

"I was at the store," explained Force. "I just got back. What's this about?"

"So it won't take you long to get ready. Will you pick me up?"

"Another murder?"

"Yeah. Are you standing?"

"What a strange question?" There was a surprise in Force's voice.

"Then sit down."

There was a rustling sound.

"Well?" Force asked impatiently and with a note of alarm.

"The victim is Pink Flaminga."

After a few seconds of silence, Cord heard Force's telephone receiver falling and banging loudly on the floor.

3

Force's personal life had just been shattered. Recently, he had begun to get used to the absence of Flaminga in his life when suddenly she made a date to see him. Their relationship was to have had a new dawn, a new beginning—and now she was killed. By whom? Why? Force feared the worst—the truth.

Cord sat out the entire trip in silence, only occasionally casting worried glances at his friend. Force gripped the steering wheel like a drowning man holding a life preserver. His hands were trembling with tension.

Flaminga's house was illuminated by the blue-red lights of police cars. Seeing them, Cord finally dared to break the silence:

"Force, listen," he began cautiously, "you have to control yourself. If you betray the fact that you know Flaminga, consider it to be a voluntary termination, and all my attempts to protect you will have gone to waste."

"Yes. Yes, Cord, I understand everything." Force closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "I need to calm down a little. Give me a couple of minutes, will you?"

"Of course. I'll go to see them for now."

"No! No. Please. Let's go together. I… I don't know how I'll react."

Cord patted Force on the shoulder, letting him know he could rely on him.

***

At the entrance stood Chief and two junior employees. Cord knew them—they usually guarded the crime scenes and did not allow onlookers to get near. They coped with this task perfectly, but they were not okay for much of anything else. However, there is no rule saying everyone has to work using their head.

Cord and Force approached them. Force had already taken on his usual serious appearance, and it did not seem that this was a personal matter for him. That's what professionalism is.

"Hello, Chief. What have we got here?"

"On the seventh floor. I won't go up there, but Forensics is waiting for you. In short, the journalist really resurrected the Villain."

"I hope it's just an idiot-wannabe who we can catch quickly," Cord muttered.

***

The door to Flaminga's apartment was closed, but the neighbor's door was wide open. Behind it stood the mustached neighbor with an unlit cigarette between his teeth who picturesquely and choking in emotions described the moment of finding the body to a young police officer:

"Well, I'm like fuckin'… I went out to see, you know, what all the noise was about, that's why, and I look, and it's like… That woman, well, she was there, the one who is standing at the door with my wife right now." He waved his cigarette towards his apartment. "I am, you know, well, in short, I asked her what time it was to be supposedly 'knocking'. She said that she had come to see my neighbor, but like, she did not open the door. So I came up, pulled the handle, and like the door was unlocked. Me, having no ulterior motive, opened it, and like, there she lies! My neighbor on the floor and, like in a pool of blood, and like, in short… I like called you right away, but you know, it's like well… Anyway I did not touch anything there or anything like that…"

The officer with the voice recorder had a sour expression on his face—no doubt looking forward to how he would then have to decipher everything he had just heard into a transcript.

"Let us, so as not to interfere here, go to your apartment, and you can tell me everything?" he offered.

"Let's. Why not? Yeah, well, let's go. I don't mind… And the lady, probably, is needed. She's right over there."

Cord, Force and Forensics immediately went to the apartment. There, almost at the very doorstep, they found the prostrate body of Flaminga. The glazed eyes might shock Force, and he might give himself away, so Cord immediately diverted Forensics' attention:

"Honestly, everything here is so wonderfully obvious that my expertise is superfluous."

The woman was lying in the entry area. From her chest, around which there were puddles of blood, protruded what had been originally a white bouquet but which had partially turned into a red one. The woman's arms and legs were not spread out, but neither were they neatly brought together along the sides of her body, like Piala's. There, of course, Fiddler had done his best, but here…

"Why such a pose?" Cord asked for clarification.

"It looks like the killer held the body, so it did not fall. I took a glimpse, and there were no bruises on the back of her head."

Cord nodded and looked at the journalist's face. The skin had already acquired a waxy, cadaveric hue. The mouth was parted, the eyes rolled back, and brown spots were visible on the whites. There are no signs of damage on the face. There apparently had been only one blow.

"Death occurred about a day ago," Forensics noted, catching the eye of the investigator.

Cord squatted down next to the body.

"Have you photographed the bouquet?" he looked at Force.

The friend nodded.

Cord grabbed the base of the bouquet and pulled it slowly. A long, narrow blade emerged from the body, hidden right in the middle of the now crumpled arrangement of white roses and peonies.

"A fillet knife," stated Forensics.

"Wow," Cord examined the bouquet, "beautifully done. The knife handle is being held in the same place as the bouquet, and the extended length of the blade is enough to enter about ten to twelve centimeters."

"Judging by the wound, the killer stuck her right in the heart," said Forensics.

"As far as I understand, such a wound is quite rare."

"It happens only about seven percent of the time," Forensics nodded, "and mostly by accident. Many might stab someone in the chest with a knife, but only a few accidentally hit the heart."

"It looks like the killer was aiming right at it. Striking exactly between the ribs takes effort, and here he also had the flowers interfering with his targeting."

Cord turned the bouquet over in his hands. His gaze suddenly caught sight of something white made of cardboard.

"There is a card here," he stated.

With two fingers pulling out the card with gold lettering on it, he read:

"'To my beloved Flaminga with a preliminary apology.' Who would even phrase something that way?"

"Do you think it could be from her boyfriend?" said Force finally.

He spoke usually and was keeping himself under control. Cord suspected it was taking a considerable effort.

"Probably. Or a fan. After the articles about the Villain, she became famous, didn't she?"

"A fan-murderer," Forensics grinned. "Quite in the Villain's style, what do you think?"

"What's inside?" Force asked impatiently.

Cord put the bouquet on the woman's body and opened the card.

"Dear Flaminga! I behaved like a fool, and now I beg your forgiveness. Let this pretty bouquet be the beginning of our reconciliation, and we can be together again—" Cord stopped short and looked up at Force.

"What's there?"

Cord silently handed him the card. Forensics watched them curiously.

Force scanned the contents and was thunderstruck.

With love, Force.