The Fall of the House of Cards
It’s a mystery to me…
The game commences…
For the usual fee…
…plus expenses.
The man in the dark fedora took a deep breath as he surveyed his dusty, messy office. Files strewn everywhere, an overturned chair, the remains of a cheap ramen noodle lunch sitting on his desk. A typical mother would have called it a pig sty, and they would know, as mothers are an authority on pig sties.
Astor rubbed a hand over his face, still somewhat unused to the beard that had formed on his face in the time since he’d been here. Four months ago, he had left this office as it was to join his father on a fool’s errand. Kingston had come to him with a dire warning: his mother, Regina, was missing. They were both agents for Interpol, and had been on the trail of a band of “rogue archaeologists.” That was to say, treasure hunters and grave robbers looking to make some good money by swiping old artifacts from burial sites and selling them…
~*~| FOUR MONTHS AGO… |~*~
Confidential information…
…is in a diary.
This is my investigation.
It’s not a public inquiry.
“Your mother is good at her job, very good.” Kingston said to Astor as the younger detective paced around the office. The Interpol agent was thumbing through a file with an official-looking stamp on the front of it, “But in this case, she was so good that she attracted attention from the wrong person.”
“Who are we dealin’ with?” Astor asked, cutting him off, “Does this guy have a name or does he just go by ‘the wrong person?’”
“He’s a Cohdopian named Gaston Peskind.” Came Kingston’s reply, with only the barest hint of irritation with his son’s tone, pulling a sheet of paper from the file and setting it down on the desk, “He’s the leader of the group. But we’ve never seen his face. We’re not even sure if that’s his real name.”
Astor sat at his desk and looked over the sheet. This Peskind had been a busy boy; several counts of illegally entering several countries in Europe, Asia, the Middle East, a person of interest in major thefts in Borginia, Cohdopia, Zheng Fa, Egypt, Sudan, France… the list went on and on. Every single time Interpol got close, Peskind disappeared like a thief in the night. It looked as though he’d been active for many years.
“How do you know it was even this Peskind that took her?” Astor asked, frowning.
Another piece of paper was slid to Astor’s field of vision. “This note was sent to me, directly, after she went missing.” Kingston’s voice had a solemn tone to it.
It was very fine paper, and the penmanship was excellent. If the message hadn’t been a threat to the family and the demand for some ancient idol, Astor might have thought to send it to the New Yorker.
“Throughout his career,” Kingston went on, “Peskind has left these letters for Interpol to find, usually as a taunt or a challenge.”
“Christ, he thinks he’s a genius?” Astor frowned, sitting back.
“He IS.” His father replied, shaking his head, “His career is based off being a step ahead of the police, always staying out of sight, but always – ALWAYS – making sure to take what he wants. Our best cryptologists and handwriting analysts couldn’t get a read on his handwriting. But an independent managed to decipher his identity.”
Astor stopped, looking up to Kingston with a disbelieving look on his face, “Oh, don’t even tell me…”
“Tell you what?” Kingston asked, looking as innocent as the cat with a canary stuffed in its mouth.
“Please don’t tell me that Jackie’s involved in all this.”
Kingston chuckled quietly, “Your sister Jacqueline did study Graphology at the University of Urbino.”
“But SHE found out?” Astor replied incredulously, “All y’crack teams with all their years of experience and trainin’ and y’get outsmarted by a cryptologist in the NYPD? How did she even get a hold of these letters t’begin with?”
The older man shrugged, “I showed them to her when I visited. She was quick to find the similarities and patterns. I suppose they just needed a fresh set of eyes to take a look.”
Astor’s face formed a flat stare at his father, “So you, mother, Jackie… then finally, y’ decided t’bring in th’rest of th’family. Why would y’even want an LAPD dropout f’this case?”
“I should think that would be obvious.” Kingston regarded his son sternly, “The fact that Gaston Peskind has been able to stay ahead of Interpol all these years tells me that there’s someone in Interpol feeding him information. It’s hard to know who to trust in the organization right now.”
His voice grew a little softer, as did his expression as he looked at Astor, “But if there’s anyone you can trust during troubled times… its family. Please, Astor. Help me. Help your mother.”
Astor tore his gaze away from his father, back down to the note, that threatening note. Bring the artifacts to Aradale or she’ll be another ghost wandering the halls.
He looked up to Kingston again. “Aradale?” he asked.
“An abandoned asylum in Australia.” His father replied, “It’s our first stop. If you’re coming, of course…”
I go checkin’ out the reports.
Diggin’ up the dirt.
You get to meet all sorts,
in this line of work.
A trap. Everything had been a trap. From Australia to Zheng Fa, from Tokyo to St. Petersburg, from Bucharest to Cape Town, from Venice to Hamburg. Traps, every last one of them. Sitting at his desk, Astor held his head in his hands. His father had been right about one thing: Peskind remained a step ahead of them at every turn. But that wasn’t what was bothering him. It was something about the name, the name Gaston Peskind bothered him.
Drawing out a sheet of paper, Astor took his pen and wrote out the name in clear, bold capital letters: GASTON PESKIND. He’d never heard it before, which he found unusual for a man so clearly wanted by Interpol. And beneath Gaston’s name, he began to write the name of his two associates…
~*~| JULY 27th, VITORIA-GASTEIZ, SPAIN |~*~
Treachery and treason,
there’s always an excuse for it.
And when I find the reason,
I still can’t get used to it.
The bronze-skinned man was dead, that much was obvious: shot in the head at point-blank range, but no murder weapon to be found. It definitely wasn’t a pretty sight. But it did reveal an interesting tidbit.
“I know this guy.” Kingston spoke up as Astor was examining the body, “Agreda Pines. He was one of Peskind’s crew, one of his top men. We’ve run into each other a lot. He was always where Peskind wasn’t.”
Astor glanced back in surprise, “No kiddin’… so what th’hell is this? Any ideas about who might’ve done this?”
“This looks like Peskind’s work.” Kingston frowned, shaking his head, “He has a habit of getting rid of loose ends if they’re going to cause him trouble. If I had to guess, I’d say that him taking your mother was causing too much strain for some of his boys to handle, causing too much heat to come down on them. Probably a disagreement that ended badly.”
“I can’t imagine why they’d have kept mom this long.” Astor replied, “Every time they try to pull something on us, this Peskind ends up with fewer and fewer men. I would think he’d cut his losses and…”
He trailed off, but received no response. Kingston was rummaging through the dead man’s pockets and had come up with what looked like a small notebook or day planner.
“Note to self,” the agent read the note contents aloud, “when in London, ask about the rumors of Templar gold.”
“’Templar gold.’” Astor repeated, “Like… th’Knights Templar?”
“I’d imagine.” Kingston replied, “But it looks like they were heading on to London when they were done here.”
“Based on this information… my best guess would probably place Peskind and his crew at the Temple Church.” Kingston nodded, “It was built by the Knights Templar and our boy Pines here probably thought there was some amount of Templar gold stashed somewhere in there.”
“It’s another ruin for ‘em t’plunder.” Astor frowned.
“Then we need to get there before they do.” Kingston said, stepping away from the body and jogging into a run, with Astor following behind him.
~*~| AUGUST 6th, LONDON, ENGLAND, UNITED KINGDOM |~*~
And what have you got
at the end of the day?
What have you got
to take away?
It had taken about a week and a half to even get to England. Peskind’s men had cut them off, forcing their plane down in France. It took ducking them to even make their way to the Chunnel, which brought them over to England. Astor thought that the tricky part was getting into Temple Church after dark, but it seemed as though all Kingston had to do was wave his Interpol ID around and everyone was quick to allow him entry. This fact wasn’t enough to ease the roiling in Astor’s stomach as the two men slowly walked into the darkened church. He knew this was a trap and they were walking right into it. His fears quickly became justified as gunfire rang out, bullets ricocheting off the walls as Astor and Kingston took cover behind the church pillars.
As Astor peeked out to get a glimpse, he saw a lanky, black-haired man ducking out of the church, who quickly put him back into cover with another round of gunshots.
“Escajeda!” Kingston exclaimed as he rose out of cover to give chase, “Kip Escajeda! Get after him, Astor!”
Astor also left cover, following behind him, “Another of Peskind’s goons?”
“Escajeda is his right-hand man, used to be part of the Juarez drug cartel.” Kingston explained as he pushed the doors to the church open, stepping out into the cloisters, looking about for the fleeing gunman in the dark of the night.
The gunman turned at the sound of the large doors opening and looked to raise his pistol again to shoot at Kingston, but the Interpol agent was a faster draw, always had been and felled the gunman with a few well-placed shots.
Astor exited the church behind his father, who was now, once more, rifling through the dead man’s pockets. “Is he down… f’good?” he asked as Kingston pulled out the man’s wallet.
“He won’t be getting up again anytime soon.” The Interpol agent said as he opened the wallet, looking through it intently, tossing things to the ground as he went through.
“’cause shooting a guy then goin’ through his stuff ain’t suspicious at all.” Astor frowned as he looked at the various cards and whatnot scattering the ground at Kingston’s feet. The driver’s license was of particular interest as he picked it up. His eyes widened as his brow furrowed in concern.
“His name wasn’t Kip Escajeda.” Astor said, warningly, “This says that it’s-”
“Pseudonyms are as common as mud.” Kingston cut him off, “Believe me, I know who this guy is. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled a gun on me. I’d recognize it clear as day.” After a few more tense moments, the agent nodded, handing a small notebook over to the private eye, “Look here, Astor.”
Astor took the notebook and read the simple message scrawled across: “’Meet the boss where th’butterfly and flower meet th’stars.’ Th’hell does that mean? This ain’t cryptic or anything.”
Kingston had begun to pace, clearly already trying to work something over in his mind, “Butterfly and flower meet the stars. Butterfly and flower meet the stars…”
“The butterfly and flower is easy enough.” Astor interrupted, “It’s talking ‘bout Cohdopia. Th’butterfly and flower is its symbol.”
“He’s taken her to Cohdopia, then. Let’s go.” Kingston nodded, then started heading out of the cloister.
“Wait, wait, no, hold on.” Astor’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“There’s more to it than that.” The detective replied, “If butterfly an’ flower means Cohdopia, then it means where Cohdopia meets the stars.”
“So what does that mean?” Kingston asked.
Astor twisted his mouth in thought. As he thought, he began to do some word association. “Stars… suns, lights, galaxies, comets, Orion, space…”
“Is he talking about being near an observatory?” Kingston offered.
“It’s…” Astor shook his head in frustration, “No, no, it can’t be that. It’s…”
Suddenly, something clicked in his mind.
“Could it really be that simple…?” he uttered in wonder.
“What?” his father looked to him at that, “Simple?”
“I had it wrong.” Astor stepped over the body of the gunman and past Kingston, who began to follow behind him, “Where Cohdopia meets the stars. Movie stars. Celebrities. There’s only one place that could mean.”
“I’ll be damned…” Kingston muttered.
“It’s where all this got started.” Astor smirked to himself as he tucked the notebook away, breaking into a jog, “He’s got her at the Cohdopian Embassy back home. Los Angeles.”
A bottle of whiskey
and a new set of lies,
Blinds on the windows,
and a pain behind the eyes.
There was not much more to rescuing his mother. They gained direct access to the embassy through Kingston’s Interpol security clearance. She was found right in the Theatrum Neutralis, almost directly as they entered the embassy. She was alone, and Peskind was long gone. Blindfolded. Sensory deprivation. She said that she had no idea where Peskind had gone, but to Astor, it didn’t matter. She was safe and looked well, considering the circumstances and the length of time since her disappearance. It was a relieving, if not anticlimactic end to everything that had happened up to that point. But still, something felt wrong. Very wrong.
GASTON PESKIND
AGREDA PINES
KIP ESCAJEDA
The names were written out on the paper as Astor put his pen down. For the longest time, he stared at the three names. There was a pit in his stomach that had been there since he had started the job. Something had felt off about all of this since day one. Even with his mother back, safe and sound, even with the offenders… dealt with, the feeling of unease and doubt remained. And now, seeing these names laid out in front of him, the feeling only increased. There was something almost… familiar about these names, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Something in the names caught his eye. The letters. There was something about the letters.
After a few moments, Astor’s eyes widened and a look of anger overtook his features. He picked up the phone and dialed a number, gripping the phone so tightly that it could break.
On the other line, a bass voice spoke up, “Interpol Agent Spade, here.”
“Father.” Astor ground out through clenched teeth.
“Astor?” his father replied, “What is it, son? What’s wrong?”
“I know where he is. I know where Gaston Peskind is.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end before he could hear Kingston speaking, a touch of pride in his voice, “I knew bringing you into this was the right thing to do. Well, don’t leave me in suspense, boy, where is he?”
Astor took a deep breath, trying to control the rage that threatened to explode out of his voice. “I’m speaking to him right now.”
He could hear nothing on the other line, not even his father breathing. He took that as a sign to push forward.
“The names, father. Was that really the best you could come up with?”
“Gaston Peskind, Agreda Pines, and Kip Escajeda are all pseudonyms, father, you were right about that.” Astor went on, standing from his seat, “But what I never got until now… was that they’re all anagrams.”
Kingston remained silent on his other end, leaving Astor wide open to keep going.
“I’m giving you a chance, father.” He uttered quietly, “One chance. Tell me the truth.”
Another round of silence between the two men passed before Kingston finally spoke, “You want to be the big-time detective, son. I think you’ll be able to figure it out on your own.”
Astor was livid, struggling to keep an even tone as he spoke, “When you switch the letters around, father, Gaston Peskind becomes Kingston Spade.”
Astor leaned his head against the wall, gripping the phone against his ear, “Then it makes sense. The only reason that Interpol has never caught Peskind, never seen his face… was ‘cause it was you. You’re the one that’s been going around, digging up the world and stealing their treasures. It’s BEEN you. You’ve made SURE they always come close, but never quite reach the prize.”
“Well, I can’t take all the credit, I certainly didn’t do it alone…”
“Yeah.” Astor replied bitterly, “Agreda Pines and Kip Escajeda become Regina Spade and Jackie Spade. Jesus Christ, you’re telling me that mother and Jackie are HELPING you?”
“They are a joy to have, son.” Kingston replied, “Your mother made sure Interpol kept their noses elsewhere, and Jackie makes for a fine forger. They are exceptional.”
“So… so what, the kidnapping was bullshit?” Astor implored, “Mother was never in danger?”
“Your mother knows how to handle herself.” The Interpol agent chuckled, “The men killed in Spain and in London were our partners. They were going to make off with the relics we had acquired and pin everything on us. The man who died in Spain, the one I called Agreda, was killed by Kip, the one who died in London, as proof of his loyalty, and out of greed. It would be one less person with whom to share the ill-gotten funds.”
“And the man I called Kip thought to take me out of the equation all-together. You were there, my boy. It was all self-defense.”
Silence filtered through once more as Astor took everything in. He teetered back over to his desk and slumped down in his chair.
“So that’s it, then.” He said, “All this nonsense… so you could split your illegal money three ways.”
“Astor.” Kingston almost had something of a chiding tone to it, “You didn’t really think that you wouldn’t get an allowance from all this. With the relics collected, we managed to make roughly four million dollars. That’s a million for all of us, my boy.”
A million dollars. A million dollars, just sitting there, waiting for him to take it. It was right there, practically within arm’s reach. The temptation to reach out and take it and make a money fort out of the bills was strong. He could redo his office. Hell, he could retire from the PI game altogether. He would have been a fool to turn it down.
“Y’said that th’only ones y’can trust in troubled times was family, Mr. Spade.” Astor replied, his voice a quiet, deadly calm.
“In the end, I trusted you. And y’betrayed that trust. I don’t want y’money. I don’t want y’voice on my phone. I’ve got nothin’ t’say t’you anymore. Don’t call on me again.”
With that, he hung up the phone. The rest of the evening and into the wee hours of the morning was writing up a report detailing the conversation he’d had with Kingston over the phone. Details regarding the true identity of Gaston Peskind, the true mastermind of the relic heists, the identity of his associates, and where he could be located. It was perfect. It was precise. And there was no way he would be able to prove it. He knew that the moment he started putting pen to paper. Astor sat there, reading over the report a dozen times. With every line, he knew that nothing would come of it. Slumping back in his chair, he took the report and dropped it, page by page, into the garbage can. Pulling a book of matches from his desk, he struck one, lighting it, before dropping into the garbage, burning away his findings, burning away the truth. The truth he cherished and loved, but the truth he wouldn’t be able to prove. Besides…
It was family. If you could call it that.
Scarred for life.
No compensation.
Private investigations.
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