Karma in Slow Motion

Thursday, August 12, 1999. 11:42 PM.

Philomena?

Philomena Pepper.

Someone, please untie me. Untie me!

Something wooden like a chair feels cold on my skin. I roll my eyes to look for help, except there are no windows. My legs are free but more useless than my immobile hands. My eyes are wide, merely blind in the pit of darkness, swallowing my fears and amplifying my nightmares.

In the darkness emerges a distinctive obscurity. I should be afraid, but I’m merely sweaty. A woman in a burglar’s mask appears in the shadows of my light – a part of my heart feels she is my savior while my entire guts whisper forthcoming treachery.

‘I need to get up. Untie me!’

‘Yes and No. You should get, up, detective. On the other hand, untying you is entirely out of my hands.’

To make the room more accommodating for my captive, I take off my mask. I lean into the warm light surrounding Detective Pepper’s visage and, for a moment, enjoy the glory of illumination.

‘It’s time you knew the truth, mate. I’m not your enemy.’

Her sarcastic laugh and remarks are all she needs to make me feel insecure. You know me too well, good cop.

‘The 77^th Precinct doesn’t mind if you are my foe or friend. Coppers will be flushing you out in no time.’

In your dreams, detective, in your vaguest dreams. You know me, but I know you just as well. I’ll play your game. Let’s do this another way.

‘The planet’s most expensive painting will be stolen in, aha! Fifteen plus thirty minutes.’ ‘But, remember, but it’s already here!’

‘Karma in Slow Motion?’

 ‘Leonardo Da Vinci spent two years thinking about that absolute masterpiece. Someone else now got to think, keep the canvas for him.’

As much as I hate asking my captor questions, an operative’s job is to ask and answer.

Why?

For once, I’m tempted to reveal the plain truth to Detective Pepper but immediately decide against the thought. I lean forward into Philomena’s light once more and let her astounded round face observe my facial features like a mirror.

‘Look closer. I am Philomena.’

Don’t. It’s No.

‘The truth is hidden from above where the two rivers meet. Don’t make any mistakes, Detective.’

A captive’s first instinct is to break free – mine is the last. I snap my wrists from the zip-ties binding my hands to the chair’s armrests. I stand and look around to confront the masked woman, but she’s gone. The brightness that once surrounded my face is dimming. I’m usually afraid of darkness, but my heart ricochets harder when I hardly know where I’m going, especially in an unknown place.

The more I get lost, the louder I hear the whispers, and the closer I feel Philomena’s presence. I am sooner the darkness because I’m Philomena Pepper.

Friday, August 13, 1999. 6:45 AM.

It’s Friday. I distaste many things on a typical Friday – a morning alarm is one of them. Today seems different. I’m oddly relieved to hear the tick-tick-tick of my Sony radio.

What you got for me, baby?

The frequency dialer isn’t perfect – it’s the rain. I unsheathe from beneath my covers to grab frozen Maple Loops and hot milk for breakfast. Despite the static interference, Jeffrey Jones is crystal clear on 104.7.

‘… From the fan’s choice? No, no. You got to be kidding. Listen, aye, just listen. Fans don’t like what’s rollin’, they love what’s poppin’, and this ain’t both. Come on, pals, you know. Wire us in on your thoughts on 454545. What better way to start your cold Friday than with the Morning Buzz with your boy Jeffrey.’

The Sun won’t come up today. It’s time to dress up for work. I need to hurry before the Manhattan traffic snakes its way through the entire city. Nostalgia pulls me to the window sill, where I involuntarily blow my warm breath against the chilly glass panes. I quickly rotate my little thumb to draw a happy face and decisively use my index to poke two eyes and a nose.

‘… on our Daily Updates on the Morning Buzz, the traffic will be snarling into midday, so tighten your belts, folks. The misty rain is just beginning. Hitting our headlines is the last midnight break-in into the Galleria. Leo’s eight billion dollar painting Karma in Slow Motion is gone, folks. Inasmuch as is a surprise is almost like in the movies. No alarm, no nothing. Canvas just disappeared. The 77^th Precinct is on top of the case and calls on anyone with relevant info to inform straight away. Call 911.’

The 77^th Precinct. 8:54 AM.

Typewriters are never this loud. Someone, please tell someone to stop smoking from the alleyway – the breeze is pushing it in. The endless clattering and tainted reek; it feels like a cheap bar in here.

‘Pepper you on the case with Wheeler, chop-chop. The reporters want my head on a pike!’

‘Good morning to you too, Captain.’

‘Pepper, find Wheeler.’

We served five years in Calcutta as missionary aides – the captain and I. Captain Elliot is a principled guy but loses his cool when pressured by the commissioner and fault-finding reporters.

Never in the three years as partner detective with Pete Wheeler – not even a single day – has he arrived later than me or reported sick.

‘Martinez, any signs of Wheeler?’

‘If the angels are not falling. Phil, Delilah was here again. Tell him when you see him. I didn’t say!’

Most detectives prefer handling intensive cases solo. I find it easier working with Mr. Wheeler. I rush to his disorganized desk to identify any hints he might have left chasing early leads. Pete’s cell is unreachable as always – his notebook isn’t.

I look around suspiciously for unnecessary attention. It’s good that everyone is hurrying to complete all official paperwork before the weekend. My partner’s left drawer is half-open, and the notebook’s leaflets are ruggedly sticking out like their owner’s goatees.

I open the Spiral 1998 notebook while detaching page by page of roughly scribbled calligraphy to reveal their contents. It’s chilly, but my corset is awkwardly sticky with guilt and sweat. I fidget one last time and roll all the papers into irregular balls and into the litter bin. What I’ve seen is unseen.

The truth is hidden from above where the two rivers meet. Don’t make any mistakes, Detective.

The Manhattan Bridge, 11:22 AM.

I can hear my teeth rattling on my jaws between my ears – it might snow this August while I freeze in police uniform. In eighteen minutes the New York Express will be grinding hard and fast through the rail and tarmac beneath my feet.

‘You owe me five bucks for waiting.’

A middle-aged man, shabbily bearded and in an oversized coat – probably recently stolen – stands across the rails staring at me like I’m supposed to know him.

‘Where is that your bald boy mate with beards all over di place? It’s me. Mad Mike. The key. You gave me last night to give you when you return. Or it’s like talking to a new missus in the same skin.’

The tracks are vibrating, and the lazy honking of the New York Express is faint and subtle. The strange guy who claims to have met me last night instinctively realizes the train is close and struts across to my side – the safer side. The name Willy is knitted neatly in capital letters on his jacket. Willy, who is not Willy, cuts the chase and gets to the point.

‘Aha! You must be one of them. Them with personality split or something, split personality. They say you are more clever than the rest of us, even clever than yourself. Anyway, here’s the key you gave for safekeeping. Just keep me out of the trouble. Alright?’

West Manhattan Barrios. 1:35 PM.

‘As usual, Wonder Woman saves the day! Good job, detective.’

I try to smile modestly at every congratulatory remark from my peers. The forensics guys are all over the empty room – their focus is on the green architectural bag lying against the corner of the walls farthest from the door. The key for house number 141 on Peaks apartments is still in my pocket – it feels heavy.

Jeffrey Jones and Diana the Huntress are here. In less than five minutes, the world will know that Karma in Slow Motion was recovered by Detective Philomena Pepper of the 77^th Precinct. The forensics experts are satisfied that the painting is the original and intact version.

The rain is fading, but the cold threatens to turn into frost. Everyone is busy with the reporters. In Captain Elliot’s words, the police department is halfway in its job of finding the mastermind behind the theft of the century, but no need for alarm. Justice will be served. Later.

No one is too concerned to notice that Wheeler is still unavailable. In other news, today is a big win for the police department. The weekend will be a holiday.

Thursday, August 12, 1999. 11:57 PM.

‘Get in Peps, and what’s that green bag for anyway?’

‘You’ll see Pete, but first head for the barrios.'

Pete is my partner detective and best friend. The Subaru Legacy my partner is driving is heading for the Galleria, but I insist on a detour. Pete Wheeler is good at executing plans – I’m better at ideas: the mind.

‘You were asleep when I left your apartment. Ten it was. You look more awake.’

Awaken.

‘Yeah. Me too.’

Friday, August 13, 1999. 2:27 AM.

‘Is this the place?’

‘Yeah. Find the basement.’

‘But Peps, this is like that salt of the world, the light of the world concept. I can’t hide the light in a basement, is for everyone to see, is it not?’

‘The Galleria wasn’t easy, this is the easy part. Just find the basement. I’ll do the rest, Pete.’

I check my wristwatch one last time before settling my hiking bag on the floor. Once Karma in Slow Motion is safely placed, Wheeler waves me goodbye and strides outside to enjoy a smoke. I recheck the warehouse’s specifications the last time before joining him.

‘You know what to do, Pete. Safe travels to Milan. And Pete.’

‘Yes, sister.’

‘’Be careful.’

‘You too. Don’t make any mistakes, Detective.’

I watch tearfully as the noisy Subaru roars through the last hills and disappears into the dark horizon. It’s time for me to head back home. 2:45 AM. It’s four hours until the detective wakes up. I need sleep, and I hope I don’t remember.