Bringing Scotch Up To Speed

“What are you talking about?” Scotch asked.

“Don’t tell me the super spy I’m talking to doesn’t know that Casanova was a spy.”

Scotch stood, walking into the bathroom followed closely by Pen. She continued talking to him from the other side of the closed door.

“Giacomo Casanova also known to many as Jacques and Chevalier de Seingalt was a writer and a soldier who relied on his charm and his gambling prowess to develop his fortunes. He also, for a time, worked for the Venetian Inquisitors of State as a spy.”

The words “You’re a chemist,” returned to Pen from the bathroom.

“Because I’m a chemist nothing except chemistry can exist in my brain? I suppose that you never think of anything else except picking up Intel and pens that explode.”

“No. I am having trouble picturing you as someone who holds an interest in history.”

“Scientists must keep detailed records of not only their hypotheses, but also their experiments and their results. The papers that describe it in detail are just a history of their work. History is a science.”

Scotch opened the door appearing more awake and less disheveled. He looked at Pen.

“Girls develop crushes as they grow up. Usually it’s on musicians, actors, etc… Some girls develop crushes on fictional characters.”

One corner of Scotch’s mouth began turning up in a smile.

“When I was a young girl I developed crushes on historical figures.”

“Like?”

“Sir Lancelot, King Arthur…”

“Ah...fictional characters.”

“Historical.” Pen countered.

“Aye...but they really exist Milady? Is there historical proof?” He teased.

“There is little proof that King Arthur himself existed as we know him but there were several leaders throughout that period of history which contributed to the Arthur mythology. Much like the stories of Jesus.”

“Jesus, a myth? I’m surprised.” Scotch playfully continued to admonish her.

“There are many stories of men who did notable things in that part of the world during that time. Jesus is a common name in some parts of the world. Considering how King Arthur’s story evolved one would have to be remiss to completely ignore the parallels.”

Scotch did not have to contribute further Pen proved to be passionate about her medieval knights. The spy let her run with it. Quickly straightening the rumpled bedding he proceeded to exit the room. Pen followed.

“It’s never a bad thing to look at complete pictures regarding any subject. You may be surprised at me sir. I am surprised at you. I cannot believe that as an Englishman you would take a romantic myth that has become a cornerstone of your heritage so lightly.”

Scotch stopped just inside the master bedroom and turned to face Pen. “During that period in history there was lots of elaborate talk but knights were men called upon to wear these ridiculously heavy suits that allowed for little movement. One or two good solid blows and they went down. The elaborate stories that are the cornerstone of my heritage had to be woven about the amazing feats of those fictional heroes or other blokes would not have been interested in signing on.”

Pen’s lips closed tightly.

“Have I ruined something?”

Pen walked past him into the room.

“I did.” Sniffing out a bit of fun he followed. “You had a major crush on the old man didn’t you? Did you design your own wedding gown? Did you practice signing your name Pendragon?” Scotch stopped in front of Pen so she would have to stop walking. “Did you dream about his sword visiting your scabbard?”

“That’s not important.” She responded. Pen ignored the jokes and got to the point. “Casanova was my history boyfriend during a particularly lonely summer in junior high school. That’s how I know so much about him.” She stepped around Scotch and continued into the no longer hidden room.

Scotch followed. The pair entered the room with Scotch taking a seat as well as command of the social media accounts. “I want you to start at the beginning and move forward from there.”

Pen picked up McKinney’s phone and scrolled back to the beginning of the conversation with Mata Hari.

“This is where it started?” Scotch asked.

Pen nodded.

“She talks about the weather, asks about dog breeds, refers to a dog park visit…” Scotch narrated as he read through them.

“If you look at @IF20’s account the day before the meeting he mentions it too. The same place, date and time as Mata Hari.”

“What does Casanova have to do with it?”

“That’s what I asked her.”

Scotch studied the messages. “No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.” Pen reached over the spy’s shoulder to point to the long whistle.

“You said that you knew someone who was looking into writing a series of articles and asked about private locations that would make good day trips for quality time with your pet.”

“Strengthening the secret bond between a dog and his owner.” Pen quoted. “Look at Mata Hari’s answer.”

“It’s a request to PM. That was when you started speaking privately.”

Pen nodded.

“Good show old girl.”

“Once we started private messaging I admitted that I lied about the article and said that I had some high profile friends that preferred to conduct sensitive business in places that were removed from watching eyes.”

“She doesn’t admit to anything specific but agrees that some sensitive matters of state are better discussed elsewhere than in an office.” He added.

“I asked how she chooses these locations. Mata Hari responded that Casanova knew all of the best places.”

“Would you like to meet with him?” Scotch read.

Pen turned her attention away from the phone to Scotch. “What do you say Boss? Would we like to meet him?”

An Enchanted Evening

*Dedicated to everyone who is taking this journey with me. May there be many more adventures.

When Tinkletoes looks in on Writer Lady she is sitting in the great room in a wing back chair wearing a dress that brings out the color of her eyes and accentuates...things. Daemon the Demon rises from his seat in a nearly matching chair. Daemon’s chair is a lot bigger because well...he is.

Daemon passes Tinkletoes as he exits the room smiling. Diomedes quickly takes the demon’s place at Writer Lady’s side.

“How are things moving? Do I look okay?”

Tinkletoes turns his attention to the source of the inquiries. Carp stands next to the self-proclaimed mercenary. The assassin-in-training is dressed to the tens. Dressing to the nines is for amateurs as far as Carp is concerned.

“Yeah. You look fine.” Tinkletoes gestures to the scene before them with a toss of his head. “What’s going on?”

“Reflecting.”

Tinkletoes looks at Carp and waits for more information.

“When a milestone takes place with something that’s been going on for a long time those who have participated in some way, helped with its creation, or enjoyed some benefit of the result like to get together and reflect on their favorite memories.”

Tinkletoes shakes his head.

Carp continues explaining, “It’s a way of saying thanks for doing this, I enjoyed this, I had fun being a part of things, it meant a lot to me, and sometimes it’s even a way to say ‘I love you.’”

The pair watch as Diomedes and Writer Lady stand. The woman and the dragon share a brief hug. The dragon blushes. Dragons get that way about their creators sometimes. Diomedes is a sensitive soul.

“Are you going?” Carp asks.

“Going where?”

“Up to see Writer Lady?”

Tinkletoes does not answer. He shifts his stance looking irritated. “No.”

“I can’t wait to go up. I have my speech all ready. It starts with a brief history of our time together, we’re BFFs you know and then moves into her terrible mistakes that I have forgiven her for and my advice on how to repair things with Monitor Man.”

“Not that again.” Tinkletoes grumbles.

“He was perfect for her.” Carp sings.

“Did it ever occur to you that if he was the right man he would have been around...all the time? I’m a guy, know these things and although Monitor Man needs to you know...learn how to be more of a guy...he would have been around all the time if he liked her.”

“You mean like you?” Carp asks.

“Yeah like me only, you know, acting like a boyfriend acts and stuff. You need to let go of it already. She has.”

Diomedes leaves Writer Lady’s side. The dragon wipes a tear from his eye with a linen handkerchief, stopping in front of the pair he says, “She’s the kindest creator I’ve ever had. Such a lady.” Diomedes continues on into the bonus room and the evening’s entertainment.

“Diomedes is a gentle giant.” Carp comments.

Tinkletoes glares in Diomedes’ direction. “He’s a fictional character how many creators can one character have?”

Carp rolls his eyes. “Just relax and be a part of things already.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary growls.

“You’re special to her, you know.” TP says as he pops in next to Tinkletoes. “We’re all special to her.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because we came into her life during the hours when she needed someone the most.”

Tinkletoes looks at TP.

“We had adventures with her, we made her laugh, and smile. We make her happy.”

“We?”

“I came to visit first, then you.” TP says. “We have been here from the beginning.”

Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady. He notices Dobby is curled up on a cat bed next to her side. “I guess it would be rude not to say ‘Hello,’ to Dobby.”

“It would.” TP agrees.

Tinkletoes looks at the faerie, “She has been putting up with you for eight years.”

Carp opens his mouth, closes it, opens it to say something.

TP looks at Carp covers his own mouth with his hand stifling a giggle.

“Let’s go!” TP says.

“Okay let’s go.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary, the assassin-in-training, and the faerie greet their favorite writer lady together.

There is a strange sound. The group notices a bright light in the far corner of the room, when it dissipates, Excalibur is sitting in the far corner, a note threaded through its blade.

Tinkletoes retrieves the enchanted weapon and removes the sheet of parchment. He holds it up for the rest of the group to see. 

It reads: BUGGER!

Of course what happens next is another story.

Corporate 2.0

After a late lunch and a trip by Pen’s apartment, the pair returned to Scotch’s or Corporate 2.0 as the spy had christened it. He did a walk through of the apartment upon entering leaving Pen in the kitchen while he checked all of the other rooms.

The kitchen was immaculate. Apparently the housekeeper had stopped by. Groceries had been delivered as well. According to the housekeeper’s notes only the perishables had been put away as requested by the resident. Her note listed everything that had been done ending with a post script reminding the resident to text the agreed upon number the next time her services were required.

Scotch found Pen opening his cabinets, studying his storage method. He enjoyed watching as she would pick up an item that she had retrieved from the shopping bag and carefully contemplate where it should go slowly putting it into place.

“You don’t have to be so specific you know.” He said.

Pen stopped what she was doing. She turned to find him standing in the entry grinning. “Isn’t specificity important to a spy? How are you going to know if someone has been in your apartment rigging bombs or traps or whatever it is spies do to each other if there isn’t specificity in your placement of any and all items?”

“A place for everything and everything in its place, is that what you’re asking?”

“Yes.”

Scotch nodded in recognition. “A bit of tape over the crack between the door and the frame to alarm the hero that someone has been there, that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

“When a spy takes on a mission he doesn’t know what he will find when he reaches his destination. He may feast like a king or starve like a peasant.”

“O—kay.”

Scotch continued. “One may never know when entering the abode of a fellow spy is a chance to have a badly needed snack.”

Pen raised a brow.

“My colleagues and I prefer not to dally in the food stores of a fellow spy for it could some day lead to our own end.

“Honor among thieves?” She asked.

“No there is no honor among thieves. Spies. There is plenty of honor among us. The men on Whistle are another story completely.”

Pen put his espresso into the cabinet. She looked at the clock it was four pm. “It’s still early why don’t you go get some sleep. I can monitor things for a bit. I’m sure things won’t get interesting before nine.”

Scotch agreed. “Let me get you set up.” He led the way through the master bedroom, his hidden room was already open. “I opened things up when I did the walk through.” Scotch announced answering Pen’s question before she could ask it.

Pen sat down in front of the computer.

“Whistle is over here. Monitoring is taking place on the other screen. If you encounter anything inappropriate, reply to the message with this.” Scotch took control of the mouse and clicked on an icon on the desktop. “Just copy and paste it into the message box. Then block the sender of the inappropriate message.”

Pen nodded.

Scotch crossed the room and poured a finger of amber liquid into a tumbler. Raising it to his mouth, he deposited the liquid down his throat. The spy closed his eyes.

“Am I that difficult to be around?” Pen teased.

“That was to counteract the espresso I drank after lunch.” He held up the empty tumbler. “See no refill.”

“If you are tired enough coffee will not keep you awake; if you are awake enough nothing will put you to sleep.” Pen said.

“I’m having trouble placing that one. Who said it?”

“Brittany “The Pen” Abercrombie with the help of Ken Jefferson Sr. I described the discovery, my daddy helped coin the phrase.”

Scotch looked at Pen. “What is your father like?”

“He was a charismatic man with a huge heart and a no-nonsense way of looking at life. Daddy was the perfect ambassador for a painfully shy daughter.”

“Daddy? Isn’t that a Southern phrase? I thought that you were raised in New York.”

“I was.” Pen turned to face Scotch. One corner of her mouth turned up into a small smile. “Daddy used to say that the first time a child called him ‘Daddy,’ melted his heart. Well, he insisted that he refused to give that title up without a fight.”

Scotch nodded. “It sounds like he was a good man.”

“He was. One of the best.” Pen agreed, turning the chair and returning her attention to the monitors in front of her.

“Mind the boys.” Scotch instructed. “Don’t hesitate to discipline them if they act up.”

“I won’t.”

“See you at nine.”

“See you at nine.”

A few minutes later, Scotch felt a push on the back of his shoulder.

“Scotch.”

A stronger push.

“Scotch.”

He ignored it.

“On with it, get up then!” Pen ordered.

Scotch opened one eye then the other. Pen was standing next to the bed holding a cup of espresso. “What was that supposed to be?”

“I was trying to wake you up, like your mother might have.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It was my British accent.” She explained.

“It was horrible.” He said as he accepted the cup.

“I’m a scientist not a linguist.”

Scotch raised the cup to his lips and sipped. He took a bigger sip. “This is really good. What did you do to it?”

“Chemist. Cooking is chemistry.”

“What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

“I was supposed to relieve you at nine.”

“You’ve been up for days. I was going to let you sleep all night but there’s been a development.”

“Already?”

“I had to come and get you. I’m going to be in over my head soon. This next part requires a spy.”

Scotch looked at his robe laying on the end of the bed. “I need to put something on. Do you mind?” He pointed to the robe.

Pen looked at the robe then paled. “Oh yes. Of course.” The spy in training stepped away from the bed and turned around.

“What’s going on?” Scotch asked as he put the espresso down and picked up the robe.

“I’ve found someone who may know what McKinney had been working on before he was killed.”

“What’s his name?” Scotch asked as he stood and put on the robe.

“Her name is Mata Hari.”

Scotch sat down on the bed. “You can turn around now.”

Pen turned around.

He shook his head. “She is not a credible lead.”

“How do you know, you haven’t seen her whistles. You haven’t spoken with her.”

“Mata Hari? It’s a red herring. It might be a very good one. A red herring nonetheless.”

“As a scientist, I thought you could have ruled something so obvious out on your own.”

“I was on the verge of dropping her like a hot potato until she offered to introduce McKinney to Casanova.”

Scotch grinned, a laugh escaped. “Casanova? She offered up Casanova and you can’t see through that? He was legendary for his charisma, questionable endeavors, and seduction of women.”

“He was also a spy.”

Weather Woman

Executive Producer KLULS : So Mrs...um...Johnson what brings you here today?

Tony: It's Miss. Tony Johnson. Daddy wanted a boy.

(Producer smiles nervously)

Tony: Like I told your Human Resources Clerk I'm here for the job opening.

Executive Producer: The only job opening I'm interviewing people for is the weather personality.

Tony: Yep. That's the one.

Executive Producer: I see from your resume... (Producer looks at a napkin)...I see your last job was at the burger place down the street. A job you had for one hour? 

Tony: That was the worst hour of my life too. All these little girls giggling in the corners, not doing any work. The manager, another little girl moving faster every time one of those little girls disappeared into the break room. There was a rush? Is that what they're called? That little manager started to yellin' at me. I told her “Look little girl, I know you're upset but this is not my fault. You will not talk to me like that. I know your mama.” 

Executive Producer: That is an interesting story. Do you have any experience with weather forecasting?

Tony: Yes. I've been looking at it my whole life. I can look out any window at any time of the day and tell you what's going on out there.

Executive Producer: Do you have any meteorological training?

Tony: What?

Executive Producer: Meteorological training? The science of weather.

Tony: Hell no. Science. I'm allergic to science. (Tony produces a fan from her purse and begins to fan herself.)

Executive Producer: We need someone who knows what they're talking about.

Tony: I know what I'm talking about. Walk down the street and ask a question no one knows the answer to and they will send you to me. I know more than anybody. (Tony fans herself faster.)

Executive Producer: You don't understand. Our last weather girl didn't have the knowledge necessary to deliver a credible forecast. She couldn't use the maps or anything.

Tony: I hate to break it to you baby but that child couldn't find the map either. She could only find her boobs because well, who could miss those. (Tony looks around) I'm ready for my audition. Where do I stand?

Executive Producer (Shifts nervously) : One more question. You seem to be a bright seasoned (coughs) woman. Why do you want the job?

Tony: The same reason anyone does. My light bill is comin' due and I don't want to be sittin' in the dark so if you don't mind.

Executive Producer: I am aware that because this is a small town television station in the South many people assume that we have much lower standards but I really need someone who can do better than the last girl.

Tony: Darlin'...I can't do any worse now can I?

(Producer shakes his head, runs his hand across his mouth, shakes his head some more)

Tony: So...how's your mama doin' these days?

Men: In The Wild

Two women are outside, laying behind a fallen tree. They have binoculars.

Woman One:

I can't believe you dragged me out here.

Especially on a Sunday.

Woman Two:

You have to go outside some time.

Woman One:

It's Sunday. My day of rest.

Woman Two:

What did I find you doing on your day of rest?

Woman One:

Resting?

(Woman Two glares at Woman One)

Woman Two:

When I got to your house there was

laundry in the dryer.

The crock pot was going.

You were vacuuming and there was

no dust anywhere.

Woman One:

Housecleaning can be done on Sunday.

It's very...um...restful.

Besides those were just a few simple

chores I

wanted to get out of the way before I started resting.

Woman Two:

You weren't resting.

Woman One:

I was.

Woman Two:

Was that your only load of laundry in the dryer?

Woman One:

My second.

Okay, my resting skills need refining.

Do we have to do this?

It's so boring.

Woman Two:

What? The staying in one place and not moving?

Woman One nods.

Woman Two:

It's called resting. Sooner or later you'll learn to recognize it.

Woman One:

What are we doing here? Hiding behind a tree in the park on a Sunday.

Woman Two:

Kelly called.

There are new men in town.

(Woman One shakes her head and sighs)

Woman One:

You always do this.

Smell a new man and get weird.

Woman Two:

Yeah. Fresh meat.

Woman One:

You see them. You stalk them.

You get us into trouble.

Woman Two:

I don't get us into trouble.

I don't stalk them. I'm friendly.

Woman One:

I have copies of three restraining orders in my

desk drawer because of you.

Woman Two:

I don't get you into trouble.

Woman One:

I promise I'll act normal again if I could just have a lock of his hair.

I promise I'll be okay if I can look at the tracking app and know where he is.

I promise to leave him alone if I can have a copy of his house key.

I'm the one who gets in trouble. It's never you. It's always me.

Woman Two:

(adjusting binoculars)

Shhh! Here they come.

Woman One:

(pans to the right, back to the left)

Where? I don't see any men.

Woman Two:

They're practically in front of us.

Woman One:

I don't see anything.

No camo, no plaid, no facial hair.

Woman Two:

Exactly. They've showered.

Woman One:

Oh...the view is improving around here, isn't it?

Woman Two:

I bet they smell good.

Woman One:

Here we go...

Woman Two:

Wait...they're turning around. We'll see their faces.

(The men turn around.)

Woman One:

They are gorgeous.

What a shame.

Imports.

Woman Two:

Sexy too.

They're not staying.

Damn.

Woman One:

(lowers binoculars)

Coffee?

Woman Two:

Are there cookies?

Woman One:

There will be. I have fresh cookie dough in the refrigerator.

I mixed it up this morning.

Meet Me In Morocco

Meet Me In Morocco

Meet me in Morocco.

Greet me with a kiss.

Tell me that you love me.

And how much I’ve been missed.

I remember it all so clearly.

Those times together in the city by the sea.

The way that it felt to hold you.

The long hours that we spent living in our dreams.

Meet me in Morocco.

We’ll sit together and pretend.

That the romance of our lifetime.

Never had to end.

***********************************

                                              

Hold Me

Hold Me.

I want to feel the outside world melt away.

I need to feel your arms around me.

Your body against mine.

Hold Me.

I want to feel my heart soar.

My worries disappear.

My temperature as it rises.

Hold me.

I need to feel your breath on my neck.

Your heartbeat against mine.

The touch of your masculinity as it makes my heart race and my mind hazy.

All becomes

quiet,

calm,

and

deliciously sexy

when

you

hold

me.

***************************************

Contentment Sat By My Bedside

Contentment sat by my bedside.

She kept me company last night.

She brought Happiness and Hope with her.

I have to admit that the two are a beautiful sight.

Twins that she proudly fawns over.

We chatted as we watched them play.

We listened closely to their stories.

Until exhaustion coaxed them into slumber.

Excited about events from the day.

Contentment sat by my bedside.

As I slept quietly throughout the night.

They left not too long after breakfast.

My heart felt heavier at the loss.

I was grateful for our time.

Contentment sat by my bedside.

Gently reminding me.

Dark days might not be completely over.

There must always be a beginning to each and every new thing.

Three Days Later...

Scotch was still sitting at the computer. He blinked. He blinked again. The spy scratched his chin. He needed a shave. A shave? He wondered how long he had been there. With these...pervs. Pen was right all he had succeeded in doing was finding a large population of men all looking for a date.

“Pictures of naughty bits. So many pictures of naughty bits.” Scotch looked at his monitor. “It’s Richard Nixon for you lad.” The spy copied and pasted his response into the private message box. vgtamer96 received a picture of the former president of the United States sitting in the Oval Office waving his index finger at the recipient. The message “Naughty Naughty” showed along the bottom of the picture in large white print. Scotch sent the message then blocked vgtamer96. He would not be speaking to Brittany “The Pen” Abercrombie again.

He closed his eyes for a moment only to be startled to attention by a text on...his phone.

So Mr. Super Sleuth are we coming to work today? -P

Scotch muttered an expletive and rubbed his temple. His phone beeped with another message.

Are we?

You are the cruelest woman on the planet. - S

Is that a ‘yes?’

I’ll see you in twenty. - S

Scotch arrived at the agency as promised. Showered, shaved and in all appearances ready to work. Or so he thought. People seemed to be clearing a path as he walked through the main work area. When Pen wasn’t at her desk, he made his way to the lab. He stood at the window and waited. When Pen looked up from her work and saw him she stopped short. The chemist/spy in training called her assistant to her and gave some instructions. He watched as she removed her gloves, lab coat, and thoroughly scrubbed up before approaching him.

“Hi.” Pen said. “How are you feeling?” She asked.

Scotch found her gentle approach and expression of concern unsettling. “Fine.” He answered as he fought back a yawn. “Fine.”

“Are you okay?”

“Right as rain.”

“You look tired. Like you haven’t slept for days.”

Scotch took a moment before responding. He was on duty, to be on duty in house, meant to be an example for her at all times. “When a spy is on a mission that is, time sensitive, he must be willing to give over a bit of rest to accomplish his mission.”

Pen whispered. “First of all, we both know that this is not an official mission.” She brought her voice back to its usual volume. “It’s bad for your health not to get enough sleep.”

“It’s worse for the spy to sleep at the wrong time and allow someone to take an opportunity to kill them.”

“You said this wasn’t dangerous.”

“People are dead. When people are dead it’s always dangerous.”

“You’re cranky. How much have you slept since I saw you last?”

“Three...four hours.”

“Three or four hours per night is not very good but a couple of days of rest should get you back on track.”

“I have had three or four hours of sleep since you left my apartment.” Scotch confessed.

“You’ve only slept three hours over the course of three days?”

“It might have been four.”

“Why so little sleep?”

Scotch looked around, confirming that the hallway was clear. “Twelve hundred followers, 90% percent of them men, nearly all of them looking for a date and a happy ending to their evening. “I’ve never seen so many tallywackers. It was an endless sea of tallywackers. Perhaps travel writer is code for something else.”

Pen shook her head. “It was the picture. You should have used a different picture.”

“I tried but nothing looked right. Are you aware when you are in front of a camera that you appear quite unapproachable?”

“No.”

“You do. You either look like you’re angry, constipated, or in a lot of pain.”

“Who’s in pain?” McLeod's assistant, Bryan asked, stopping to join the pair.

“I was just talking about a friend from school who never adapted to having her picture taken.” Pen explained.

“If you pretend that you are smiling at your favorite person the camera will always be your friend. Mum used to say that.” Bryan offered.

“Thank you. I’ll have to pass that on to her.”

A silence passed between the threesome.

“Can we help you with something?” Scotch asked.

Bryan consulted his clipboard before responding. “As you both know Andrew McKinney was neutralized earlier this week.”

Scotch tensed at the description of his mentor’s unexpected passing.

“No one seems to know how he ended up on the mission list or even why. He has not been a working member of The Agency for several years. Since no one is taking the credit for this Corporate has decided to do a full investigation.”

Penn watched as Scotch’s demeanor relaxed.

“As a result,” Bryan continued, “all missions have been put on hold until further notice. Non-essential personnel will not be allowed inside. You and Scotch are not to be included in the investigation. You both have thirty minutes to leave the building.”

“What should we do?” Pen asked.

“Go home. Relax. Wait. Someone will contact you some time during the next 3-5 business days.”

“What about the lab?”

“The lab will be closed to all personnel.” Bryan responded.

“When?”

“I’m going to notify your assistant that she has one hour to close up the lab after I am finished here.” Bryan handed Pen the clipboard. “Please sign here indicating that this conversation has taken place and you understand what is to be expected of you during the course of this investigation.”

Pen signed next to her name on the printed list.

“And initial here.” Bryan indicated to an area at the top of the form. “And here.” He pointed to the bottom. “Thank you.” Bryan turned to Scotch.

“It’s okay. I know the drill.” Scotch signed and initialed all of the required places on Bryan’s checklist.

With a quick “Thank you,” and a nod Bryan was on his way and in the lab with Pen’s assistant within a matter of seconds.

“Is this typical protocol?” Pen asked.

“I don’t know. This has never happened before.”

“Never?”

“No.” Scotch responded. “But whatever is going on just bought us some much needed time. Let’s not waste it.” Scotch took Pen by the arm and quickly escorted her from the building.

 *This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Spy Interrupted

For Mom and Dad (We Miss You Dad)

Writer Lady turns off the water to the shower and pushes the curtain aside. Grabbing her towel she dries herself off quickly. The bathroom is foggy with steam. She barely misses Spots as she steps on to the rug.

“I’m sorry kitty. I didn’t see you.”

“Yeow.”

“I have got to stop cranking the hot water. My skin is getting so dried out.”

She finishes toweling off and heads to the kitchen.

“What do you think, veggie soup or potato soup?”

Writer Lady looks at Spots.

“The veggies would be healthier...” She reads the labels. “Pearl onions. No, I need something to coat my stomach. Cream soup it is.”

She enters High Command with dinner in tow, sitting down, she proceeds to continue writing her story.

“Her story?”

Writer Lady shifts her gaze to find a handsome spy reading over her shoulder, espresso in hand. “I am the creator, you are the character. I'm telling the story, hence, the word, her.”

“My dear sweet creator, if I was not here nothing interesting would happen.”

“If I had not created you then you wouldn’t exist therefore you would not being doing all the way cool things.” She stops typing and grasps her hands in front of her waiting for Scotch to finish reading her response.

“You don’t have to wait for me to read. I am an Oxford man.”

She adds his response, pauses again, and waits.

“No really. You don’t have to do that.”

A smile crosses her lips which she contains quickly hoping the spy will not notice her enjoyment at his discomfort.

Scotch leans closer and catches her smiling.

Writer Lady grins. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist Luv.” She rises from her seat in the Big Writing Chair and collects her dirty dishes, taking them into the kitchen. When she returns Scotch has taken her seat and taken over custody of the computer. She coughs to get his attention. Nothing happens. She coughs again a bit more loudly this time.

Scotch turns to address her. “I’m sorry were you needing something?”

Writer Lady points to the chair. “I would like my seat back.”

“For what purpose?” He asks.

“To continue my story.”

Scotch’s finger hovers over the back facing arrow.

“To continue writing the story.” She corrects.

Scotch begins deleting letters. (correc)

“To continue writing your story?”

Scotch stops deleting and repairs the damage. The spy relinquishes his seat with great ceremony. “By all means, take my seat, please.”

Writer Lady sits down. “Thank you Scotch.”

Three Days Later

Scotch was still sitting at the computer. He blinked. He blinked again. The spy scratched his chin. He needed a shave. A shave? He wondered how long he had been here. With these...pervs. Pen was right all he had succeeded in doing was finding a large population of men all looking for dates. How was he ever going to face her?

“What?” Scotch’s voice invaded Writer Lady’s peaceful moment. “I would never let a case get the best of me. I’m a professional.”

"Professional what?” Tinkletoes’ voice asks from Writer Lady’s other side. “Whiner?”

Writer Lady pretends to ignore all of the um...whatever these ya-hoos are up to and continue writing the story.

“That’s supposed to be my story.” Scotch points out.

“Who you calling a yahoo?” Tinkletoes asks.

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes and raises an eyebrow.

“She caught you with that one.” Scotch points out grinning.

“That’s okay.” Tinkletoes says. “I’m a giving guy. It’s important to let a girl think she’s winning every now and then. It looks good.”

Writer Lady stops typing and drums her nails on the table.

“What happens to the stuffed shirt next?” Tinkletoes asks.

“He’s not a stuffed shirt.” Writer Lady corrects. “Scotch is a spy. A very good one.”

“I’m a spy. A very good one.” Scotch looks at Tinkletoes. “And you are?”

Tinkletoes looks down at Scotch. “Bigger than you are.”

“Clearly.” Scotch responds enjoying the moment. “What are your talents, Sir?”

“I’m big and mean. I can kill any ninja zombie or space alien in existence. I train assassins and keep the creatures of Faerie from wandering beyond the confines of Writer Lady’s house...her yard. Except for that one time.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“A couple of years ago, Writer Lady’s sister went through a thing and the door between Earth and Faerie was opened allowing all kinds of suitors to pursue her. Human, animal, magical creatures... They were everywhere.”

Scotch rocked back on his heels, barely able to contain his laughter. “One man couldn’t handle all of that on his own, could he? We all can’t be legendary, can we?”

Writer Lady stiffens. Unhappy with where this is going she is determined to prove that all of her characters have their own gifts and qualities and should be appreciated as such.

Tinkletoes fiddles with the mouse and brings up the monitor that Writer Lady is not using. “What is so challenging about being a spy? Let’s see...it looks like you’ve been hanging out online and you’re hacking into some lady’s account. She’s hot but still...”

“That is not some lady. That is my partner, Pen. We are solving a murder. Several and possibly thwarting an attempt to take over the world.”

“Thwarting, really?” Tinkletoes nods. He looks at Writer Lady. “How does a guy get a looker like that on his team?”

Writer Lady stops typing long enough to shoot a glare at the self-proclaimed mercenary. “Characters are created based on need and necessity. Pen is integral to this story. A looker like Pen is not integral to your stories. Besides you get to work with me, Aunt Purdy, and don’t forget House.”

“Yeah, but what do I gotta do to meet her?” Tinkletoes asks pointing to Pen’s profile picture.

“Not Be You.” Writer Lady says. She mutters. “The man is just one big walking, talking hormone.” She shakes her head.

Tinkletoes looks at Scotch. “She says that like it’s a bad thing.” The self-proclaimed mercenary shakes his head. “Women.”

The Spy Who Whistled

“Suicide. Committing suicide is your answer?”

“Not for me. For him. Why would McKinney put himself in such a position?”

Scotch turned away from the monitor and looked at Pen.

“Why would he put himself in such a position...” Pen repeated in an effort to cue Scotch into finishing his thought.

“McKinney was on to something. Something big.”

“Clearly.” Pen sipped her coffee. “Did he usually take such risks?”

“In his early days, but by the time I was brought in he was a firm believer in calculated risks. Thoroughly planned out, calculated risks. If he was on social media he had a plan, a good one, and he knew all of the players.”

“All but one.” Pen responded.

“You’re reading my mind now. And you said we weren’t partners.” Scotch said with a grin.

Pen bit back a growl. “Could you just get to the point?”

“You have no sense of spontaneity do you?” Scotch turned back to his computer, hiding one tab and pulling up another. “Here is our first bread crumb.”

Pen stepped forward to read over Scotch’s shoulder. “Whistle.”

“It’s a social media app where users post things they found, restaurants, movies they liked, comments on trending events etc… Posts tend to be short, 250 characters or less.”

“Long whistle, short whistle, Wolf whistle?” Pen asked.

“A long whistle is 101-250 characters, a short whistle is 100 characters or less.” Scotch explained.

“The Wolf whistle?”

“Is the equivalent of an internet stonker.”

“What?”

“Something large, impressive, or...” Scotch looked at his lap, turned to Pen, and raised an eyebrow.

“An erection? Really?” A brief smile crossed Pen’s lips. “You Brits pretend to be so proper and then create this.” She commented continuing to study the screen.

Scotch shook his head. “This app originated and is currently operating out of the Bronx. Sorry darling but this one is all American.” The spy countered using his American accent.

“Why was McKinney using it?”

Scotch sipped at his espresso, his eyes shone with secrets to be shared, “To talk to other spies.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Which is probably why they were doing it. It was crazy; more importantly no one is expecting it. If no one is expecting it then no one is looking for it.”

Pen shook her head.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t.”

“Look at this.” Scotch pulled up another tab. “These are the discussions that McKinney had been having on Whistle during the last two weeks.”

“I am looking for what?”

“You’re a smart woman. I think you’ll find it.” Pen perused McKinney’s Whistles. “These people are talking about dog parks.”

“What are they discussing specifically?”

Pen looked at Scotch. “I have to say it? Out loud?”

Scotch nodded. The spy had a twinkle in his eyes.

“The best poop spots.”

“Go through it again. What else do you see?”

“Play dates for their pets, where to dispose of dog waste bags, the fees for not following the rules, who to call if you find a dog that is without an owner in the park.”

“No my dear Pen that is not what they were discussing.” Scotch announced as he rose from his seat. “Look at the accounts of the users that he’s talking to. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Pen took his chair, studied the accounts briefly, and waited. When Scotch returned she said. “We have an @IF20 and an @JB7.”

“And…?”

“@IF20 is an international property dealer and @JB7 is an ambassador of a country that I’ve never heard of.”

“Take a look at the activity on their accounts.”

“There’s just a bunch of information about dog parks.”

“Exactly. You have an international property dealer and an ambassador and all they talk about is dog parks? No restaurants, no vacations they enjoyed, no properties for sale, no announcements of any new treaties...” Scotch pointed out.

“No pictures of their dogs. Did McKinney have a dog?” Pen asked.

“He was allergic. There you have two people who if their accounts are accurate would travel a lot and not have much time to take their dogs for walks.”

“They would hire someone else to do it.”

“Now you’re catching on.” He sipped on a fresh cup of espresso. “Would you like me to tell you about the numbers?”

Pen rested her chin on her hand as she moved back and forth between various accounts studying the numbers. “Um...no.”

Scotch moved to the leather chair and waited.

“These are fake accounts. The number of accounts the users are following is much higher than the number of followers the accounts have. If these were the accounts of a international property dealer and an ambassador they should have thousands if not hundreds of thousands of followers.”

“Some high profile users have over a million followers.” Scotch pointed out.

“Really?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“How much time do people really have to spend using these apps?”

“When was the last time you didn’t see everyone looking down at their phones?”

Pen blushed a little.

“You’ve never noticed?”

“I”m a chemist. I’m always working and it’s usually in the lab. When would I notice something like that?”

Scotch shook his head. “These were posts listing meeting dates, times, and places. They also showed amounts due for the exchange of items or information.”

“Twenty dollars?”

“Look at it again. Two zero decimal point zero zero. A. Two thousand dollars American. The reader moves the decimal down two spaces and adds two zeroes behind it. The initial is not the first letter of a name.”

“It’s the country the currency originates from.”

“Very good Pen, very good.”

“What’s the plan?”

“It’s only been a few hours, we have no idea which of these followers knows that McKinney is dead or if any of them do. I’m going to leave his account open and see if anyone comes looking for him. In the

mean time, we have another account. This user is following all of McKinney’s contacts both the followers and those he was following.”

“How do you know any of his contacts are going to be interested in following the new account?”

“I studied them. Sex of the user, country of origin, occupation, outside interests and I think that I have come up with something that is irresistible.” Scotch clicked and revealed their new endeavor.

Pen studied the account. “Brittany ‘The Pen’ Abercrombie—Travel Writer!” An American In Paris. Looking for fun, adventure, and romance. Where did you get this picture? This is a negligee picture from the other night.” Pen rose from her chair. “I knew there were cameras in here but I hoped it was something that you turned off when you entered the apartment and found the perimeter secure.”

“It is a lovely picture.”

“I am practically naked.”

“You are wearing the robe. You can’t see anything. Not really.”

Pen raised an eyebrow.

“Look at it closer. It’s not revealing, it just accentuates your curves.”

Pen does not respond.

Scotch looked into Pen’s eyes. “Trust me, I tried everything and all I saw was fabric.”

“You tried everything?”

“The more I explain things the worse I’m doing.”

“I can’t believe you put me out there like this. All of that talk about digital footprints being suicide for a spy.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Use a generic picture of some random woman.”

“And put her in danger? Pen I am surprised. Aren’t you the one who keeps insisting that you aren’t a spy? If Pen, you are, in fact, not a spy, you shouldn’t be in danger.”

“This is dangerous.”

“Yes but you’re with me. You can count on me to be lazy enough to never let anything happen to my Pen.” Scotch looked at Pen. “I hate looking for things. It’s important to always have a good pen at the ready. Look at your first Whistle.”

Hi. I’m Brittany! I’m a sexy, fun, single woman interested in experiencing all that Europe has to offer an adventurous cousin from across the pond.

“You forgot something.” Pen said. “You forgot ‘call me for a good time.’ The only thing that you’re going to attract with this Whistle is slimy oversexed men with overinflated ideas about...about...how well they’re endowed.”

“I don’t think so. Brittany looks like a sweet woman that I would like to get to know better.”

“Perverts. You’re going to attract nothing but perverts then you’re going to have set up a new account.”

“I’m a spy. I have experience using many levels of communication. This is going to be easier than sorting through my winter wardrobe.”

Pen looked at Scotch.

“Mum insisted.”

Pen turned to watch the screen as the number of responses to her Whistle steadily climbed. “Twenty-four hours. After twenty-fours of dealing with these perverts you are going to be begging me to help you set up a new account.”

“The rush will be over in forty-eight hours. McKinney’s killer will be found by the end of the week.” Scotch countered.

Pen rose from her seat. “The responses are climbing rapidly. You have 1200 new followers. I suggest you sit down. You’re going to be here a while.”

 *This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.