Fox In the Den

Fox In the Den 1.1

I was driving home, thinking about my bear claw ice cream in the back seat of my car, when I caught the tail. It was an old beige Nova that stuck out like a sore thumb, seeing as most new cars are either white, black, or some sort of insect color. He wasn't very good either, obviously an amateur. Always signaled when I did, and with plenty of time for me to notice. I did what any normal person would do, and swung by my old stomping grounds at the police department. Just as I suspected he would, he cruised right on past the drive into the lot, and sped up as he did so, and I couldn't get a look at the driver. I wondered what it was all about as I honked the horn, waved at the fellas at the front doors and flipped a U-turn to pull out again. I turned left instead of right and headed home the long way. My bear claw would be alright until I got there, the AC is like the Arctic.Denver is a strange conglomeration of old and new. The older sections have mostly begun to be rehabilitated into new, quaint city centers, a blend of small business commerce and residential condos for the perpetually single, childless, and the empty-nesters looking for close-to-home amenities. The foundations of the city remain largely untouched, the old boomtowns along the railway, like Commerce City still straggling along in poverty. The outer suburbia sort of limped along, and through the seventies and eighties, finally burst with a few new residential areas with forcibly tree-lined streets, and large shopping centers that emerged with the explosion of dot com hot shots. My home lies somewhere in the nineties strip of new construction, small, but private, with a small patch of grass out front, and a sprawling half acre in back, backed to a greenway with a little creek that dribbles off the Colorado.My brain was still humming as I pulled into the garage. As always, it started running in a thousand different directions when things start to get interesting. Was it another P.I. scoping me out? I had been followed before by another P.I. from Lamar. Or was it someone I had previously collared and was out for revenge? Being a woman, it was easy to play the unassuming female target. I'd nailed plenty of prospective Johns in my time on the force. It could have been anyone. I grabbed my two bags and headed into the house. It's a cute three bedroom tri-level I bought as present to myself for my first 'retirement'. I had been living in a little studio off of Sheridan until then. When I left the force and went to work for myself, I figured I'd rather keep the office at home, and a side room for a guest maybe, now that I could afford it.I took a detour to the front door for the mail on the way to the kitchen. No one writes letters any more, so everything was bills or ad fliers, and a small bubble wrap manila at the bottom. Since I knew the envelopes held nothing of interest, I started with the puff bag. I dumped the other crap on the kitchen counter and dug a paring knife out of one drawer, and some disposable latex gloves and my print kit out of another-it paid to be cautious in my line of work. I knew I hadn't bought anything lately, and it had no return address.I had definitely pissed off my share of people, I thought to myself. Even though I retired for medical reasons, I still was out there kicking up trouble. I just didn't have to pretend to be a stable employee for anyone anymore. I had gone on a medical leave of absence. I was having days where I just couldn't get out of bed. I felt so run down, and my arms felt like I'd been lifting five hundred pound dumbbells in my sleep. The doctor said it was looking like Fibromyalgia, since I'd been tested for nearly everything else. Of course, not knowing what the root cause is meant no cure for pain, just management. That equates to an unreliable employee that takes too much time off. They offered me a desk job, but it just wouldn't be the same, so I took the early retirement package, and used the severance to open my own snoop shop. I still do the same work, but now if there's trouble, it's all on my own hide to work it out, so I try not to get too reckless with myself.I finished dusting the package, photographed it, and opened it. I gently rolled the contents out on the counter- an undeveloped roll of 35mm film. I dusted it too, and put the print card in my file, although there wasn't much to go on. Whoever sent this was trying hard to not be found out. No return address, and no complete prints on the outer envelope and film roll. I wiped it clean of powder and turned it in my hand. There's only one thing to do- get it developed. The sooner, the better. My hair stood up on the back of my neck. An unknown person sends me some film and leaves no contact info. That can only mean one thing. Trouble. Whoever sent it didn't want to be tied to it, whether they knew what was on it or not. If they didn't want to be tied to it, then I probably didn't either, but there was only one way to find out. I stuffed my bags in the freezer, grabbed the film, my keys, phone, jacket, and hit the door. I started dialing before the bumper scraped the sidewalk as I backed out of the driveway.