How To Hide A Body

Late Night

I sighed and adjusted my glasses as I tried to peep through the dark. It was half-past eleven, at least. I was sitting at my modern black desk, a pile of paperwork in front of me.

"Who said Private Criminal was going to be this tedious?" I muttered to myself.

I was currently reading through the Lawyer murder, highlighting all the flaws there were in his plan, and writing small notes on the side on how he should do it. I would send this to him with the poison, let's just hope he followed it. Or they will be suing a nonexistent guy called Wallace Parkinson. Or an innocent Wallace Parkinson. Well, I never really cared about the outcome of the crime. Only two out of twenty clients would actually contact me to tell me the offence went well and thanking me for the help. I had to immediately delete the message and preferably get a new phone number. Giving guys my phone number was way to complicated. I rubbed my eyes and looked back at the paper.

I would call the police and claim to have been his friend. It read.

I couldn't help but laugh. So many criminals made this mistake. It's the typical thing to do. If you called the police, they would interrogate you, and that's where you cannot slip up, or you're out. And the paperwork!

I wrote a quick note on the side and coloured the text with the yellow highlighter. Why can't people just think?

"Ma'am, there is a message for you, left on your phone," my maid, Rachel, said.

"Which one?" I asked, turning around in my wheeler chair.

I had four phones. Three of the phones, a Samsung, a Nokia and an iPhone 5s, their numbers were on my website. My phone, iPhone 6, had a private number and was used for private information, including Candy Crush.

"The Samsung, Miss Southwood," she said.

"If you would be so kind to bring it here, Rachel. And how many times, I am not my mother. You can call me by my first name, " I said, turning around to face the desk.

Ah, wheeler chairs. They were the best office chair. So comfortable and fun. Why didn't they make a game called bumper chairs?

I shook my head violently. I wasn't thinking straight. The first sign that I needed sleep.

Rachel returned, holding out the phone. I thanked Rachel and answered.

"Yasmin Marianne, Private Criminal, speaking," I said, putting on a French accent.

A girl's happy voice greeted me on the other end,"Hello! I am Gaby! I need a Get-away-driver! Do you know anyone?"

"Yes, I do in fact. First, I need to know how you are going to pay; then I need to know what type of crime and when. Also, how old are you?" I asked.

"BIT-coin, Robbery, Tuesday evening around 6:50. Oh, and I'm thirteen."

I smiled. Starting young. That usually means they grow up to be brilliant criminals. Like J.F.K's murderer. They grow up to be legends.

"Alright. I will give you a few numbers. Have you got a pen and paper?" I asked, opening my private phone and going to Contacts. I scrolled down. I was not going to give her my chauffeurs number, due to the risk of her being caught, and Bart in jail.

"Okay, shoot," she said, happily on the other end.

I rattled a few numbers through the phone, and I could hear the scribbling of pen on paper.

"There we go. Now, that would be two BIT-coins, please. And, may I know which bank?" I asked.

"Bank of the Sierra," she said.

Californian. Interesting.

"I'll send you my overseas bank account after this call. If you don't pay, I have already traced your phone and I know your exact location."

"I know I'm just a kid, but I'm not stupid," she said, sounding a bit annoyed.

"Oh, I don't doubt that," I laughed.

"Thank you ever so much," she said and hung up.

I called Rachel for her to make me some tea and to take the phone back downstairs.

When she returned, a steaming mug of Cinnamon tea in her hands, she asked, "Miss Southwood-"

"Rachel-" I warned.

She must stop using my last name! I shared it with too many people. At least my first name as unique, and only a few people used it. And they were on legal documents. You can easily change legal documents.

"I mean, Solange. What did the girl want?"

"That's classified-"

"I know, but please, may I know? Just this once?"

I never told Rachel anything. Just in case she, or myself, gets caught and interrogated. She still believes, that instead of going to Milwaukee to kill a few detectives and rob a bank in Monte Carlo, that I went on a peaceful cruise to Hawaii. If only I had done what she thought.

"That's usually classified, but I trust you. Although, it's unlike you to be interested in my cases," I said, leaning back in my chair, raising an eyebrow.

"She was just so, young! She's not a future murderer, is she?" Rachel asked, fingering her golden necklace.

She always wore that necklace. A simple golden flower on a delicate golden chain. Nothing special. I often wondered what it was, and what sentimental value it had. Who did it belong to? Her father? Her lover? Her mother?

"No, just a robbery," I said, taking a sip of the tea only to pull away in pain as my tongue burned with the hot substance.

I saw Rachel exhale with relief.

"I thought-" she started.

"She was going to be a murderer, yes. Do not underestimate little girls though. You mess with fire, you're bound to get burned," I finished.