His Brother's Keeper

Samantha Radcliff was no ordinary private dick. She had a penchant for fire-engine red lipstick, stray cats, forties-style vintage clothes, old black and white movies that made her cry and the complete Phillip Marlowe P.I. television series from the 1930s, the latter video version of which she managed to find on eBay. Her cases of late have been all too ordinary. Sam, as she preferred to be called, was a slender, but curvy dark-haired buxom beauty. Back in the day she would have been called a bombshell, a term she hated but which nonetheless fitted her. She felt no one took her serious because of her looks, which she tried to downplay as much as possible.

She was sitting at her desk, her seamed, silk stockinged feet propped up on the ancient wooden desk she'd found at an estate sale years ago. An old ceiling fan swirled above her, making her silky, floral dress flutter just over her knees. It was an unusually hot day for early May in New York. She wished she could afford an air conditioning unit instead of just the old ceiling fan that whirled above. Her office was a rented two-room space in an old faded brownstone near The Bowery in Lower Manhattan. The area was getting a much-needed revitalization, so she rented it hoping she'd get more business. She'd tried everything, including purposely leaving the 'antha' off her name when she'd had her name painted on her office door and her business cards printed.

'Sam Radcliff, Private Detective, No Job Too Big or Too Small.'

It had even worked, for a while, but she was frustrated. If she had to spy on another cheating husband, wife or mistress she'd scream.

Sam sighed. Her large cinnamon brown eyes went up to the old 1930s era movie poster of Phillip Marlowe, "The Long Sleep" on the wall across from her. She was clearly born in the wrong era, she thought.

The famed, fictitious private eye was her idol...with Dick Tracy a close second. As a child, she'd read every mystery novel ever written on the two. Her dad, Skip Radcliff, had been a long time New York Police detective, Vice Division, before he retired. He had introduced his tomboy, motherless, daughter to the famed detectives in story books when she'd shown an interest in his work, despite the girly fairy tales he'd hoped she'd latch onto. When she didn't, he'd lovingly indulged her. If only her cases were as suspenseful, as thrilling, as--.

The vintage, detective-themed clock on the wall chimed, snapping Sam out of her musings. It was the end of another boring day. She gathered her things to leave, glancing out the single-paned window of the third-floor walk-up. She loved the city. The heavy rain that had fallen earlier had long since stopped but had given the city scape a much-needed shower, temporarily cooling things off.

Even at the end of the day, the city that never slept was as alive and active as ever. The noise from the streets grew even louder as honking car horns, the roar of engines revving and idling in bumper-to-bumper traffic, pedestrians yelling out for taxis demanded attention. Sam turned away and headed for the door. Maybe tomorrow, she thought, locking her office door behind her, maybe tomorrow.

Several miles away

The strange man crawled up from the watery whole at the foot of a deep ravine. It had nearly been his grave. He could barely crawl out and up from the submerged car. Breathing hard he clung to the thick saturated earth, his hands throbbing in pain. Blood ran down his forehead, but he didn't know it yet. He was drenched. What was left of his shirt and slacks now clinging to him were caked in mud, the dampness making him shiver in the cool night air. He groaned. One muddy hand went gingerly up to his head. There was a huge bump on his forehead. It was then that he discovered the blood. He willed himself not to panic at the sight of the amount of blood lining his large palm. His neck was stiff, but he forced his head up looking around.