Chapter Text
Slick.
That was her first impression—and her second and her third.
Damien Moloch had a shock of dark hair, slicked back and tamed, that was in sharp contrast to his pale as cream skin. The black and white motif he had going on was only emphasized by the severe black suit and tie he wore. His only accoutrements were a set of gold cufflinks that gleamed against the crisp whiteness of his shirt.
Abbie Mills studied him for a moment, trying to determine what it was that creeped her out so much about the man. He stood deferentially, not in an intimidating way, and he had been nothing but polite since he’d entered her office a moment before.
And Sophie had made wide-eyed, silent exclamations about his hotness behind him as she exited the room.
The man’s demeanor also spoke of money—something the Mills Detective Agency was always in short supply of.
Hear the man out, Mills.
Abbie finally, reluctantly, rose to her feet and extended her hand. “Mr. Moloch, a pleasure to meet you.” She released his hand and then waved toward one of the chairs in front of her desk. “Won’t you sit down?”
He inclined his head, waited until she’d retaken her seat, and then seated himself. Moloch crossed one lean leg over the other and gave her a brief smile. “The pleasure is mine, detective.”
Abbie pulled a notebook out from one of the drawers in her desk, opened it to a new, fresh page, uncapped her pen and then raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “So, how can I help you?”
Moloch assessed her for a moment before he opened the briefcase he’d brought in with him, rummaged around in it for a moment, and then handed her a photograph.
She didn’t look at the photograph right away, keeping her eyes on Moloch as he closed the briefcase and set it back down on the floor at his feet.
“That,” he said in a soft voice, “is a picture of Ichabod Crane.”
At his words, Abbie finally turned her attention to the picture in her hand.
The picture was obviously taken without the subject’s knowledge. The angle and the quality indicated to her that it was taken from a high resolution telephoto lens, likely from some distance away from the subject.
The subject himself was oddly dressed. That was the second thing she noticed. He looked as if he were a refugee from a Colonial re-enactors’ group. He wore a long navy blue coat that reached about mid-thigh, dark-colored breeches and knee-high black boots.
Internally, she allowed herself a little chuckle. It was always something. Was this guy protesting the demolition of some rambling brick building that George Washington had once slept in? Her eyes flicked to Moloch, who hadn’t moved a muscle since he handed her the photograph. It was if he had stilled himself, ready to…pounce, almost.
It was a bit disconcerting.
She turned her gaze back to the photograph and let her eyes wander up to the man’s face.
And Abbie found then that she lost a breath. She wasn’t quite sure where it went. And it certainly hadn’t hightailed it out of her mouth at the sight of Ichabod Crane’s beautiful face.
No. Definitely not.
Abbie held the photograph out to Moloch, who shook his head.
“You keep it.”
Abbie frowned a little but put the photograph down on her desk. Then, she looked at Moloch again. “So, this is Ichabod Crane. Why do you have his picture and exactly what do you want me to do?”
“Ichabod Crane is...” Moloch paused a moment and then continued, “…a very interesting man. He’s the son of a wealthy family in Scotland, has been a professor of history at Oxford University and a soldier, and he’s now a resident here in the United States.”
Abbie didn’t comment but just raised an eyebrow at him. Moloch smiled at that.
“I would like to make an offer to him for some equipment he currently has possession of,” Moloch said, as he again reached for his briefcase. “It’s a generous offer, and I’d like to have you deliver it to him and obtain his reply.”
Abbie’s eyebrows came together into a frown. “Why can’t you just do it yourself? Or send some employee or lawyer to do it?”
“I’ve tried all of those methods, Ms. Mills,” Moloch explained with a self-deprecating smile. “Mr. Crane has rebuffed every overture I’ve made.”
“And what makes you think I’ll succeed where you and your employees have failed?” she asked.
“I do my research, Ms. Mills.” He gave her a knowing look. “I know that you have achieved success for many end-of-the-road, desperate men where others have done nothing but fail.” Moloch pulled out an envelope and slid it across the desk to her. “One hundred thousand as a retainer. You keep that, regardless of the outcome.” He pulled out another larger envelope and laid it on top of the other. “If you succeed, my office will be instructed to wire another five hundred thousand to the account of your choosing.”
Abbie’s heart stuttered. Six hundred thousand dollars? “You must be joking,” she said flatly.
“I assure you, Ms. Mills. This is no joke.” Moloch closed the briefcase again. “If you agree to take this case, you will earn every bit of that one hundred-thousand-dollar retainer, believe me.” He gave her a not very pleasant smile. “Ichabod Crane will be one of those most difficult nuts you’ll ever crack.”
“Why do you think I’d be the one to crack him?” she demanded.
Moloch smiled again. “Like I said, Ms. Mills. I do my research.”
She frowned and looked down at the two envelopes. Something didn’t sit right about the man. What could Ichabod Crane possibly have that a man like this would want so badly he would be willing to pay six hundred thousand dollars to a private detective to obtain?
“Are you willing to take my case, Ms. Mills?” he asked in that soft voice again.
Abbie hesitated, this time ignoring the envelopes and looking at the picture of Ichabod Crane. A tiny, small spark danced down her spine as she looked at him. She didn’t know what it was, but she wanted, all of the sudden, to have the opportunity to meet the man in the flesh. There was something there. Not just the buzz of sexual attraction, although there was that. But it was the telltale thrill inside that he set off questions in her head that she wanted answers to.
A puzzle and an adventure all in one Colonially-dressed man.
Abbie Mills could never resist the pull of a good mystery.
No matter where it led her or why, she knew from the moment she’d laid eyes on his picture.
Ichabod Crane was a mystery she was going to solve.
Without another thought, Abbie reached her hand across the table to Moloch, who took and shook it. “You’ve got yourself a detective, Mr. Moloch.”