Disclaimer: The characters of 'Diagnosis Murder' belong to CBS and Viacom, they are just borrowed for the purposes of this story. Any other characters are the property of the author. This story is written purely for pleasure with no profit involved
1.30am. Downtown Los Angeles, January1st 2004
At a small, square table a man sat alone. A single bare bulb illuminated his features casting them in sharp relief. In the harsh light he looked like a caricature, not a real man at all. At his right elbow a clock's steady ticking counted out minutes and seconds with an unerring regularity. Across the table stood an empty chair and before him a chessboard, 32 pieces complete. The ebony and ivory chessmen were truly magnificent. Each piece was hand-carved, quality testament to the skill of their creator. Each was smooth, flawless, individually identifiable and yet they were undoubtedly a set. Each had their own strengths, their individual expertise, their own role to play.
Humming idly to himself, the man stretched out a hand and gently caressed the Black Knight, his fingers rhythmically stroking the horse's head. Caught between light and shadow, the horse was alive, nostrils flaring with impatience. The man smiled, he'd always liked the black pieces the best – the lucky pieces. But then a frown crossed his distinctive features. To stay true to the essence of the game, white should move first. He thought for a while, momentarily troubled and then his smile returned - this was his game and therefore he was surely entitled to make the rules?
Decisively he advanced his first piece. Satisfied he reached over and slammed his palm down on the top of the clock. The ticking stopped immediately. Sitting back he looked directly at the empty chair opposite - The game had begun.
'Your move Doc' he said and he smiled.
***
1.32am Penthouse Suite, Hollywood Hills
Sitting on the edge of the plush king sized bed, a dark haired man reached across to the bedside cabinet and carefully slid out the slender, black attaché case. To the casual observer he would have looked like any other businessman, albeit perhaps a touch ostentatious in dress. And yet this was no ordinary briefcase and he was no ordinary businessman. Holding his breath, he slowly turned the locks of the case - a quarter turn to the right, a full turn to the left. He felt the locks click and gently eased open the lid, swiftly appraising the contents inside.
Everything looked good. As he closed the lid and slid the locks back into place, laying his prize on the bed beside him, his gold signet ring glittered in the light from one of the ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceiling above. He paused momentarily to admire it. He had a weakness for gold, mainly jewellery, but he wasn't averse to other manifestations.
According to the Rolex adorning his left wrist, it was 1.32am. He had time, but not much. He'd managed to grab a couple of hours sleep, a quick shower, but he wasn't refreshed. He was never refreshed. Still it didn't pay to let people know that. His was a dog eat dog world, where a demonstration of power kept you alive and the weak were swallowed whole. LA mobsters would do that to you - not even blink as they slit your throat.
Looking around him, he had to admit that the suite was nice, real nice. The trappings of wealth were never to be sneered at. His penthouse suite offered an enviable view of the city below, and the sheets on his bed were made of the finest silks. But there was no time to appreciate it, not really. Some days he was envious of the minions who battled the freeway on their way to work each day, put in their 9 to 5 and then back home to the wife and kids. Some days, but not today.
Knotting his colourful, some might say gaudy, tie he glanced in the mirror. A stranger looked back at him, a man he didn't know – didn't want to know. Still that's the way it had to be. He'd come to terms with that now. Quickly, efficiently he shrugged into his dark rain coat – one of his favourites, Saville Row's finest. He lifted up the slim black case; felt the reassurance of its weight in his hand. The masquerade was almost complete. Reaching around with his left hand he picked up a black umbrella – the weather was a bitch tonight and it wouldn't pay to look out of place. Now he was ready.
The telephone rang.
He stood waiting, as the ring tone pealed 3 times and then abruptly cut off. It was time. One last look in the mirror, the ghost of a wink and he was gone. The door banged shut behind him. The game had begun.
Chapter One coming soon ……..