CRIME OF THE CENTURY By Vallon Jackson

Here's a little flash fiction for you about a highly trained detective and his hunt for a master criminal...

Crime Of The Century

Leticia Wiesel could fool everyone else but not Detective Simmons.

He knew her type. Her slight build and elfin features, complete with big baby blue eyes twinkling behind her spectacles, gave her the innocent look that people associated with kindly grandmothers. She could come and go about her business with impunity, and never have a suspicious eye cast her way. But Simmons was too good a detective for that.

He knew her for what she was: A career criminal who’d avoided prosecution only because no one suspected that she could do any harm. She was slippery and cunning, years and years of experience behind her making her a master of her craft. A professional.

Simmons had been after her for months now. The tricky devil had been too subtle on too many occasions to count, and had until now continued with her nefarious criminality. But he had her now. Bang to rights, as the saying goes.

He watched her, blending in where she wouldn’t notice him. Waiting for the final step that would incriminate her fully in the crime.

She was canny: eyes darting, searching for surveillance, mindful of anyone who might be offering her more than passing notice. Her body language – though too subtle for one untrained to notice – said that she was only seconds away from committing the crime. She was a professional, but so was Simmons when it came to reading a criminal’s intention.

He could stop her now before the crime was complete. But he wanted her too much for that. He watched as she took one final look around.

Simmons felt the adrenalin bubbling.

Then the deed was done, and Simmons felt his knees weaken at the realisation that finally Leticia Wiesel would be uncovered as the terror she was.

Freakin’ A! You’ve got her, Simmons!

All thoughts of disguise or subtlety gone now, Simmons raced after Wiesel, pulling out his ID.
Wiesel felt him coming, spinning round and staring up at the big man holding out his badge like it was a handgun.

She didn't try to escape. Too coy and sure of herself for that.

“What can I do for you, young man?” she asked sweetly.

Simmons sneered down at her. Her sweet, little old lady act didn’t work on him. No way.

Full of vim, he said, “I’d like you to come back into the store, madam. I believe you have a block of butter that you haven’t paid for.”