1
The next day, Cord submitted a classified advertisement to the local newspaper to sell the Swan. A buyer contacted him by the weekend. It turned out to be a silent young man in a business suit who, without saying a word, examined the damage to the car, sat behind the wheel, and then agreed to Cord's price without bargaining. Fortunate!
Cord was delighted, although not because he received a lot of money, but because he got rid of the unloved car so quickly and easily. After all, he essentially did not need money. One day, out of boredom, Cord calculated his finances: the inheritance from his parents and his own savings would allow him to live as he lived now for about thirty-three years and two months. But no one knew about this little detail, not even Force.
Before Dia's return, Cord decided to focus on work. He and Force called all the taxi companies, and at one of them, they found a driver who had been parked by the Blue Eyes that night. The man testified he had seen "a girl who ran out" and "a tall guy who came out after her and lit a cigarette". He was shown several photos of both the prostitutes and guests, and the taxi driver pointed at Piala and Familiar.
Force then contacted the telephone company and checked Chief's testimony about calling his son the next morning. Everything coincided.
As a result, the investigators could thoroughly, down to the minute, reproduce what happened in the brothel and after the discovery of the corpse. However, the events in the park still remained a blind spot for them. Cord could not shake the thought that the key to what had happened there lay at the bottom of the pond. Still, since the body was found on the asphalt and without signs of drowning, and given that the murdered woman was a prostitute, Chief could easily and with impunity evade issuing the necessary permission.
So it was time to start messing around with the bike tracks.
2
Day after day, Force suffered in anticipation of a call from that journalist, and all because he had been afraid to ask her for her phone number. Waiting for what you want is the worst kind of torture.
Therefore, this evening was special for Force: Flaminga had finally called him. Their conversation turned out to be short: the journalist invited him to dinner at a fashionable restaurant. A date? A business meeting? The tone of the conversation was unclear: Force was biting his nails, and the woman he liked laid out everything dryly and efficiently. Well, so it seemed to him.
Okay. Okay.
Force tried to convince himself that tomorrow, July 24, 1993, his life would change dramatically. Of course, if he did not behave like an absolute idiot. It surely might.
For the meeting, whatever it turned out to be, it was necessary to look decent. The investigator put on his best suit (which was not much different from his worst: it looked perfect), scented himself with his most exquisite perfume, and bought the most varied and visually beautiful bouquet possible in the flower shop.
In general, he went all out on everything.
***
Flaminga was waiting at the reception area. She looked bright but not too seductive: her plan required her to evoke lust, but not rejection caused by excessive sexuality. If she, in fact, understands men, then things would work out as well as possible.
At that moment, a huge figure with a bouquet appeared in front of the entrance, hesitantly treading in place. He had not yet noticed the journalist, so Flaminga smiled in greeting, and as if beckoning, waved in what was a well-thought-out gesture.
***
It seems his blood pressure had jumped. He hadn't even met the woman yet, and already his heart was jumping out of his chest! What a business...
Finding the strength at last, he entered.
"Here you are, dear Force Majeure!"
Smoothly, like a swan, she went up to the investigator and gave him her left hand. For a handshake? A kiss? What should I do?!
Force shook it awkwardly and immediately handed the woman the bouquet.
"Th-This is for you."
The journalist accepted it and smiled attractively.
"I am very pleased, thank you! Let's go to the table."
Force followed her. The journalist was dressed in a tight red evening dress, which accentuated her ideal figure with such appetizing curves... Cord would certainly call such a woman a Sex Bomb.
They sat down at the table opposite each other and began a conversation. Contrary to Force's fears, it went smoothly, and they soon became very comfortable with each other. After two glasses of dry red wine, Force plucked up the courage to ask a question that had tormented him since their first meeting:
"Why do they call you Flaminga and not Flamingo?"
The journalist smiled and flashed her brown eyes slyly.
"Because the name Flamingo in our country is rather popular among women, and I wanted to be as individual as possible. Therefore, I became the Pink Flaminga. And the name spelled with a mistake also emphasizes I am not without sin."
***
They sat in the restaurant until midnight.
Flaminga turned out to be a very interesting woman. She told various tales about her journalistic work, and Force, to keep up, shared funny stories about his investigations. The evening was great. It was not like a business meeting at all, but rather like a date. And despite the difference of eight years between him and Flaminga, Force felt incredibly comfortable.
When the waiter hinted that the establishment would close in an hour, the investigator immediately asked for the check. Flaminga went to the toilet, and Force called a taxi and paid for the dinner, not forgetting to leave a good tip. He was already anticipating how he would think about tonight on the way home, when suddenly his plans were disrupted.
Standing next to the taxi door that had been opened for them, Flaminga playfully asked:
"Won't you escort a lady home like a proper gentleman?"
Force had not expected this.
***
They continued their conversation inside the car. Force could not understand whether Flaminga was flirting with him and she was making subtle hints of a continuation, or she just liked to communicate with him. Because of this, he became agitated again. Flaminga seemed to notice and stopped bombarding him with questions.
Fool! Idiot! Why did she become quiet?!
So they rode the rest of the way in silence to the building where Flaminga lived. It was located in a semi-criminal area. The building was a gray nine-story building for small families. How could such a woman live in such a place?
"I have an important question for you. Could you possibly help me with something?" Flaminga asked briskly.
Oh. So she just need something from me...
"Uh-huh... Okay."
The entrance corresponded to the building: on the door, some eloquent vandal had sprayed out the intriguing words: "I fucked you in the..." It was dark in the vestibule because the light bulb had been stolen by someone. The buttons in the elevator were burned, and a puddle was spreading on the floor in the corner. Flaminga calmly commented:
"It seems that it is not the pee, but you better not step in it."
They went up to the seventh floor, and Flaminga led him to a door with
Flaminga turned the key and froze. Then she beckoned Force with her finger.
"Come here."
Force hesitated but still had to overpower himself and then walked up. Flaminga turned slowly towards him, being at arm's length from him.
"Let's see..." the journalist whispered. "Enough of the games already. We both know what we need."
At that moment, Force knew he had fallen for her.