Gumshoe Sally Shorts

Gumshoe Sally and the Lakeside Lockbox
>Spring in Beacon City was, by all accounts, beautiful
>Mild weather joined hands with a calmer city to spell out easy living for the BCPD
>So easy in fact that they always chose the Spring for the department retreat
>A short jaunt up north to the Murchison Reservoir for a day of fun, sun, grilling and more
>Sally was beyond enthused for it- she’d struck on something big, she knew it
>All she needed was her chance at the lake bottom and she’d crack one of the Vice department’s oldest cold cases wide open
>In her first months in the department, she’d happened on the proud memorabilia case by the water cooler
>Inside was a hand-penned note to the commissioner
>It was a snide, sneering thing, mocking him and his ineffective police work
>The words stung even Sally through the glass, the insult at her too far for someone writing fifty years prior
>That someone, Tadeusz “The Eagle” Turko, was taunting her across the years and in his surprisingly neat script
>Sally had been programmed and built with a breadth of knowledge across the years of all manner of Vice crimes: betting, boxing, brawling, bootlegging and more
>The latter was where Turko made his money, raking in his cash from every still and bar in the city
>Come the crackdown by, of all people, the IRS he escaped, the feds hot on his tail
>The chase and battle of the century ensued, dozens of officers and gangsters wounded or worse, Turko escaping in his signature convertible
>Plunging off the road into the newly-built lake he was never seen again
>Some say he died that night in his car, others say he was weighed down by the gold in his suit, dropping them and living as a hermit after
>Still more follow the former and claim he’s a ghost, a man in the muck rising each night to relive his crash
>The one agreement that everyone comes to, though, is that there was loot in that lake
>Though dives and searches yielded nothing, Sally wanted her shot

>”Yo, Sal. Time to head out.”
>”Right, right!”
>Fussing with her beach bag she piled in a scoop and her new one-piece
>A flowy, light dress swished around her, on loan from Sherry
>Hopping up after the man and into his car, Sherry waving from shotgun, they sped off
>The hour shot north was quiet save for the spring break tunes from the radio
>Vince and Sherry chatted between themselves, Sally turning her head to the receding city behind her, the encroaching pastureland taking over
>She waved to the idle cow here and there, the hilly hinterlands receding into the broad plain surrounding the lake
>On their loop around it Sally could see the beach chairs laid out, the odd plume of smoke or net being strung up sign enough they were late to the party
>But that wasn’t what called to her, no- not the brown, sandy shores surrounding the lake but the muddy, murky waters inside it
>She’d read up on the site, memorizing the topography and general location of where the car had gone down
>She spotted the small cobble monument lying off the banks, a worn bronze plaque commemorating the efforts of the BCPD and celebrating the official position of Turko’s demise in the waters beneath
>Sally knew better, as much as it pained her to admit it
>The city had been hoodwinked by the Pole, the man hightailing it away and, in the best of worlds, dying by accident
>Sally alone knew this was not the best of worlds
>”Alright, just gotta pull around… and we’re here.”
>”Wha- huh?”
>”Sally, we’re here.”
>”O-Oh! Coming,” she jumped, hopping out of her seat into the humid, springtime air
>”C’mon Sal, volleyball’s already on!”
>”Oh, sorry Vince,” she shot, already down the slope to the water. “Maybe later, okay?”
>He shrugged, Sherry shooting her a thumbs up as they went on their merry way
>”Alright Sally, this is it.”
>Flopping through the wet sand she slipped into the nearest changing tent, she changed into her swimsuit
>It was time

>Breathing deep she sauntered up to the shoreline, bag dispensed beyond the soft, lapping waves
>Lining up the scene with her fingers she pinpointed the final resting place of the car in her head
>Puffing up a pair of floaties on her arms she strolled into the water, the turbid, murky water embracing her slowly
>Hair hovering about her head she swung left and right to see, feet sticking in the muddy lakebottom already
>Her sandals were abandoned safely on shore, spared the trip down through the muck as her eyelights sprung to life
>Sweeping the beam left and right, marching down the slope, she batted her eyes between fleeing fish and the odd tendril of algae and other, slimier things
>The barely visible shadow of a swimming turtle loomed overhead as she marched deeper, the subtle call to surface in her head shaken away
>She wasn’t anywhere near her pressure threshold, she knew, and as she kept moving she had to stifle a gasp in surprise
>Pausing she traced her eyes across the muddy bottom, a lone tire splintered away lying there in the sediment
>Rocking a fist in the water she trudged ahead, eyes scanning across the mouldering wreckage of an opulent convertible
>Her first observation was the lack of some ghoulish skeleton in the driver’s seat, a grim sign
>Looped onto the stick, its knob tossed away, was a lone, gold wedding band hanging twinkling in the soft blue eyelight
>Sidling past the automobile she saw it, a dense gray box lying just meters away with a pair of cinderblocks decaying beside it
>Hefting it onto the rusting hood of the car she paused, knowing she couldn’t carry it to shore as is
>Whatever was inside was doubtlessly already ruined, but curiosity forced her to open it
>The lock was a simple latch, waiting for the right circle to fill it
>Rolling her eyes she fetched the wedding band, pressing it in with a mute click

>Inside was another plaque, the smaller sibling of the one above water
>Much more snide, this one
>”To the dope who dived down here, don’t get *jelly*-ous, but there is no treasure! None here, at least.”
>The tiny block was dropped into the mud, Sally scrabbling through the box for something bigger, more impactful
>Beneath the numerous worn jars was just the odd drifts of silt and clay that had found their way in and nothing more
>She wanted to scream and jump and shout, to hell with the water that would flood in
>Stopping herself again she snatched up one of the things of preserves, the label long eroded away in the waters of the reservoir
>Tramping all the way back up the sucking slope she popped out of the water, hair clinging wet to her head
>”Sally, where the hell-”
>”Save it Vince, I need your expertise.”
>”Expert-mmph!”
>Popping the ancient jar open and swiping a finger inside she jammed it into the man’s mouth
>”What flavor is that?”
>His face puckered, hard
>Holding a finger up to pause her, he worked it around in his suffering mouth for taste
>”Cranberry,” he mumbled, “unsweetened.”
>”Sally, the hell was that!”
>”A lead, Sherry. A lead.”
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