The Shipment

      Until the day I die, I’ll never forget those glassy, unblinking eyes.  She needed to die, plain and simple.  She had known entirely too much and was getting a little too free with sharing the knowledge.  I couldn’t afford to have her blabbing my business.  It would cost me everything.   Not only that, a lot bigger heads would roll if I were ever caught.  It would be a classic domino effect, and they would make sure I paid dearly with my life if that ever happened.   I should have never got involved with her in the first place.  Looking back now, I know I simply couldn’t resist.   She was hot…and a piece of work.  She had needed the job, so I had hired her as a receptionist at the art gallery thinking at the time she wasn’t too bright.  Little did I know that the beautiful bombshell actually did have a brain to go with those sapphire eyes, long sexy legs, and amazing rack.

       All of a sudden she starting putting 2 and 2 together, and lo and behold, it didn’t always add up to 4.  We were exporting art overseas packed with cartons lined with bags of the best cocaine money could buy.  The shipments were worth millions.  We packed it all in the best smelling coffee grounds to throw the scent off so the drug hounds at customs wouldn’t get wise to the operation.  All was going like clockwork until I decided to give in to lust and sleep with the bimbo.  That is when everything started going south.  I fancied myself falling for her.  I found her intoxicating and my tongue loosened up when she was around.  Once she figured out that my business didn’t only involve art, she got scared.  A scared woman with too much explosive knowledge can be dangerous.  I had no intention of going to prison for a loose tongued piece of ass no matter how good it was.

       So I killed her.  We had been intimate, so I figured it was up to me to get rid of her.  A friend of the boss owns the crematory in town and they wasted no time cremating her remains and helping me clean up the mess.  I personally packed what was left of Bridget in a crate holding Albrecht Durer’s painting of Oswalt Krel among this week’s shipment of coffee grounds and drugs.  My associates overseas would see to it that her ashes were disposed of.  No one would ever have to know.   As a stroke of luck, Bridget seemed alone in the world so no one should come asking questions.  If they do, I know nothing.   Surprisingly, I have never killed anyone before and never hope to again.  It left a bad taste in my mouth.  However, if they get in the way of business like the fair Bridget did I will be left with no choice.  After all, business is business.

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