Pixie Pt. 04 Ch. 10: Sinn in Paris

The success of the Nic-Nak case, as it would become known, would firmly cement the reputation of the Sinn Girls as the No.1 Lesbian Detective Agency. But that was ahead of us, as there was to be a sting in the tail of that case, and any misstep while we were basking in the joy of a case well done could prove fatal, literally the death of Sinn.

Pixie, who loved her paperwork, proudly showed us the data-sheets demonstrating that we had exceeded all the Key Performance Indicators in our initial business plan. Miss Sinn, who had displayed interest in the lesbian business model when Mel discussed it, was less enamored with Pixie's KPIs and indicated to her PA that she could place the KPI's where the sun did not shine.

I had to giggle when, while giving her an old-fashioned look, the little darling suggested that Miss Sinn might like to help deposit them there.

Angie grinned at her, "Who's a naughty little Pixie then?"

She blushed, most becomingly, replying, "I am Miss Sinn. But I have made the reservations for you and Miss Mel to go to the Interpol meeting in Paris. A nice boutique place just off the Boul' St Mich. But they only had a double available, and I guess I took a liberty, but I assume that you two would not mind sharing a bed?"

In unison, Mel and Miss Sinn piped up:

"Yummy!"

"I'll take that as a yes then?"

The high-fives from Miss Sinn and Mel suggested that Pixie had their full approval. But could I help myself, no of course I couldn't, so I added. "A case of voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir, Mel."

Of course I had forgotten that Canada was the only colony where French as well as English was an official language, and Mel returned serve with a torrent of what, given the limits of my school girl French, I guessed was a more idiomatic response when the words Annie and merde were used closely together.

The petite one whose French is obviously better than mine thought this hysterically funny.

I decided a change of strategy was appropriate and asked Miss Sinn, "Much French kissing in your past Miss Sinn?"

Miss Sinn took a leaf out of Mel's book, "Oui cherie, but I like Aussie kissing Annie, which is like French but down under."

Miss Sinn had actually talked to me earlier about the polyamorous arrangement between Mel, myself and Pixie. From her point of view, she said, it made sense given the way we supported each other, but, and this seemed to me to be her main point in raising the issue:

"Does it mean that the three of you can only fuck each other?"

I'd had prepared an answer to ask that question, but I was not about to let Miss Sinn off lightly.

Smiling my best "innocent Aussie girl in London" smile, I asked why it mattered to her?

"It's just, well, I wondered, that's all."

"Oh," I said, sounding disappointed, "is that all? I'd thought you might want to fuck one of us."

And when I added in my best little girl voice, "I hoped it would be me Miss Sinn," she suddenly realised that I was teasing her.

Always one to up the ante when it came to flirting, Miss Sinn smiled.

"Well, we have time. You could fuck me over the desk now. But then Mel in Paris, the city of love and romance, I quite fancy that too."

"Greedy Angie, sinning with the staff in every city," I teased her.

"Do I have to call you Miss Annie like Pixie does?" she smiled back.

"I like the sound of that. But back to your question, Mel and I fuck who we want, but Pixie always comes first for us, except when we don't let her cum at all that is."

Miss Sinn giggled, and said, "You know, to be serious for a moment, Annie, I'm glad you said that. I've always worried that the little darling was so busy making sure everyone else was okay that she neglected her own needs. Since you took her in hand, and since Mel arrived, she seems happier. So thanks, and oh Annie, you and I will find some time soon."

That endeared our boss to me even more.

To the outside world she could seem the epitome of the hard-boiled American blonde, straight out of a Phillip Marlow detective story. Always immaculately made-up, her hair perfectly coiffeured, the sweaters and dresses she wore emphasised her well-developed breasts. Her skirts or dresses always ended high enough above the knee to show her shapely legs, and any stocking-fetishist would have worshipped the seamed nylons she wore. Her stilettos varied from the mildly outrageous to the fetish side of impractical, but she carried it all off with aplomb.

She loved her wise-cracks, as well as, so rumour had it, Monica's ass-crack, and that could give the impression she was a hard-bitten broad, but she had a heart as big as a lion, and was as gorgeous as a person as she was in appearance.

But if I dared compliment her so, she would probably have sacked me on the spot.

She had been invited to attend an Interpol meeting in Paris to discuss how agencies like our own could link up with regular police forces to tackle the increase in crime following the only successful Russian export since vodka - organised criminal activity. And as we had received an invitation for a "plus one," Pixie had volunteered Mel.

There was a small outbreak of Aussie jealousy, but when I had queried Pixie, she told me the next meeting would be in Washington, and that she'd thought I'd enjoy that more. Bless her, I thought, as I had never visited the United States and would so love to. Further confirmation that Pixie was indeed an angel and I was glad that Miss Sinn approved of our attempts to get her to think of herself once in a while.

Miss Sinn and Mel set off for Paris, accompanied by Pixie who was seeing them off at St Pancras on the Eurostar. And I had time on my hands. Though I had told Pixie I was intending to shop for shoes later that afternoon.

As it turned out, my two colleagues didn't even have Paris ... at least not to themselves or for long. And the reason for that was that I idly picked up the note book that Mel had exchanged with Nak for a vibrator. A note book that seemed to contain the names of paintings.

Puzzled that each description was associated with two numbers, I began to search online using the painting titles. And came up empty handed. Whatever this painting list was it didn't correspond to any titles listed in art catalogues.

I was at a loss knowing how to proceed and then I had a brainwave. Ashley, who had helped us solve the case, was a computer expert. So I rang her and as she was a student I woke her at about eleven in the morning.

"Annie you bitch, why are you ringing so fucking early."

"Get you lazy arse out of bed, there is work to do," I replied, giving it my best Miss Sinn impersonation.

Ash's adorable giggle, was joined by another and I not only knew she had company, but also knew exactly who that company was.

"That sounds like fucking Oli."

"Who's a clever detective then," Ash replied, "Oh my God ... cut that out Oli I can't speak when ... fingers ...in my cunt ...oh my God..."

And the line went dead and I was left alone in the office able to imagine exactly what those two were up to.

And so having heard Oli and Ash, and with nothing better to do, I slipped off my now damp knickers and did myself, remembering the night Oli, Ash, Mel, Pixie and I ended up in bed. And when I came it was like a dam had burst. Unfortunately bursting over the new couch that Pixie had just obtained which was going to make the explanation of how it got stained somewhat awkward.

Ash did ring back and I read out the information in the notebook, the painting's name, the first one was 'xx' and the two numbers A457869 and 23 for the first one. Ash observed that is was interesting that there were only two number in the second column 23 and 28. As Oli had gone to work in the shoe shop Ash assured me she would remain focused.

And Ash was indeed focused and I, having failed to remove the stain from the couch, set off a little later to Selfridges determined to do a little shopping. As Pixie was on her own too, let me hand over to her.

ooo 000 ooo

I was such a lucky girl to have Miss Annie and Miss Mel. They understood my needs, and loved that I understood theirs. It worked perfectly, and I was very happy to arrange that they should have some of the many benefits, like travel, coming to the Agency from the success of our work.

I'd had a long chat with Commissioner Dick after the Nic-Nak case, and over a good lunch, we flirted outrageously. She informed me of the plans for agencies such as ours to work with Interpol.

"I'm not after a permanent relationship, and we don't want any commitments as such, but a good working relationship when we need you might be most useful."

I loved the double-entendres, and replied in kind:

"So we'd be sort of friends with benefits?"

She laughed.

"Oh I'm sure you'd find some benefits from such a friendship."

There was a frisson of tension, and then it passed. But I could see that regular meetings with Commissioner Dick, would be fun.

She gave me the agenda for the Paris conference and said she looked forward to our next "assignment.

" I reciprocated.

And we left the restaurant, she asked, "You keeping Annie under control, not too many attempts at humour given my name?"

" Well I did ask when we were discussing literature whether liked Dickens."

"And did she?"

"I think she preferred Kipling, Miss Dick."

"I've never Kippled, so wouldn't know," she laughed.

"She sounds fun," Miss Sinn had told me after reading my report and instructing me to go arrange the Paris trip.

"I think you two would get on, Miss," was my enigmatic reply.

"It's what we might get on that interests me," she laughed.

Mel was delighted to be going to Paris, and we discussed what she might do there in the intervals of the conference. She wanted to see the Mona Lisa, so I arranged a carnet de billets for that and the metro, equipping her with a map and a guide book.

I met Mel and Miss Sinn at St Pancras to see them off on the Eurostar. Mel gave me a big kiss and told me how much she loved me. She was even taller than usual, so I had to get onto tippy toes to kiss her.

"They are nice shoes," I told her, admiring them.

"Yes," she giggles, "wages of Sinn and courtesy of Oli."

She blushed a little. I could guess why.

I saw her and Miss Sinn off. They were looking hungrily at each other, and I suspected that there would not be much sleep that night in the little hotel off the Boul' St Mich.

So, there I was, Thursday night in St Pancras, and, as they say, at a loose end. Annie was off late-night shoe shopping, which, while true, was a euphemism for a good long fuck with Oli the sexy shoe-seller spy. The station concourse was still crowded with the last rag-tag and bob-tails of the commuter rush, and with no particular place to go, I thought I'd indulge in an early evening aperitif and my second favourite sport - people watching.

I relaxed, knowing Annie would probably be back home in the morning, and Miss Sinn and Mel would be very happily engaged in oral debriefings very soon. My job was done. My mind wandered to my exiled wife Sarah, but to judge from her recent texts, she was very happily screwing her way through some very satisfied new friends in New York. Darling Emm was back in the Crimea and happily enjoying the delights of Ekaterina, her Russian Mistress, and Monica seemed content with her undercover work.

All in all, the Sinn Girls were content.

As I settled in a comfortable chair with a gin and tonic which was served in a glass almost as large as my head, I heard my phone ping with an incoming text. It was from Annie and told me to google "Boston art heist 1990" and that they were the paintings in Mel's notebook.

I sipped my drink and googled what Annie had suggested. And the story made me smile, if it had been written as fiction no one would have believed it.

After a St Patrick's day parade, guards admitted two men posing as police officers responding to a disturbance call at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, and in an hour they committed the largest-value recorded theft of private property in history. No arrests have ever been made and since the collection and its layout are permanent, empty frames remain hanging both in homage to the missing works and as placeholders for their potential return.

Among the stolen works was The Concert, one of few works by Vermeer and thought to be the most valuable unrecovered painting, valued at over $200 million. Altogether, the thirteen pieces stolen have an estimated value of $500 million.

I was puzzled but not concerned about how we had come to know that Mel's book listed those stolen paintings. Everything still seemed all right with the world. And then my phone went. It was Annie.

"We are in deep shit Pix," she said in her most cultured tones, adding, "Cut that out Oli, this is no time to begin buggering my arse."

And I knew then that Annie was seriously troubled. She always prioritized sex and ringing me before rather than after having her arse seen to, indicated how deep in the merde she thought we were.

"The painting titles in Mel's notebook are anagrams, 'The Net Croc' is actually Vermeer's 'The Concert'. ... Stop lubing the strappy Oli, there is no way ... oh my fucking God."

Annie was suddenly breathless and it didn't take a detective to work out why. Oli's strap-on had obviously penetrated her arse.

"That doesn't seem a drama Annie, why don't dig we deeper after Oli has gone deeper."

"Too fucking late, her hips have just slapped against my arse... Fuck yes... But that isn't the main point."

And as the delightful image of Annie with a strappy up her arse went through my mind, I couldn't help but observe, "The main point appears to be deep in you."

"Fuck ... you don't ... understand ... two sets of numbers. Ash has discovered ... oh yes, fuck me you bitch ... the first numbers are safe deposit numbers ... yes, harder, pound my skanky arse ... and one of the other number is a code ... harder you bitch. "

I must confess my panties were getting a little damp hearing how much Annie enjoyed anal sex, and then thinking that we may emphasise that more at home, but there was nothing I could do about my now throbbing clit as I was sitting in a cafe sipping my gin and tonic.

"Yes, ... Ash found out that one code 23 is Nic-Nak's father's birthday ... fuck cumming."

"Yes but he is dead and his daughter's subject to their first experience with Her Majesty's Dick."

"But there are two numbers Pix, oh God Oli won't stop till she cums again."

Oh merde I thought, as le penny gouttes. I got why Annie was worried. The number 28 meant there was another Russian family involved.

"I'm coming," I said, slurping my gin, "Not literally but I will get a taxi to Selfridges. Let me in."

"Yes," Annie breathlessly relied, as Oli howled with her orgasm in the background.

And what happened next I will leave to Annie to describe, as she as she subsequently reported was stunned by what happened next.

ooo 000 ooo

I had just relaxed into Oli's arms having enjoyed being buggered even though I was at pains to concentrate on communicating with Pixie.

While I was a bit taken back to discover there was someone else who knew about the painting and presumably the safe deposit numbers in the book, I couldn't imagine how that could be a big drama.

Oh boy was I wrong, and when I picked up my phone to answer the call my world stopped spinning.

It was Ash, who was straight to the point:

"The 28 is likely to be Mr. xx's brother and Kit-Kat and Nic-Nak's uncle. He recently passed away - something about accidentally coming in contact with a bullet."

"Case closed," I said with some relief.

"Maybe not," Ash replied, "He has a daughter and there are rumours on the dark web about her. She carries the handle "whispering death," and by all accounts is the most hard-hearted of the next generation."

"More than Kit-Kat?" I asked

"Think so. And is odd how there is no photographic trace of her on the web. Her presence is all by anecdote but even so she seems feared even by other parts of the Russian mafia."

I had my phone on speaker and Oli asked, "Do you have any description at all?"

"Tall blond and good looking."

"That includes Annie, so not much to go on," Oli sweetly replied.

Then Ash continued and my blood seemed to freeze:

"Hey there is an odd picture circulating on the Russian deep web. It looks like Mary Poppins and two women playing as children, But the funny thing, Annie, is that Mary Poppins looks like Pixie and one of the schoolgirls looks like Mel."

The silence that followed was breached by a scream from Oli:

"Oh fuck what have I done?"

And she dissolved in tears on my shoulder. Just as Pixie entered the back of the shop.

It took me a while to calm Oli down, and Pixie used her time to get up to date on what Ash had found out. Then I whispered calmly trying to seek information from my clearly traumatised shoe seller.

And once I had her calm, Oli explained that between Mel's and my visit a tall blonde woman who spoke with a Russian accent had shown her the Mary Poppins photo and before she thought about it Oli had exclaimed, "Oh Mel is so lucky going for a romantic night in Paris."

I comforted Oli and told her she had no reason to know that the woman had likely followed Mel, and that it was a perfectly sensible response for a friend to make.

"Would you recognise her again?" Pixie asked

"Yes I would."

At that point the door opened, and Roger, as we had Christened Oli's Secret Service Boss came in. He looked concerned.

"Ash has spilled the beans. I have spoken to the PM and she has ruled out assassination, and so ladies we need a fucking good plan."

And that was how all three of us came to be travelling to Paris on the late-night Eurostar, though we would have to stay at a different hotel to Mel and Angie, and agreed not to warn them yet.