The burglary at Camille Webb's had been completely uninteresting. Having waited 'til dark (drinking Sazeracs the whole time), he'd gotten inside without a hitch. No neighbours. No cameras. No dogs. Just a five-pin tumbler deadbolt, and a cheap alarm that wasn't even connected. It'd taken him all of seven or eight minutes to clear the place. He took some jewelry, a set of silverware (actually made of silver, and each engraved with a florid W), an antique cuckoo clock, an obsolete Wardenclyffe workout monitor, and also a newer one (made by Malum), and finally, a small fireproof lockbox.

Conscious that his episode with Thom and Rose might have come off as mere dalliance, and that his night at Anton's might likewise be interpreted as something staged, he stuffed a hand towel and a washcloth into the toilet, and flooded out the bathroom. After that, he flicked open his knife, and slashed through the upholstery on every piece of furniture in the place, making a real show of looking through the stuffing for valuables that could have been hidden inside.

He left the way he'd come, feeling dirty.

***

Riding home from The Monte, he thought to himself that he hadn't the slightest clue about how the editors were going to cobble together a full episode out of the footage, but when he arrived back home, he sent it across anyway. There'd been an Artisano machine on her kitchen counter, he recalled, and also an unopened bottle of Trū sitting next to the fridge, so maybe that and some B-roll'd be enough. At this point, he didn't really care all that much.

With that bit done, he sat down at his terminal, hemming and hawing over an idea he'd been gnawing on for the last couple of days. Feeling as though he had to do something, he went ahead and set up a dummy account on Lexmail, and he began composing a message, which he'd started to draft in his head while showering. He had a pretty good idea of how he intended to write the main bit, but so far the preamble had been proving difficult.

Dear Ms. Smythe,

You don't know me, but

And that's as far as he got before he took his hands off the keys. He rocked himself to his feet, wandered into the kitchen, poured himself a drink, took it down in a single swallow, poured another. Back at his terminal, he tried again.

Dear Ms. Smythe,

Tonight I write to you about Crime Chronicles.

He deleted that, too.

Dear Ms. Smythe,

I saw Spirit of the Redwoods, and

And also that.

Dear Ms. Smythe,

I wish to preface this message of warning by saying that I write this not to frighten or to intimidate you, but out of respect for your laudable efforts concerning various important social and environmental causes. You do not know me, but, as I will explain, forces outside of our control have recently brought our two separate paths together, and I now feel compelled to introduce myself.

I am a thief.

For years I've made my living this way, and though I could perhaps convince you (given enough time to more fully explain myself) of the virtues of my personal code of morality, I'm afraid I do not presently have the luxury of attempting as much.

In the absence of a longer explanation, I ask that you instead look to the content of this message as proof enough that, while I am indeed an admitted criminal, I am not without my own set of guiding principles, and more to the point, that I do not wish to do you any harm.

Now, to the issue at hand:

Approximately a week ago, I was approached by Reuben Moss — a producer at Cyberpix, with whom I believe you are already acquainted. He made it clear to me that he had learned of my criminal exploits, and that he was prepared to blackmail me into performing thefts on-camera as a means of resuscitating his flagging career — something I later learned was done with the full blessing of Sybil Devereaux, herself — someone, I believe, you also know.

Reluctantly, I agreed to participate in the filming of eight episodes (as well as a live finale) of a show they've titled: Crime Chronicles. At the outset, I was provided with a list of names (one per episode), which I was told had been compiled, and vetted by the studio's executives. As of tonight, seven of those eight episodes have already been filmed.

As I'm certain you are aware, the studio still holds a great deal of animosity toward you for the suits you brought against the late Barry Abelman, as well as your former co-star, Humble Weatherspoon. For this (I take it), your name appeared at the very top of the aforementioned list.

Knowing your reputation, I flat-out refused to participate, much to the chagrin of Mr. Moss and the others. Wishing to turn the studio's malicious request on itself, I instead broke-up a pool party at Humble Weatherspoon's Menlo Park address — something I did, because it felt like the appropriate thing to do, but which I must admit (if I'm honest) did provide me with more than a little personal satisfaction. This act of insubordination was tolerated by the executive leadership team, I was informed, only because it generated a great deal of attention (and therefore, advertising revenue) for the studio, but I was warned from straying from the list in future.

As for the other names on the list, I will only say that I've done my level best to do right (a dubious claim, I know), by making what changes and substitutions I could manage without pushing the patience of my blackmailers too far.

In this way, my actions have served to spare several good people from experiencing the full measure of what was intended for them by the studio — a fact I'm proud of. However, this now leaves me in the unenviable position of being without advance notice of my targets for either the eighth episode or the show's hour-long finale. With that said, I strongly suspect your name will once more top the list.

With this in mind, I must admit that I don't know how to proceed, exactly.

If they give me your name a second time (and they will), it's all but assured that I'll be paying you a visit. This being the case, I felt that providing you with a warning was the very least I could do.

You would be well within your rights to hire private security, or to alert the police of the situation, and I'd understand entirely if you pursued either (or both) of these options.

However, what I would much prefer (and I do realize how perfectly transparent this plea is bound to seem), is to come to some sort of agreement with you ahead of time — one which does each of us as little harm as possible.

If you find this amenable (or at the very least, preferable to the alternative), please reply as such. In any case, you should know that you have my sincere admiration for the grit you've demonstrated in standing up to those who have shown they are without conscience.

Yours Faithfully,

Floyd Thursby

Before logging out, he wrote another one — an effusive apology, addressed to Camille Webb, one which outlined the circumstances behind a burglary she likely did not even know had happened yet, informing her that her belongings, along with a generous sum left in escrow, with her name on it — which he hoped would serve as a reparation of sorts — could be collected from The Monte at her convenience.

***

SOPHIA: you at home?

MIMMEO: yeah

SOPHIA: emails are ready
SOPHIA: sent you another link
SOPHIA: soon as you're logged in will text kw3rk to send across

MIMMEO: magick
MIMMEO: just a sec
MIMMEO: ok ready

SOPHIA: texting now
SOPHIA: let me know when you get something

MIMMEO: [sunglass emoji]

SOPHIA: anything?

MIMMEO: not yet

SOPHIA: ok hold on
SOPHIA: how bout now?

MIMMEO: yeah i got something
MIMMEO: gonna try to open it
MIMMEO: looks like that's everything
MIMMEO: you're the best

SOPHIA: hey, i'm just the middleman

MIMMEO: my thanks to kw3rk, in that case

SOPHIA: i'll pass that along

MIMMEO: cheers

SOPHIA: btw whatever kw3rk just did seems to have made an impression on them

MIMMEO: oh?

SOPHIA: overheard Sybil talking about it with some of her peeps                                                   SOPHIA: gonna *nail her to the fuckin' wall* I think's what she said

MIMMEO: oh shit
MIMMEO: i'll have to have a look — let you know what all i find out

SOPHIA: [sunglass emoji]

MIMMEO: tomorrow?

SOPHIA: i'm in meetings most of the morning

MIMMEO: late lunch?

SOPHIA: sounds good. i gotta hit the hay

MIMMEO: night, soph

SOPHIA: night, mim [sleep emoji]

***

Without delay, Mimmeo opened the file that'd just finished downloading, which kw3rk had aptly named, Our_Arrangement.doc, and he promptly began combing through the messages one by one.

At first, the exchange between Pierce and Salazar, which was accompanied by a dense trove of attached legal documents, was predictably dry. Still, he pressed on, reading into the tenor of each word, noticing the placement of every comma, eagerly devouring everything with a religious fervor. There were dozens of legal summaries, and signed affidavits, each of them pertaining to one of a whole slew of complaints against Cyberpix, and though he skimmed them all, making notes as he went, he gave special attention to those that specifically had to do with the Abelman and Weatherspoon cases.

Owing to the fact that the DA's files had all been digital, there were no handwritten thank you notes, nor were there any premier tickets, or other scraps of ephemera linking Pierce to being bribed by the studio, however, what Mimmeo uncovered would be no less damning.

Just as he (as well as anyone else who'd been paying even the slightest bit of attention to these cases) had suspected, the state, with Veronica Smythe listed as plaintiff, had succeeded in assembling a litany of evidence against both of the men in question. And yet, both cases had quite suddenly, and without explanation or ceremony, been dropped by the prosecutor — the cause, which until now had been left to speculation, was revealed in black and white as a calculated effort by West Pierce and Clement Salazar, together working on behalf of the studio to shield their allies from justice.

Mimmeo read the transcribed testimonies of the parties involved, including those of several eyewitnesses, all of whom corroborated Ms. Smythe's allegations. Among the attached files, he also encountered several incriminating audio recordings that had been buried by the prosecution, and which had been provided, rather ironically he thought, by Abelman's own attorney.

The first one he listened to was dated to the period directly preceding her contract with Cyberpix:

ABELMAN: ...you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Nobody does. It's a free country.

SMYTHE: I'm not trying to be difficult, Mister Abelman. I promise. It's just that... I'm just— it's just that I guess I'm not really comfortable with—

ABELMAN: Listen sweetheart, comfort's got nothing to do with it. Hell. Maybe I'm not all that comfortable investing a lot of my money in expensive projects for people who aren't my friends — you [unintelligible] that?

SMYTHE: Of course, but—

ABELMAN: So the big question is, are we going to be friends, or not, Victoria?

SMYTHE: Veronica.

ABELMAN: [unintelligible] ... oh, right. So, are we going to be friends? It's something I need to know before we go signing anything [unintelligible] together. I'd like to be friends with you. I really would. I'd really like to be friends ... Is that okay with you?

SMYTHE: Yes.

ABELMAN: Good girl. You know, we're in a tough industry, Vicki — a really tough industry. It's tough out there. And it's important — and you'll find this out the longer you work in pictures — that for someone like yourself, it's [unintelligible] to have someone powerful in their corner. For better or worse, you can't expect to succeed in this world without great friends like me.

SMYTHE: I—

ABELMAN: We're going to work this all out. You'll see. We're going to work it out. We will. We'll— you'll see I'm not a bad guy. You ever been to [unintelligible]?

SMYTHE: No, I haven't.

ABELMAN: We'll go there tonight. I'll send a car to pick you up. Eight o'clock. Best steak tartare in The City.

SMYTHE: Actually, Mister Abelman, I don't eat meat.

ABELMAN: Oh, we'll see about that.

SMYTHE: I don't [unintelligible]—

ABELMAN: Oh, come on. It's only dinner. They've got rabbit food there, too. I can get you a nice, big salad. What do you say? Come on. Let's be friends.

SMYTHE: Okay.

ABELMAN: Okay? Okay. Okay, then.

SMYTHE: Yeah.

ABELMAN: We'll have dinner. We'll have a little dinner, and— wear something stunning. Help me out. Wear something to make the other guys jealous — you, know? And don't worry about the panties, they've got long tablecloths.

***

The recordings that followed only made the first look tame by comparison. More than a few of them included instances of the now deceased executive expressly pressuring the young actress into reluctantly performing various sexual favours for him; three of them contained the unmistakable sounds of the acts themselves. It became clear to Mimmeo, as he pored over the files that these recordings, as well as any other evidence against Barry Abelman had, through a calculated effort, been buried.

Reading further into the thread only produced a mounting assemblage of irrefutable evidence testifying to this fact. There, in front of him, was an exchange between the studio, Pierce, and Salazar, having to do with payoffs made to a bailiff and to two prosecutors. Another one detailed a payment made to an unnamed individual, who had someway or another managed to obtain a copy of the recordings for the purposes of blackmail — a poetic twist, Mimmeo thought, and which elicited from him an almost obligatory chuckle.

He could tell that this collusion between Cyberpix and those with the power to hold their executives accountable, extended well beyond the Smythe case, and while they were certainly all complicit in the various schemes, the judge had seemed particularly enthusiastic about his personal role in flouting the dignity of the law.

It was terrible. All of it — the smug self-assurance of the old man, who went about his lecherous affairs with such casual indifference that it was patently obvious he'd done it (and gotten away with it) a hundred times before; the naïve reluctance of the actress, whose voice, as time went on, having been forced into a chain of increasingly loathsome compromises, rang with an increasing measure of shame, as if she, herself, were to blame for her own abuse; the willful dismissal of it all by studio execs, who cared only for their own public image — and that, only inasmuch as it mattered to their bottom line; the abject betrayal by those charged with ensuring civic justice, who, suckling at the teat of the rich and powerful, instead served as nothing more than a roadblock to those in need; and finally, a faceless, voiceless public, only thirsting for whatever promised to take their minds off their own lives for even just a moment, and so, satisfied themselves in being blithely unaware of the ugliness of it all.

The tone of the messages, however, took on a notable shift toward the end. At some point, not quite a month ago, West Pierce (whom Mimmeo thought had always seemed the most reticent about their collective undertakings) had begun expressing his misgivings with considerably more vigour. And it was around this time that a new thread appeared — a string of private messages, initiated by Pierce, and directed to the judge, alone.

Within this thread, which had begun with Pierce gently questioning the integrity of a Cyberpix-backed initiative to support Rich Raffgier's attempts to hamstring a piece of anti-trust legislation, Mimmeo read with a growing curiosity as the DA began to hint at the idea that they should cease their corruptions, eventually going so far as to suggest they come clean, and face the consequences of their actions.

Salazar's replies had been so fiery as to cow Pierce into silence for a period lasting more than a week. Nonetheless, the DA eventually did come back, stubbornly resolved to quit his treachery, and turn himself in. He promised the judge he wouldn't implicate him, but stated (unequivocally) that he was out, as it were, and that he would no longer be coöperating with whatever it was the studio had planned.

This final message had gone unanswered, and less than a week later, West Pierce was dead.

A tearful mist clouding his vision, Mimmeo, feeling the full weight of the muddy truth, uttered a single word to no one.

"Fuck."

***