Mr. Bank’s Private Investigation Company: The Mysterious Demise of Alejandro DeLarusso – Abigael Kuhn

I opened my eyes and felt the cold droplets splattering across my face. My back burned with pain. Suddenly, I felt every part of my body hurt. My neck, my arms, my legs, but most of all, my back. 

It slowly came back to me. I was flying in a private jet that Mr. Banks, the owner of the investigation agency, sent. All of a sudden, the pilot started violently coughing. He stopped moving after a few seconds. The jet started to sway left and right. I looked over at his coffee mug, and I opened the lid. I could smell the volatile poison. Before I could put the lid back on, the jet was accelerating toward the dense forest. 

I slowly sat up. My arms and legs had cuts and gashes all over them. The blood was trickling down my nose. I am going to have to find something to cauterize these wounds.

There! I thought when I found my old lighter from before I quit smoking.  Grabbed a few small sticks and started a fire. I walked over to the crash and sorted through the rubble. I found my luggage, a blanket, some peanuts, bottles of water, and a spoon. I set the round part of the spoon in the fire and let it heat up. 

“Ow!” I exclaimed as the spoon burned my horrific wound closed. 

I started stumbling over my feet as I set up my shelter. I used my clothes as the tent. I draped them over the branches. I used the blanket to keep me warm. As I was falling asleep, I thought about who would poison the pilot. Who didn’t want me to solve the murder of Alejandro DeLaruso?

“Sheila McCartney,” I whispered aloud. Sheila was Alejandro’s eighth wife. Alé was a trillionaire who was bound to inherit his father’s fortune. He died at 67 from a heart attack last Tuesday. My services were requested by Mr. Banks to solve the suspected murder. 

Alejandro was in better condition than most sixty-year-olds. He would do yoga at the beach at sunrise, work out before lunch, take a 10-mile bike ride every night before supper, and was a vegan. The coroner found nothing wrong, so my mission is off the record and top secret. 

I fell asleep fast now that I knew my first suspect. I woke from my slumber to hear whispering voices around me. 

“I don’t think she’s dead, Sheila,” said a man with a raspy voice. 

“The pilot is dead. I used the same stuff with him as I did Alé.”

There we go; she just admitted to it. Ever since my first case, I have kept a little micro radio that connects to my employer. We have just solved the murder of Alejandro. 

I silently got my pocket knife at the ready as I heard the leaves crinkle. I could smell the cigarettes on his breath. His cold hand poked my skin, feeling for warmth. 


A gush of blood poured over me as I recovered my knife from his neck. He gasped for air as he fell on top of me. I could hear Sheila’s heels penetrating the mud underneath the leaves. I heard the click of her gun. 

“Detective Michaels, how wonderful it is to see you here.”

“It really is, Sheila.”

I dove as she shot her gun at me. I quickly grabbed the dead man’s gun. 

“You know, Detective, I am getting away with this,” she said as she shot at the ground where I just was. She started to walk in a circle around me. 

She fired another bullet at me and missed. I checked my gun and aimed. One more step, and it will be the perfect shot. 

“Private Investigator Banks! Don’t shoot! You are under arrest for the murder of Alejandro DeLaruso!”

Sheila took off into the woods. Three of the men from Banks’ team took off after her. 

“Detective Michaels, are you alright?”

“Yes, PI Banks. Thank you for finding me.”

“Anytime, Detective.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question, Banks?”

“Not at all.”

“How did you find me?”

“I have my ways,” he said with a smirk.

“We’ve got her,” screamed a voice. 

After a few minutes, Sheila and the rest of the officers appeared. 

“This isn’t over, Michaels!”

“Okay, Sheila.”

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