After my visit to HR and a few hours of desking, I used my lunch break to comb the nearest department store for new things to wear to work. In the fitting room, I discovered I looked ridiculous in a suit. The shoulders of every jacket were too wide for my tiny frame, and I didn’t have the time or money to go get them tailored. The pants were too long, and I hated the black loafers with the slippery insides that made it feel like I was going to take a dive with every step. I dumped my initial choices into the return bin at the front of the fitting room, roved the store a second time, and returned to the fitting room with a few choices I knew I’d be more comfortable in. I settled on a neutral gray button-up, tight black pants that hugged my calves and ankles instead of flopping around like trip ropes, and a pair of black leather boots with a low sturdy heel. I tucked the shirt in, straightened everything out, and took a look in the fitting room mirror.
Detective Sheila Arden looked back. This was better, more of what I wanted. It was a comfortable, practical, professional look, one that said I may be little, but don’t mess with me. The neutral colors contrasted well with my olive skin, and I left my long dark hair down as a subliminal act of defiance. For years, I wore the same ponytail day after day, even when the weight of it pulled at my scalp and gave me headaches. No more of that. I was a damn detective now, and I’d wear my hair however I liked. I hooked my detective shield to my belt loop. Then I took out my phone and dialed the first number in my Favorites list. The other line picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mom. It’s me.”
“My baby!” my mother exclaimed. “I’ve missed you.”
“It’s only been a few days.”
“And yet I still miss you.”
“I miss you too.” With the phone pressed between my ear and my shoulder, I folded up my uniform and stacked the pieces on top of each other. I planned on wearing my new outfit out of the store. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I got promoted.”
Chapter Five - Vee
I laid low for two weeks, biding my time and preparing for my next hit. It wouldn’t be like last time. Last time, I tracked down Phillip Beatnik on the same night that P3n173nc3 had given me his name, fueled by rage and determination. With the recent headlines—Juno Businessman Found Dead Outside Venus Nightclub—I was all too aware of how sloppy the job had been. There were no prints for the police to discover. I’d been wearing gloves. And no murder weapon. The chef’s knife currently rested in the dish dryer next to the sink. And no one had seen me follow Beatnik into the alley that night. Even so, it was important to take precautions. I studied every aspect of my target’s life. I hacked the cameras in James Honey’s apartment building, the traffic cams on his route to work, and the ones in his office building too. I flagged every single movement he made. I charted out his weekly schedule and noted any deviations. I hacked into his personal computer, found his calendar, and arranged the best time for his homicide.
In the interim, I prepared myself physically. There was just enough floor space in my apartment to do a wide variety of bodyweight exercises. P3n173nc3 wasn’t just good for intel. He also had a wealth of knowledge about workout drills you could do within the confines of a small place. I didn’t ask where he learned them. I focused on push-ups, pull-up, jump squats, lunges, and other strength-building exercises until I was lean and trim. I jumped rope for cardio. I practiced Tai Chi for discipline and mindfulness. It was Li Hui’s idea. Once, when I went to her apartment to drop off my rent for the month, I accidentally walked in on her flow. She transferred from one pose to the next like a wave in the ocean, her entire body moving in tandem. The poses themselves looked like fighting stances, but the process was slowed down.
“I’ll teach you,” Li Hui had offered. “But you’d have to come out of that room of yours for more than five minutes at a time.”
“No, thank you.”
That night, I went home and looked up the basics of Tai Chi on YouTube. It took months of practicing footwork, nights of intense frustration and disrupted attempts at meditation. Without a teacher to correct my mistakes, I had to become aware of them myself. Eventually, the movements started to make sense. I thought less and felt more, allowing my body to guide itself through the flow. Now, I practiced Tai Chi every morning. Sometimes, I wanted to tell Li Hui about my journey, to let her know that she inspired a new hobby in me. Then I remembered of all the things I was afraid of, people came in at the top of the list.
On the morning of James Honey’s scheduled murder, I finished up a workout, emptied an offshore bank account for an anonymous client, and practiced a few moves with my new collection of knives. The message board community had come through in droves. I was the proud owner of five new blades, though I did not intend to use them for self-defense. My favorite so far was a karambit with a serrated blade. The knife type originated in Southeast Asia and was curved to resemble a tiger’s claw. It was less for stabbing, more for gutting and slashing. Irreparable damage. I liked the thought. As usual, I consulted the Internet for lessons then spent hours slicing through the air in practice. There were a few casualties. One of my pillows spilled feathers out of a tear in the fabric and the bookshelf was missing a chunk. My hands and forearms were covered in little scabs and scars from where I’d nicked myself, but there were no more fresh wounds. I hadn’t cut myself in days. Improvement was nigh.
A knock on the door startled me as I slashed low around an invisible enemy. Gripping the knife behind my back, I looked through the peephole. A tuft of black hair was visible. Nothing else. It was Li Hui, the only person who bothered to stop by my apartment.
“Hello, cricket!” she said, waving to the peephole. “I can see your shadow underneath the door.”
I looked down. Sure enough, the meager light from the overhead fan outlined my bare feet in darkness, betraying my presence. I set aside the knife and opened the door. “Good morning, Li Hui.”
She knew better than to try and come inside. I valued privacy above all else, and I paid Li Hui an extra hundred every month to ensure my privacy was never compromised. She carried a number of paper bags, stapled shut. My grocery order for that week. An additional plastic bag with “thank you” printed on it swung from her pinky finger. I relieved her of her burdens. The distinct scent of soy sauce wafted up from the plastic bag.
“This one’s yours,” I said, handing that bag back to her.
“No, no. For you.”
“Li Hui, I told you I don’t need you to buy me food.” But I set the plastic bag down with the rest of the paper ones. We’d had this argument before. I always lost. “I can cook, I swear.”
She squeezed my arm, and I tensed, the muscle jumping to attention. “So skinny,” she said. “Eat more.” She pointed to the plastic bag. “Special surprise. Chinese donuts.” Then she backed out of the doorway and closed my door herself.
“Thank you!” I called through the warped wood.
“You’re welcome, cricket!”
I put away my groceries then rooted through the plastic bag. By the looks of it, Li Hui had ordered one of everything off of the China Garden menu. I pulled out cartons of rice, plastic containers of chicken and vegetables, handfuls of individually wrapped fortune cookies, and finally, the donuts. I popped those open first and took a whiff of the sugar-coated, deep-fried goodness. Four donuts later, I noticed that there was something else in the bottom of the plastic bag. I pulled it out, wondering if Li Hui knew it was there.
It was a black face mask.
At eight o’clock, I got dressed for my night out. The occasion called for a new outfit. I intended on being more careful with this one. I couldn’t burn all of my clothing after every hit. The new gear was more durable though. Leather motorcycle pants with reinforced padding in the knees and hips. A matching black jacket, the collar of which I’d sewn in a wide hood. Lightweight boots with a decent grip to the sole, ideal for making a run for it. And the mask. No matter how it came to be in my possession, it
was useful. It covered my entire face from forehead to chin without impeding my vision. I felt safe behind it. I tucked the karambit into a pocket, checked a few things on my computer, and leapt out the window.
Getting from Minerva to Juno was less nerve-wracking this time around. I kept above the streets when I could. Leapt from fire escape to fire escape. Traveled along roof edges or balconies. Stuck to the darkest corners of the borough. Eventually, I’d need a better mode of transportation. Walking wasn’t going to cut it. But I was calm tonight. Not riled up, shaking with anticipation, like two weeks ago. Maybe it was because I was more prepared this time around. Maybe it was because the thrill of the first kill was gone. Phillip Beatnik’s face didn’t haunt me as I thought it might. It inspired more. Go. Do. More.
At nine o’clock, I made it to James Honey’s apartment building. At nine-oh-one, his wife left the building, waved goodbye to the doorman, and got into a waiting car. According to my research, she would attend dinner at The Waterfront with three of her friends and not return home for two and a half hours, three if the group decided to order an additional bottle of wine. When the car pulled off the curb, I ducked around the side of the building and went in through an emergency fire exit that led to a staircase. I started up. It was a long way to the top.
On the thirtieth floor, I caught my breath. Gently opened the door to the hallway. Peered out. There were two doors, one to the elevator and one to the top floor suite. The hallway itself was clear. I left the stairwell, approached the door to the suite, and knocked. A minute or two passed without an answer. Annoyed, I knocked again. The maid answered. Her skin was damp. She smelled of lavender bath oil. The buttons on her blouse were uneven.
“Who are you?” she asked, eyes wide as she saw the mask. “I’m calling security—”
She didn’t have time. I dropped her with a quick hook to the temple, caught her before she crumpled. I set her unconscious body on a nearby chair, shut the door, and looked around. The suite gave me uncomfortable flashbacks of my previous life. It was enormous, bigger than all of the houses in Minerva and most of the houses in Vesta. The kitchen alone was larger than my entire apartment. I sniffed the air. Bath oils. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. I crept toward it, the lush carpet softening the sounds of my footsteps. A man’s voice called out.
“Missy? Who was at the door? Not my wife, I hope.” The man laughed. Water splashed and gurgled. “Get back in here. We were just getting started.”
The master bedroom was empty, but the bed clothes were awry. I followed the man’s voice into the adjoining bathroom. The tub sat in the middle of the room, away from any of the walls. James Honey lounged within it, his legs too long for his knees to make it beneath the layer of bubbles. He faced the opposite window, away from the door. He was balding now. The hair on the back of his head was combed in a way to make it less obvious, which somehow made it more obvious. He held a glass of wine in one hand and flicked bubbles off the fingers of his other. I took a step toward him. Then another. And another. Until I stood right behind the bathtub, my shadow flickering in the dim candlelight. James chuckled again, reached back to grasp a part of me that he thought belonged to Missy the Maid. I pivoted away from his touch.
“Oh, we’re playing games now?” he asked. “I like that.”
“You won’t like this game.”
By the time James realized that my voice didn’t match that of his paramour, it was too late. I wrapped an arm around his neck and dunked his face below the water level. He fought, flailing his arms and legs. The slippery porcelain of the tub fought back. He couldn’t pull himself out of the water, and he couldn’t find a part of me to grab hold of. I yanked his head free for one quick second. When he opened his mouth to gasp for air, I put him under again, forcing him to inhale bathwater and lavender-scented bubbles instead. I did that again and again, ignoring the way his manicured nails scrabbled at the sleeves of my jacket. When he was properly waterlogged, I finally let him go and lifted my mask.
“James Honey,” I said. He choked and sputtered, recognition in his eyes. Half-drowned, he was not the dreamy ex-bachelor that Simone City so adored. “Tonight, you face retribution for crimes committed against the Bauer family twelve years ago. Any last words?”
His throat was raw from inhaling and exhaling water, but he managed to spit out, “Stupid bitch. Should’ve killed you when we had the chance.”
I shrugged and tugged the karambit free from my pocket. “Suit yourself.”
James Honey looked less appealing with his throat slashed from chin to collarbone. This time around, I avoided the splash zone. As his blood blossomed like roses on the surface of the bubbly water, I wiped the karambit off on Honey’s nearby bathrobe. Two down.
Chapter Six - Sheila
Apparently, hazing was a thing at Simone City P.D. My shield mysteriously vanished my first day on the job. When I admitted to Captain Dumas I had lost it, he walked off to the break room, shouted at someone, and returned with my badge in hand. A few days later, I started getting “secret admirer” letters in the form of singing couriers. They would turn up at my desk and belt out various love songs for the station to mock later. When I started tipping them to shut up, they stopped turning up. The other detectives refused to talk to me. Every time I entered a room, they clammed up and pretended I didn’t exist. Kaminsky and Sutton were the only ones at the precinct that bothered to acknowledge me, but even they kept their distance as much as possible. No one wanted to give up the game.
To make matters worse, Dumas assigned me the cases that no one else wanted to work. For two weeks, I rooted out robbers, burglars, and auto thieves. The other detectives were ensconced in their offices, doing the real work in narcotics and homicides and the crime that actually mattered in the city. Most of the time, I was stuck behind my desk doing paperwork. I almost missed being a beat cop. At least I was able to get out of the station for some fresh air more often.
On a Friday morning, I had just finished following up a lead on a domestic abuse case. Payne and I had gone after the guy together, cornered him where he’d been hiding out at his ex-wife’s house, and brought him back to the station. I held open the door for Payne as he maneuvered our guy inside.
“Get him to booking,” I said. “Then report back to me. I think there’s more to this one than meets the eye.”
Payne shoved the guy into the station. “You book him. I’ve got work to do.”
This was another side effect of my promotion. Payne was being a complete jackass about it. He questioned my every move and never did what I asked of him on the first request. On the upside, he’d finally stopped hitting on me.
“You book him,” I hissed. “It’s your job, and if you question my authority again—”
“You’ll what?” he said. “Tell Captain Dumas?”
He knew I wouldn’t. Telling the captain about any of this was equivalent to admitting defeat, and I’d already humiliated myself enough with the whole missing badge thing. “Listen to me, Officer Payne. I am your superior, and I suggest you do as I say unless you want to be working night shifts from here to eternity.”
The guy in handcuffs gave Payne a look. “Your mom’s mean.”
“Shut up,” Payne said, jostling the perp. He didn’t respond to my threat, but he walked the guy to booking without further argument.
I almost returned to my desk, but the pile of paperwork next to my computer taunted me from afar. Usually, when a beat cop got promoted, their desk was moved from the bullpen to another, quieter area of the station down the hall, a collection of cubicles that belonged to the precinct detectives. According to Dumas, they were trying to free up some space back there for me, but I suspected that this was yet another gag to keep me out of the club. It was petty and childish. A bunch of lawmen shouldn’t act like fraternity brothers.
I squared my shoulders and strode down the hallway, intent on making the other detectives talk to me, but none of them were at their desks. Tara, one of our assi
stants, walked by with a tray of coffees.
“Tara, where are the other detectives?” I asked her.
“In a meeting. Conference room. It started five minutes ago.”
“And why wasn’t I fucking invited?” I muttered under my breath as Tara walked off to deliver her coffees. The conference room was at the back of the detective quarters. I paused near the door to listen.
“So we’ve got another homicide on our hands?” Kaminsky was saying. Everyone was there, including Captain Dumas. I was the only detective that had been excluded. “We’re still trying to track down a lead on Beatnik’s case.”
“Any luck?” Dumas asked.
“No, sir. No fingerprints or murder weapon, and all the blood on site belonged to the victim.”
“I find it hard to believe someone knifed a guy that many times and got out of there unnoticed,” Dumas said. “Who’s this James Honey guy anyway? Sutton?”
Sutton’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward to flip through a file on the conference table. “James Honey. Forty-five. Looks like your average Simone City multi-millionaire. He’s a businessman. Works in tech.”
“Doesn’t Honey live in one of those high-rises near the lake?” Clooney said. “He was killed in his own bathroom. There’s gotta be security footage of the perp somewhere.”
“Not from the building,” Sutton said as he checked his notes. “The apartment complex reported having trouble with their cameras from eight o’clock to ten o’clock last night. All but one shorted out. We have a split-second glimpse of someone in a black mask in the south stairwell of the building. The nanny confirmed it was the same person who showed up at Honey’s suite around nine-fifteen.”
Clooney chuckled. “Are we sure it wasn’t the nanny who killed Honey? Wouldn’t be the first time something like that’s happened, right?”
Missed Connections: Book 0 Page 4