by Jay Allisan
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Title Page
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Acknowledgements
CTA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Pulp ART
Copyright © 2016 Jay Allisan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9953281-0-5
To Bruce Wayne—
Thanks for inspiring me not to quit my night job.
It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,
It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Along Came December
1
IT’S MIDAFTERNOON when the call comes in. It comes in to Paddy, which is telling enough. When he turns in his chair so his back is to me I know for sure.
He speaks quietly, but not so quietly I can’t overhear. He asks when, then waits for the response. Asks where, waits. He swivels ever so slightly in his chair and glances at me. I stare down at the same paperwork that’s been spread across my desk for hours and pretend I’m working. Pretend I’m oblivious.
Pretend it’s just another day at the office.
Paddy turns away again, his voice dropping to a heated murmur. He’s arguing, trying to pass the buck. He’s wasting his breath. We’re catching, end of story. I get up from my chair and pull on my coat.
Paddy’s cell phone is the old-fashioned flip kind, and he finally snaps it shut. He rubs his hand over his jaw and looks out the window. Looks at the calendar. November 25.
Two more days.
“We got a body downtown,” he says at last. “Josie and Whale are on their way over. It’s okay if you don’t wanna come.”
I just stuff my hands in my coat pockets and go stand by the window, peering down at the street below. Paddy pulls on his coat and joins me. Reporters are still gathered on the precinct’s front steps, telephoto lenses pointing up at our office. I see a camera flash and jerk back. Paddy draws the blinds.
“Wait for me out back,” he says. “I’ll pick you up in the alley.”
I nod. Paddy studies me.
“You sure you wanna come? No one’ll blame you.”
I walk out of the office and Paddy follows me. I kick the wedge beneath the door to make sure it stays open.
“Might as well,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
THE SCENE is cordoned off by the time we arrive. It’s the library, or rather the alleyway left of the library, right on the edge of Old Town’s jurisdiction. I can’t see anything from the street except a couple patrol officers and yellow tape flapping in the wind. No sign of the press. At least not yet.
Paddy double-parks at the curb and leads the way to the alley. I’m tall, but Paddy’s got four inches on me vertically and twice that through the shoulders. His bulk blocks the wind, as well as my view of the body. He sees it first and whistles.
“He’s dead.”
“I already knew that.”
But when I duck the tape and see for myself, dead seems like an understatement. The body’s a jumper, no doubt about that. I’ve seen people intact after multi-story falls and I’ve seen the ones who burst on impact. This guy exploded.
The thought knocks me back a step. I shake it off before Paddy notices.
The two patrol officers hold the perimeter, their noses reddened by the cold. I turn to them, grateful for somewhere else to look. “Did you get his ID?”
“His pockets are empty,” says the young officer whose name tag reads Beet. “We haven’t searched the body beyond that. The forensics team is stuck in traffic.”
“And the ME?”
“Medical examiner should be here soon.”
Paddy crouches beside the remains with a grimace. I cast a quick glance at the puddle, then have to look away. I take a long breath to steady my voice.
“He’s not homeless,” I say. “He’s wearing a suit and a flashy watch. Someone will miss him.”
But not his wife. The victim doesn’t have a wedding ring. Something cold bites in my chest and I shiver. I wrap my arms around myself.
Paddy catches the movement and straightens, frowning at me. I ignore him and turn back to Officer Beet.
“Did he leave a note?”
“We didn’t find one. But we didn’t search the body beyond the pockets,” Beet says again.
“You were the responding officer?”
“Yes, ma’am. My partner and I were dispatched thirty minutes ago.”
“Who reported the body?”
“Call came in anonymous.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No, ma’am. No one that’s come forward.”
“Start canvassing. Try the coffee shops and the upper offices in the building across the street. Find out if any cameras point this way.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s Detective Mordecai,” I say, and when Beet’s eyes widen I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I look away. “Get going.”
“Right away, Detective Mordecai.”
Officer Beet and his partner disappear onto the street, and I pull in another long, slow breath. The wind pummels down the alley, dragging pebbles through pools of red, tearing one end of the yellow tape loose and thrashing it against the library. My eyes are watering. Paddy approaches me, his voice low.
“Hey, listen. This is one of those things that’s gonna turn out to be nothing. Just some corporate stiff who couldn’t take it anymore. You only got a couple days left anyway and we’ve got plenty of other open cases. Why don’t you sit this one out?”
I shake my head. Paddy’s eyes narrow. “Mordecai—”
“I’m going up to the roof,” I say, cutting him off. “Can you wait for forensics?”
He nods after a second’s hesitation. I leave the alley before he can say anything else.
I turn onto the street and head up the library’s broad steps. The building’s a beast, built of sandstone and massive in every direction. I pause at the top of the steps and look for exterior surveillance cameras. There aren’t any.
Inside the library I wait for the elevator, squeezing into the small car next to an old man wearing glasses the size of playing cards. The elevator makes six stops before depositing me on the fifteenth floor, and I follow the signs to the rooftop terrace. A patrol officer guards the door, but waves me through when she sees my badge. I emerge into the bleak afternoon.
There’s a patio u
p here, complete with a seasonal beverage stand. A rail-spike fence encloses the space, set back from the edge by about three feet. Tables and chairs are chained to the rooftop, and naked umbrella poles protrude from the cement. In the summer it might be a nice space for a book and a drink, but in late November it’s stark and depressing.
I put on gloves and boot covers and approach the fence. It’s waist-high on me, and the spikes make it unappealing to climb. I look for a gate, and when there isn’t one I carefully ease over the fence. I walk to the edge and look down.
From up here the body’s just a splotch on the pavement. I crouch, careful not to touch anything. There’s no obvious evidence, no torn fabric or footprints or signs of a struggle, but forensics will comb it anyway, just in case.
I look out over the city, seeing the things he would have seen, thinking the things he might have thought. Not much of a view from here. The harbor’s obscured by taller buildings to the west, and Washington’s share of the Cascade Mountains are humble peaks to the east. All I see is urban sprawl, a million people polluting what was once a national park. It’s enough to make anyone jump.
Across the alley is an abandoned flour mill, and behind the library is parking. We might get a witness from the offices across the street, but I don’t hold out much hope. Or maybe I just don’t care.
Down below the forensics team has arrived. They swarm the scene, marking evidence, photographing every splash of blood. The biggest splotch disappears beneath a yellow cover, and that eases something in my chest, makes me remember that this is just a job. And I’d rather be working than waiting.
Footsteps echo behind me. I keep watching the yellow tarp.
“Long way down,” Paddy says.
I nod.
“Josie and Whale are inside. They’re looking into surveillance tapes.”
“There aren’t any cameras up here,” I say. “None in the elevator either.”
“They got some fish-eyes by reception. You wanna get back on this side of the fence?”
Loose hair, newly cut in a vain attempt to disguise my appearance, blows in front of my eyes. I tuck it behind my ears. “Did you see the lock on the door?”
“Yeah, looks like it was forced. The roof must not be open this time of year.”
“He broke the lock. He climbed the fence.” I rub my hands together, chilled beneath the latex gloves. “Find a note on him?”
“Nah. He’s too smashed up for facial rec or even dental, but we’ll have his prints in a couple hours.”
I stand, stand right on the edge of the roof. “Jesus, Mordecai!” Paddy shouts, and the iron fence groans as he vaults it. His hand is inches from my arm but he doesn’t touch me.
“Look down,” I say.
“First you back the fuck up.”
I take a step back. He takes one forward. I point. “Look.”
“Look at what? He’s under the fucking tarp.”
“Does he seem a little far from the building to you?”
“Fuck, Mordecai, you couldn’t say that from the ground?”
“I couldn’t look at him from the ground.”
Paddy exhales, moving toward the safety of the fence. “You know how these things are. People fall all kinds of ways and bounce when they hit. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe it does.”
“You think he didn’t jump?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Say whatever the hell you want, but do it from behind the fence.”
“You talking me off the ledge?”
“That’s not funny.”
I climb back over the fence and Paddy does the same. We pass forensic technicians as we head inside the library.
Officer Beet is in the lobby. His knit cap is pulled low over his ears, the Briar Rose Police Department insignia centered on his forehead. His notebook’s in his pocket instead of his hand. I know what he’s going to say.
He nods in greeting. “Detective Mordecai, Detective…”
“O’Reilly,” Paddy says.
“Detective O’Reilly. I’m afraid we didn’t locate any witnesses. We’ll keep trying, but—”
I cut him off. “Keep us posted.”
Beet shuffles his feet awkwardly, a look in his eyes I know all too well. He tugs his cap off. “Detective Mordecai, I’d just like to say how sorry I am for your loss, and that the whole force is behind you during this difficult—”
I walk away while he’s still talking.
I go back to the car and shut myself inside, closing my eyes and sucking in slow, deliberate breaths. I don’t realize Paddy’s there until I hear the engine start.
“I just need a minute,” I whisper. “Just give me a minute.”
“I’m gonna take you home,” he says.
My eyes snap open and I glare at him. “Like hell.”
He glares back. “Don’t argue. We got plenty of people taking statements here, and it’s gonna be a while before we’ve got something to work with. In the meantime you could use some rest. Maybe get some sleep.”
“I’m sleeping just fine.”
“Bullshit. Now buckle up.”
I go for the door handle instead, but he’s already pulling into the street. There’s a shout and a thump, and Paddy slams on the brakes. “Jesus Christ! What the hell does this asshole think he’s doing?”
I see the asshole in question sprawled across the hood and swear under my breath.
“Just run him over,” I mutter, even as the eager rapping on my window informs me it’s too late. Paddy’s already lowering the window to tear him a new one. I beat him to it.
“Mr. Afternoon,” I say, sickly sweet. “How many times do I have to tell you to go the hell away?”
“Call me Benny,” he says, sticking his hand in for a shake. He withdraws it just as fast when Paddy rolls the window back up.
“I just have some questions!” he calls, his voice muffled through the glass. “I could really use a break on this story. Please, Detective Mordecai?”
“You’re a tabloid hack, Benny. You’re not a reporter. Now buzz off.”
“But this is it! This is my ticket to the big time! I got a hot tip and—”
“I really don’t give a shit. Don’t bother me again.”
I watch Benny in the mirror as Paddy pulls away. He throws a notebook after us with passion if not arm strength, then sulks over to pick it back up. We turn a corner and Benny disappears.
“You know that guy?” Paddy asks. I feel his eyes on me but refuse to meet them. He puts the pieces together. “Has he been after you about the trial?”
I nod. Paddy’s knuckles creak on the wheel. “You should have told me,” he growls. “You’re supposed to tell me this stuff, goddammit.”
“I’m handling it.”
“Yeah, sure you are.”
I take my eyes off the rolling landscape of soggy newspapers and cigarette butts long enough to catch the warning in his face. It’s a familiar look on him.
When the car stops in front of the cathedral Paddy keeps the doors locked. His anger is palpable, but I can read the sorrow in his silence.
“Don’t do this, Mordecai,” he says quietly. “Not again. Not to me.”
Guilt gnaws in my stomach. Paddy’s been so steadfast that it’s easy to forget he lost Max too, that he’s hurting just like me.
“Sorry,” I say. It comes out in a whisper. “I’m just trying to make it through.”
“I know. But you gotta stop trying to do it alone.” He pops the locks. “I’ll call when there’s news. You need me to wait?”
“It’s fine. The boys are home.”
I let myself out of the car and walk up the path. Paddy waits until I’m through the door before driving off.
CATHEDRAL IS a misnomer. I live in a small church, renovated to suit my more modern tastes but still retaining some original elements. Like the stained-glass windows that illuminate the entryway. And the pipe organ that fills the south wall. It’s only got the one bedroom, since
when I bought the place it was just me, but these days I’ve got roommates.
One can cook. The other not so much.
I wince at the acrid assault that greets me and head for the kitchen, braced for some unholy disaster. I only make it to the living room, partly because that’s where Presley is, but mostly because I hear the TV, and it stops me cold.
“…calling the events of last June the worst blow to the police force since the Garrison attacks. With less than 48 hours until the man known as Uncle Carl finally stands trial—”
Presley turns the TV off and gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were here.”
He sets down his glass of red wine and starts to rise from where he’s lounging in the wingback chair. I wave him off and gesture toward the kitchen. “What the hell happened?”
“There was an incident,” he says, his tone fond but exasperated. “We’re ordering in.”
I dump my coat on the couch and kick my shoes off under the coffee table. “I thought you were starting with something easy.”
A loud clatter from the kitchen makes me jump. Presley shrugs. “Easy would appear to be relative. He lived off rice and beans back in Mexico. I didn’t think pasta would be unreasonable.”
I hear a few choice words muttered in Spanish and then Robin appears in the kitchen archway, spattered with tomato sauce.
“Maybe you are just a bad teacher,” he grumbles. He catches sight of me and freezes, his brown eyes going wide. Robin is what you would call an illegal immigrant, and he tiptoes around me as if I’ll personally drag him back over the border. He’s only lived in the cathedral a couple weeks, and only at Presley’s insistence. It’s pretty clear I scare the shit out of him.
A blob of tomato sauce falls from his dark curls onto the floor. He startles.
“Hi Robin,” I say.
“Hello Mordecai,” he whispers. He’s staring at the gun on my hip. I set it on the coffee table and cover it with my coat. Robin deflates like he was holding his breath.
Presley sends me a knowing look and gets up from his chair. “It was a valiant effort, Robin, but perhaps your talents lie in hospitality after all. The world needs people to put mints on pillows, too.”