by S. M. Nolan
Maggie tried to hold back a laugh. Ryusaki spotted it, laughed, and triggered hers. She apologized profusely to Chen-Lee, “Sorry, really. I am. I'm ready whenever you are.”
She gestured outward with a hand and Ryusaki bowed. Maggie led them to her work space. Ashley weaseled back in and out with a pair of chimes. Maggie offered Ryusaki a seat and excused herself to retrieve her supplies. She returned with full hands, laid the supplies out on the mobile steel table and scooted beside Ryusaki to position his arm and snap on gloves.
She swabbed his arms with soap, swiped them with a razor, then pressed the first stencil down. She repeated the process, then with Chen-Lee's aid, led Ryusaki to a full-length mirror on the wall past the work spaces.
Satisfied with the stencils' placement, they returned to begin. She adjusted her machine's needles, spoke through Chen-Lee to Ryusaki, “First tattoo?”
Chen-Lee translated over the punctual Japanese, “No, a depiction of Samurai's life from birth to rise as warrior across the back.”
“Sounds like a lot of work. How long did it take?” Maggie asked, becoming more accustomed to speaking through the proxy.
“Six months. Twelve-sittings. Six hours a piece.”
“Oh. Our healing period only allows eight sessions in six months. Sounds like they were going over healing skin.”
“The method used allowed certain areas to heal as others were finished.”
Maggie fired up her machine. The low buzz shifted higher with the twist of a voltage dial, “A lot of planning before hand?”
“Yes. Much planning as well as time and money.”
“I'm surprised to see something so simple on both arms then,” Maggie replied astutely.
“They are the beginnings of a much larger piece on ancient symbology.”
Maggie looked up at Mr. Ryusaki, as prepared as she could be, “Ready then?”
Chen-Lee repeated the question. Ryusaki smiled, beckoned her forward with a nod.
Over the course of an hour and a half, Maggie outlined and filled the simple design on one arm, then began on the next. All the while Ryusaki told of his life in Tokyo.
He had formed a business that eventually led him into the company of Chen-Lee. Investing in video-game technology in the late 70s—citing entertainment as a motivating factor—had made him a vast fortune. Afterward, his investments turned to personal computers in the 80s and 90s. By 2000 he was one of the ten richest men in Tokyo, a technological mecca.
As he told of his life, Maggie listened intently. His vast wealth didn't faze her. His stories of his infinite opportunities however, enthralled her. Ryusaki had taken advantage of his wealth as a youth. He'd done everything from climbing Nepalese Mountain-ranges to diving Pacific depths, and visiting meditative retreats in Tibet.
All this to say nothing of numerous activities across Europe and the Americas. This was of course, in addition to the usual recreations of wealth; cruises, long vacations, copious amounts of consumerism and the like. Contrary to most of his wealthy peers though, Ryusaki made extensive donations to cancer research, emergent medical technologies, and important political movements.
Maggie found herself captivated by the man's tales—or as much as she could be over the buzzing machine and motions of her work. There was no denying that certain traits in him mirrored those she wished to have. In turn, he admired her commitment and decisions to open her business. He sympathized with her as only a man whom knew her trials might.
“The most helpful thing I have learned,” Chen-Lee translated in regards. “Is to provide what others want, and do so with a smile. Find happiness in what you earn, and return it to those who have little or none.”
Maggie respected the mindset. A pseudo-bond formed beneath her mustered, professional veneer. As the session waned, sadness panged her gut that she might never see the man again.
When she finally led him out to take payment, Ryusaki lifted a business card from the counter, “Perhaps I will return for the rest of my work if time permits.”
Ryusaki deposited the card in his jacket. Maggie smiled and filled in a form, “I'd like that.”
“For now, I hope you will accept this with my wish that you rise as I have.”
Ryusaki removed a wad of cash from his coat. Maggie looked up expecting a usual, small tip. Instead Ryusaki handed over a roll of hundreds as thick as her fist.
Her eyes went wide, “Mr. Ryusaki, I couldn't possibly—”
He raised his hand, and for the first time, spoke English, “Please… take.” His wily, old tone softened with a gesture to his heart, “My thanks.”
He continued once more in Japanese. “Others would have wanted more money, offered less companionship. I am an old man. More money than years. You run your business well, deliver what is sorely needed in this age.” Maggie thanked him with what little Japanese she'd learned from movies. “You are welcome.”
Maggie and Ryusaki exchanged a bow. He and Chen-Lee turned for the door and disappeared into the street. Ashley and Mandy returned at the bell, found Maggie frozen behind the counter.
“You okay, Mags?” Ashley asked with a glance at the door.
“Yeah.” She blinked hard, shook away her shock, “Yeah, I'm fine… and I think we can pay the rent for a couple of months.”
She handed Ashley the roll of hundreds. Mandy's jaw dropped.
“Holy shit!” Ashley removed the band from the roll and fanned out the bills. “This is like… five grand, Maggie!”
Mandy counted the bills mentally, “That's a hell of a tip.”
“Hell of an old man,” Ashley corrected. Mandy agreed.
Maggie ignored them to stare at the door in thought. The lingering sadness at Ryusaki's departure forced her fingers to close, empty, as she wondered if she'd ever see such selflessness again.
4.
Mysterious Symbols
September 28th
8:27 PM
Royal Oakton Hotel, Suite 5
Russell crossed the threshold of the lush, Royal Oakton Arms Hotel hallway into suite number 5. White walls were adorned with expensive, reprinted artworks and gold or brass fixtures. The suite reeked of elegance and wealth unhindered by the dead body and blood pool in the kitchenette.
He cast a glance around the room, noted an untouched gift-basket on a dining table. OCFs knelt beside the body in the kitchen, a flash popping every few seconds. They'd already combed the suite for minutiae that might be thrown askew by investigators, but Russell kept his distance all the same.
He moved past the group of uniforms clustered to one side. They were engaged in a hushed conversation. Bryce spotted Russell from its fringe, excused himself for his side. He approached the Detective as he examined the fruit basket at nose-length.
“Sir,” Bryce said. Russell straightened, glanced across the suite into a bedroom. “Thought you'd wanna know, they're ready to move the body to the morgue.”
“Thank you, Bryce,” Russell said, headed for the king-size bed beyond an open, wall-partition.
Bryce followed, “You're welcome, sir. I've also got news from the businesses off 308. Nobody fitting that description was around. It was a quiet day. No-one heard or saw anything out of the ordinary.”
“Dead-end then,” He said, knowing its pursuit would waste time.
“I agree, sir. And I checked for you; none of the nearby buildings had external surveillance.” Russell's heart sank to the knot in his stomach. “But sir, there's something else.”
Russell hid the perk up of his ears, “Uh-huh? What's that?”
He spied large, sliding glass doors across from the bed that looked out at the city's lighted sky-line.
“We got an ID on the first victim. County sent over what they could dig up,” Bryce explained, following him to the doors.
Russell crouched by the door to examine the latch, “Hold on a second.”
He looked over the carpet and door handle with an inscrutable, professional air. He reached into his pocket, produced two pairs
of latex gloves and handed one back.
“Gloves on, Bryce.”
Russell snapped his gloves into place, ran his hands over the carpet in front of the door. He drew them up, looked them over before sticking them between the door's jamb and the carpet's edge. He pulled them back to a peppering of black dirt and white cement, and looked to the unlocked door.
“You find anything strange about this?” He asked, standing.
“Sir?”
“This whole place is untouched. Like the guy didn't even sleep here—but this door's unlocked. Yet, there's no forced entry or visible signs it was opened from this side. No smudges or even dirt on the carpet.”
“Suppose it's odd when you say it like that, sir,” Bryce admitted.
“Yeah, it is.”
He carefully positioned his fingers around the door-handle and slid the door open. It was heavy, but moved without a sound. He stepped out onto the balcony.
From one hundred stories up, the city was a dimly lit miniature below. Roads wound between smaller office buildings with a curious glow. It morphed and mutated in the distant reflections of ant-like cars. Bryce followed Russell to the railing's edge. They peered down amid a heady, chill wind.
“Got a Mag-Lite?” Russell asked over the wind.
Bryce slid a flash-light from his belt, handed it over. Russell clicked it on to crouch and examine the base of the railing and the balcony's gray, stone floor. He crouch-walked its length, eyes fixed on its base, as it curved to meet the building's wall.
At the center of a small section, he stopped, ran his hand along the balcony floor. It came back with bits of white concrete and dirt in the light's beam. They were curiously new, identical to those he'd fished from the crevice.
On instinct, he threw himself atop the balcony's railing, hopped the foot-wide gap between it and the next without a care to the deathly fall. Bryce's stomach dropped.
Russell stooped once more, checked the railing's base. He moved toward the opposite end of the balcony, a perplexed Bryce frozen, watching. After three balconies, the trail ended at a suite's darkened doors.
Russell quickly returned, instructed Bryce, “Head downstairs and requisition the records of the hotel residents.” He handed back the flash-light, “I want to know everyone that's stayed on this floor in the last week, and I want all the security tapes from it and the elevators. Got it?”
Bryce nodded, “You think he came over the balcony, sir?”
“That's what it looks like, but keep it quiet. It's possible the guy thinks he got away clean. If OCF starts looking out here, they might spook him—and trust me, they won't find more than I have.”
“Right, sir. I'll keep it quiet.”
“Head downstairs then.” He slid the door open for them.
Bryce moved to leave, but stopped short, “Sir, I meant to say, Lieutenant Xavier has the Coroner files of the first victim. We weren't able to find the footprints though. Seems our guy must've stepped in the mud a while before the alley.”
Russell slid the door closed after them, continued past the bed, “Thanks, Bryce.”
He pulled off his gloves near the officers congregated together. He flagged down the blond Lieutenant, Bill Xavier, whom handed over two, thick, manila file-folders. Russell thumbed through the first as he strolled to the bar-counter separating the kitchen and dining areas.
He set the files down; the first open on a stack of eight-by-ten photos. He shuffled through grotesque wound-images to stop at one of a peculiar set of symbols. The image below repeated the symbols.
He held both up at a short distance. Beyond them, the coroner wheeled a gurney into the kitchen.
Russell deduced identical tattoos on each of the victim's inner-forearms. The symbols were strange, unlike any he'd seen—even the Asian gangs'. They seemed older, too crude for any language used today. The coroner's men lifted the second victim onto the gurney as a gleam caught Russell's eye.
He shouted, “Wait!”
He hurried around to the gurney, bent to examine a fresh tattoo on a forearm. An OCF beside him spoke, “Still got the jelly on it. Swelling's new too. I'd say it's from earlier today.” Russell stared breathlessly at the arm. His eyes bounced between it and the photos. “Same ink?”
“Check his other arm,” Russell said, fishing the victim's left arm from its silken sleeve. An identical tattoo to the other three was mirrored on the inner-forearm.
Russell instructed them, “Get photos. High-res. Run them through the database of known gang markings. The faster we move, the better.” The OCF nodded. Russell rummaged through the victim's robes, “Where're his things?”
“We only found a couple sets of clothes and few pieces of paper.”
“Where are they?”
“Gave 'em to a uniform to put with the ID file.”
Russell returned to the file folders, dug through them. He produced the first page of the second victim's file. It read “Hiroshi Ryusaki” atop a dossier.
Under it, three sheets of paper were titled, “Release of Liability,” “Tattoo Care,” and “Receipt; Customer Copy.” Slid between them, a black background business card with white lettering and colorful trim read “Maggie Doherty. Get Inked. 1413 51st Street.”
He checked his watch as his cell-phone rang, “Williams.”
Chuck sounded on the other end, “Got anything over there?”
Russell was surprised, “Yeah. Yeah, I did. The two are connected. I'm not sure how yet, but I've got a lead.”
“Wuda'ya mean? Who? The stiff in the alley and—”
“Yeah, him and this Ryusaki. Second victim,” Russell said, his adrenaline starting to flow.
“What makes you think that?”
“Identical tattoos,” he said carefully to keep calm.
Chuck was skeptical, “Sure it's not a coincidence?”
The tightening knot in Russell's gut made him certain. “Yeah. Ryusaki's ink was fresh. Literally. From sometime today. The tats are specific. The first victims' are worn, but they're exactly the same. It's not a coincidence they've both shown up the same day. I'm having them run through the database, but they aren't common.”
“Alright, I'll bite,” Chuck said, acknowledging Russell's expertise. “You say you got a lead?”
Russell was hopeful, “The shop where Ryusaki's was done. It's not much, but it's something.”
“Check it first-thing tomorrow, but this isn't public yet.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
His voice shifted casually, “Anyway, I need ya' back here for some paper-work. I'd do it, but Marie's leavin' for school tonight, I've gotta' leave now or I'll be late. Can I count on you?”
“Of course.” He checked his watch once more, “Tell Marie I said good luck.”
“Will do, Rus.”
5.
Paradigm
September 29th
10:15 AM
Get Inked Tattoo Parlor
Maggie entered to the bell's chime above her head. Ashley's machine buzzed over the rush of cold, morning air and its sounds of passing traffic. The door shut, muffled the world to its usual, dull grumble. Ashley's machine revved high long enough for her to cast a glance at Maggie before it bogged down again. At the reception desk sat Mandy with an open textbook, her hand working in a lined notebook.
Her eyes darted to Maggie then back to her work, “Hey.”
Maggie headed for the back room, projected for Mandy's benefit, “We ever hear from Jamie?”
“Nope, but she's still scheduled for noon.”
“Great. Prob'ly gonna' be a no-show,” Maggie muttered at the back room's table.
She unzipped her woolen jacket, slid from it to straighten her t-shirt and readjust the long-sleeved shirt beneath it. She reset her folded pony-tail while the phone rang at the counter. Mandy answered in single syllables that focused as Maggie strolled back toward her.
“No,” Mandy said. She paused. “No. We'd have to see it first. I can give you a quick rundown of how we pric
e—Oh, okay. We're open 'til eight. Uh-huh. See you then.”
Maggie stepped to the desk behind Mandy, “Who was it?”
“Price-checker.”
Maggie was hopeful, “They coming in?”
“Later maybe,” Mandy said, her face buried in her book. “By the way, I deposited that money yesterday. The rent's paid for the next two months.”
“Only two?”
Mandy looked up again, flicked her pen back and forth, “Ash said you should hold onto the rest in case you need it.”
“I… guess that makes sense.”
Mandy sensed her apprehension, countered earnestly, “We just need to take care of the rent for the next couple months, then see how the competition turns out. Like it or not, you're getting what's yours. We both agree, so the rest's in the savings box.”
“Mandy, as long as the rent's paid—”
“Maggie, c'mon,” Mandy half-whined. “You're the only reason any of us has a job. Be real. We're not going to fault you for needing to pay rent.”
“I—”
Mandy raised her hand, “If you want to argue, take it up with the big girl. I'm not sayin' anymore.”
“Fine. I won't to spend it 'til—”
Mandy shoved her fingers in her ears, finished with the conversation. Maggie thought to protest, but the bell over the door rang. It drew Maggie's gaze to the young, platinum-blonde, Jamie Willis as she sauntered in.
Jamie was a walking billboard for one of Oakton's true, economic and social extremes; a young, rich-woman, who despite unseasonable cold, managed a tan that bronzed otherwise pale-skin. Maggie was never exactly sure if the tan was acquired through a bed, a distant beach, or powerful blood magic, but it never faltered over time.
Moreover, Jamie's impeccable skin was always clad in bright, designer clothing that likely cost more than Maggie's shop. Despite it, they found one another intriguing, if only to see how the other-half lived.
“Heyyy Maggieeee,” Jamie said, straining words as usual.