Chapter Six #2
Rick studied him through half-lidded eyes.
Vinny didn’t give a damn if the kid was innocent or guilty.
To him, he wasn’t a person. Just merchandise.
Asset he wanted back. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Rossi,” he said.
“We’ll need to speak with everyone who was on shift last night—dancers, waitstaff, the whole crew.
I’d appreciate it if you could jot down their names. ”
“Certainly,” Vinny said stiffly, circling behind his desk. He pulled open a drawer, retrieved a heavy silver pen, and began scrawling a list on a sheet of notepaper. When he was done, he tore the page free with a crisp rip and handed it over.
Rick took it with a nod. “Much obliged.”
“We’ll be in touch if we have more questions,” Frank added.
Vinny flashed another oily smile, already reaching for a fresh cigar. “Sure thing, Detective. Anytime.”
Rick and Frank let themselves out. Tito and Nino stood in the same place, waiting, arms folded like granite sentries.
Rick didn’t bother asking if they’d seen anything last night.
Guys like that could watch a man get dismembered and still say they hadn’t noticed a thing.
The twins slipped into the office as the detectives passed, the door swinging shut behind them, sealing in the smoke, the stink of perspiration and fear, leaving only the faint wail of jazz drifting up from downstairs, mournful as a warning.
In the stairwell, Frank muttered, “That one’s a real piece of work.”
Rick grunted, slipping the evidence bag into his coat. No real leads. Just the usual swamp of liars and parasites, covering their asses and smiling through their teeth. He caught a last whiff of Vinny’s sweat trailing them down the stairs and knew the real story was still waiting to crawl out.
(1:23 p.m.)
They emerged into the humid afternoon, its low sky a flat sheet of pewter pressing on the jagged rooftops.
The world outside seemed bleached and raw after the murky depths of the Eclipse, the gauzy light diffused through layers of clouds and smog into a grimy haze.
The air carried the smell of rain yet to come, thick with the sour tang of old bricks and car exhaust that clung to every exposed surface.
Rick fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat and thumbed one out with the ease of a bad habit long worn into his grain.
The match flared with a dry rasp. He drew in a long drag, letting the smoke burn in his lungs.
Out of reflex, he almost offered one to Frank, then remembered better.
So he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, collar turned up against the wet chill, and said, “Let’s go over the crime scene one more time before we head back. ”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Frank said, walking beside him.
The murder site was just a street away, tucked between the sagging brick bones of two derelict buildings, a dead-end cut into the city’s throat.
They passed beneath a battered streetlamp where the yellow police tape fluttered in the stale breeze, a uniformed officer stationed dutifully next to it, cap pulled low over his forehead.
His eyes flicked up as Rick and Frank flashed their badges.
A perfunctory nod, then he stepped aside to let them through.
Rick ducked under the tape, his shoes crunching on the grit of the sidewalk, the smoke from his cigarette a ragged banner trailing after him.
The alley beyond was a narrow wound in the cityscape, hemmed in by graffiti-scrawled walls and overflowing dumpsters, the air fetid with the stew of rotting garbage, stale urine, and rainwater gone stagnant in the potholes.
The forensic team had already done their grisly work and packed away their instruments, but the place still bore the heavy-handed signature of death.
The chalk outline remained, stark on the cracked concrete, a pale cruciform figure sprawled as if nailed to an invisible cross.
Rick crouched beside it, cigarette dangling from his lip, eyes narrowed against the diffuse glare as he studied the ghost of violence left behind.
Last night’s storm had tried its best to wash the sins clean, smearing the blood into thin rust-colored streaks, but some residue remained, stubbornly dark in the seams of the pavement—and to Rick’s sharpened senses, the iron tang still tainted the stones like a whispered memory.
No struggle. No drag marks. No scuffle imprinted into the filth and debris. The body had been placed deliberately, laid out with cold, meticulous care.
Stagecraft, Rick thought grimly. A performance meant to be witnessed.
He remembered the first scene, when one of the rookies murmured, looks like a sculptor working in flesh. The others had snorted, brittle humor trying to keep the horror at bay. Yeah, real Michelangelo of nightmares, someone muttered. The name stuck after that.
Rick’s gaze lifted to the brick above the outline.
The symbol was still there, barely, blurred into a rusty smear, only faint strokes left to mark the killer’s hand.
Soon enough, the cleanup crew would scrub it like they had the others.
But for now, the looping, serpentine shape clung to the wall’s uneven face, its meaning eluding him like a word in a foreign tongue.
“Looks even uglier in daylight,” Frank muttered, folding his arms as he stood behind Rick.
Rick grunted an acknowledgment, dragging on his cigarette.
His mind ticked over the details with the deliberate, relentless precision that had made him a detective long before the badge made it official.
He could almost see it: a car idling briefly at the curb, a body hauled out like it was trash, arranged quickly beneath the shroud of night, the glyph smeared on the wall in one deft, contemptuous gesture.
He straightened up, his knee clicking with the motion, and ground the butt of his cigarette under his heel.
His gaze dragged back to the cruciform shape, to the flaking rust-brown stain clinging to the mortar between bricks, to the gaping emptiness where a young man’s life had been erased without remorse.
Calgrave swallowed a thousand such deaths every year, chewing them down into unsolved files and cold case archives.
But Rick felt it in his bones—this one was different.
There was a design here, a purpose humming low and dark below the surface.
And he intended to figure it out, come hell or high water.
A sharp click sliced through the hush. Rick’s head snapped to the alley mouth, where a lean figure crouched just beyond the tape, camera poised mid-shot.
His dark overcoat flared as he straightened, revealing a slate-gray suit far too nice for the weather and a gleaming press badge clipped to his belt like a weapon.
“Frost,” Rick growled, already striding toward him.
Declan Frost, Calgrave Gazette’s front-page hound, adjusted the focus ring on his shooter with delicate care, then glanced up and gave a breezy wave, the kind meant to infuriate.
His hat framed a face built to be underestimated: smooth skin, high cheekbones, a mouth made for smirking.
Dark blond hair barely visible under the brim.
He could’ve passed for a choirboy—until you noticed the eyes, glacial-blue, quick as switchblades.
The kind that missed nothing and gave even less away.
“Detective,” he said, feigning surprise with a seasoned charm. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Rick stopped just shy of the tape. “This is a restricted area. You want me to break your fingers or just smash the lens?”
“I was only documenting public interest,” Frost replied, unfazed. “This alley’s technically visible from the street. First Amendment still means something, doesn’t it? Even in this town.”
Rick leaned in, voice gruff and tight. “You print one fucking thing about this, I’ll have you scraping classifieds for a living.”
Frost’s smirk deepened. “People have a right to know what’s going on.” He nodded toward the chalk outline, his voice dropping slightly. “A source told me the head was missing. Again. That’s five, isn’t it?”
Frank stepped beside Rick, glowering. “One more word, Frost, and we’ll book you for obstruction.”
“Obstruction?” Frost blinked with mock innocence. “That’s a new one.”
Just then, the patrol officer who’d been posted at the alley came jogging up, breathless and clutching a paper cup. “Sorry, Detectives! He must’ve slipped past while I was grabbing my coffee.”
Rick glared at him. “Next time, try using your eyes instead of your mouth.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Oh, give the guy a break, Slade,” Frost drawled. “I’ve slipped past tougher men than him. And some of them were even trying to catch me.”
Rick’s jaw clenched, his eyes snapping back to Frost’s. The remark wasn’t just a boast—it had teeth, a jab from a case he hadn’t forgotten. “Get lost. Before I forget I’m supposed to play by the rules.”
Frost held up both hands in mock surrender, retreating a step, the camera swinging lightly from his neck. “Hey, no need to get physical. Just doing my job.”
“And doing it like a fucking parasite,” Frank muttered.
Frost was already backing off, but not before firing off one last shot—first with the shutter, then with a grin.
“You can try to shut me out, Slade. But the truth always leaks out. Sooner or later. And I’ve never been one to wait.
” Then he vanished down the street, slipping into the pedestrian tide like smoke on the wind.
Rick stared after him, hands flexing at his sides. “Goddamn vulture. How the hell does he keep getting to our crime scenes so fast?”
Frank grunted. “The captain’s going to have our asses if that punk prints a single photo.”
Rick sighed through his nose. “Let’s get back to the Spire. Maybe Gloria has found us something.”
High above their heads, the clouds huddled low and black, brimming with menace.
(2:15 p.m.)