Chapter One | NOA #2
I gave myself thirty-six minutes to walk home, fifteen more than the distance required.
I took four turns I didn’t need to take, and spent ten minutes in the Clement Street pharmacy standing in front of a shelf of vitamins while I watched the convex security mirror mounted above the back display.
No face appeared in that mirror more than once.
I bought nothing and left, and walked the remaining eight blocks without deviation.
My building’s front lock was an optimistic piece of hardware.
My apartment door had a deadbolt I’d installed myself eight months after moving in — bought with a month of courier work because the original equipment discouraged only the most half-hearted intruders.
I turned it behind me and stood with the envelope in my hands.
The apartment was exactly as I’d left it.
The bed made tight, both chairs at the kitchen table, the rinsed coffee cup upside-down on the drying rack.
The freight elevator across the alley had gone silent for the night.
Through the window the grey pressed against the glass, and below it the street had quieted to the low register of the Alderon district after ten — thin, occasional, carrying further than it would in daylight.
I set the package on the kitchen table.
It looked like nothing. A padded envelope, clear tape at both ends, no markings. An object that could be on any surface in any room in any city and not invite a second thought. Whatever was inside it had already been worth a man’s life tonight.
I put the kettle on.
I made tea, changed out of my work clothes into an oversized t-shirt, and sat in the chair that didn’t face the table while the city went through its Tuesday-night business around me — the distant sound of a siren heading south toward the waterfront, a car on the street below, the bar on the corner going quiet just after midnight. At some point I went to bed.
The entry wound had been small and clean.
The dark liquid at his collar had been darker by the time I left.
I lay on my back and let the streetlamp light move across the ceiling, and both of them kept me awake past two and past three and well into the smallest part of the night before they let me go.
***
Morning arrived the way bad nights usually ended — abrupt, already three steps ahead.
The sky outside had gone from black to flat grey-lavender before sunrise and I was awake before the freight elevator across the alley clanged back to life.
I lay still for one moment — the dead man on the bench, the package on my kitchen table — and then I reached for the phone.
Claudia had been busy while I hadn’t quite slept.
Claudia: Turn on the news.
Claudia: Come to Strand immediately. Bring the parcel. Don’t let it out of your sight.
Claudia: And an overnight bag — enough for a day or two.
Claudia: Hurry.
I got up and pulled the duffel from the closet shelf and started throwing things in. Toothbrush, the travel-sized basics from the bathroom cabinet. A change of clothes. I’d figure out the rest later.
I turned on the television.
The story ran third on the morning broadcast. I was at the bathroom cabinet when it started, the volume loud enough to carry.
“Halo City police are investigating the death of a man whose body was discovered late last night in Harlan Park,” came the voice of the female reporter, pausing a beat before continuing.
“The victim, a white male believed to be in his mid-forties, was found by a park maintenance worker shortly after midnight. The investigation is ongoing, and police are asking anyone with information to come forward.” I came back out to the kitchen for the cash and kept moving.
I tucked cash into the duffel in two amounts — one at the bottom, one going into my jacket pocket.
“We’re now receiving confirmation of the victim’s identity,” the reporter continued. “Sawyer Price, a federal prosecutor, was found shot and killed last night in Harlan Park.” I came out to the kitchen doorway with my toiletry bag in my hand and stood there.
“Price, forty-six, served in the Halo City district attorney’s office for eleven years before his appointment to the US Attorney’s office six years ago.
Authorities are reviewing his full case history, including individuals he successfully prosecuted who may have recently been released.
Federal investigators have offered assistance to local authorities. No arrests have been made.”
Sawyer Price. The name meant nothing to me. Federal prosecutor did.
Someone had put a bullet through his forehead before I could make the handoff.
I still had what he was supposed to receive, sitting on my kitchen table three feet away.
If whoever had killed him wanted what I was carrying, they knew about the drop.
They might know the delivery hadn’t been made. They might know who still had it.
I crossed the kitchen, wrapped the envelope inside the spare long-sleeved shirt so it wouldn’t shift, and shoved it to the bottom of the duffel. I zipped the toiletry bag in on top. Got dressed. Checked the deadbolt on my way out of habit, not because I thought it would help now.
The June morning was cold off the bay, salt-sharp, the last of the night’s grey retreating in wisps above the rooflines.
The city had been fully awake for hours and wasn’t waiting on me.
The gold bracelet caught the morning light as I turned east — the small cat mid-stride on my wrist, front paw lifted, going somewhere it had already decided on.
I adjusted the duffel on my shoulder, felt the weight of it settle, and went.