Gordon sat in the back of the squad car. If he believed in omens, this ride would be a bad one.
His escorts were Officers Morrow and Willis—nicknamed Tenspeed and Brownshoe by Bullock—but Gordon knew them as quiet types who kept their heads down. Still, they kept stealing glances at him—Morrow through the rearview, Willis through the side mirror. Gordon wondered if they knew. And if not, when Bronson would tell them.
Morrow had a lead foot. The engine whined as they tore through wet streets, tires hissing on the pavement. When Gordon saw they were getting close, he spoke.
"There's a corner store up ahead. Drop me there—I'll walk."
Morrow pulled to the curb. Willis stepped out to open the door.
"Chief said not to leave you alone," Morrow called back, not turning.
Gordon gave a nod and stepped out.
"We'll be out front, Detective," Willis said.
"I appreciate it."
The store was small, the kind of place that kept milk cartons and cases of beer in the same freezer. The cashier, a guy in his thirties with thick glasses, was nose-deep in a paperback. Gordon loitered in the back glancing at the rows of chips and bread. When the man's eyes drifted back to the page, he slipped into the side hall.
The back exit let out into a narrow, wet alley. The only bulb above the door sputtered, dying slow. Gordon leaned against the wall near a rust-streaked dumpster and lit a cigarette. Rain poured down. His thoughts moved slow and heavy.
"Jim."
The voice was low, nearly a whisper. Gordon turned.
A shadow stood just beyond the reach of the streetlight. Eyes like dull white coals stared back from the dark.
"Any results on that toxin?" said Gordon, getting straight to the point.
"Natural origins."
Gordon exhaled smoke then reached into his bag, pulling out a folder. "There's a new case, and its connected."
"You're certain?" the voice asked.
"Unfortunately." He offered the folder.
A gloved hand emerged from the dark—black, armored, ridged with sharp fins. It took the file without a word.
"Lan Nguyen. Nineteen. Worked at the Emperor Club. A dancer there reported her missing under the name Cyrus Pinkney. A few months later, her hand was recovered in a sewer off North Elm. Trixie—the dancer—said Lan had a guy who liked to take Polaroids of her."
Gordon held up an evidence bag. "These were found at Annh's place."
The shadow examined the contents without opening it, then passed it back.
"The girl won't give a statement. She's terrified. So right now, I've got nothing concrete connecting the two."
"I'll look into it," the voice said.
The pale eyes lingered a moment longer.
"Anything else?"
Gordon nodded. "One thing I didn't write down. Slipped my mind until Trixie mentioned the guy's bike. That morning, when I climbed out of the sewer, I heard a motorcycle take off. Didn't think much of it at the time. Might've been him."
A long pause followed.
"What about at the precinct?"
Gordon looked away. He shouldn't have been surprised. Of course his partner knew.
He sighed, rubbed his mustache.
"We had an agreement. If a case got too close to a cop, I'd take lead. This is no different. I'll handle it."
He took a slow drag, exhaled through his nose. A car passed at the alley's mouth, wheels slicing through a puddle. Just a civilian.
When he turned back, the shadow was gone.
Gordon slipped back through the store, bought a fresh pack of cigarettes, and returned to the squad car. Morrow and Willis drove him to his house and parked across the street.
He stood at his front door, finishing his cigarette under their watchful eyes. When it was done, he crushed the butt under his heel and fished out his keys. The jingle rang loud in the quiet. The lock clicked open. The hinges creaked.
He stepped inside, head down, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders.
Then he looked up—and froze.
Alice sat on the stairs, her face pale and wide-eyed.
Across her lap rested his rifle.
She held it with both hands, her knuckles white.