The Cold Streets

The shutter of the camera snapped, and the rain continued to pour from the night sky.

                I looked up from the viewfinder, out over the rain-drenched city. The roof I was on had a good sightline to the warehouse, but from there, I could see most of the dirty streets being washed by the rivers of rain that seemed to fall with a purpose. I don’t know if it was gods way of saying it's time to give this place a cleaning, but it seemed to me, at the time, that he was definitely watching and was sickened by what he saw.

                Either way, I found myself on rooftops a lot, and I often saw much more than the average citizen saw. From up above, I saw into the windows of people's lives, and I caught glimpses of things I desired to have. I didn’t do it on purpose, of course, it was just that my eyes would wander at times, and I’d find myself longing to understand what it was like to have a wife and a kid. Have a job with a steady income, up high in some office, a normal life, I guess. That all seemed fine until I saw the other side of it. The days when a man would come home after being screamed at by his boss, he would toss his briefcase aside and pull off his coat in frustration. Then when his wife would try and comfort him, that’s when I would see it, the breakdown of a man.

                You see a lot from above, and always at night. But why I was up there was for another reason. The Woman and The Man had quickly stepped inside the rusted warehouse by the dock, but not without me snapping a few frames. I knew the photos would develop weakly from the low lighting, but they were enough for Mr. Dailey. The man just wanted to know; he just wanted proof something was going on, but little did I know what I was getting myself into. A paid job turned sour.

                A light turned on in one of the warehouse windows, and I peered back through the viewfinder to only see their silhouettes moving across the glass pane. It was a strange place to be doing something like that in, was my initial thought, but then to my surprise, a third silhouette appeared. I quickly took a picture, but as the shutter opened, a flash came from the window and a muffled bang.

                The third silhouette disappeared, and the light turned out. Moments later, the door opened, and The Man and The Woman exited, The Man was holding a gun. I snapped a few pictures of them exiting and fleeing to the car. I wish I had gotten a picture of the license plate, but my lens did not zoom in far enough.

                They sped off down the dark street into the night.

                I remember standing on that rooftop for some time, debating on going down there and seeing what had happened inside that warehouse, but I ultimately decided not to. I wasn’t getting paid to investigate a murder; that was the police's job. Besides, I had a lot of film to develop, so I packed up my gear and headed back to the office.

***

I spent the next seven days in my office, sleeping there during the day and working all night on the photos. I had the mail delivered to my door, and not to my surprise, I saw the murder had been discovered. A body was found on the shore, but no information on who the person was was disclosed. It was a disappointment because I really wanted to know. I struggle with curiosity. I guess it makes sense why I’m in the business I am. There was nothing else inside the paper worth noting other than the rise in drug deals on the streets.

                On the seventh night, when the photos were finally developed, Mr. Dailey was at my door.

                He was worked up pretty good, pacing back and forth in front of my desk.

                “Do you have the evidence?” He asked me.

                “I do. As a matter of fact, it just finished developing today.”

                “Good, good. Now I can finally pin that woman. Let me see them.”

                I opened up a drawer in the desk and retrieved a file name Mr. Dailey, pulled the photos inside and tossed them onto the desk.

                Mr. Dailey, like a starved animal, scrounged them up and looked at the first photo saying, “I knew it! She is cheating! Oh no, this could be so bad for my election. Mr. Dailey, Mayoral candidate's wife is a whore! I can see the headlines now.”

                “Maybe, she is,” I replied.

                “Maybe?” Mr. Dailey's dark brown eyes had a look of annoyed confusion. “What do you mean maybe? I’m not paying you for maybes?”

                “No, you are not,” I replied and pointed my finger. “Kept looking.”

                Mr. Dailey flipped through the rest of the photos, and his black mustache turned into a long frown.

                “See something you don’t like?” I asked.

                “No,” Mr. Dailey shook his head. “Not at all.”

                I clasped my hands behind my head and leaned back in my chair, asking, “Why the change then?”

                Mr. Dailey's brown eyes nervously flicked up to me and then back to the photo in hand.

                “It’s nothing, just thinking about the kids and how this is going to affect them… That’s all.”

                I restrained myself from smiling when he had said that because I knew how wealthy and how powerful of a man Mr. Dailey was. He was the most famous businessman in the city, running for office, and it was common knowledge he had no kids.

                “Do you recognize this man by chance?” I asked.

                “What? Um no… I do not….” Mr. Dailey nervously slicked back his thinning black hair and said to me, “Good work, Detective… I’ll be on my way now.”

                I’ll be honest, I was surprised by the way Mr. Dailey changed. So much so I didn’t want him to leave without some explanation of what was going on. I was curious, but then again, that wasn’t what he was paying me for, just the photos.

But I had to ask him, “Do you want me to investigate any further?”

                “What?” Mr. Dailey turned back around to me.

                I repeated my question.

                “Oh, further investigation? Um… No. That would be all. Thanks,” He said, turning for the door.

                “What about final payment then?” I asked.

                “Oh, yes, payment.” Mr. Dailey reached into his coat pocket and tossed me a sealed envelope.

                I caught it mid-air.

                “Good day, Detective,” Mr. Dailey said, firmly closing the door behind him.

It wasn’t uncommon for someone not to be able to handle the truth my business provided, but for some reason, I was annoyed with Mr. Dailey. Something about the way the man had changed. I remember the first time he stepped into my office, all condescending of my profession. Acting like my line of work is some sort of dirty, low-life, unhonorable, unnecessary business. Nothing like his own grand, virtuous empire he had created. The man was moral grandstanding like the rest of the wealthy in the city.

But it’s funny how the truth changes someone. No matter what level of confidence a man has, the moment the truth is given to him, he changes, for better or worse. Truth is an absolute that breaks all belief in one's idea of self. Truth can not be changed, but it can change, a funny paradox, I guess, and I guess that’s what annoyed me; Mr. Dailey changed but wouldn’t face me.

After Mr. Dailey left, I headed down to the Café on the corner to grab a late-night slice of pie.

***

It was apple if I remember, and the rain had let up outside. Janice worked the night shift, and she had become a strange friend of mine. We both were awake during the night while the city slept, and only night owls know what happens when the sun leaves. So we had a little friendship, nothing too serious, she never asked me what I did, but she assumed, while I never asked her what her life outside the Café was like, but I assumed. Often on nights off, I would chat with her about the news and ask her opinion. I always liked what she had to say, she was honest and blunt about everything. Being a mother of two will do that to you.  

While I ate my apple pie with a side of crème, the door opened, and someone walked in. I paid them no attention but noted the sweet smell of expensive perfume and the rhythmic sound of women's heels approaching. I continued eating my pie when to my surprise, a woman sat down next to me at the bar.

“Can I get ya something?” Janice asked.

“Sure,” Said The Woman in an angelic voice, “a coffee, please.”

I said nothing while Janice filled up a white mug with black coffee and placed it in front of the woman. I made eye contact with Janice, and she seemed to read my mind perfectly and went down to the far end of the bar, leaving us alone.

“Lovely night,” The Woman said. “The rain finally stopped.”

“Not for long,” I replied, spooning up another mouthful of pie.

“Unfortunately, Hun,” The Woman replied, “You’re probably right.”

For some reason, when The Woman said Hun, I was drawn in, like a fish on a line; I was intrigued but didn’t show it and continued looking forward.

“Unfortunately, I always am,” I replied.

“Oh, are you now?” The Woman put her hand to her face and rested her elbow on the bar, trying to draw my eyes away from my pie, but I wasn’t looking. “And why is that?”

                I scooped up some crème and put it on top of my next bite of pie and replied, “Because I get paid to find the truth, and the truth is always right.”

                “Every time, it’s right?”

                “Yes, every time.”

                “But isn’t truth only right, from a certain perspective? Maybe say a lens?”

                I was honestly surprised by that response. I had to mull it over in my head while I slowly chewed my mouthful of pie. I eventually replied, “Lenses are tools truth seekers use.”

                “Yes, but isn’t a lens just a magnifier to the eye of the beholder? They do not dictate the absolute truth, but only allow the viewer to see more closely their believed truth, correct?”

                “Correct, but truth is absolute. It can not be changed.”

                “Yes.” The Woman took a sip of coffee, then lightly placed the mug onto the bar. “But truth, can change the seeker. Can it not?”

                I reached out and took a long drink of water, letting the cooling sensation wash my mouth clean before replying, “Yes.”

                “So, maybe this seeker has a perspective of this truth that they don’t deserve because they were looking through their lens with the wrong perspective?”

                “Maybe.” I shrugged. “But maybe that truth-seeker was paid by a certain perspective. Do you believe that truth-seeker should discard their findings because a pretty woman in over her head is trying to change the narrative?”

                The Woman adjusted her coat, giving me the slightest glimpse of the red dress she wore underneath. She was nervous by my remark but kept composure and replied, “I don’t believe a woman can get in over her head. If a woman makes a decision, she lives by it and keeps it a secret.”

                I remember thinking to myself, Secret? Secrets are always hooks for me.

                “Interesting,” I replied, “now, would you say this woman would get desperate to keep her truth a secret?”

                “Yes, Hun,” The Woman said, in almost a whisper. “This Woman would go through great lengths to make sure the truth is never found.”

                I took my last bite of pie before turning to Mrs. Dailey, her perfect blonde hair draped down to her elegant shoulders, and her cherry red cheeks blushed, bringing out the sorrow in her crystal blue eyes, and replied, “Let's hope that never happens to this woman then.”

                She reached out her slender hand and placed it on my shoulder. I felt a warmth from her touch that reminded me of a summer's day. She grimly smiled at me, and in her eyes, I saw intelligence that I can only describe as remarkable.

                She stood, leaned over and parted her lips by my ear, and softly said, “Let's hope not,” then walked away, leaving me staring at the red stain from her lipstick on the white mug and the sweet smell of perfume in my head.

***

My office was torn apart when I returned. Desk drawers were pulled open, files from previous cases were dumped onto the floor, and my darkroom was mostly left intact, but all my developing photos were contaminated and destroyed. That Woman was distracting me, making sure that someone had enough time to search my office. The Mr. Dailey file was gone, but they didn’t find the photos they were looking for.

                Strangely I wasn’t mad. Something like this was bound to happen, especially since I was too lazy to get better locks installed. I just wish they had cleaned up after themselves. I would have given them more time if they would have.

                A few nights passed before someone interesting walked in through my door. A woman, middle-aged, with greying hair, and thin lines on her forehead from stress, knocked on my door. She was very polite as I welcomed her in, and she denied coffee as she sat down. She was anxious and didn’t outright say why she was there and kept looking over my shoulder out the window as we spoke. As if she was afraid someone was watching the conversation.

                Eventually, she said, “I need your help, Detective. I had nowhere else to go.”

                I leaned forward, giving her my ear.

                “I’m sure you’ve seen the recent murder in the paper?”

                I nodded my head. “Body was found on the shore, but no information was disclosed.”

“Yes, Detective, no information. None, not at all. Normally I wouldn’t care much about something like this, but….”

“But what?”

“It’s my son.” The woman's eyes filled with tears, and through sniffles, she said, “The person found dead was my son.”

I opened my drawer and retrieved some tissues for the woman.

“Thank you,” she said, dabbing the tears on her cheeks.

“What happened?” I asked.

“That’s the thing, Detective, they told me nothing.”

“Nothing? The Police told you nothing?”

“Yes, well, no. They told me he was shot and killed, but that was it. Not how, not why, not when. Just that he was killed.”

“Strange.”

“That’s not even the strangest part. When I started asking questions, they told me to stop and accept he was dead, and there's no reason disturbing the peace.”

Disturbing the peace? I was stricken by that comment. I knew a man that had said that to me before. A previous colleague of mine.

“Interesting,” I replied, leaning back in my chair. “And you would like me to look into your son's murder?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded her head. “I have some money for payment, but I need to know some things… I need to know… What-what happened to my son.”

                “That’s okay. We can worry about payment later, but.” I pulled out my journal and uncapped my pen, asking, “I need to ask you a few questions first, if that’s all right with you?”

                “That’s fine,” The woman replied, her spirits brightening a bit.

                “First question, what is your name?”

                “Oh my goodness! How impolite of me to not give you my name!”

                “That’s fine, Ma’am, I understand.”

                “My name’s Johann Allen.”

                “Johann Allen,” I repeated, writing down her name at the top of the page. “Now, what's your son's name?”

“Nathan, Nathan Allen, but he mostly went by Nate.”

I wrote down what she said, then began writing down a list of questions before asking her, “Widow?”

                Ms. Allen nodded her head.

                “Father's death?”

“The war.”

                “I’m sorry to hear that.”

                “It’s okay. It’s been some time since his passing.”

“Tell me about your son?”

                “Well, um, he’s dark-haired, browned-eyed like his father. Real strapping ambitious young man.”

                “Ambitious? Was he in business?”

                “Why yes, he was actually. He was an intern under Mr. Dailey.”

                “Really?” I played ignorant.

                “Yes, can you believe that? A young man like him already working underneath Mr. Dailey.”

                “That is quite the accomplishment. Now, was Nate known to get into trouble?”

                “No,” she shook her head. “That’s the strange thing. He was a very cautious and calculated boy. Oh, so smart he never made dumb decisions.”

                “Hmph, what about naïve?”

                 Ms. Allen was silent for a moment, then replied, “He was a young, ambitious boy. At times he made naïve choices.”

                “That’s okay,” I replied. “Knowing that will help me put this all into perspective.”

                I finished writing down Ms. Allen's answers and then asked, “How close was your son to Mr. Dailey.”

                “Very,” she replied. “He often would drop him off from work and even was kind enough to stop by to pay condolences to me.”

                I remember being so shocked by that statement I stopped writing. I couldn’t see the brash, temperamental Mr. Dailey taking the time to slow down and pay someone respects like that. It was very odd but intriguing.

                “On the night of your son’s death, did you see him at all?”

                “No, not at all. I just saw him in the morning, and… Never saw him again.”

                “I’m sorry….” I said, finishing up writing, then looked over my notes, making sure I had everything I needed.

                “That should be enough to get me started, Ms. Allen,” I said, closing my journal.

                “Really? That’s it?”

                “Yep, that's all I need.

                “Wow, I’m amazed. People said you were good, but I never thought such a young man as yourself would be this impressive.”

                “What can I say? I love my work.”

                “Enough to get paid for it, I assume?”

                I sat back, thinking it over, then replied, “My usual rate is pretty high, but let's say this one’s on me.”

                “Free? Why no, that can’t be! I’ll come up with the money somehow.”

                “That’s fine, Ms. Allen. You’ve been through enough.”

                “My, My, impressive and noble.”

                “I wouldn’t say noble, just curious.” I smiled and showed Ms. Allen to the door.

                When Ms. Allen was gone, I spent some time looking over my notes. I felt like a fool for doing this for free, but it only felt right. Not for some noble cause, but because I felt like it wasn’t a coincidence Ms. Allen knocked on my door. I felt as if I had a part to play in this mystery, just like Mr. Dailey, Mrs. Dailey, and that other man. What that part is, I had no idea, but I sure as hell was curious and wanted to know why.

***

I first headed down to the police station to visit an old friend.

                I waited at the bottom of the stairs as the rain began to sprinkle, leaning on the wall. It was sometime before he came out, and when he did, he was not happy to see me.

                “It’s not wise for you to be here,” Devin said.

                “Not wise for you either,” I replied.

                Devin rolled his eyes. “You’re still on about that?”

                I frowned. “It looks like you still are too.”

                Devin sighed, then asked, “What do you want?”

                “Some answers.”

                “To what?”

                “To the Nathan Allen murder.”

                Devin's eyes lit up. He grabbed me and quickly pulled me into the shadows, out of the light of the police station.

“How do you know about this?”

I smirked. “The streets talk, Devin.”

Devin shook his head and replied, “You still listen to them?”

“That’s the only place you will find the truth, Devin. Not in there.” I gestured with my head at the station.

“Well, in there.” Devin pointed his finger. “I get paid, and handsomely, just like you should be.”

“Oh, you get paid now? By whom?”

Devin squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “What are you on about?”

“Words on the street, this murder is being hushed. By whom, I don’t know, but people are afraid of talking because they don’t want to disturb the peace.”

“And they shouldn’t,” Devin replied.

“Why is that? Is there someone in a high-up place not wanting to be brought down to the filth?”

Devin pulled back his head and said, “Don’t. Just don’t. You always get your nose in places it shouldn’t be. Just trust me and leave this one alone. These ones best left to the streets.”

“You know I can’t do that,” I replied.

Devin sighed and said, “I know.”

“Then help me while you can.”

“I can’t. Please believe me. I can’t.”

I frowned and said, “I understand,” and turned away, leaving my former partner in the dark, headed for the docks.

***

I didn’t break in, but I defiantly entered the warehouse without a warrant. I went in through a back window and worked my way past the racking, filled with crates, to the upstairs office. The door was locked, but I took a few moments to pick the lock and get the door open. Inside I examined every square inch of that room. It was wiped clean. Not a single sign of a murder taking place there. I looked underneath the rug and moved cabinets. I damn near started dragging my tongue across the wooden planks trying to taste any blood, but ultimately, nothing.

I went through the desk and cabinet next and found endless amounts of shipping manifests and ledgers. I was anxious about how much time I was taking, so I didn’t get to see it all, but everything seemed to be okay. No weird deliveries or shipments in or out of the warehouse. Mr. Dailey dealt in many different businesses, but he built his wealth on selling furniture. He was a small-time salesman with a tiny department store, but sure enough, he built an empire from the showroom floor. Now he’s invested in almost every aspect of the city, damn he owns just about half of it, but logistics had become Mr. Dailey's bread and butter. The city ran on Mr. Dailey's logistics firm, but one name I didn’t expect to see on the monthly manifest was a single package addressed to Steel Star Inc. but being delivered to a residential address. I sat there, looking at it for some time; Steel Star was a finance firm owned by Gabe Steinbeck, a well-known shyster. I never found it wise to judge a man on his business but only on who he does business with. It might have seemed insignificant, but I had a feeling it wasn’t. And you know what they say, something doesn’t mean nothing.

I got curious and began looking through the files again; this time, I thoroughly looked through the “S” section and found a place where a file used to sit. One where Steel Star would be. It wasn’t hard evidence, but it would explain why Mrs. Dailey and that other man were here. Maybe they were following the same trail I was.

I pulled out my journal and crossed out the warehouse, then wrote underneath it, The Shyster.

***

The address was an abandoned house. Its windows were boarded up, and the doors were locked shut, and to my surprise, the locks were brand new. It took me an embarrassing amount of time to climb up the side of the house to squeeze through two planks in one of the upstairs windows. I got stuck halfway through and had to hold onto a toilet to pull myself inside. It really was something.

Inside I searched the house for anything of interest but just found dusty coated furniture. I sat down on a couch in the living room, and when the cloud of dust that poofed when I sat down settled, I took a moment to think about what was going on. The lead I was chasing was turning more hopeful than anything else, and it drove me mad. I was chasing more of a faded idea than a solid line, and in my frustration, I kicked the coffee table in front of me, knocking over a glass that rolled across the floor.

I put my face into my hands, thinking when I looked up at the glass. I then looked down at the floor below my feet. I lifted my foot and stomped the floor, listening to the hollow thud. I stood up, realizing there was a basement.

It took me some time to find the hidden latch. It was in a hole in the wall in a hallway closet. When I pulled it, I heard a tumbler releasing, and a hatch popped open in the middle of the floor in the living room, underneath a rug. When I pulled away the rug and lifted the hatch door, I peered into darkness. I took a deep breath and walked down a narrow flight of stairs.

I found a string to a light bulb and pulled it. The room lit up the brown water-stained cement walls, and on one side were stacked white boxes; on the other were black boxes. When I lifted the lid to one of the white boxes, my heart stopped. They were full of money. I went through almost all of them and found every single one of them to be filled with thousands of dollars. I turned to the black boxes and found each of them was filled with illegal narcotics.

I had to take a step back to process what I saw. It was a drop site for drug deals. I took as many pictures as I could, documenting it all, and when I left, I made sure to leave no trace I was there.

I staked out the house from a distant roof for the next week. One night a white box truck showed up, and two men entered the house and began loading the black boxes into the van. I snapped pictures of the process happening and got the license plate of the truck. Later, another truck arrived, but this one was black, and a crew of men unloaded black boxes into the house, and loaded white boxes into the truck, then left. The white truck returned, loaded the black boxes, then put white boxes into the house. The black truck came back and loaded the white boxes and left black boxes. This process repeated itself throughout the week, all taking place at night when the street was deserted. I looked up the license plates in the registry; the white truck was registered to none other than Mr. Dailey's logistics company. The black truck was registered out of state.

So that’s how I found out Mr. Dailey built his empire on more than just selling tables and bed frames. He must have cut a deal with Steinbeck and has been selling drugs throughout the city. It was the only way to explain Mr. Dailely's fast rise to power and how he infiltrated the high class of the city. Someone higher up must be in on it with Mr. Dailey and Steinbeck; maybe it's who is delivering the drugs. I just wondered how Mrs. Dailey, that man and Nathan Allen all tied into it.

My first instinct was to go to the police, but the conversation I had with my former partner Devin came back to me. Does he know what I know? Is there someone in the police department pushing this investigation down? That would mean someone was getting paid.

***

A day later, when I got the paper, I was shocked to read that Steinbeck was found dead. I tried thinking it through while working in my darkroom late one night when I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I poked my head out and saw through the stained glass several silhouettes on the other side. I walked out of the darkroom; the new door handle jiggled; it was locked. I pulled on my coat and stuffed the negatives of the photos into my pockets. Then next, a green bottle with a flaming rag in it crashed through the glass.

I had just enough wit to grab my camera and dive out the window onto the fire escape as several more bottles came flying through. Flames engulfed my office, and as I climbed down the fire escape, the fire must have reached all the chemicals in the darkroom because my office then exploded. I watched it happen from behind the counter of the Café. Janice stared at me like I was a lunatic at first, but when the ball of flame burst through the window, she understood.

Headlights from a car turned on, and a person jumped into the back seat and sped off down the street. Not before I jotted down the car's license plate. The fire department arrived and put out the flames. Shortly after, the police department came and started asking witnesses questions. They questioned Janice if she saw anything, but she just shook her head and told the officers, “no,” all while I hid in the kitchen freezer until they left.

I thanked Janice afterward and made sure she knew I owed her. She only smiled and asked if I wanted a slice of pie.

***

It was strange without my office. It was basically my home, my only getaway from the world. I could think and live in private there, but now I was lost, left to wander the streets. While I walked, I wondered to myself, who attempted to murder me? Was it Mr. Dailey thinking I knew too much, or was it Mrs. Dailey who thought I knew too much? Either way, I did know a lot, but I was left with nothing but the coat on my back, the negative film in my pocket, and a single film roll in my camera. I was really contemplating turning over the negatives to the police and showing them the house, but something was holding me back. They attacked my office, my home. This was becoming personal at this point. I couldn’t just turn it over to the police without knowing the truth. Who tried to kill me and why?

***

I reprinted the photos from the negatives I saved and sent them to Mr. Dailey, with a note saying to meet me at the abandoned house. Before I went to the designated meeting place, I stopped by the Café. I sat down at my normal spot at the bar, noting a man in the corner booth with his hat pulled below his eyes.

                I ordered a coffee, no pie, and the entire time I sipped, I felt the man's eyes watching me. Janice was her usual self, direct and understanding of me. When I went to pay, the man watched my hand put the money down on the bar and followed me as I stood up and headed for the door. The man didn’t confront me, but I heard the sound of a car door opening and the familiar rumble of a car engine turning over.

                The rain was coming down hard upon the streets; as I watched from the window of the abandoned house, a single car pulled up onto the street. I was genially surprised to see Mr. Dailey arrive alone, just like I had asked him to. He dashed to the front door, trying to avoid getting soaked from the rain. He let himself in with his key and found me sitting in a chair in the living room.

                “Detective,” Mr. Dailey said in a bravados voice. “How are you tonight?”

                “I’m fine.” I gestured to the seat across from me. “I see you got my message?”

                “Oh, why yes.” Mr. Dailey sat down in the chair, saying, “You’ve been quite a curious cat, haven’t you?”

                “Curiosity is my business, Mr. Dailey,” I replied.

                “Why yes, yes it is, Detective.” Mr. Daiely settled into the chair and slapped his knees, saying, “So what kind of money are we talking about?”

                “Money?” I asked.

                “Why yes, Detective, money is what we are here for, right? You blackmailed me, and now this is where we work out a cut for you. I’ve been through this before.”

                “You’ve been through this before? With who?”

                Mr. Dailey tilted back his head, roaring with laughter. “My My Detective, you are brilliant but still so naïve.” Mr. Dailey looked me dead in the eyes and, with a smile, said, “The whole city.”

                “The whole city? So even the police department?”

                Mr. Dailey nodded his head. “The Commissioner was one of the first to make a deal.”

                It was hard to keep my composure at that truth. It felt as if the weight of the world had just crashed down upon me.

                “Shocking, huh, Detective?” Mr. Dailey leaned back in his chair with a smug smile. “So what will it be? I can’t promise you a large cut, but something small. Maybe enough to get you a new office? I heard about what happened and couldn’t help but think about you. How about we say, half a percent a year, and a bright new corner office in the north end of the city? Huh? That’d be nice. We’d even put in a darkroom with brand new equipment. Hell, you could be in my building if you want? That way, we can work more closely with one another. I feel like I could use someone with your talents.”

                I had to admit, the offer was tempting. There’d be no more worry about where the next paycheck was coming from. No more nights spent in the rain on rooftops. A brand new office would be magical, and with that kind of pay, I’d be able to afford an apartment with a view too. All that would be perfect, but what would I give up in exchange? What about people like Ms. Allen, who depended on me do? She had nowhere else to go, and I’d give up on her for a warm bed? I’d be selling my soul for a decent meal.

                It took all my strength to answer, “I appreciate the offer, but no.”

                Mr. Dailey was shocked and tilted his head. “Then what are we here for?”

                “I want to-“ I stopped speaking at the sound of the front door opening.

Mr. Dailey looked at me confused as heavy rain-soaked boots marched down the hall.

“Who else did you invite?” Mr. Dailey asked.

“Sorry,” said the man as he stepped around the corner, holding a silver revolver in his hand. “I wasn’t invited.”

It took Mr. Dailey a moment to realize who the man was, but I knew immediately. It was Mrs. Dailey’s accomplice the night of the murder of Nathan Allen.

“Bart?” Mr. Dailey asked.

“Hello, Jack,” Bart replied.

“What the-“ Mr. Dailey was flabbergasted. “Th-the-hell are you doing here?” Mr. Dailey turned to me, asking, “Did you do this?”

I shook my head. “No, but I knew he was the one that had been following me for the past few days.”

“License plate?” Bart asked.

“Yep,” I replied.

“You are very astute, Detective,” Bart said, not looking at me. “I thought I was doing a good job?”

“You were,” I replied. “But you’re new to this game, and I’ve been doing this a lot longer.”

“Yes, you have Detective.” Bart raised the gun at Mr. Dailey. “Now, where is she, Jack?”

Mr. Dailey made no movement and replied, “She is hidden.”

“Hidden? Or locked up?”

“What does it matter to you, Bart? She’s not your wife.”

“She should be, damn it!”

Mr. Dailey scoffed. “You’re such a fool. You really think she cares for you? Are you that stupid, Bart?”

Bart’s hands began to shake as he spat out. “She does. I know she does.”

“How do you know, Bart? Is it because she’s making you do all her dirty work? Huh? Is that how she shows her love? Like killing Steinbeck, then killing my son in cold blood. All to find my money!”

Bart looked away, emotions bursting from his face. “He shouldn’t have sent him there. You should have just left us alone.”

I said nothing but retained the new information of who Nathan Allen really was.

“I let you live, Bart, after what you did. I let you live! And this is how you repay me? You’re my business partner. We were supposed to run this city together. Now, look at you. Whipped by a girl who doesn’t even love you.”

“Shut the hell up!” Bart cocked the hammer back.

My hand tightened on the handle of the gun in my pocket.

“What are you going to do, Bart? Kill me here in front of the Detective?”

“Yes. And when I’m finished with you, I’ll have the Detective show me where the money is, and then it’ll all be over!”

A bright flash lit up the room as the bang from the gunshot rang in my ears. When my eyes adjusted, Mr. Dailey was clutching his chest, but when he looked down, there was no bullet wound. Instead, Bart fell face forward onto the floor in a pool of blood. The smell of perfume hit my nose, and standing in the hallway was Mrs. Dailey, clutching a small handgun.

“Serina?” Mr. Dailey said, alarmed. “What are you-“

“Shut the hell up, Jack!” Mrs. Dailey snapped. “I don’t want to hear another word from your mouth.”

Mr. Dailey chuckled and opened his mouth to say something, but the word never came out. Serina unloaded her entire magazine into Mr. Dailey's chest. The man was dead by the fourth round.

Serina stared at her husband's bloody body, slumped over in the chair. Her eyes were wide, filled with wild hate. The look slowly faded away as she breathed, and eventually, she said, “I never loved him. My father forced me to marry him.”

“Why? Might I ask?”

Serina scoffed and said, “for this. For the city. He’s the one supplying Jack the drugs. Or was supplying, I guess I should say.”

“It was an arranged marriage?”

“Yes, my father picked Jack, a simple salesman, to build an empire around. Supported him, controlled him, all while I was just a piece of the deal.”

“I see. You were a slave….”

“Yep.” She nodded her head. “I was a slave. But not anymore.” Serina turned to me; her brilliant blue eyes were alive with a primal satisfaction of a scorned woman gaining her freedom.

“If I had the bullets,” Serina said, “I would kill you next.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“Are you going to stop me from leaving?”

I really wanted to, but for some reason, my hand loosened on the gun, and I just shook my head.

Serina straightened up her back, and that mysterious, intelligent power came back in her crystal blue eyes. She smiled at me, saying, “Thank you, Detective,” then turned to leave, but before she did, she looked back one last time to say, “Oh hey, Hun?”

I gazed over at her.

“If you want a photo of a pretty girl like me, just ask next time.”

I smirked. “Next time, just knock. No need to burn my office down.”

Serina smiled, winked, then headed out of the house, leaving me with two dead bodies and the smell of her perfume.

***

It was some time until change came. After Mr. Dailey’s murder was found, the Commissioner tried pushing a narrative of a hostage situation gone wrong, but I had something to say there. I tape-recorded that entire night but cut out when Serina arrived. With all my evidence, I turned it over to Devin, who then launched a full investigation into the police department. Shortly later, the Commissioner was found guilty of taking bribes, and the entire force got cleaned out. Devin was promoted to Commissioner.

Devin, of course, begged me to join the force, saying that the fat was cut from the meat, and now real work could be done. I thought hard about it but decided it was best for me to stay where I was. The city needed someone outside of the system to do the dirty work no one wanted to do. Especially now, when there was so much more work that needed to be done.

I got a new office. Well, not a new one but a different one just down the street from my old one. So it turns out that Ms. Allen was an old secretary of Mr. Daileys with whom he was having an affair with. She had his bastard son and was paid hush money regularly to not say anything, but I do believe that money wasn’t fully for silencing Ms. Allen. I think Mr. Dailey really did love his son. But Ms. Allen was, fortunately, sitting on a pile of cash and graciously paid for the down payment on the new office. I really appreciated her kindness, even though I struggled to tell her so.

Everything mostly returned back to normal. I had a new grungy office with beat-up furniture and well-used darkroom equipment. I was taking low-end investigation jobs again. Yeah, everything was back to how it was; even the apple pie from the corner Café was how it should be. Everything was right, but I wasn’t. I still struggled with my decision to let her go.

It was against my code to do that. She had no clue I had my hand wrapped around the handle of a revolver in my pocket, but something made me not use it. I don't know what it was. Maybe there was too much death for one night? Or maybe it was because I had never actually killed someone before. But I kept that thing in my pocket for a reason. And truly, deep down inside, I know why I did what I did. You see, truth changes a man, and it makes him do things he would never do before. Those things could be good, or they could be bad, but I don’t know if what I decided was the right thing to do.

Either way, all I can do is smile because I struggle with curiosity, and I can’t be mad at the consequences of truth. So I opened my journal and crossed out Ms. Allen's name but hesitated to cross out Serina’s name. I felt like her story hadn’t been concluded yet.