The Aftermath and Heading Back to Work

Eating reheated leftover chili, I turn on the television. Switching over from sports to the local news, I wait to see if anything comes up. To see how good of a job is Morena doing with their cover up. To see whether or not they’ve realized they need it yet. The report comes on. “Break-in of a corporate residence results in double fatality.” A statement that screams at me that Homicide has yet to release all the details, not someone is covering it up. Damnit. Do faster work. I need Morena scrambling as soon as possible.

Switching back to the fight night, I lie back, still eating the chili off the coffee table while I’m reclined across the couch. Deep breath, in and out. The door opens, and Davina rolls her bike in. “Afternoon,” she says as she takes off her helmet.

“Leftovers, sorry. Drinking turned to gambling, so I lost track of time,” I informed her.

She shakes her head, smirking. “We’ve got plenty anyway,” she says, picking up my pants from the chair back and tossing them into the laundry. “Other than losing money, how was your day?”

“I lost even more money,” I joke. Then I explain, “I spent far more money at the bar than I was expecting in the morning.”

“How much more?” she asks as she heads to the kitchen to serve herself.

I shrug, which looks odd while lying on a couch shoveling food into your mouth. “Around three kay,” I say honestly.

Davina furrows her brow at me concerned, slops some chili into a bowl, then a look of realization comes over her face. “You met up with her and didn’t warn me?” she spits out at me.

“Um, I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I joke, sitting up to smirk smugly at my roommate. “I drank alone. Everyone will confirm that.”

“Fuck you,” Davina spits, heading back into the room and collapsing herself onto the armchair. “How’s she doing?”

“Rude,” I reply, sitting up, “But if I had the answer, which I don’t of course, because I drank alone. But if I did, I would say pretty good. Maybe a bit busy today, but good nonetheless.”

She throws a pen at me. “I don’t need to know that,” she complains. Which, of course, does nothing but make me more smug.

“I’m not saying anything, because how would I know that she’s enjoying someone’s company this evening.”

“I hope your murder plot went terribly and your colleagues kick down the door tonight,” she jokes right back.

I shake my head. “That would require my coworkers to be at all competent,” I say with a smirk. Then, shrugging, I add, "Besides, who said anything about a murder?”

“Three gunshots in Heavens’ Lane said that,” she replies. She’s right, of course.

I sigh. “Does anyone on your route think anything of it?” I ask.

“About you? No,” she returns to a slightly more serious demeanor for the slightly more serious question, “About the victims, there are some rumors.”

I lean forwards, towards her. “Anything juicy?”

She leans in as well. “A little. The trashman might have ties to a corporation. Everyone’s real hush hush on the details, but they seem concerned.”

“Fun, though I’m not sure that’s great for me. Ties to a corp means mall cops rolling around. Means mall cop funding, too. You told anyone about the rumors?” I ask. I know her answer already. She’s not the sort to say anything to her customers, she just listens.

“Only the other messengers. Don’t worry, they all heard the same sort of thing and brought it up first.” So it’s a rampant rumor. Perfect, means they’re still going to have to move into action, even though the real cops haven’t told anyone the details officially. Probably means someone in Homicide is on one of the megacorps’ payroll, so they get the information early.

I sigh. “That’s more than the news has on the mysterious death that I know nothing about,” I admit, turning back towards the fight on TV.

Davina chuckles. “You used the closet gun, right?” she asks.

I pull out the revolver and toss it to her. As she catches it, I reply, “Nope. The victim had one in her panty drawer.”

“Fun,” she says, “And you’re definitely in the clear, right?”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say, “I know what I’m doing. You have anything fun going on?”

She shakes her head. “Not until you organize your next meeting with Grace to be at our apartment.”

I shake my head at my roommate. “And why would I do that?” I muse aloud.

“Because otherwise I’ll bring some strangers over,” she threatens.

I laugh. “Do it. See how that goes for you,” I counter.

Davina starts to pout. “Clearly you underestimate my awesomeness,” she complains, jokingly.

I feign offense. “Never. Only your discernment. And your partners’ desire.”

Suddenly, instead of reacting negatively, she starts to grin wide. “Oh my god. She mentioned me.” Davina starts laughing aloud. “You went to a business meeting and she was thinking about me. Wait, wait, wait, was it before you even got to talking business?” she presses, still chuckling.

Dang it. She noticed. “In all fairness, it was after she asked about the hot waitress, so…”

She takes it in stride. “Oh, so you’re saying that, while actively trying to pick up someone else, she still couldn’t help but think of me.”

“Is it bad if I hope you get into a horrible accident at work.”

She waves this off. “Normally, not, but this month you’re down three kay and we both know that you don’t have a clean three kay and enough legit money for rent without me.”

“I could easily just get Stevie to wash some of my less than spotless cash in bulk,” I argue.

“Ever since you slept with his wife, Stevie doesn’t like you very much. He’d upcharge you to fifty cents on the dollar,” she argues, “And we both know you would never waste that much money.”

I push back, “Nuh uh, he forgave me after I proved his wife also slept with that mailman.”

“Did he? Or did he just agree to work with you again?”

I think back on it. A lot has happened these last three months. But she’s right, he was still upset when he said we were square. “Shit,” I mutter. Then I said, “Wait, Maisie could just give me a loan.”

“She could, if she didn’t like me better,” Davina counters.

I shake my head as I finish my chili. “You’ve got to stop sleeping with my contacts,” I complain.

Davina shrugs. “Sorry, but as you pointed out, they’re the only ones I can bring up here without them getting all freaked out by my half naked roommate.”

I chuckle as I put my dish in the dishwasher. “But I only know the worst people,” I joke.

Davina laughs. “Don’t worry, I’d never go out with any of the worst people you know. Handcuffs aren’t really my kind of game.”

I head back to my room, ignoring Davina. Once safely in my room, I add loud enough for her to hear a very clear lie. “Just for that, I’m going to tell Grace I moved to a whole different building.” I close my door.

Muffled, I hear a quiet, “No one would ever believe you’d do that.” Which is true, but doesn’t mean I like it. I’m supposed to be unpredictable and awesome. I open my window to smoke.

My phone rings. It’s Martin. I pick up the phone. “Detective Wilton, how’s it going?”

“I’ve been hearing word that Homicide might be finding a break in the serial case. Any idea what that might be?” he asks.

I sigh. “Don’t know the details, yet, but I have a theory,” I offer.

“Go on,” Martin replies.

In a hushed tone, I say, “I think the killer’s disguising themselves as a trashburner, and has done some kind of thing similar in the past. Also, he’s interested in their laptops, uses them after the kills.”

“And you’re not just saying this because you want to stir shit?” he asks.

I shrug and decide to be honest. Or at least, honest adjacent. Makes the story more believable if it isn’t my first thought, just a shit-stirring one. Stories are stronger if people think it’s their idea. “The first half, definitely not. If I’m entirely honest about the second half, my current theory is they’re using the laptop’s info to determine their next target, nothing more nefarious, but that doesn’t cause as much trouble for our bosses, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m well aware of your eternal quest to ruin my retirement,” he complains.

I joke right back, “hey, I’m only ruining your retirement if you ever retire.”

“Hey, next week, just you wait and see. Just need to see who McMichaels has available, you know?”

I nod sarcastically, then realizing we’re on the phone, add a sarcastic, “Uh huh, definitely. I’ll bake the cake.”

Martin laughs. “See you tomorrow. Want to bring in those notes of yours, or are you good?”

“I can bring them in, if it’ll help our friends in Homicide, but they’re not going to like it,” I reply.

“You don’t need to share it unless it’s relevant, but having it might be helpful.” He’s right, it’ll be good cover, assuming I scrub any details that might point to me knowing where and when he was today. I quickly open up my version of the files again while lying in bed, and start to edit before I head to sleep.

The next morning, I head to work. Harry sidles up beside me as we walk. “Chance,” he says, “Anything I should know about?”

I shake my head. “Harry, I wouldn’t have anything to tell you today even if I could,” I reply so he knows it’s an empty question today.

He nods. “Good luck at work,” he says, “Especially when thinking about the upper management of certain companies who might now be happy about arrests people have made of late.”

I nod and smile in return. So rumors of the killer being Morana involved have reached the ears of Morana Hydroelectric’s rivals. Good to know. “Thanks for the wellwishes,” I reply as he heads away and I walk to the garage elevator. Mae’s already waiting for the doors to open, so I must be running late. She glares at me. “Back to work?” she asks.

The doors open. We get in. She presses ten. I press twelve. I reply jokingly, “Paperwork’s finally done, so I get to shoot people again.”

She sighs. The elevator rises in silence to the tenth floor. She gets out, still ignoring me. As the doors close, I add somewhat sarcastically, “Have a nice day.”

She flicks me off. The elevator rises up to the twelfth floor. I rush across the garage to my Bullette, to get to the oxygen mask as fast as possible. Mask and helmet on, I start my bike. It hums, lifting off the ground. Slowly, I walk the bike out of the small parking space and slowly ride the bike to the hangar doors on this floor, wait for the doors to open, then shoot out into the sky at speeds that might technically be illegal if anyone cared to police the sky-traffic in this part of East End. And if the traffic patrols didn’t recognize my custom bike.

Weaving through the morning traffic at high speed, I make it to the station in eleven minutes. Riding up to the rooftop door, it opens for me as I speed through, down the stairs, and into the bullpen with my desk. Through the open door to the sergeant’s office, my boss Sergeant McMichaels shouts. “Detective Bonheur…” She trails off, leaving the complaint implied.

“Sorry, boss,” I say, climbing off the BlackBullette and heading towards her office. She would normally be much more clear about her complaints. And would come out to the bullpen to engage. Then I see she’s not alone. In her office is what appears to be a twenty-year-old carbon copy of Sergeant McMichaels in her training uniform. “Hey,” I start to say something, but Martin intercepts me before I do something stupid.

“Come on, Chance,” he says, interrupting me while physically intercepting my steps and directing me towards one of the conference rooms, “Our friends have something you might want to see and confirm.”