by Lou Paduano
“No.” It came out harsher than he intended.
“No, what? What no? All I’m saying….” Ruiz stopped at the duffel bag by the front door, slowly lifting the center flap. Resting on top was Beth’s case file and a large spiral-bound notebook dogged by years of travel and scribblings. The past that refused to stay where it belonged. Loren moved away from the mantle, stepped beside the man he had called friend, and closed the bag once more.
“What you’re saying and what you’re doing are two different things, Captain.” Loren reached past Ruiz and grabbed his coat off the hook to the left of the door. He dug his hand deep into the right pocket and removed the pack of gum he kept on him at all times. His last one, he continued to swear, even to the mystery man in the mirror. He hated the habit worse than smoking, but after Beth’s death, after he stopped at the grocery store for that repetitive last pack instead of heading straight home to be with his wife, he knew it was time to change. The chewing gum crunched in his ear and everything tasted like layers of fruit whenever he felt the old need for one last drag. Damn, he missed smoking.
“You want to survey my mental state, just ask me like a normal person. You want to borrow a book, feel free. But this here? These boxes? This is me leaving.”
“In a few days,” Ruiz answered simply.
“No. Train leaves in a few hours, Ruiz. Hours.” Loren turned away, walking back to the mantle.
“I need your help, Greg,” Ruiz said, his voice soft and his head low. When Loren packed his bags and returned to the city of his birth, it was not a choice made lightly. There was history in Portents. There were relationships and even a few remaining friends. And there was Beth. The decision was, however, the smart move. After ten years in Portents, after four years without Beth to keep him in the light, it was time for that change. He hated the idea of going back. Of coming back. He hated his own curiosity just as much at that moment.
“Not my beat anymore, Ruiz. It was never really my beat.”
Loren’s eyes flashed at Ruiz. The exhausted Hispanic was smiling again. “You know that’s not true. Besides, don’t you think I’m a little too busy to waste my time asking for your help?”
Ruiz opened the door. The smell of Mrs. Arbogast’s stuffed shells was overpowering but it did not deter from his moment with Loren. The bearded former detective ran his fingers along his eyes to the bridge of his nose and nodded.
“Chicago,” he said knowingly.
“My first call,” Ruiz replied. Loren snapped his gum between his teeth loudly, catching a glare of disgust from Ruiz. “Lovely Captain Roberts, old friend as you know, cleared it immediately. And your sister was nice enough to let me know you were already in town. Come on. I even rescheduled your return trip for you. All on the city’s dime.”
Loren stopped in front of Ruiz, who held the door open for him. He blew a large bubble with the flat flavored stick of gum, then let it pop inches from Ruiz’s face before continuing into the hallway for the stairs.
“You make a guy feel real special.”
“Don’t mention it,” Ruiz said, closing the door to the apartment. He followed close behind Loren, shuffling down the stairs for the main entrance to the building. Mrs. Arbogast was only the most obvious neighbor to look out her door at the two officers, though Loren felt other stares through the small peepholes on the neighboring apartment doors. He kept his eyes on the bottom of the steps and the door beyond to avoid any awkward questions. As Loren reached for the door to step outside, Ruiz called out.
“Or the car. It’s the wife’s.”
Loren stepped out into the city street and the cool evening air. Though summer was a warm front away from taking root in the city, the nights still struggled to be tolerable, much less comfortable. The grizzled detective spit his gum at the retaining wall next to the building’s garden of dead or dying plants. He slipped his leather coat on, rubbing his brow deeply, and closed his eyes from the looming daylight surrounding him. He continued for the sidewalk, then backtracked. Two fingers reached for the sticky mass on the retaining wall to collect the gum. He tossed it in the trash receptacle on the sidewalk, wondering how many more times he would have to do that before he remembered to carry the wrapper. A parked vehicle sat in front of the building—a large, red minivan hugging the curb. A family bumper sticker clung proudly to the rear window of the vehicle, though it was one Loren had never seen. Four women surrounded a single stick figure man, all talking as the man ripped his hair out. Unique, but definitely Ruiz.
“Nice ride.” Loren laughed. He tried to focus on the vehicle but his eyes wandered to the sidewalk in front of the building. Even after four years, he saw the chalk marks and the stains of blood.
Her eyes staring up into the darkness.
Beth.
He cleared his throat loudly. Shifting eyes and shifting hands came back with another stick of gum. Filthy habit.
“I said don’t mention it,” Ruiz huffed, heading to the driver’s side.
“I know,” Loren replied.
Ruiz reached in and grabbed the file from the passenger seat, tossing it softly on Loren’s lap. Loren let it sit there, refusing to reach for it. Refusing to open it and the door back to Portents, one that wouldn’t stay closed. It was Ruiz’s turn to clear his throat. The driver’s side door slammed shut to muffle it but Loren heard it even over his chewing. He stared out the window, looking back at the chalk mark long since removed from the sidewalk, yet always there in his mind.
“How bad?” Loren finally asked.
“Bad,” Ruiz answered, shuffling for his keys. The ignition clicked for a moment and then the van whirred to life.
“Meaning no one else wanted it.” Loren nodded, his gaze on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building. He didn’t need Ruiz to confirm his statement. They both knew what Loren really meant. No one else could understand it let alone solve it. One of those cases that Ruiz kept out of the daily briefing so that there were no questions asked. One of those cases that ended with a brief statement but never an explanation. One of those cases that kept Loren going after Beth’s death but eventually drove him away when he realized what they were doing to him. How they were taking over.
“Except Mathers,” Ruiz replied.
“Christ,” Loren muttered, thinking of Ruiz’s opposite on the day shift. There were some things you can’t run away from fast enough. “Sounds like old times.”
The van shifted to drive and Ruiz pulled it away from the curb into traffic. Once settled on the straightaway leading from King’s Lane east to the warehouse district, he turned to Loren.
“Welcome back to Portents.”
Chapter Four
Darkness spread across the city like a blanket in the early hours of the evening. To the west, the sun did its best to continue to shine, fighting a battle it was destined to lose. Beneath the city streets, a shadow crept along an abandoned junction of the C line heading away from the center of the city for uptown’s red light district. Her small, lithe frame was silent, stepping effortlessly beneath the people of Portents. She gazed through the neon lights that buzzed to life with the coming dark, watching closely while the citizens scurried from place to place.
They carried smiles she did not understand. They spoke of movies, books, sports, and more that she knew nothing about but wished she had. Her dark skin glistened in the trickling light under the city streets, never hesitating to get to her destination, though the temptations of the city called to her. Even after so many years in the dark, beneath the city, she still carried the dreams of being among them. That sense of wonder was not kept in her muscular frame that she had built over a lifetime of training. She hid it well with her small body, loose blouse, and torn jeans. It was not seen in the smirk that kept her light on her feet and light in her heart for the job she was meant to fulfill. The sense of wonder was in her eyes, the large brown eyes of a four-year-old girl watching the fiery leaves dance in the autumn wind.
She was no longer that girl, though. H
er life ended that day and a new one began. With it a new name. With the stone tied to her hip, a new job. It took her months after the accident to speak, let alone attempt to remember the events of her life before that fateful day. Everything had been lost, including the faces of her family and the names they bore. Even her own. In the orphanage library, she found a book of names, and weeks of reading helped her locate the one that made her feel whole once more.
Soriya.
It was unique among the other girls, a plus for her need to stay separate from the group. Not that she ever shared it with them. They had their own names for her, names that made them feel more comfortable around her, superior to her. More than that, her newly chosen name derived from the Khmer word for “sun”—a sentiment she needed in the long, cold winter she endured within Saint Helena’s Orphanage for Girls. Her surname was lost to faded memories but over time she was gifted with one by a man she would call Mentor, the first person to understand what happened to her, the first to help her understand there was more in the world. The surname also found origin in the stone she found the day her life was lost yet found in the same instance, the stone she held tight to every day since finding it among the wreckage of her former life.
Greystone.
Soriya Greystone.
She felt proud of the name—it made her feel almost normal, a feeling that was rare in her day-to-day life. Even now. Under the city streets, she still felt the distance between her world and the one everyone else knew. It was a necessary distance but one she found herself regretting more and more. She attempted to connect. Failed attempts for the most part, but attempts nonetheless. She wanted to be part of the world, their world, the one she had seen from the darkness for the last eighteen years of her life. The distance, however, was good for one thing: It protected her. It kept her safe to do what she was meant for.
Not that she cared. She wanted to be seen by the world. No matter what the consequences, no matter the pain that came with it or the joy, just for one moment she wanted to feel purely part of the city she inhabited. Mentor hated the thought of it. He hated the connections she made, what he saw to be distractions from the job put on their shoulders. Fatherly disapproval did nothing to assuage her desire.
Soriya reached her destination and grabbed hold of the sewer ladder. She held herself away from the grime that had collected along the metal bars, hoping to keep her clothes clean for the night’s work. Slowly she climbed until she reached the manhole cover that slid open with ease under her soft yet strong hand. It was noisier than she intended, or maybe she had intended it to begin with, her desire to be heard and seen by the world sometimes making each action brash and unpredictable. It was a trait she knew would lead to nothing but trouble, yet still maintained, bringing a thin, wicked grin to her face.
The alley was empty and she vacated the sewer transportation system she tended to travel more and more. Passersby never flinched, continuing their gaze ahead to music pulsating the block from nightclubs and dive bars. Soriya wiped the grime away on a nearby piece of cardboard. She hung close to the wall of the alley. The sun was a memory and the night was taking its hold of the city. A chill settled in and she felt small bumps along her arms under the sleeves of her tight shirt. Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved her cell phone. The screen lit up before her.
Nothing.
No word from Vlad. He was supposed to call her the previous night after checking out the club scene. He was supposed to be more reliable. He was supposed to be many things, Soriya thought, looking across the street at the club Vlad was meant to be attending.
Night Owls.
Reports were filed for four women over the last two weeks, all of them having attended the hopping club close to the time of death. While no one from the bar was able to identify the women in question, Soriya had little doubt foul play was involved and that it started there. Patrols were stepped up, but even they had little effect, the last victim being three days prior. Newspapers failed to report it. City officials failed to identify it. Even Vlad failed to back her up. Strange, considering he brought the case to her in the first place, but not a stretch with their history. To Soriya it was the same old story.
It was her job and her job alone. The way Mentor wanted it to be.
Night Owls was packed already. The defiant youth, the lost, all those refusing to allow the night to dictate a curfew to their lives in the city. Soriya smiled at the sight of the bouncer working the door. He stood at seven feet tall, towering over the clientele even from the chair he sat on. The patrons of the club thought the light green hue of his skin and small horns that stuck through his thick black hair were a great addition to the club’s atmosphere. Soriya knew they were not for theatrics or part of the club’s act. They were part of the man she knew as Urg. His true face, hiding in plain sight. Still, he was able to be one of them, something Soriya had failed to be in all her years in the city. Another friend. Another distraction. At least she would not have to wait in line with everyone else, she thought.
Darkness settled over her. Soriya took a deep breath, stepping out into the city streets among the rest of the people. She was just one of the crowd. She tucked a single strand of hair back behind her ear, eyes never looking away from their objective.
“Time to get to work.”
Chapter Five
There was always one thing everyone collectively knew when it came to a crime scene: keep your mouth shut and get the work done. Truly two things when spoken by most but after a few cocktails with the commissioner, Ruiz was sure they were one and the same. The edict held true as Ruiz ushered Loren into the scene, already cursing his curiosity. Where empty streets were the norm for the warehouse district of the city, news of the death had already spread and a cordon was put into place to keep the gathered press and onlookers well away from the scene. A line of crimson ran along the side of the building under the moniker that had been etched in the brick. Evans. Underneath, Loren saw the large stone masonry marking the construction of the building. 1896. One of the earliest buildings in the city but still there was something odd that caught his eye. The nine had been obscured with red, different than the line that stretched across the brick. Almost deliberate in its defacement to the point where the nine was overwritten in red with the number seven.
Flashbulbs screamed. They lit up the darkening sky, following him and Ruiz into the warehouse. The grizzled man kept his head low, turning away from the parade of photographers and news crews. The last thing he wanted was his scruffy mug on the front page of the paper with the headline, Bigfoot Found in Woods. Buys Clothes. Becomes Detective.
Stranger things, Loren thought.
As far as smells went, Loren had been accustomed to much worse. The shattered glass of the warehouse allowed the rank mildew from forgotten machines and rotted floorboards to air out into the city streets naturally. The rain helped as well, with puddles throughout the outer ring of the main floor of the building. Along the center, in a straight line from the fire escape window to the single staircase that led to the second level, was a stream of dried blood. Forensics lined the thin patter of red for samples and photographs. Loren heard the echoes from his footfalls along the metal steps, climbing to the row of offices on the second level. Stares followed him, as well as a pair of glaring eyeballs from Ruiz who continued to edge him forward. There was a reason Loren needed Chicago but there was also a reason most in the Central Precinct were happy to see him leave for the Windy City. Already the whispers broke the crime scene rule, mutterings between the old guard to the new all watching curiously.
“Heard about him and Standish but never…”
“Wonder if he can still walk in a straight line…”
“Should have stayed away…”
Both heard the gossip threatening to tear the department apart. Both heard every whisper and rumor spread in the echoes of the large warehouse, never attempting to silence them. Not yet. Instead Ruiz continued to prod Loren forward to the large office at the far end
of the level with the open door.
Spotlights were positioned in the far corners of the room but even with them, the scene was difficult to decipher. A few photos were taken while Loren stood in the doorway. He shifted to the right to let the last of the forensics team make room. From the bottom of the steps, one of the first responders called for Ruiz, leaving Loren as alone as he had been in his own apartment barely an hour earlier.
Behind the spotlights, Loren saw the sun fading in the distance. The night chill was waning but still bitter with the wind battering the broken shades along the far wall of the office. His jacket barely helped—not that anything would, with the body still present in the center of the room.
He was young. Even in the pale light offered by the spotlights, Loren could tell he was young. His neck had been snapped, the obvious cause of death. Wounds ran the length of his chest, long and thick. Five slashes, uneven in depth and width. The man’s shirt was torn, filaments caught between his fingertips. His own act then. Probably to stop the bleeding. There was more. Much more that Loren needed to see all at once. Needed to but the want had long since left him. This was Portents through and through. There was little more to it than mayhem on most days, and upon the lucky few, the city threw murder into the mix to liven things up for its residents.
As Loren stepped into the room, his eyes on the broken frame of the young man and the disjointed arms lying across the center of the room, he felt something slide along his leg and scurry into the corner of the office. Loren stopped, leaning back to the door.
“Can I get some more light over here?” he yelled out to anyone within earshot. “I prefer to see the damn rats before I feel them.”
