by G. R. Lyons
“Miss…”
Asenna clenched her jaw for a moment before she offered, “Shyth.”
“Miss Shyth.” Mr. Timpkin folded his hands and leveled a look at her. “Focus your efforts on your other victims. I will not be turning over any of my clients' information. Now, if you'll excuse me.”
He stood and gestured toward the door. Asenna glanced over at Chief, who stared at the man in silence for a long moment before he gave a nod and rose.
Asenna glanced at Crawford as she walked out of the office, seeing his sympathetic look, and he followed her without a word.
The main office was unusually quiet, almost every eye turned toward a woman who leaned casually against one of the desks, talking to an agent.
“Not again,” Mr. Timpkin groaned, following behind them as he tried to usher them toward the front door.
“She looks familiar…” Crawford whispered.
“Who is that?” Asenna asked, blinking at the sight.
“Ula V'dynos,” Mr. Timpkin said. “Excellent client, but she gets my staff all confounded every time she comes in here.”
“She's bald,” Asenna pointed out in a loud whisper.
“Pure-blooded Erosti,” Mr. Timpkin explained in a murmur. “And a whore. Damned good one, too, by her reputation. Trained with the Erosti Leisure Guild before she came to Agoran to escape the Guild's restrictions.”
Asenna looked over her shoulder at the man, raising an eyebrow, and he held up his hands. “That's all public knowledge. Not sharing any client secrets there.”
Asenna glanced at all the men ignoring their work in favor of drooling over the slender woman wearing a slinky summer dress, her entire manner exuding all sorts of unspeakable pleasures.
“Familiar, huh?” she asked Crawford.
He held his hands up. “Just saw her from a distance, that's all.”
Asenna raised an eyebrow at him.
“I mean it,” he insisted, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Gods, Crawford,” she teased, chuckling under her breath at the look on his face. “Relax, would you? It's not like I'm your wife who just caught you with your pants down.”
Crawford gaped at her, his face going pale. Asenna realized what she'd said, swore in a whisper, and opened her mouth to apologize when the whole group came to a stop, the aisle between desks blocked by the bald Erosti woman.
“There you go,” the woman said, handing something over to the agent at the nearest desk. “That should get me paid up through the end of the quarter.”
“Can I call you a cab, Mistress?” the agent asked.
“Oh, no, thank you,” she said, smiling at him. “I'd much rather walk. It's such a beautiful day.”
“Carrying all that?”
“Oh, this is nothing,” the guildmistress said, shifting something in her arms just as Asenna and the others managed to squeeze past her.
Asenna glanced over and took another step, then did a double-take and whirled back.
“Those flowers,” she said, pointing at the bouquet tucked under the woman's arm. “Where did you get those flowers?”
“Miss Shyth,” Mr. Timpkin said, “I really must insist you not bother my clients.”
“Where did they come from?” Asenna insisted.
The guildmistress narrowed her eyes and said, “From a client, most likely, if it matters so much to you.”
“Which client?”
“Miss Shyth, really!” Mr. Timpkin cried.
“Which client?”
“Mr. Rothbur, would you please–”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Timpkin, and madam,” the chief said, nodding to each, “but I really must insist you answer her question. It could be a matter of your life.”
“May I?” Asenna asked, pointing at the arrangement.
“What is this all about?” Mr. Timpkin asked.
“Oh, for the gods' sakes, here,” the woman said, thrusting the flowers at Asenna.
“What's going on?” someone asked as several people came over.
Asenna ignored them, holding up the bouquet and analyzing the flowers.
“They're just flowers,” Mr. Timpkin insisted.
“Shhh,” Asenna hissed, turning the bouquet around. “No, look here. A single white rose amongst sunflowers.”
“So?”
“So, doesn't it just look off to you?”
“It's flowers,” the man spat, clearly losing patience.
“No,” the guildmistress said, her brow furrowed. “It…It is a little odd, isn't it?”
“No greenery, but lots of baby's breath,” Asenna pointed out. “Single victim. Excessive rape. Multiple gun shots.”
“What is she talking about?”
“Madam, your life is in danger,” the chief murmured. “Mr. Timpkin, I must insist you put her under protection for the rest of the day.”
“Protection?” the guildmistress scoffed. “Nonsense. I don't have time for this. I have four clients today, and they require the utmost secrecy. I will not have officers hanging about.”
“I understand your frustration,” the chief soothed, “but for your own safety–”
“Just because someone sends me flowers, I'm going to die?” She threw her hands up. “The arrangement is a little strange, I'll grant you, but they're probably just from a client, telling me he wants a massage and a blowjob.”
“A– Wait. What?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Look. Here.” She pointed at the flowers, but everyone stared at her like she was crazy. She sighed and snatched the flowers back. “It's a code. Something I set up with my florist years ago. I go to Renby Park every morning, to a particular bench while I have my coffee, and my better clients arrange to have a bouquet left there before I arrive. It tells me what they want without them having to say it over a phone conversation, so I can prepare my schedule ahead of time. It was the boy's idea. Rather brilliant, actually.”
“Boy?”
The guildmistress nodded. “Shyril's son. Worked for her for a while. Sweet little thing. Always offering to help me carry things. Wanted to hire me so bad, but he could never afford it.”
“Shyril who?” Asenna asked.
The woman's anger gave way to sadness as she said, “Shyril Dane. She was a good friend of mine. Owned a flower shop called Mystic Gardens, until she died. Now I'm–”
“Died how?”
“I'm not sure, really. I never did find out.”
“And who do you use now?” the chief pushed on.
The woman flicked away a tear and shrugged. “Generally, it's Mother's Floral. See, here?” She plucked the card out of the bouquet and turned it around, her expression turning confused. “Now that's odd. This card is blank.”
She turned it around again, and though it was clearly a florist's card, there was no indication of company name or address, nor any handwriting to indicate who sent the arrangement.
In the silence that followed, Mr. Timpkin asked, “Mr. Rothbur, you said all the victims had received such anonymous flower deliveries?”
“Yes,” the chief answered.
Mr. Timpkin nodded, then turned to his client. “Mistress V'dynos, I'm afraid I must take their advice, and insist upon putting you under guard today.”
“Mr. Timpkin,” she spat, “you know perfectly well that I have a non-interference contract. I cannot betray the privacy of my clients.”
“Then might I suggest you reschedule your appointments for the day?”
“Resch–Reschedule?” she stammered incredulously. “Mr. Timpkin, one of my clients for the evening is a very influential man, the type of man one does not reschedule or refuse under any circumstances. No, I will not allow it. And if you insist upon it, I will take my business elsewhere.”
“No, no, no, there's no need for that, madam,” Mr. Timpkin insisted, waving his hands. “But, perhaps, for your own protection–”
“This conversation has gone on long enough,” the woman said, drawing herself up. “I will not believe
my life is in danger just on some theoretical hunch. I have a good standing in this city and have no enemies. I will not have my life trifled with. Excuse me.”
With her head held high, the woman floated gracefully out of the office, leaving a wake of drooling or incredulous expressions behind her.
“Mr. Timpkin,” Asenna insisted, pointing at the door through which the woman had just departed, “you have to follow her.”
The man shook his head. “Like she said, her contract is strictly non-interference. One of the most ironclad I've ever seen. No drive-bys. No stake-outs. No tails. Nothing unless she reports suspicious activity.”
“She's going to get herself killed!”
He shrugged. “It's not my place to decide what's best for her. It's her life. It's her risk. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be getting back to work.”
He turned around, and all the agents and detectives scattered back to their desks.
Asenna watched them go, shaking her head, then threw up her hands as she turned back to the chief and Crawford.
“Now what?”
“Hush,” Chief whispered, guiding her toward the door. “Mr. Timpkin is right. It's her business. Not our place to interfere with her life.”
“But–”
“Not another word, Shyth,” he insisted. “Come on. We should be getting back.”
The chief walked out the door, and Crawford followed him, glancing around as they ushered her into the car. Asenna slumped back in the seat, crossed her arms over her chest, and let her breath out in a huff.
“She's going to get herself killed,” she repeated stubbornly.
“And that is her choice,” the chief said, looking at her in the rearview mirror as the car pulled out onto the street in autopilot. “If she doesn't think herself in danger, she has a right to be left alone. Let's focus on our own business, shall we?”
Asenna huffed out another sigh, shaking her head, and kept her mouth shut the rest of the way back to the office.
Chapter 16
CHARLIE SAT at the conference table that evening, rubbing his eyes while the other detectives argued about what to do next. A tap on his elbow startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see Asenna holding out a tablet for him.
He took it with a questioning look, and glanced down at the screen, a few random notes jotted down from the meeting. The notes cut off abruptly, so Charlie swiped the screen to the next page.
I'm sorry, he read. I feel like an ass for bringing up your wife like that earlier today.
Charlie stared at the screen, having to read the line a few times before the words sank in. Asenna's simple action of passing him a note like that took him back to his secondary school days, when he and Saira used to pass flirtatious notes back and forth in the middle of the writing class they shared, disguising endearments on the tablet screen amidst their notes about grammar and tone and clarity of writing style.
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the memory not to engulf him, and took a deep breath as he read her note again, the words finally taking on meaning.
He swiped the screen back to her meeting notes, and gave her a subtle smile and shake of the head.
Asenna responded with another apologetic look, then followed it with a forced half smile and turned back to the meeting just as they got interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Excuse me, Chief?” an officer asked, peeking into the room.
“Yes?” the chief asked, covering a yawn.
“Call for you,” the man said, then glanced down at a digital notepad in his hand. “Ula V'dynos, she said.”
Chief perked up and sat forward.
“On the screen, please,” he ordered, and Malrin turned to the wallscreen, pressing an icon for the phone function, and brought up the call sitting on hold.
A video window popped up, showing the exotic, hairless guildmistress, her face lined with worry.
“Mr. Rothbur?” she asked.
“Yes, Mistress,” the chief said, waving at the others to quiet down. “What can I do for you?”
“I'm sorry to bother you,” she said. “It's just…”
“It's quite alright,” the chief assured her. “How can I help you?”
“I called Mr. Timpkin's office to get your number. And I apologize for being so rude earlier. I just…I'm not sure if your girl got me shaken up or if there's really something going on here…”
“It's alright,” Chief assured her when she trailed off and glanced back over her shoulder like she thought she was being watched. “Just tell me what happened.”
“I'm not sure,” she said, glancing around again and taking a shaky breath. “My last client for the night just called and canceled. He's never done that before. I don't understand it. And since I didn't need to go see him, I came home instead and–” She flinched, then leaned in closer to the screen. “I think someone's been in my house.”
The chief straightened up, and the others in the room moved closer.
“Nothing's missing,” she hurried on, “and I can't say anything looks out of place. I think the alarm system is fine and all but…I don't know. Do you ever just get a feeling that someone has been in your space?”
The chief discretely signaled to the detectives and turned back to the screen. “It's going to be alright, Mistress V'dynos. If I may–”
“Yes, anything,” she said, nodding.
“I'm going to call Mr. Timpkin, and have him send over one of his investigators, just to sweep the neighborhood, be on the safe side. I'll send along my own Detective Crawford as well, if that's alright with you.”
The startled woman nodded rapidly. “Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate it. I'll pay whatever you need, I just–”
The chief waved his hand. “We can discuss that later. Right now we need to focus on keeping you safe. If you'll go double check your alarm system and your locks, I'll make a phone call and have them right over.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rothbur. Thank you.”
The chief ended the call and immediately dialed Five Oaks Agency. An officer there was dispatched, and as soon as they had an address, Charlie bolted for the door, hoping to arrive in time.
After an hour's drive, the car pulled up and stopped right in front of Mistress V'dynos's house, and a minute later, the Five Oaks Agency officer arrived. Charlie nodded to the man, and silently pointed at the door.
“House is awfully dark,” the man whispered.
Charlie nodded, glancing around at the well-lit street. He reached for his gun, saw the other man do the same, and ducked behind a wide tree in the front yard.
“Crawford to base, over,” he whispered into his communicator.
“I read you, Crawford,” the dispatch officer replied.
“House is dark. Approaching front door now.”
“Copy that.”
Charlie nodded to the other officer, and they both crept forward, slinking from shadow to shadow as they neared the house. They peeked in the windows and saw no signs of activity, then tested the front door.
“Locked,” the officer whispered, and pulled out his agency passkey. A soft click sounded as the door unlocked itself, and the two men ducked inside, covering one another as they moved through the dark house.
They checked and cleared all the front common rooms, then moved down a hallway, stepping silently on the thick carpets, checking and clearing a bedroom and washroom before finally coming to the master bedroom in the back of the house. The door stood slightly ajar, and Charlie peeked through, just barely able to make out a form on the bed in the moonlight.
He eased the door open, keeping his gun ready, and spun into the room while the other officer did the same, covering a different angle. Charlie felt along the wall for a light switch and flicked it to one side, but nothing happened. He tried it back and forth a few times, but no lights came on. He checked the room, making sure there was no place for a person to hide, then relaxed his stance and approached the bed.
Mistress V'dynos lay naked u
pon the bed, a wet, rattling breath slowly filling her lungs as she stared back at him, her eyes full of terror. Four bullet wounds were visible in the moonlight, and blood glistened black on the sheets beneath her.
“Crawford to dispatch, send an ambulance immediately. Vic is down. I repeat, vic is down. Multiple G.S.W.”
“Copy that. Any sign of a suspect?”
“Not that I can–”
“Shhh,” the other officer hissed, going tense. “Did you hear that?”
Charlie listened, and they both heard an obvious noise coming from the front of the house. The two men shared a look and bolted from the room, creeping down the hallway with their weapons ready as they sought out the noise.
They reached the front door again, with no sign of anyone else in the house.
“Nothing,” the officer muttered. “What in the–”
From the back of the house came a woman's choked scream.
“How did he get past us?” Charlie growled, and they raced to the back of the house again.
Charlie burst into the room, just in time to see a dark figure standing over the victim, a silenced gun pointed at her and a new wound in her forehead. The figure turned toward Charlie and disappeared, leaving only a crackling, electric sound in his wake.
“Where'd he go?” the officer cried, looking around frantically. “Where the fuck did he go?”
“Dispatch to Crawford, ambulance is on approach.”
Charlie tried the light switch again, and the overhead light flared to life, grossly illuminating the corpse.
“This is Crawford,” he said wearily, sinking back against the wall. “Vic's dead. Shot again.”
“Again?” he heard Malrin's voice come over the communicator. “Then the killer must still be there–”
“Nope. Killer's gone.”
“How do you know? He could still be there. We could still catch him–”
“Trust me. He's gone.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he vanished right before my eyes.”
The communicator went silent, and Charlie looked over at the other officer, who was staring, wide-eyed, at the bloody scene.
Charlie took a deep breath and said, “I think our killer is a mage.”
