No one noticed the girl. It was understandable-- the office was swamped, justice was being served, the general hubbub of New York City was leaking in through the open windows along with the hot summer air, and no one noticed the girl. Ashley might have, if he'd been doing his job as opposed to letting the burn of his whiskey like fire down his throat lull him into something of a moment's peace. He supposed as long as the city was still bursting at the seams with crime he wouldn't get fired, and nothing had proven him wrong thus far.

It was a quick walk at a brisk pace from his office down to the entrance, just fast enough to intercept Richard on the way in. "And where've you been, Smith? I've been watching the paint dry on my office wall waiting for your slow ass to show up." It was harmless jabbing, and Richard had been at his side long enough to know it. The man mustered up a cocky grin and the tip of his hat.

"It was the Missus, Gallagher, I swear," His hands went up in mock surrender. "Couldn't keep her hands off for a moment."

"She will when you're broke and out of a job, Smith."

"What, you mean my charm and good looks wouldn't keep her at my side?"

"Not for a damn moment and you know that." Ashley tossed him a wink, "I'm taking my cigarette break, pal. Go waste more time I'll be up in a jiffy." Richard rolled his eyes, but complied, his shiny shoes and the flutter of his coat hooked over his shoulder the last Ashley saw of him as he turned the corner.

She had hair the color of night and eyes the color of summer grass, and he almost missed her entirely. He supposed it was poetic justice in one form or another that he was the one who finally spotted her- and on his damned smoke break, too. The cigarette was dangling between his lips, on the edge of being lit when she caught his eye like a small, dark, silhouette. She was small, seated in between two distracted bodies who dwarfed her in size. Anxiety rolled off her in mighty waves, the heel of her shoe tapping a staccato beat with no real rhythm but perhaps the pound of her own nervous heart. Her eyes met his and she startled as if she had been caught in the cream, her brows furrowing and her pale hands moving to draw the oversized trench coat further over her bare shoulders.

"Can I help you, miss?" He offered, hoping to God or whatever fool watching over them that her answer would be a prompt no so he could smoke his damn cigarette. The heavy man beside her grunted gruffly.

"I've been here hours longer than her!"

"Didn't your mama ever teach you 'ladies first'? And unless you've got a surprise for us all, that ain't you." Ashley fidgeted, pulling the lifeless cigarette from his lips and pointing it uselessly at the man. "Shut up and wait your damn turn." The woman stood and it dragged his attention back to her, an inquisitive brow raised.

"I... I'd like to speak with you." She murmured, almost so quiet he couldn't hear.

"Speak up, please or I'll move along."

She clenched her small fist and tried again. "I'd like to speak with you, and I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss me-- I'm sure you'll like what you hear." She had the faint touch of the New York accent that Ashley, no matter how long he lived in the damn city, would still find foreign to his ears.

"Well then little lady, if you'll just follow me we can have a nice chat in my office. I didn't want this anyway." He gazed regretfully at the cigarette in hand and tossed it into the nearest bin, offering a guiding hand at the woman's back as they made their way to the stairs.

Alison Fitzpatrick, 1949

Brooklyn, 4:46 PM

Alison wiped her hand against the taxicab's filthy, dust-molested window. New York wasn't going anywhere, but she was. Sooner or later, she'd be right in the thick of these unearthly skyscrapers and the clarity of the city's skyline would be gone. She'd seen places somewhat like this before -- Chicago, New Orleans, among others -- and they were always so mesmerizing to look at from the outside. It was once you found your way into the maze and rooted yourself into its reality that the city lost its appeal. The cab driver, a black man wearing a weathered fedora, hollered back. "...Like what you see?"

"Yes, yes," was all Alison could offer him in response during her very short break from the hypnosis. She was under a spell.

It was easy to tell, though, that New York was nothing like the others. From here, it looked like someone had smashed Chicago, Houston, and Los Angeles into pieces and meticulously put them back together into one massive, impossible sculpture. Alison could hardly believe that she -- and this nameless taxi driver -- was headed straight toward it.

In a sense, Alison was tremendously proud of herself, but when she allowed her thoughts to be honest with themselves, she hadn't the slightest idea of what to expect from this place. She was intelligent enough to know that the reality of New York City was masqueraded by its beauty, but she had not yet learned just how much was hiding behind its mesmerizing lights.

Club Carousel, 7:31 PM

415. This was the one. Alison set down her suitcase and banged on the door. She looked around at the grimy walls of the apartment hallway and grimaced. This explained why she had managed to afford an apartment on Manhattan Island at all. The building was pretty disgusting and they sat directly above a nightclub, and she could already tell it would gruesomely subtract from her beauty sleep. Neon lights bled into the room from the window at the end of the hall.

The door barely opened and a the face of a gorgeous albeit makeup-smothered woman wearing hair-curlers poked out. "What?"

"Are you...uh..." Alison looked down at a piece of paper with Julia, room 415 scribbled onto it. "...Julia?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and further opened the door. "Uh huh...and you're Allie?"

Alison looked down at the floor. "Alison."

"Come in," Julia said. The girl, to Alison's surprise, was in some sort of sparkly underwear and looked to be in the middle of getting ready for something. The pure splendor of it juxtaposed the apartment, which was about as ugly and decrepit as Alison had feared.

"It's not much, but it's Manhattan. With luck, you won't be spending much time in here at all," said Julia as she winked back at Alison. The living room, which the door entered into, was small, but had a single couch, a small television, and a large window with a neon-tinted view of the street below. Julia pointed at an open door. "That's yours."

Alison nodded her head thankfully and said nothing else. She departed into her new room and looked around. It was empty. There was a bed, standing lamp, a desk, and literally nothing else. She tossed her suitcase onto the mattress and its steel supports clanged against its impact. She sat down and stared out her minuscule window. Alison couldn't see jack shit out of the glass. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and rubbed against the window. Nothing. It was if the grime had encrusted onto the window. She hollered back into the living room. "I can't see the city in the dust on my window!"

Her future roommate hollered back. "Well? What do you want me to do?"

Alison sighed and closed the door. She let her bodyweight fall onto the bed. She was so unbelievably tired that even the unopposed neon from the outside could not keep her from drifting into sleep.

Let it be said that Ashley Gallagher was a patient man, but he was by no means a saint. The woman had sauntered into his office, a flurry of purpose and promised information, but it had been half an hour based solely on how pissed off he was becoming and she hadn't said a word. She seemed perfectly content to simply mill about his office like a caged animal, looking timidly behind every corner as if something were lurking and ready to pounce. He decided to start simple. "What's your name?" It had its desired effect. She snapped to attention almost immediately, her actions once awkward and timid now languid and comfortable, as if she had donned a gilded mask. She seated herself atop his desk, across from him.

"People call me Emerald." She murmured, toying with the finger of her glove.

"Of course they do." He was a detective. He had not failed to notice the varying qualities of her that all pointed in the same direction and that was, unsurprisingly, the seedy club on the seedy street that only occupied his time, regrettably, when he was working. It had become painfully apparent when she had shucked her coat and stood in front of him in scant enough to be proper. "You said you had information for me, Emerald. Now I'm a detective and I'm here to help, but if you're just here to waste my time I'll be a very angry detective."

"I do," She paused, "Have information that is. I'm just figuring out if you're the person I want to share it with."

"By all means, take your time. Pat me down, give me a survey while you're at it. It's not as if I spend my days fighting the crime that plagues this very city each and every moment of each and every day." He punctuated his sentence with the flick of a cigarette because, regardless of Richard's qualms with him smoking in their mutual office, he couldn't give a damn.

Her painted lips curled up into a half-cocked smirk. "You're a funny one, then. Color me surprised. I thought all of you were the same."

"All of you, huh? And you expect I have, what," He spread his hands. "No preconceptions about your choice in career path?"

"I'm sure you do, whether or not I care is a different question."

"-Hey, what's your game here? You come in looking 'bout as small as a mouse with the timidity to match and now here you are acting like you own the place. I have to be honest I'm not sure what you want from me and it's getting on my nerves.“

“Would you have honestly addressed my problems first if I hadn’t been wearing that ‘little old me’ persona?”

He exhaled a gust of smoke in response. “Touché. You still haven’t told me why you’re here so the way I see it, you’re still wasting my precious time.”

“You seem trustworthy enough, I suppose. What if I told you I had information on one of your three big bad gangs playing cowboys and indians on your turf?” She turned her back on him, “You do consider it your turf, right? Adorable.”

“Now don’t play me for a fool. Everyone knows who owns this town, sweetheart, and it certainly ain’t me. Now what do you have?” He kept the eager tinge out of his voice to the best of his ability, taking a long drag from his cigarette to calm his sudden leap of heart.

“The Townleys? Ever heard of them?”

“Of course. You’re leading me on, darling. Throw me a bone.”

She turned to grin at him. “Woof.” At his disparaging look she rolled her green eyes with great effort and hopped off his table, spinning to splay her hands atop its edge as if to emphasize her point. “The bar I dance at? They own the place. And let it be said my boss has a looser tongue than some of the girls there.” Her wink and entendre were not lost on him, but she continued. “If you were to… I don’t know, pay a visit every once in a while, perhaps once a week? Less? I’d make it worth your while.”

Ashley tapped his cigarette on the edge of his ash-tray, effectively sitting on the very edge of his metaphorical and literal seat. She was dragging him along and he was happily letting her. “Why can’t you just bring the information here, darling? That’s quite a walk.”

“It would be very suspicious if one of the dancers at a mob-owned bar made regular trips to the Police Station. Now, if a weary, not-so-handsome cop were to stop by the bar and look for a little beautiful company, who could blame him?”

“You’d make a fair point if it was less contemptuous.”

“Oh don’t lie, it’s the best offer you’ve gotten in quite a while. I couldn’t help but notice how busy you cats are these days.”

“Yeah, yeah. And what do you get out of it?”

“Let’s just say my pure little heart would just be tickled to help out the community.”

It was in that moment that Ashley Gallagher, Vice Detective of the NYPD, wished that he’d just taken the smoke break.

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 1:30 AM

To Alison’s dismay, that same psychedelic combination of neon from the outside still bombarded her room when she woke up. She groaned and rolled off the bed. She was still well into the night. After leaning against the side of her bed with her elbows, she finally managed to stand her drowsy body to its feet and stagger into the living room. The lights were out – Julia was gone, and now the living room had been plastered by orange lighting from the club’s sign below. Loud music vibrated onto the floorboards from the club below and rain began to coalesce onto the windows.

“Lovely,” muttered Alison as she wandered into the living room. She fiddled with the television until she found something she could lose herself in – she settled for a broadcasted live jazz show. She wanted more than anything to go outside and scale the impossible structures of this place for herself. But, between the rain, her exhaustion, and the surrounding area, she decided to stay in. She would have to see it all tomorrow.

As the TV’s quiet drone of jazz washed over Alison’s brain, she mindlessly braided her long, brown hair. She did not quite manage to finish before she sank into the couch and again fell asleep.

2:21 AM

“Hehe—shhh…” Julia’s alcohol-addled voice pitifully attempted a whisper. Vicky’s eyes opened and then immediately shut again, feigning sleep.

“What, baby?”

“Her. That’s my new roommate.” Julia pointed at the couch.

“Oh. Hmm.” Julia’s male companion paused to take a look at Alison. “Looks like you've finally found yourself some competition, Julie.”

Julia slapped him across the face and smirked. “You'll change your mind once you hear her talk. Come on.” She grabbed his hand and led him to her bedroom. There wasn’t even a delay before Alison heard the details of intercourse reverberate from Julia’s room. She sat up, groaned, and wandered back over to her bedroom. Alison’s room was directly next to Julia’s, and when she lay down on the bed, she realized that she could not only better hear them, but could feel the vibrations against the wall.

“Ugh!” Alison leapt back out of bed and reached for her coat. She was already beginning to harbor resentment for the woman whom she shared her apartment with. She quickly bolted from the room and headed downstairs. A nightgown reinforced by a coat was a rather foolish choice for the rainy, rambunctious road outside, but she had come to New York to start over. She was going to wear whatever she wanted. She wandered alone down the sidewalk.

The lights, the noise, the smell…all of it – Alison was almost overwhelmed as she walked around. Still, she pressed on, sifting through crowds of drunk, jacketed, fedora-donning men and trying to internalize her new home as much she was able. She settled on a bench a few blocks away and sat. Her hair and jacket were now soaked. She sat there in her nightgown alone in the dark. She knew what she looked like and she cared little. This place was what she wanted. She could feel it in her bones.

Friends, or she supposed people she was acquainted with as she didn't often bother with friends, occasionally asked her what drew her to the stage. Was it the money? Was it the attention? Was it a last ditch effort for hope in the kind of city that despite the lights, flash, and pomp still suffocates you slowly with its heady, heavy weight? It was always asked with a sick sort of superior sympathy, as if she was something to be pitied. Truth was, it was none of these things. She got on the stage because it felt like power. She could stand in a room filled wall to wall with authorities, mobsters, cops and anything in between and she could control the room with nothing more than the languid movement of her body.

Tonight was no different. Emerald stared out at the sea of faces, directed at her or otherwise, and put on her best smile, pretending to hold no knowledge of the mighty web of crime being spun before her eyes in thick, black pitch.

When it was over and she was backstage, she ignored the empty green eyes of a lost soul that gazed back at her from the lit up mirror and curled her painted lips into a private smile for the woman seated next to her.

“You were great out there Em, it seems like every night’s your best.” Emerald was two years Angel’s senior, but one would think ten by the looks of her. She was a lanky thing with pale skin, dark eyes and just enough to shake it on stage, her wispy blonde hair in a wild flight about her face.

The day she walked into the club looking like a smear of white paint on a canvas of blood and grime she had caught Emerald’s fond eye. The girl was sweet and so Emerald allowed herself to take pity on her, and take her underneath her wing. “Why thanks, sweetheart, though I wouldn’t say it was my best. I’ve been dreadfully distracted lately.”

The small voice responded. “I’m sure no one noticed.” Angel fidgeted, twisting her hands into the frill of her own fluffy skirts with her lips pressed tightly together.

“Spit it out dear, you look like you’ve swallowed a nasty bug.”

“Well it’s just that… I saw you at the police station yesterday.”

Emerald resisted the urge to roll her eyes back with the flutter of her thick lashes before speaking. “A private call, I assure you. I’m a favorite among New York’s finest. Who would have thought?” She kept her eyes on her reflection, leaning forward to feign dalliance with her makeup.

“Oh.” It was a moment before she spoke again. “I didn’t know that you—.”

Emerald was quick to interrupt her. “—It’s none of your damn business if I do, sweetheart.” There were only a handful of ways a woman could make decent money in this city without working herself to the bone, so why not take full advantage of the gifts she’d been given?

“Right.” Emerald’s gaze flickered to the girl to watch her tawny eyes drift to the side. “I just… this is the only job I have and if the club closes down because of the cops I don’t think I could ever…”

Her guilt trips were easily overlooked and Emerald filed this conversation away for later inspection. Angel was pushing today and she was not truly sure why. The girl hardly ever questioned Emerald’s motives or actions. “It won’t close down because of my visits to the station— in fact if anything I’m securing our place in the heart of our dear protectors.”

This finally got her a smile out of Angel, which were few and far between. She ignored the small swell in her heart and abruptly stood, shrugging into her trench coat and hefting her bag over her shoulder. “That was my last dance of the night, I’ll be making my way home. Stay out of trouble, dearest.” She tossed a wink in Angel’s direction and was out the door before she could hear the response.



The rain and the crowd of people on the sidewalk that greeted her upon her exit did little to temper her foul mood. She shoved through men and women alike, focusing her gaze on the brilliant colors of red and purple emitting from the club’s signs and dancing upon the shiny puddles. She almost missed the girl at the bench. She stopped her brisk pace and looked the woman over. Her state and choice of clothing made Emerald’s first guess a tart, but a lowly one with poor taste in attractive colors.

Emerald was intrigued, and that was really the only explanation she could think of when she later asked herself why the hell she didn’t just move on. “Mind if I sit, sugar?”

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Nighttime

Alison shivered against the damp bench. Various creatures of the night pranced past her – businessmen, finally letting loose the penned horrors that rested inside them; sirens, who were no doubt here to craft said horrors into profit; and the onlooking spectators, who wished more than anything that they could leave the day behind and join the carnival themselves. There was a nightlife back at home, sure – but never like this. People went out to take the edge off, not completely lose themselves and viciously toss their cash at self-gratification.

A siren brushed past the crowd. She looked different than the others. Her mind did not seem to be warped by an agenda. Instead, she looked the part of a wanderer; this was anything but profitable, but Alison understood. What Alison could not quite decipher was the sudden shift in gaze by this spectacle of a girl. The siren’s eyes pierced her gaze and dominated their mutual eye-contact. Before Alison could make anything of it, the woman walked over to her personal space and immediately set it ablaze.

“Mind if I sit, sugar?”

Huh. What the hell would a lady of the night want from her? Alison shivered and slightly nodded. “S-sure.”

Emerald nodded towards the seemingly intimidated girl and gracefully lowered herself to the bench, ignoring the cold, clingy feeling of rainwater seeping into the seat of her old trench coat. She stole guilty, lingering looks at the girl beside her, somehow fascinated by the purely depicted cleanliness on such a grimy street. There was a moment of silence, of which the culprit was most likely Emerald as she watched the variety of entertainment around them. Her personal favorite spectacles were the drunks, the stumblers still humming or even flat-out singing the remnants of a long quieted song, shimmying and swaying in that giddy, uncoordinated dance that she couldn't help but admire. What courage it must take, what dumb courage, to leave yourself so vulnerable to the terrible world around you and nonetheless sing as if you hadn't a care in the world.

Her curiosity overcame her. "What brings you to these parts, huh? You look like a white rose in a field of weeds, sweetheart." She reached for a cigarette and stuck it between her lips. "Mind if I smoke?" She said, speaking around it.

The ceiling fan made its rounds, each swing making a hideous squeak and obscuring the small crack in the plaster from view. Ashley Gallagher of two years ago would be sleeping soundly, sans the set up of whiskey at his bedside table. Ashley Gallagher of today, however was watching a damn ceiling fan, his bedsheets strewn haphazardly about him and his mind still reeling with the last grasps of the nightmare that plagued him not twenty minutes prior.

He blamed it on the heat. The thick, clinging heat that stuck in beads of sweat to the back of his neck. Even with the window open, the soothing noise of general city nightlife filtering in, the lights painting his ceiling in a collection of golds and blues, peace would not find him. Ashley held his breath, releasing it only after a few beats in a strong puff, the only thing that might settle his nerves enough to let him drift into sleep once more.

It was always her. The face in his dreams. Her cool, rainy-sky eyes that perceived him with a warmth he couldn't understand or share. Her soft smile or her upturned palms, invitations. The tall grass swaying around their hips in a steady dance that even the strongest of hearts couldn't deny. It was always the blood that pooled between her fingers, spilling between them even as he tried to catch it in his own. "Hold on." He'd beg, but it wouldn't be enough. It was never enough that the world could bring a strong man to his knees in despair-- it always wanted more. He'd cradle her head in his lap, running his calloused fingers through her blood caked, thin strands of hair. It was too much.

And with that thought he sat up, reaching instinctively for the glass next to him and pouring himself some of the amber liquid he so heavily depended on. The dreams? They were a lot, but he could drink more, and within the hour he felt himself dozing into something of a rest, his mind slowing from its mile-a-minute pace to an inching sort of crawl.

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 2:31 AM

Alison shivered and barely acknowledged Emerald. She slowly kicked her feet against the ground, aimlessly trying to distract her ample brain from all of the grotesque spectacle.

"I'm here because I was told that this was the best place in the world." She finally looked up and scanned the mesmerizing neon signs above. "This is nothing like where I am from." Nothing about this shiny, booze-soaked amalgamation even remotely resembled home. Her mind repeatedly hovered back-and-forth between homesickness and wonder. It was far too early to miss home -- it was only her first day. Pull it together.

Alison finally stared the lady of the night square in the face and gave a half-smile. "As long as you have one for me."

Oh. She was one of those. Emerald let out a billow of smoke with her cynical chuckle. She said nothing, she simply draped a sympathetic look over the girl, her rouged lips pursing around the cigarette. Finally she plucked another out from the shiny metal case, offering it to her companion.

"Never is, sweetheart." She admitted after a moments thought. "Sometimes its better, sometimes its worse." Emerald offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though she was sure it appeared as mirthless as it felt. "You find the things that make it work. There's always a way out of every situation, don't let anyone tell you different." She paused a moment to take a long, lingering drag from her cigarette. "Where are you from?"

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 2:31 AM

Alison plopped the cigarette into her mouth and asked the pivotal question in muffled speech. "Got a light?" She had hardly ever smoked during her youth, but she had to perpetuate a new aura around her if she was ever going to be able to take herself seriously. "My name is Alison," she said, cigarette dangling from her lips. "I'm from Baker City. Oregon. Long, long way from here."

As she waited for a light, Alison folded her arms and began to stare at the fedora-topped sea of nightclub vagrants. It was a spectacle to watch the nightlife from the outside, and she couldn't tangibly comprehend what it would be like to be on the inside. Perhaps this woman knew. "Do you work here?"

Emerald grinned, pulling out her lighter and striking it up below the woman's cigarette. "It's a real pleasure, Alison. I go by Emerald." She gave the girl a cheeky wink before withdrawing the lighter. "Oregon is a long, long way from here, darling. What brought you to this shithole? Was it the pretty lights?" She pinned her own cigarette between two fingers and drew it away, exhaling a pretty gust of smoke from her lips.

She gestured vaguely towards the Club. "Yeah, I dance here. It's a living." Emerald paused, eyes lifting briefly to the sky with an accompaniment of fluttering eyelashes. The rain had slowed to a small drizzle. "Why, you looking for work?"

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 2:32 AM

Alison let the singed cigarette hang in her mouth for a few moments before letting out the smoke. She had only done this a few times -- a few fleeting, exhilarating moments in which she felt like she was domesticating her spirit and truly getting 'something' out of her youth. Then reality returned and she was reminded by her peers that she needn't waste her time on such petty existentialism -- she needed to be presentable so that she could find herself a man. Ugh. She'd had a sweetheart for a little while, and at no point had he ever been the solution to her problems.

At that, Alison hit the cigarette again. "I came here because I'd seen all there was to see. You run out of youth at a very young age in a place like that." She paused and stared the woman straight in the face. She couldn't tell whether or not 'Emerald' was complimenting her with her job offer. "N-no. I am all right, thanks. I was thinking about applying to be a secretary at the police station down the road a bit."

Emerald nodded slowly. A secretary at the police station. She had already made her limit of friends at the police station and had no interest in any more ties to the place. She stood, wrapping her arms around herself as the wet chill finally made itself noticeable. A damp walk home it was. "It has been a real pleasure... Alison, was it? Maybe we'll see each other on the street sometime," Unlikely. "And hey, if you see a fella by the name of Gallagher at your little police station will you tell him to stop by? I'm feeling awfully lonely."

She tapped out into the street, turning back and shielding her eyes from the rain with a forearm as she waved her farewell. "Don't 'run out of your youth' too soon, you hear?" And with that she was off into the night, beginning her long, solitary walk home.

Ashley Gallagher started the new day with a spring in his step and a weight in his chest. He didn’t bother trying to discern whether said weight was an emotional one or a heart attack— With his health habits and daily activities it was probably both. He helped himself to a portion of cold eggs and bitter coffee, letting the morning sun filter in through the open window and illuminate the headline of the fresh newspaper in his hands.

He considered a lot of things. First and foremost the pile of week old dirty dishes in his sink, and then the thick line of gunk in his current coffee mug that he was trying desperately to ignore. He also considered Emerald. He fancied he might pay her a visit today, get some actual leads to follow instead of the bullshit he’d been toying around with all week. Smith would be happy with him, that was for sure. He also considered the fact that she might be playing him like a fiddle— and that when he got there it wouldn’t be red lips, and secrets, but Townley himself and the entire fucking brigade there to riddle him with bullet holes and turn him to swiss cheese.

Ashley took a contemplative bite of his eggs and came to the conclusion that he didn’t much like eggs. They were too rubbery, too yellow. And regardless, he needed to make his way down to the Station.




“Gallagher! Hey pal, where’ve you been all night? Did you decide to go home and actually get some sleep for a change?”

Ashley spoke around his unlit cigarette, wearing his usual grin for Smith and putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Shoot me, I was tired.”

“Nah, pal, you look great! Your hair is combed, the bags under your eyes are gone, you’re a completely new person, Gallagher.— Is it a woman?” Smith tucked his thumbs into his suspenders, his eyes following the early-morning influx of people entering the station.

Ashley explored this idea for a moment, but eventually came up in the negative. The tart was not to blame for his newfound care— what was wrong with a man just being god damned tired? “Maybe the reason I don’t get no fuckin’ sleep is because you pester me when I do?”

Smith smirked, snapping the suspenders and making a move towards the stairs. “That wasn’t a no.”

Ashley followed him, running a hand through his hair. “Wasn’t a damned yes either.” He made a last-ditch effort to change the subject. “How’s the Missus?”

“Oh, you know, ‘Richard you work too hard and too late, you have to be there for us, you put yourself in danger every day why can’t you just put us first for once?’” His voice climbed an octave in mockery, but a shadow passed over his face.

“Ouch, that already?”

“Can’t hate her for caring I guess.” Smith gave a noncommittal shrug that in no way summed up what Ashley suspected were his actual feelings about the issue.

Ashley swung the door to their shared office open, holding it out for Smith to enter. The last thing he expected was the Chief Detective's hand catching the door before he could shut it. "Gallagher, Smith. I've got a case for you."

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 2:41 AM

Alison rubbed her forehead. “Emerald” had floated away as if she had never sat down on that bench next to her at all. She glanced down the street and saw no sign of the elusive dancer. The past few minutes had been a dream. That was the feeling this entire city had given her; not even a day had elapsed and Alison was already faced with the tedious task of separating dream from reality, if such a thing was even possible. Well, then. If she was going to wade around in this surreal landscape, she could at least enjoy it. That would wait for tomorrow. This thunderstorm had been an exhausting one; she’d lost every ounce of her energy and dignity by now, loitering on this damp bench. She stood and waltzed back into the side-entrance to the Carousel for the night.

Alison reached into her pocket and sifted for her key as she ascended the steps to the top floor of the Carousel. She was too tired to keep her head up, and instead let it loll against her chest as she hobbled toward her room. She reached out toward the door of apartment 15, pointing her key against the lock, until she realized that it was not necessary. The door was acutely opened, and it had not been done so organically. Shards of wood stuck out of the hinge and tiny rustic pieces of the door’s lock rested on the ground. It had been forced open.

Nervously, Alison shuffled into the apartment. She had already formulated a best-case-scenario – Julia (and/or) her boy-toy had locked themselves out and their drunken stupor had incited their primal instincts when it came to getting the door open. “…Julia?”

No answer. Alison began to shiver. If Julia wasn’t here, then they’d been robbed. “Julia? Are you here?”

Nothing.

Alison turned on the light, which revealed itself to a lone, weak bulb dangling from the entryway to the living room. The television still produced faint jazz. A vast majority of the visibility was still owed to the natural lighting—if you could call it that—provided by the neon outside the windows. A sickening array of orange and red radiance plundered the living room, providing enough light for Alison to distinguish the silhouettes of the living room’s objects. A crumpled shape rested next to the couch – Alison must have thrown her blanket onto the ground before leaving.

Alison slowly made her way toward the couch when she realized that the shape was something else. She shoved the mass of fabric and it rolled over. The fabric was a dress. The shape it contained was a human. It wasn’t quite possible to measure the decibel of the screech she produced at that instant, but it could be heard by everyone within decent vicinity. A girl lifelessly rested inside – her roommate. Julia. The apartment’s fire iron rested on the ground next to Julia’s lifeless form. Alison bent down to observe her face. Part of it was gone; bone, skin, and all had been bashed-in.

It had to have been the man Julia had brought. He had spent the night with her. Alison sputtered around to find that another crumpled form rested on the other side of the couch, previously hidden by the television. A man’s corpse lay there, blood and brain coalesced into his wavy brown hair.

Alison was alone. It was best, and yet it was absolutely not. She screeched and sprinted out of the apartment. “Somebody! Help!”

Ashley strolled up to the base of the club, his true destination being the dingy apartment complex perched above it like a scraggly old bird. He took a long drag from his cigarette as he waited for Smith to catch up, eyes scanning the doors of the club with a newfound intensity as if he could somehow make out red lips and green eyes from behind the red curtains. He mulled briefly over the sudden idea that perhaps the body he was called to investigate was hers— left there by an angry employer after hearing of her day trip to the Police Station. He didn’t have long to ponder this however, for a flurry of Smith flew by him at a brisk pace. “Stop dallying, Gallagher and let’s get in there before the vultures show up.”

Ah, vultures, Ashley Gallagher's personal favorite passtime. Why? Because there was something so satisfying about having the power of knowledge over information-hungry fiends that he simply couldn't live without. Nonetheless the scene would be significantly easier to investigate if it were lacking the crowd and unbearable noise of reporters. He pressed his cigarette into the pavement with the toe of his shoe before entering the club.

It was somehow lifeless, in the daytime. Like a hollow shell of its potential. It was not daylight that brought it to life and health, but the thick light of carelessness and neon that it had grown so accustomed to. Seeing the dust particles flutter through the golden glow filtering in through the windows disturbed Ashley in a way he couldn't really explain. Perhaps it was the essence of normal. The idea that something so fantastical yet poisonous was essentially the same as his own damn apartment when the light of day touched it. An implication that no matter how full of vibrant life something can be, it has the potential to be just as limp and dead.

And there she was.

A smudge of charcoal against an empty crimson backdrop, wrapped in a thick black coat and a distant expression. Emerald was seated across the room, at the uninhabited bar, the only other soul in the cavernous club. She met his eyes for a moment the flickering of a smile teasing the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting and died almost as quickly as it began. She swept her gaze over the two of them, but made no move to otherwise acknowledge their presence. Ashley wondered briefly why she hadn't been removed from the building by authorities, but let the thought slide away as their brief dalliance of eyes came to an end and he started up the stairs.

Crime scenes were always the same for him. Slow. Muddled. Yet oddly focused. Time seemed to move at the pace of molasses around him, voices and present distractions mixing into a general, bubbling white noise like sounds through water. It was the details, the small ones that could take him back to the moment of violence, that stuck to him like gum to a shoe. Peeling wallpaper patterns, the broken lamp with a dark shade, a misplaced, heeled shoe.

Time caught up with him in a sudden impacting wave as his eyes fell upon the obviously distressed girl. Ashley caught Smith’s shoulder with a palm. “You take a look at the bodies, I’ll talk to the girl.” He nodded in her general direction before moving towards her, careful to keep his stature smooth and unthreatening. It was a moment before he spoke, filled with the familiar sounds of a notepad slipping open and pencil-tip meeting paper. “Hello Miss, I’m Detective Gallagher,” He paused, giving her an extended moment to take this information in. “What can you tell me about what took place here last night?”

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, 8:22 AM

The life had been scraped out of Alison's eyes. She could barely keep them open as the detective approached. She had not changed clothes and still stood in her wrinkly nightgown. She smelled like Julia; the grotesque whirlwind of glitter, perfume, sex, and blood had infected the air. Eventually, it would spread. The whole city would reek of it. She had to go home. This was not how it was supposed to go.

“Hello Miss, I’m Detective Gallagher,” The detective paused, giving her an extended moment to take this information in. “What can you tell me about what took place here last night?”

Alison pressed a palm against the side of her forehead. A splitting migraine had cracked her concentration in half and she had hardly been able to comprehend the detective's sentence. "My name..." she sighed, looked down, and pressed harder onto her head. "M-my name is Alison Fitzpatrick." Her mouth started to throb and her eyes began to well up with tears. "I'm sorry...I...I need a moment." She turned away and wiped away the moisture from her face, smearing what was left of yesterday's makeup. She was beyond vanity -- she just needed to help this man so that he could get the fuck out of her apartment. Then she would pack her things and kiss New York goodbye.

After a few moments, Alison turned back around and gave a limp, insincere, but cooperative smile to the detective. "Julie brought a man over and made love to him in her room. It was...it was rather obnoxious. So I left and sat outside for a little while. I returned at...I don't know. Almost three o'clock?" She sniffled. "It wasn't her boyfriend who killed her." She closed her eyes and pointed at the burly corpse of Julia's boy-toy. "He's right there."

Alison took a deep breath. "The door had been kicked open and I found them as you see them now. The fire iron was...it was covered in blood. I can only assume that the killer kicked in the door and bashed them to death with wh-wh-whatever he could find..." She burst into tears again. She felt nothing for her roommate, but death had never spun in the same circles as her before. It had only been a day and New York had already broken her spirit.

Ashley could tell the woman was nearly hysterical. Hell, anyone could probably tell the woman was nearly hysterical. He kept his face straight and neutral, but couldn’t help inwardly releasing a heavy sigh. Was it so wrong to hope that maybe just once he would question someone fully competent and emotionally stable?

But she was young, so Ashley by some distant connection could loosely understand. She looked scared to death. He briefly considered patting her shoulder as support but ultimately decided against it given the context, a stranger touching her was probably the last thing in the world that she wanted.

As frustrating as it was, the woman’s information was useless, nothing he couldn’t find out with a few minutes of running his eyes over the crime scene, but at least the victims were identified, as were their last known… activities. He offered a curt nod. “I appreciate your time Miss Fitzpatrick. Is there someone you can call?” He paused, considering the apartment thoughtfully, “Somewhere you can stay?” He doubted she would hang around long, not with the look she had in her eyes.

Ashley’s thought process was interrupted. “Hey, Gallagher, get over here.” Smith called from across the apartment.

“Excuse me, Miss.” He passed her, his shoulder brushing hers as he made his way to his partner who was crouched over the dead woman. Julia.

“Gallagher, get a load of this.” With his fingers at her jaw, Smith turned the woman’s face to the side, fully baring the extent of her injuries. Her head was completely, violently bashed in— as in, half of her skull was simply missing.

“Jesus,” Ashley muttered, shoving at Smith’s shoulder until he moved and sliding in to his previous position, crouched over the body. “No basic robbery would end up in this, they’d go for something more perfunctory less… messy.” He pinched her chin, pushing it up to examine her neck and the rest of her body. “Not gratuitous though, no eh…” He gestured to the rest of the body. “Unnecessary wounding.”

“Definitely not a robbery,” Smith murmured, almost to himself. Ashley turned his gaze to what Smith’s attention was focused on. A shiny watch laid neatly on the table. “They’d have pocketed this stuff, it’d get a pretty penny.”

“If they had thought it was a robbery they wouldn’t have called us.”

“Why did they call us? Isn’t this homicide territory?”

“Proximity to the club, probably figured it was gang-related violence…” Ashley began to respond, but trailed off as he noticed something. A faint slip of pure white beneath the blood-painted lips of the victim. “Hey uh, doc?”

The Coroner lofted a brow, stepping away from the other body. “Shoot, Gallagher.”

“Did you by any chance look in her mouth?”

“Not yet, why, you see something?”

Ashley spoke through gritted teeth as he stuck two thumbs into her mouth and attempted to pry it open against the rigor mortis. “Yeah, maybe.” With some effort and a sickening crack her jaw finally popped wide for him. He stuck a gloved finger into the now-dry depths of her mouth. A rose. It was a white rose that he pulled from her red lips, dripping with hours old blood-hinted saliva trapped within the petals. Behind it, slipping from the throat, trailed a long, thorny stem— the spines bloodied and catching on her lips as he gently tugged.

“Jesus, Ashley!” Smith exclaimed. “What the fuck is that?” He quickly knelt down beside the male victim, repeating the process of prying open the jaw, though the masculine bone structure proved significantly harder to crack. Sure enough, Smith pulled out an almost identical rose, with somewhat less care.

Ashley almost grinned. The thrill of it, of the challenge placed before him. This was someone taunting him, this was a mystery laid at his feet and he loved it. He kept his tone monotonous and professional. “Bag them both, see if we can pull prints— anything else? Check the jacket.”

Smith did as instructed, rifling through the various pockets of the suit jacket before patting down the bulge in the breast. Yet again, a rose was revealed from the breast pocket, also white, and also fully intact.

“That’s all I need,” Ashley decided, sharing a nod with Smith for confirmation. “—Wait. Wait.” He jabbed a finger towards the counter in the corner. A single glass of wine sat, half-finished. “A single glass. No lipstick. No, if it was one of them, there would be two. There’s only one.” He leapt from the body and was across the room in an instant, fingers hovering over the curve of the glass. “Blood right here, on the stem, see? This was after the murder. Check this for prints too.” He glanced at Smith, who had appeared beside him. “Get the girl a ride somewhere, she shouldn’t stay here— Make sure those dogs at Homicide don’t take my damn case, and make sure all of this evidence makes it to the station. I have someone I need to see.”

And with that he was out of the apartment in a flurry, headed towards the club and a pair of green eyes that might have seen something that the girl didn’t.