Emerald had seen the commotion, or some of it at least. She’d shown up to the club under the light of day to have a drink in peace. Instead, the sidewalk had been crowded with bystanders, streets blocked off with the red and blue flash and glare of police. Naturally, she snuck in the back way and seated herself at the bar, waiting calmly to see what riot pranced on in.

She must admit she hadn’t expected Detective Gallagher in all of his professional huff and puff to swing through the doors, but now that she had seen him, she supposed it was only a matter of time before he had questions for her. And so she waited more, gently turning the contents of her glass round and round and taking a small sort of pleasure in the soft clink of ice against glass.

It wasn’t long as she didn’t expect it to be. She pretended to be ignorant of his presence until he seated himself beside her, curious eyes boring into her despite her attempts to avoid eye contact. “A horrible thing, really.” She commented after a moment.”Murder.” She took a sip from her drink.

Finally his gaze relented and he expelled an exasperated sigh. “Have an particular affinity for roses, Miss Emerald?”

The question caught her off guard, but she answered it nonetheless, figuring it had something to do with the investigation. “Roses? No.” She paused, dragging the silence on with a stalling drink. “Truly I’m more of a tulip girl. Why, you buying me flowers, baby?”

He seemingly ignored her, a fact which she found wholly unsurprising. “You were obviously here last night, did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

“Mm, no, nothing. We get all sorts of shady types in and out of the club— its basically in the job description.”

“Emerald, please, you were in the club, you didn’t see anything to cause suspicion?”

She rolled her eyes. He was grasping at straws. So many people filtered in from the streets and he knew that. Nonetheless, “What time did the murder take place?” Emerald asked in a weary tone.

“Early morning, no later than three no earlier than midnight.”

She nodded. “Right, I was outside, in the rain, chatting up some poor slip of a girl. Alison I think it was?”

“Alison Fitzpatrick?”

“Who knows?”

Ashley pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not making my job any easier, you know that?”

“Not my job to— all you need to know is I didn’t do it, and I didn’t see who did it. Now leave me alone, I’ve had enough of the NYPD for the day. For a lifetime even. Can’t a girl just have a drink?”

“Two people are dead, Emerald. Is this a game to you?”

“I don’t play games, Detective. Not my style.”

She felt rather than saw his eye roll, and had to restrain her laughter.

“You promised me information,” He leaned in close, threateningly close as his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “I intend to collect.”

For the first time in the conversation she turned her eyes on him, searching his face. He was angry, uncharacteristically angry. The grimace she was faced with seemed only a facade, a poorly played television role and yet… “You’re breaking my heart, Gallagher. Truly. I suppose I can ask around, ask some of the girls, see if they saw anything.”

He retreated with a relieved breath, seating himself once more. “I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure, sure. Rat me out to the entire mob why don’t you? Lay me bare in front of a thousand hungry tigers? I probably shouldn’t even be seen with you.” She donned a teasing tone, turning her attentions back to the drink she so heavily coveted just a few hours ago. It now seemed unappealing.

He stood, tucking his shucked coat over a bent forearm. “Now you’re just being dramatic, doll. Keep an ear out, I’m coming back tomorrow.” Ashley paused, turning back one last time. “Oh and Emerald? Don’t call me baby.”

Emerald offered no response, simply waited for the click of the doors behind him before standing and meandering to the center of the club, swaying a little to an imaginary beat. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to care that two innocent city-goers had been brutally murdered just above her, it was simply that she didn’t have the capacity to care. One could only sincerely care about a few things without damaging themselves, taking on everything that crossed ones path would be a waste of mind and a waste of compassion.

She just hoped whatever idiot was killing people would get it out of their system soon and stop drawing attention to the club, it was bad for business to have on-duty officers lingering around like hungry animals.

And that was the horrible thing, murder was bad for business.

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

“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, Ashley 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.

Alison grimaced at the rugged detective's partner, who was unconvincingly straight-edged. The rather unremarkable looking man offered her an apologetic smile. The curvature of his lips was even more insincere than her's; he was doing everything that he could to bring the bloodstained room back to protocol. Poor boy. This "Smith" was as green as a stick of broccoli.

"I'm going to take you to the station," Smith said with a kind, but assertive voice. "Or would you like to stay at my apartment until we can find a new place for you?"

"No."

"No to what?"

"Both."

"You aren't going to stay here, Miss Fitzpatrick."

"I am not going to spend my second night in New York in a...in a police station! I'll---I'll find a place to stay."

Smith frowned. Above all else, he wished the best for this poor naive fairy; this apartment had become cursed. She had to find somewhere. He had seen duplicates of Alison get dissolved by the system dozens of times -- moths, eagerly racing toward the flame. Perhaps this horrible day could set her on the right path. "If you want my advice, miss...Go home."

"You are preaching to the choir," Alison mumbled. "Is it all right if I gather my things?"

"Not until we conclude bagging evidence. I am sorry."

"Right. I'll be back." Alison stumbled out of the room and let her bodyweight momentously drag her down the stairs. She wandered into the subdued realm of the Carousel Club, still wearing the same nightgown as the previous evening. She hadn't even bothered to look down to witness her indecency. That was the least of her worries. She spotted the woman known as "Emerald" on the floor and hoarsely hollered toward her.

"Please help me."

Emerald’s silent reverie was interrupted by the hoarse cry behind her. She swung around from her dancing sway with the abrupt and erratic tap of her heels, lofting a brow as she beheld the girl before her, the girl from last night.

She was a wreck, worse than a wreck, with worn out eyes and still garbed in the same nightgown now wrinkled from drying through dirty rainwater. Emerald pulled the cigarette from her lips and cast the girl in a sympathetic gaze. “Oh honey, you’re a mess.” She shrugged out of her thick trench coat, moving to drape it over the girl’s shoulders. “Let me get you a drink.” She then ushered the girl over to the bar, if possible, and beckoned her to sit as she brought her own drink in front of her. “Have some of this, my favorite.”

Ashley had mentioned an Alison. With the stricken look on the girl’s face they must have met the same one. So this girl was involved in the murder somehow. Poor thing. “This city just won’t let you alone will it?” She moved to stroke some of the hair out of her face as a soothing gesture. “What can I do you for, dear?”

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

“This city just won’t let you alone will it?” Emerald moved to stroke some of the hair out of Alison's face as a soothing gesture. “What can I do you for, dear?”

Alison took a minuscule swig of the drink and grimaced. Alcohol had not yet become a passtime of her's and the toxicity of Emerald's gift walloped her taste buds like a freight train. "...What's in this?" She shook her head. "No matter, I suppose. A drink is a drink. T-thank you." She hesitantly let another sip of the drink breach her lips.

After a few moments of shivering silence, Alison shot a nervous glance at 'Emerald'. "My roommate...she was killed. Last night." She took a deep breath and downed some more of the alcohol. "My apartment is a crime scene. They won't let me anywhere near it, now." She frowned. "I have nowhere to stay." She glanced around the massive, desolate club. She had never seen the inside anymore. She'd only constructed fantasies of it within her thoughts. She still had not really witnessed it, yet. This empty shell of a nightclub would not spring to life until the evening.

"...I was wondering...if you had a bit of room on the floor...if you could...maybe..."

So the girl needed a place to stay. Emerald thought on her apartment, thought on the hollow shell that looked completely and utterly abandoned in its mess. She supposed it could use some company, if only for a little while. "The floor? Nonsense." She poured herself another glass of the alcoholic beverage, swirling its contents thoughtfully before taking a drink. "The floor is for rats and dust, you may sleep in the chair." She inhaled abruptly. "It extends, an old bat, but comfy as hell." Her painted red lips wrapped into what she hoped was a friendly smile, accompanied by a sweet batting of dark eyelashes.

"Its a good thing you were out soaking on that bench last night, wasn't it? Say, did you need anything, any of your possessions from your apartment? I could easily get brief access to it if needed."

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Morning

"The floor is for rats and dust, you may sleep in the chair." Emerald inhaled abruptly. "It extends, an old bat, but comfy as hell."

Alison frowned and folded her arms, resting them underneath her bosom and lowering her head. She had been grateful for Emerald's help, but she had deteriorated in a matter of days, seemingly not even by events of her own fault. Forces beyond her understanding had thrown away her exciting adventure to New York, and reality had crashed into Club Carousel like a freight train.

"...Thank you. I'll make it up to you somehow. I just don't know how yet...I'll find a job, and I'll help you pay rent until I can find a new place of my own."

Emerald almost guffawed. She managed to reduce it into a small, musical chuckle. "Oh hon, you're so intense, so serious. It's not like I'm saving your life or anything." She drummed her painted fingertips on the bar, watching the rhythmic movement with an amused smile curling her lips.

There was something itching at the back of her mind, a small concern. "Tell you what, doll," She mulled the idea around for a moment, not sure if she could truly trust the girl before her. "You can pay me back by keeping my secrets, hm? Every accomplished lady has a few. You will no doubt become acquainted with a few of mine if we are to be sharing a residence." Her amused smile widened into a charming one, displaying her pearly whites in an attempt to sugar coat the darker undertones of her request. "Deal?"

"So uh, Ashley, buddy," Smith had something akin to bemusement written all over his face. Like a child, wanting in on the joke. "You kind of left me hanging there, you know? Storming out of the crime scene with a grin like a modern Sherlock Holmes."

"I didn't take you for the bookish type, Smith." Ashley began, speaking around puffs of his cigarette and gazing out over the road at the collection of cars puttering to and fro. "Or the metaphor type for that matter."

Smith shrugged, that charming grin returning to him. The boy was a heartbreaker, with those pretty eyes and that boyish smile. It was no surprise to Ashley that he had managed to settle down early with a beautiful wife and a steady career-- the pretty people always did find life a tad easier. "The Missus thinks its good for the mind, you know? You uh, you gonna tell me where you ran off to?"

Ashley splayed his hands in a mockery of exasperation. "Do I ever?"

"I suppose not." Smith lit his own cigarette, tapping it gently against the side of his finger to shed some of the excess ash from the tip. "You always were a dick."

“You’re breaking my heart, Smith. Here I thought I was a charmer.”

“The Missus is out for the night, drinking with the girls, left Joey with a friend. I got nothing to do, you could make it up to me by buying me a drink, old man.”

“As riveting as that sounds, I have a prior engagement.”

“What, brooding over a whiskey alone?”

Ashley didn’t even honor that with a response, simply took a drag from his cigarette.

“Don’t think I don’t know about your little pouting sessions, Ashley. We’re practically married. I know when you’re ignoring me for another woman.”

“That woman being whiskey?”

“That woman being feeling sorry for yourself, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, well.” Ashley dropped the cigarette to the floor, flattening it with the toe of his shoe. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Smith. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”



“Come on Gallagher, pick up.”

Smith maintained the steadiness of his hand as he spun the phone dial around, the abrasive noise cutting through the thick silence. He held his pistol up, ready. The phone rang, nothing. Damn it, Ashley. He readied his gun, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach, the creak of floorboards, and dialed again.

Alison Fitzpatrick

Club Carousel, Late Evening

Alison put the finishing touches on her bedding. She’d created a fortress of blankets on Emerald’s floor, and for now, that would have to substitute for her apartment. She wasn’t allowed to get any of her things; Julie, her boy-toy, and the entire place were still part of an ongoing investigation. Emerald hadn’t returned yet. She was under the impression that the woman would be on her way up once closing time – an unearthly hour of 2:30 – arrived. That was fine. It gave her a few hours to reflect on her own.

After washing her face, Alison submerged herself into her incredibly comfortable blanket-fort. She’d set it right next to Emerald’s bed. As much as she didn’t want to be in the woman’s hair, she was still wary. She didn’t know why, though; her roommate’s murder seemed to be a crime of passion. Nonetheless, the darkness of that morning still lingered with her.

There would be no more of that. Alison had come to New York to find happiness. And that was exactly where she would head. Manhattan was a dirty place, filled with many secrets, but she would carve a fulfilling existence out of it. She knew she could – she had to.

After a while, the door to Emerald’s apartment slowly opened and Alison smiled. She’d finally come home. Alison kept her face planted into the pillow as she tried to formulate the words she wanted to say to Emerald. She had to keep her ‘cool’ this time around – some form of gratitude, but far less intense than what she had offered earlier.

Emerald tapped her on the neck and Alison rolled over. “What?” However, upon looking, the silhouette before her was far larger than she’d expected. Emerald had put on some sort of large coat, and the figure in the dark was strange. “Emerald?”

A laughing began to emanate through the apartment. It wasn’t her. A hoarse, grotesque tone of voice reverberated through the room.

No, no, no, no. The figure grabbed her by the arm and pulled her upright. “Please! I—“ The figure interrupted her by slamming his fist onto her lips, breaking several teeth and causing blood to pour out of her gums. Tears began to well up in her eyes. She could not see the figure’s face, but she could smell him. He smelled delightful – like a stunning mix of cologne and roses. She sobbed as he continued to hold her arm. He was strong; his very grip strained her forearm and kept her from moving.

“Help!—“ Her scream was once again silenced as the figure now held his palm over Alison’s mouth. He retrieved a glinting object from his belt, which upon holding out, appeared to be a machete. He jammed it into Alison’s gut and turned the blade. His muted hand could hardly even suppress her screaming. The pain was unbearable. Blood began to gush out of her chest. She made one last attempt to free her mouth and scream, and she successfully wailed into the hallway. “Help me!”

The figure decided that enough was enough. He shoved his blade into Alison’s eye and into her brain, impaling her head onto the wood of Emerald’s bedframe. She was gone. He ripped Alison’s other eye out of its socket and tossed it onto the floor. He retrieved his usual rose from his pocket and planted it inside of her free eyesocket, presenting a sickening bloom from inside her skull. Help would be on the way. He destroyed the window, climbed out of the fire escape, and disappeared into the darkness.

It had been a long night. Longer than usual. The crowds were slow and the musical noise was somehow duller than its usual lively gush. She ached from head to toe, her feet tired of the extravagant shoes she tapped around in, now tapping up the stairs to the apartments above the club. Even her eyes felt a dull soreness from hours of a glittery, picturesque scene.

She selfishly hoped that the girl, Alison, was already asleep by the time she got back. As much as she would like to help the poor thing feel more at home, she was much too tired to entertain trivial conversation. She almost cursed herself for allowing the girl to stay. It was a lapse in judgement, a moment of weakness. But now, she could see the idea of sharing her apartment with somebody else for what it was— she was being robbed of those precious hours where she could be nothing and no one.

Emerald supposed looking back on it that something had felt wrong, the air had shifted somehow ever so slightly. In the moment she had felt nothing, simply the groan of tired bones as she hefted herself up the last stretch of stairs and into the long hallway where her home and bed resided. Even when she heard it, that sound, it was as if it was traveling through water, a slow and thick path.

And then it hit her. Like a wave slapping her across her entire body. The wail slid down the halls, a desperate and horrific, “Help me!”

Emerald clattered to the floor, pitching herself over the last step and tumbling onto her hands and knees. It was suddenly a race, a race of body and mind to get there first as she struggled to her feet once more, breaking out into a piercing sprint. All she could hear was the erratic beating of her shoes down the hallway— or perhaps it was the beating of her heart. Doors open as she passed, curious neighbors perhaps, concerned or angry. Deep down she knew the scream, and that was all she could think. She knew, she knew, she knew, she knew, she knew this would happen, she knew.

She caught herself on her own doorway, fiddling frantically with her keys, fucking keys, god damn keys, she dropped them, in desperation she tried the knob. Unlocked, of course, she should have known.

Emerald stopped.

She felt the knob in her hand, the solid metal, turned downward. She heard the click of the door itself as it allowed her entry. She knew somehow what was on the other side. She couldn’t open it. She couldn’t open it. So she didn’t. She clicked it shut once more, stepped away from the door, and looked down the hall of awakened neighbors.

“Someone call the police.” She finally said, the words slicing through the silence like butter, her voice steady, soft, and calm.

He was drinking, as he so often was. Seated in his old, dusty chair and watching his whiskey twirl around in his glass like an elusive dancer. He considered the wall opposite of him, decorated with nothing but a simple, small black and white photo of a dog that was not even his. It had come with the frame, the display photo that the store slips in for show.

The dog was large and scruffy, decorated with what appeared to be a cowboy hat. It stared back out of the photo, tongue lolling to the side, with an expression of suburban contentment. Ashley fancied on the other side of the camera stood a smiling woman with blonde hair, cooing for the dogs attention. At her side were two kids, two girls with twin braids and checkered dresses.

This is what he had seen when he first saw the display photo in the frame on the shelf. So he purchased it.

He took a long, savoring drink of the whiskey.

Suddenly there was a shrill ring from the phone. There had been a few, about an hour earlier, in rapid succession, but he had ignored them all in favor of the sweet embrace of alcohol. This one, however, he found the incentive to answer, lifting himself from the chair with a groan and stumbling over to the small desk.

He fumbled with the phone for a moment before bringing it to his ear and mumbling out a grouchy, “Hello?”

A small feminine voice that he recognized as one of the station’s secretaries spoke. “Detective Gallagher? There has been a development in your case, you are needed immediately.”

“My case?”

“The double homicide above the club? There has been another murder.”

He let out a very percussive and exasperated iteration of, “Shit.”

“Detective Gallagher, you are needed at Club Carousel on Manhattan, room number 17.”

Ashley had put pencil to pad, scrawling down the location, when it hit him. “Did you say room 17?”

“That is correct, detective.”

The pencil’s tip snapped, spraying fine graphite over the now dented pad. He slammed the phone down into its socket with an abrupt jingle, abandoning it for his coat and hat. Room 17. He knew room 17.

“If you ever want a private audience, Detective. I’m number 17, above the club.” Those red lips smiling at him in their amusement.

He slammed the door shut behind him, feet in a hurried shuffle. Emerald.



Time slowed down as he ascended the stairs. He pictured her, pale skin slashed with crimson, lips parted in a supple O around the petals of a bloodstained flower. He saw her ebony hair fanned out around her from a struggle. Even in death, she was a beautiful smudge on a hideous backdrop. It felt like a splinter, a shard of wood beneath his skin that set him on edge.

The hall was packed with onlookers, the noise a drowning array of concerned whispers and murmurs. He pushed through, ignoring the hallowed eyes that all seemed to seek his own. They were all meaningless, selfish people looking for comfort, except one. Wide green eyes washed over him and he felt his voice catch in his throat.

She was speaking to the patrolman, a coat, borrowed probably as it was much too big for her small shoulders, clutched tightly around her. Her expression was calm, serene almost, though her knuckles were white, and her eyes met his with a strange sort of intensity. He couldn’t help but roughly shove through the remaining crowd, putting himself before her and startling the officer she was speaking to.

“Emerald,” He addressed hoarsely before clearing his throat and nodding. “What can you tell me about what happened?”

“My roommate,” She stated softly, pointing towards the door with a single, hesitating finger. “I heard her scream.”

“You heard her scream?” Who called in a murder based off of a scream? All of that worrying for— “Nothing, you’re calling in nothing, then?” He felt something of frustration. Whether it was at her for wasting his time or himself for letting her he wasn’t sure.

She shook her head, dark waves bouncing with the action. “She screamed ‘help me’, detective, if you would have heard it…” She trailed off, something of a glaze drifting over her eyes.

“And you didn’t go in? You didn’t try to help her?”

“I knew it was already too late.” She stated, almost as if she was convincing herself. “I couldn’t…” She cut off, before repeating in a softer voice. “I couldn’t open the door.”

The coroner interjected. “No one has been on the scene, Detective, would you like to take a look?”

Ashley nodded roughly, “Wait out here, I need to get an idea of the scene before you get your hands on the body.” He pushed the door open.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to wait out here.” The patrolman stated behind him, he glanced over his shoulder to find Emerald close behind.

He stopped, meeting her eyes for a moment and expecting to find some sort of pleading within them. There was nothing. Even so, “Let her in, it’s her apartment. I’ll need some information about it anyway.” And with that he slipped in, Emerald on his heels clicking the door shut behind them.

It was dark inside, too dark to see anything, really. There was the sound of some shuffling before a faint, golden light illuminated the room.

The first and only thing he noticed was the broken window, the cool summer breeze filtering in and ruffling the sweaty hair at his forehead. The rest of the room seemed untouched. “Anything out of the ordinary besides the broken window?” He called back. He started when the response came closer than he expected. She had moved to stand by him.

“No.”

He milled over to the window, peeking his head out of it to eye the outside surroundings. A fire escape, that must have been how the intruder left. No blood on the broken glass— that would have been too damn easy. He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair pensively.

A small but sharp exhalation drew him out of his thoughts and he turned to find Emerald, haunting over a doorway with wide, watery eyes and folded arms, the fingers grasped tight around her bicep. “Emerald?” He tried, but she did not turn, just kept… staring.

Ashley moved to her side, and would have reached to comfort her had the sight not caught his immediate attention. There, lying amidst a pool of her own blood, barely recognizable was Alison Fitzpatrick. She had eyes, but they were not her own, for one was a bright, gleaming machete, stuck brutally through the side of her face, and the other was a red, red rose, set gently over the tears of blood that spilled over her cheek.

Calvin Lovegrove

Ossining General Hospital

Afternoon

“What ever will you do without me?”

Calvin blinked. “What?”

Evelyn had reached from her hospital bed and straightened her husband’s tie. It killed her that it had become this difficult; she’d done this hundreds of times over the years, and now she could barely manage to find the concentration in her fingers to correctly align the fabric. She’d perfected this ritual so many times that even in this monotonous hospital room—where she would likely spend the remainder of her days—she found complete peace in doing so.

Cal looked at his wife and stared into her bright blue orbs. His face said nothing at all – it was stuck a flat, resoundingly neutral expression. Unbeknownst to his wife, it was a perfect equilibrium of joy and complete sadness. It both uplifted and killed him to know that even in the home stretch, she’d still find herself upholding the mannerisms that had completed their happy life before today. Before all of this.

Calvin took his wife’s hand and cupped them with his own. “I’m not going to have to do this without you. You’re going to be just fine.” Over the years, he’d become spectacular at manipulating the truth, but he felt an unusual regret about this particular lie. It was ovarian cancer. She had a few months to live, at best.

“Don’t do that, hon. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’ve got to start planning for where your journey will take you without me.”

Cal’s hand balled up into a fist. “No. I won’t. There’s no need for it.”

Evelyn took a deep breath and let go of Cal’s hand, letting her bodyweight sag into the plush hospital bed.

After a moment of silence, Calvin spoke softly. “Hon, my vacation is up. I’ve got to go back to work.”

Evelyn smiled at Calvin and touched his cheek. “Of course you do. You’re ambitious. Can’t keep you away from your superhero duties.”

Calvin pursed his lips. Even in a moment as intimate and innocent as this, he’d always woven a web of lies. But he could not bear to tell his wife that he’d been given a six-month suspension without pay as punishment for embezzling N.Y.P.D funds.

“I’ll come to see you as soon as they allow. They’ve been known for keeping me busy every hour of the day. I—“

“You don’t have to say that to me. I know how much you love your work.”

“I’m going to go,” said Calvin as he fought the urge to break down in front of his wife. He planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Go get ‘em.”

The Apartment of Danielle Raymonde

The Following Morning

“I think you’re losing your nerve.”


Calvin rolled off Dani’s naked form and took an exasperated breath. “Am not.” He reached over to the end table and plopped a cigarette into his mouth before lighting it. “I’m going back to work tomorrow. Got a lot on my mind, is all.”

Dani pulled up the blanket and covered herself before turning over to face Cal. “I know you’re going back to work. For the first time in half a year, you’re finally going to be of some use to me.”

Calvin blew raspberries and shot Danielle a look of haughty derision. He leapt out of bed and slipped into his clothes. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t have a said to word to me these past six months if you were only motivated by our arrangement. I'm an unemployed man, yet here I am in your bed.”

Danielle huffed. “Fair.”

Calvin folded his arms. “What was the ‘arrangement’, anyway? It’s been so long—become so routine—that I’ve lost track of what the original terms were.”

Dani smirked at the disgraced detective. “In exchange for the unrequited love of a mysterious multi-millionaire film icon, you’ve abused your shiny police credentials to cover my dirty tracks.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds terrible, Dani. Glamorous, but terrible. Makes you sound delightful and makes me sound like a fink.”

“Exactly. You're the dirty cop and I'm the fallen angel.”

“Who’s been taking care of your shady business these past six months, baby? Got something to tell me?” asked Calvin as he played with the Dani’s strawberry blonde hair.

“Me. How helpless do you think I am?”

Calvin finished attaching his tie and tossed on his heinously expensive coat. “Very. You put up with me to get it fixed.” He gazed at the woman in the bed and marveled at her face. She'd gotten to this stage of her career through sheer skill and cunning, but there was no denying that she had an unforgettably stunning face.

Danielle turned onto her back and lit a cigarette. “Shit, the six months are already up?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“Asshole.”

Central Police Station

Noon

“Piece of shit shows up late on his first day back.”

A group of patrolmen enjoyed a smoke break on the steps toward the police station as Calvin rolled up in his jarringly glamorous car. He rolled into the parking lot and hopped out of his black Delahaye 135 convertible.

Calvin winked at the boys in blue standing next to the door. Despite the attire, hey were every bit as green as the last he’d seen them. He opened the door and took in the halls of the police station. Ah. Despite everything, it was good to be back. Cal bolted up the stairs and rushed to his office. Despite the break, they had never asked him to get his things. That was how simultaneously important yet unimportant he was to the force. He knew they’d come crawling back for him.

Cal barely had time to sit in his office chair before the commissioner barged into the room. “Lovegrove.”

“Sir,” he said sarcastically.

“Can it with the attitude. You’re back on planet earth, kid.”

Calvin stood from his chair and shook the commissioner’s hand. “Of course. It is good to be back. I’ve had the itch.”

“Good. There’s been a murder.”

“Then call one of those humps from homicide.”

“It's one of our own, Cal. We’ve got a serial killer on our hands. A very, very smart one. This one requires more finesse than they’ve got to offer.”

“Am I going to have a partner?”

“We’ll see.” The commissioner handed Calvin a file. “Catch up, and then get your ass over to the crime scene. 1520 Thornton Avenue, Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn? Fuck. Raking into my gas money already.

The commissioner shot Calvin one last glance as he was leaving the office. “Happy hunting.”

Ashley watched as the Coroner wheeled the body off, thinking on the small, frightened girl he had spoken to earlier that day. Now she was yet another speck of dust building on the windowsill of the city, to sit and forever be forgotten. He needed a cigarette.

The hall had since cleared, regardless of how shellshocked they were, the people of Manhattan still needed their sleep. Ashley didn’t blame them. He lit his cigarette, reveling in the familiar taste of smoke on his tongue soothing him into something of normalcy. Emerald had gone quiet, for once in her life, her expression still unreadable. He fancied those few moments when she had first seen the body were the only few moments he had ever truly seen her.

After a moment of smoke-filled silence, Ashley finally spoke. “You can’t stay here, you know.”

“Oh really? I hadn’t considered that, I frequently sleep in the company of blood and gore.” The humor felt hollow. Ashley didn’t point it out. They went quiet again and Emerald rejected his offer of a cigarette, her green eyes focused somewhere in the distance. It was minutes before she spoke again, so soft he almost didn’t hear her. “Why her, Ashley?” She whispered, voice wavering. “Was he covering his tracks? Was it only because of her closeness to his first victim?” She didn’t voice the last question, the most important. By that logic, did that make her a target as well?

“You’ll stay with me, in my apartment, until some other arrangements are made.” He muttered.

She took a step back, eyeing him. “I don’t need your charity, Detective. I can stay with one of the other girls.”

“You’re smarter than that.” He grumbled around his cigarette. “Quit being stubborn. I have a car downstairs.”

“Say, where’s your partner?”

“My partner?”

“The young, strapping fellow who was on your heels when you came in the club earlier this morning.”

She raised a fair point, where was Smith? The fool raised such a muck about having nothing to do this evening, and then he goes and finds himself something important enough to ignore a call from the station? Ashley worked his lips pensively around the cigarette. Now because of that dick Ashley had to drive his tired ass all the way out to Brooklyn to fill him in on the new murder. “I gotta make a damn stop before we head to my apartment.” Marvelous.





He had been to Smith’s house many times before, for various frivolous things that a young couple new to the city partake in. He’d been there for almost all of Joey’s birthdays, he was too drunk to go to his third. He’d been there for anniversary parties, barbecues, dinners, promotion celebrations. Nicole had been there for some, too. He remembered those looks she’d always give him, the knowing look, as they both thought nostalgically on their days as foolish young lovebirds.

The neighborhood was a nice one, quiet, with green lawns and kids on bikes. Something Ashley had always seen himself settling in. It was too late for that now, but he still enjoyed them, enjoyed the contained sort of contentment they represented. As they drove by houses, Emerald gracefully consumed french fries from the crinkly, brown paper bag on her lap, seemingly apathetic to their surroundings.

“Ever think you’ll have this sort of life?” Ashley asked after a moment.

“What sort of life?” She countered through a mouthful of french fries.

“One of these houses, a husband, a kid, a dog.”

“I don’t like dogs, hon, they slobber on everything.”

“You know what I mean.” He sighed exasperatedly.

She shrugged. “Never really did see myself in that sort of setting. Perhaps when I first moved here. Why? You offering?”

His response was interrupted by their arrival at their destination.

The first thing he really registered was confusion. Police cars lined the street in front of his partner’s home. Had the station beat him to informing his partner? But no, there were too many. “Stay in the car.”

“But—.”

“Damn it, stay in the car, Emerald!” He barked, slamming the door shut behind him. There were people, lots of people, a crowd huddled around the door, concerned faces. He didn’t understand. Once again he found himself pushing through a thick of people, nothing in mind but his destination.

His eyes calmly searched the center of the crowd for Smith, perhaps there was a break in. Each second he couldn’t find him he became more and more aware of his own heavy heartbeat.

Beat.

Red and blue washed over the sea of faces, only vaguely familiar, none of them donning the charming grin he was looking for.

Beat.

The front door, splayed open, was wrapped neatly in crime scene tape, tape he had seen so many times before, tape he had overlooked so many times before.

Beat.

He felt his surrounding slow down, as if he were examining a scene, as if he were poised over a lifeless corpse. It made his stomach curl tight like a snake wrapping around its prey.

Beat.

Two faces, two faces he recognized. Michelle, Michelle Smith, her pale face tearstained and contorted, hands clutched to her chest. Joey at her side, hands wrapped grubbily around her skirt.

Beat.

“Michelle!” Ashley called, stumbling over to her. “Michelle, what’s going on?”

The redheaded woman wailed, screamed at him, reaching for him. Her claw-like fingers tangled into the collar of his shirt, her face a painting of grief. “You did this to him!” She shrieked, “This is your fault!” Her hands formed fists and she began to beat against his chest as if it were a cage she could break. “Your fault! How could you, Ashley? How could you?!” She collapsed into his arms, burying her wet face in the crook of his neck. He felt it all, like sick, cruel puzzle pieces, slip into place. It felt an awful lot like a noose tightening around his neck.

He was smart. He knew, of course he did, the moment he left his car. That was his job to know. And yet… He pulled away from Michelle, aggressively scrubbing the back of his hand against his face. Anything to not see her look of pure hatred. His hands found his hair, let the locks slip between the fingers, gripped them tight, any pain to bring him back to the moment as he stumbled to the door.

The patrolmen guarding the entrance stopped him with heavy hands. “Sir, we’re going to have to stop you.”

“I’m a cop, you idiots!” Ashley spat, trying again.

“Detective Gallagher,” The other patrolman corrected, his kind eyes vaguely familiar to Ashley. “Ashley, you don’t want to go in there. You don’t want to see it.”

Ashley stopped, staring them down, letting the words sink in. You don’t want to see it. Like hell. “Let me in!” He snarled, “Let me in! Let me in! This is my case, damn it!” He threw his weight against the both of them. “Let me see him! Let me see him!” His eyes burned, “That’s my partner!”

There was a break in defense, or maybe the men just stopped fighting him, but he managed to shoulder his way in. He stumbled, a drunken step through the hallway, the familiar patterned wallpaper swaying around him. He ignored the busted lock on the front door, it didn’t matter now he needed to find Smith.

The first thing he saw was a rose, a gentle pink rose tucked neatly underneath an unhooked phone, splayed carelessly on the table. He turned the corner and that’s when he found him, them. Smith’s bare body as if it was on fucking display, covered in an array of pink roses, as if the horrific scene was something to be celebrated.

Ashley slapped a hand over his mouth, choking out a sob. “Oh… Oh no.” He slid to his knees beside the body, reaching to caress the petals of one of the neatly placed flowers with his fingertips. “Oh Richard, no.” The last word came out in a hissed whimper. “Please.”

It was a sea of coated bodies and she, caught in the flood. Good, just how she wanted it. She move among them melding into the waves, pushing by grunting and muttering shoulders. Heads capped by low fedoras as the sky seemed to cry for the retched city once more. Sound was washed out by the incessant drum of falling rain, a base beat that seemed to distort and twist all other sound, even car horns feet away seemed muddled and distant a whisper of passing life. The air burned her nostrils with the seemingly endless tendrils of smoke wisping from glowing cigarettes in the dark. Like groping hands clinging their funk to everything they touched.

Her fingers danced into their pockets with airy brush strokes, like a master artist painting the coy smile of a seductress immortalizing her for all time. A light bump into a man's chest followed by an apologetic smile under dark long wet locks. Ever calming grumbles of bothered irritation in the middle of drunken walk. Never to notice her fingers slipping into his jacket breast and availing him of a money clip.

Purses, pants pockets, jackets, all fair game to the thief. It was time to move on, even she could not predict when some keen eyed bystander or cautious victim might notice her actions. The neon poisoned sky shifted colors, reflecting in pools along the sidewalk. the concrete beaten and warn like a boxer after too many fights, she lost count and care after eight. A block father she wasn't sure why but she deftly slipped her had into one more pocket, they seemed to be in a hurry, a quickened stride moving against her favorite kind of sea. Features hidden like all the rest. Vikki wincing as she stuffed her plunder into her pocket, she quickly hurried away. zigzagging through the thick crowd, one thin body among shoulder to shoulder large forms, gone in moments. Once she dared, she scurried down into an alleyway like a rat wary of being pounced by a cat.

Crimson.

Vikki brought her fingertip to her lips sucking at the running prick on her finger. She leaned pressing her slender back against the cold wet bricks, the ever toxic neon of street lights and signs barely bled through here..bled less than her finger. Growing curious lowers her hand into her pocket, watches and money-clips shifting. There it is, feeling the villain that assaulted her poor innocent finger.

A White Rose.

Calvin Lovegrove

En Route to Brooklyn

Noon

Calvin failed to marvel at the massive structures as he passed them by in his convertible. New York was all more of the same – a lie. A catacomb covered in glittering sculptures. His life among the shadows of Manhattan gave him an exhilaration that he could never find anywhere else, but his sentiment always drew him to Ossining. He could see his life outside of Manhattan evaporating before his eyes. Within days, weeks, or months, Evelyn would be gone and there would be no reason for him to ever leave the city again. He’d burn down his house for the quick insurance payout and find himself a place in Manhattan.

Cal still had time, but it was running out. Evelyn and Ossining were slipping through his fingers like a fine powder and Danielle was beginning to envelop his existence. The part that killed him was the fact that it did not particularly bother him. There was a time when Evelyn was his sun and stars; he remembered being twenty. But it was gone. A peaceful life in a darling house with the woman of his dreams, accompanied by a comfortable and menial taskforce at the Ossining Police Station dominated his young mind, but it was nothing more than a dream. Once he’d found it, it was gone. Once he’d felt it, he didn’t.

But Calvin quietly understood that no matter how he’d played his cards, things would have ended up the same. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the cancerous growth inside of his wife. There was nothing he could have accomplished that would have prevented his lust for the neon pleasure of New York’s underbelly. Nothing—not even the bomb—could have kept him from sacrificing his job for the favor of a particular Hollywood starlet. And this, somehow, gave him peace. Nothing that’d happened so far had been anything he could control. Soon, Evelyn would be gone and his glamorous prodding of the underworld would consume his entire life. So be it.

The House of the Fallen Detective

Afternoon

Richard Smith. He sounded like a nobody, but according to the commissioner, he was a solid, by-the-books Ad Vice caseman. Poor thing. That notion alone was the reason he was killed. You didn’t survive Ad Vice by being a pillar of humanity. Cal had remembered Ash—the newbie of his desk—from the months prior to his suspension, but he’d never met Mr. Smith. It was more than likely that Richard had been hired as his replacement, and then killed upon the elapse of Calvin’s suspension. It had all been wrapped neatly into a bow like a Christmas gift.

Calvin parked his car across the street and lit a cigarette as he strolled toward the caution tape-suffocated house. The scene had clearly quieted down from the initial uproar of Smith’s demise, seeing as the only remaining vehicles were that of the coroner, one patrol car, and a civilian car that he did not recognize. He strolled into the house, satirically kicking off the grime of his wing-tipped shoes against the “welcome” mat in front of the door.

Inside, he found the culprit corpse – a young man, gutted on his living room floor and covered in roses. In fact, the fucking things were everywhere. The house had become a sickening garden of them.

“What’ve you got?” muttered Calvin as he shuffled into the room. He narrowed his eyes at the coroner.

The man grimaced. “Oh. You’re back.” He looked at his watch. “You’re late. Very late.” He pointed at the dead detective. “I miss him. He wasn’t a cunt like the man he replaced.” The coroner aptly looked at Calvin.

“Nice to see you too,” Cal said as he knelt and observed the corpse.

“Whatever. People don’t change. It’s only a matter of time.” The coroner took a deep breath and removed a few of the roses from Richard’s chest. “He was killed around midnight last night.” He pointed at the ligature marks on the man’s neck. “Strangled. I gave this whole report to Detective Gallagher hours ago. If you’d been here, I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

“Well… I’m here now, so do your fucking job. Then you can go home and complain to your lucky, lucky wife about how much of a bully I am.” Calvin snapped and raised his voice.

The coroner seemed slightly shaken up. “Um…Detective Smith fired one round into the wall.” He pointed at the bullet-pierced wallpaper above the mantle. “I can assume that he fired at his assailant and missed before being subdued.” The coroner then shrugged. “No sign of Detective Smith’s weapon. The culprit must have taken it for himself.”

Calvin folded his arms. “Death by asphyxiation, then?”

The coroner looked mournfully at Cal and nodded. “Yes. He sure tried to put up a fight.” He pointed at a pair of scratches on Smith’s arms. “And then…he was gone.”

“So we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Yes, we’ve been able to hypothesize some of his—.”

“Uh uh.” Calvin outstretched his palm toward the coroner’s face and looked away. “I’m going to get it directly from the horse’s mouth. Not an over-glorified nurse. Is Detective Gallagher still here?”

The coroner sighed. “Yes. He’s wandering the house, seeing if there aren’t any breadcrumbs anywhere else. I told him that it was a waste, but—.”

“Enough,” Calvin interrupted. “Thank you for the help.” He wandered through the dead detective’s house until he saw the silhouette of Ashley Gallagher standing in the hallway. Calvin approached the man. He smirked, but relinquished it. This man’s partner had been killed. It was the wrong time for humor. “Describe what we are dealing with, and I will help you with this case. I want to know everything.”

“Uh uh.” Calvin outstretched his palm toward the coroner’s face and looked away. “I’m going to get it directly from the horse’s mouth. Not an over-glorified nurse. Is Detective Gallagher still here?”

The coroner sighed. “Yes. He’s wandering the house, seeing if there aren’t any breadcrumbs anywhere else. I told him that it was a waste, but—.”

As the Detective disappeared to find the other, Cart wheels wailing like that of a hungry babe for it's mum's teat, pulled the Coroner from his thoughts. His Assistant Tiffany White appearing with the body bag and transport for the unfortunate late Mr. Smith. She was a red headed woman of some twenty-seven years. The ugliness of death had long become normal to the young woman since her time in the war as a Triage Nurse a few years prior.

"well he is quite the assho- I mean 'charming man' isn't he?" She chirped as she moved the cart close and struggled with a rusty hinge to get it to lower. Wonderful New York, it loved its glitter and shine to draw in foreign money, yet cared not about giving the Coroner's office efficient quality tools to work with. Tiffany looked around the macabre garden of brutality and let out a distasteful sigh.

Some minutes passed as she prepped the body, at least this one was in one piece and didn't require a limb scavenger hunt like her last. She moved about doing her best to disturb the scene as little as possible. Her movements practiced, if not labored by the awkward stiffness of her new prosthetic left leg. The large moderate sized house that should be so full of life and emotion, now an eerily barren thing, still except for the remaining investigative crew and mourning cries of the deceased's wife. Poor thing.

Tiffany craved a cigarette, the irony not lost on her, but what was one more bringer of death in her life?

Ashley had to admit, the way his mind instantly snapped into its analytical state as if this crime scene were any other twisted his gut, the villainy of perfunctory routine mixed with heart-deep horror he supposed. He tried not to think about the cold face under the white sheet and occupied his thoughts only with small choices, things he could break down, focus on.

Something lead him to the bedroom, bet it the investigation or simple sentiment. The room was untouched, clearly, the bedspread left disheveled from what was no doubt a sleeping Richard at some point. Ashley moved forward with a shuffled gait, listening to the brush of his shoe soles against the soft, beige carpet. It was soothing in a way, the rhythm of it. He moved until he felt the gentle bump of the bedside table against his upper thighs and reached out, cradling a picture frame in his hand.

The photo was not a display picture of a dog in a cowboy hat, it was not a false representation of happy suburban living, it was proof of it. The faces of a happy family stared back at him, taunted him.

“Describe what we are dealing with, and I will help you with this case. I want to know everything.”

It was with a shaking hand that Ashley set the photo back down, turning to look the very devil in the eye. “You look good, Calvin.” He offered, albeit satirically, though it was clear his heart wasn’t in the mockery. “You’re getting old.” He folded his arms, looking the man over. “You who they sent me to work with? They’re quick with replacements.”

Calvin Lovegrove

Smith Residence

Cal strolled into the bedroom after Ashley. He allowed the detective to absorb the atmosphere; this place had become a harrowing temple of nostalgia -- an empty slice of proof that a man once lived here. No longer. His watch was over, and it had been replaced.

"You look like shit." Calvin folded his arms and a smirk rippled its way onto his face. "Although I'd be questioning your empathy if you looked otherwise. I am sorry for your loss."

He began to peruse the various objects in the room, turning over the clothes left on his bed and checking the drawers, simultaneously aware that he would find nothing. Yet again, The Florist had conducted a "perfect" murder. Calvin had read the files. If The Florist was a creature of habit, then there would be no prints and no possible leads outside of the normal information -- time of death, wounds, context.

Calvin reached into the breast-pocket of his suit and pulled out the file. He quickly perused the murders of Alison Fitzpatrick and Julia Prudence. Every detail checked out.

"Detective Smith was promoted to Ad Vice in my absence. My suspension has come to an end, and the rest of our desk is busy keeping kids out of the morphine-candy store." He paused and perused the file again. "There is nothing conclusive at this site. The coroner should pack up and we should return to Club Carousel. We need to peruse its ledger and obtain a list of clients for the last two nights."

"There's no way in hell that this smart a fellow would have left any trace at a place of business, but we can see if there are any repeat customers between the two nights and see if there were any strange consistencies between the two evenings. It's a long shot, but unless you have any other evidence, it's what we have."

Calvin hollered into the hallway. "Coroner...arrange for Detective Smith's remains to be sent to the morgue. We're done here."

"It's a long shot, but unless you have any other evidence, it's what we have."

Ashley mulled over this statement for longer than necessary, thinking on it as if he were peering over the edge of a steep cliff. He thought of Emerald, of the information she could possibly-- rather, no doubt reveal. He then thought of Alison, the girl brutally murdered with only the faintest of connections to the original crime. If he brought Emerald any deeper...

The soft brown eyes of Detective Smith seemed to creep into the back of his mind, wrinkled at the corners, lips forming witty words forever silenced. Ashley thought on the navy coat he would never again see draped over the back of his desk chair, he thought on the boy who would grow up without a father. He could bring justice to the man, to his friend, he had to, with no limitations.

And yet as he examined Calvin with a neutral eye he found himself lying as fluidly as water through a spout. "I've got nothing, Cal. The Club is our best shot. I gotta make a stop if you don't mind, forgot some papers at home. You finish up here with the Coroner, I'll meetcha'."

If he was being completely honest, he wasn't sure how he felt about working with Lovegrove. He had only slightly abrasive memories of the man, enough to temper his trust. You could never truly trust anyone from Ad Vice, Ashley had learned. Hell, he hardly even trusted himself. The faster you learned that, the longer you'd last. Nobody was your friend. Smith was an exception, and he was dead.

Ashley worked a cigarette from his pocket, offering a curt nod to Lovegrove before departing. He caught the Coroner's assistant in the hall... Tiffany, he believed her name was? "Go ahead and tell the Coroner we're wrapping up and moving on. Give the family some peace-- But don't let them in just yet." He swallowed, lighting the tip of his cigarette with a shaking hand. "I don't think she's quite ready."

Calvin Lovegrove

Smith Residence

"I've got nothing, Cal. The Club is our best shot. I gotta make a stop if you don't mind, forgot some papers at home. You finish up here with the Coroner, I'll meetcha'."

Calvin nodded and straightened his tie. “Do what you need to do. I’ll see you at the Carousel.” He sighed and trudged through the living room, being careful not to disturb any of the objects lying around. He stared down the coroner and pursed his lips. He then grimaced at the body and took a deep breath. “Take him to central. Gallagher and I are headed to Club Carousel.”

Once Cal made it to his car, he leaned against the glossy black fender flare and lit a cigarette. He’d made it this long in this business by looking out for himself, and everything about this soon-to-be-serial-killer sent shivers down his spine. This was the sort of case that would eat an idealistic cop alive. Perhaps it would have been wise to walk away.

Still, even if Lovegrove were to leave this acidic mess behind, the least he could do was open an avenue of investigation for Detective Gallagher. He hopped into his convertible and made a bee-line for Manhattan.

Club Carousel

Cal street-parked his car in front of the club and perused the road from the panorama of his convertible. He’d been to this avenue before, for very different reasons. It was the only place in Manhattan where a woman as limelight-smothered as Danielle could hide in plain sight. People were here for gratification, one way or another. They didn’t have a care in the world who was partaking. He’d taken her out to dinner down the street, and he’d always wondered what was behind the neon glow of the “Carousel” sign.

That was all gone. The street was desolate – mummified in caution tape. The expected press and beat patrol officers, however, were nowhere to be found. He was alone. He strolled inside and lit another cigarette. He sat at one of the empty tables alone with his smoking apparatus dangling from his mouth, waiting for Gallagher to catch up or an employee to meet with him