Full.
He put on his jacket again, making sure it hung so that the bulge underneath his left arm could not be seen, then picked up the bag and exited the vault.
“See ya,” he said to Leslie as he put on his hat and headed for the door.
“Try to talk them into letting you use an expensive rune or two,” she called after him. “I need a new pair of stockings.”
Alex rode the elevator down to the street. A steady rain fell and it seemed dark, even though it was only early afternoon. The glow of neon signs in storefronts cast halos of color through the downpour.
Tearing another page from his rune book, Alex stuck it to the brim of his hat, then lit it with his cigarette. A tingly sensation washed over him from his head to his feet and then he stepped out into the rain. The drops bent and danced as they reached him, moved aside by the magic. The barrier rune would only last an hour, but that was more than enough time for him to catch a cab to the south side mid-ring.
The rings provided power to the entire island of Manhattan, from the south side docks all the way up to the Bronx. The rings were physically centered on Empire Tower, the former Empire State Building. These days Empire Tower held a magical capacitor, created by Andrew Barton, one of New York’s resident sorcerers. Once charged, the Tower radiated power over the entire island. Since the Tower was so far south on the island, the field wasn’t round, but oval, putting the actual center of the power projection somewhere over Central Park. The farther you were away from the center, the worse your power reception got. This inspired the wealthier of New York’s citizens to build luxury buildings all around the Tower in an area known as the Core. Those closest to the Core were in the inner-ring, the high rent district. Mid-ring were businesses and middle-class folk, and everyone else was in the outer-ring.
The south side was actually pretty close to Empire Tower as the crow flew, but since the center was shifted north, the bands were thinner at that end. Most of the harbor and its environs were decidedly outer-ring, but just a few blocks away were nicer, mid-ring apartments.
Alex exited his cab thirty-five minutes later and made his way toward the cluster of police cars parked in front of a neat, three-story brick building. He got a few curious glances when people on the street realized the rain was avoiding him, but he was used to that.
“What do you want?” the officer at the door said in his best “go away” voice. He had a pug nose, close-set eyes and a scar on his cheek that made him look all business. Definitely the right man to put on the door.
“I’m Alex Lockerby,” Alex said, handing the officer a business card. “Detective Pak is expecting me.”
A surge of emotions warred across the cop’s face. He’d seen that Alex was a private investigator from his card, and Pak was the only Japanese on the force. Most Americans didn’t think much of Asians, but Pak had proved himself a good detective, and that made him family to the NYPD. Finally the cop decided that his dislike of private dicks and foreigners was less than his respect for his job and fellow officers.
“Third floor on the right,” he said, handing back the card. “Room 323.”
When Alex reached the room, he knew immediately why Pak had called him. The charred remains of a man lay in a recliner. The easy chair was blackened and burned, revealing the wire frame that supported it, but the walls and floor were fine, apart from some smoke damage. A round side table stood next to the chair containing a pulp novel, an empty shot glass, a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches.
“Alex,” Detective Pak said, noticing his arrival. Danny was about five-foot-ten, three inches shorter than Alex himself, and wore a brown suit with suede patches on the elbows and a gold shield attached to the breast pocket of his suit coat. He had brownish skin, short hair the color of midnight, and dark, almond shaped eyes. An infectious grin spread across his face as he shook Alex’s hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.
“Good to see you too,” Alex said, returning the handshake. “I was wondering why you called me,” he said, nodding at the charred corpse.
“I know it looks like an open and shut case,” Pak said, “but something’s wrong.”
“I’ll say. Whoever this guy was, he was murdered.”
2
The Stiff
Detective Pak opened his mouth and closed it again. “What?” he finally managed. “I just wanted to know why the fire went out?”
“I’d have to look around a bit before I could tell you that.” Alex shrugged.
“But you just got here… and you know he was murdered?”
“Of course he does,” a new voice interjected. Alex turned to face the sneering face of Lieutenant Francis Callahan. “Lockerby here is always looking to pad out his bill with wild theories and guesswork, that means he’ll have to break out his expensive magic.”
Callahan was everything an Academy recruitment poster could have wanted — tall, square-jawed, with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and perfect teeth. Worse than that, he’d made Lieutenant the hard way, by being good at his job. Every cop on the force liked and respected Frank Callahan — and Frank thought Alex was a waste of skin.
“Shouldn’t you be out finding someone’s dog?” Callahan asked.
Alex felt his face begin to flush and quickly willed that away. Callahan could get under his skin, but only if he let him.
“Of course any client that comes to you has probably lost their marbles,” Callahan went on. “So you should probably find those first.”
“I don’t think you’ve lost your marbles, Lieutenant,” Alex said, smiling warmly. “But since you did hire me, I’ll be happy to look for your dog. Assuming he’s missing.”
A chuckle ran around the room and Danny covered his mouth with his note pad. Callahan’s face reddened, but he regained control quickly.
“That wasn’t my idea,” he said. “You can thank your friend here for that.” He thumped Pak on the chest. “But since you are here, what makes you think this is murder, and not another poor shlub who fell asleep while he was smoking?”
Alex turned and pointed to the round table next to the ruins of the chair.
“What’s missing?” he asked.
“Decent booze,” Callahan said.
“Good literature?” Danny wondered.
“Ashtray,” Alex supplied. “There’s no ashtray here, and there isn’t one in the kitchen either. Not on the table or by the sink.”
“So it was in his lap when he burned,” Callahan said. “The coroner will find it — eventually.”
“How many ashtrays do you have in your house, Lieutenant?”
Callahan nodded, understanding blooming in his eyes.
“Right,” he said, then he turned to one of the uniform officers in the room. “Check the bathroom and the bedroom,” he said. “Let me know if you find any ashtrays.” He turned back to Alex. “Anything else?”
Alex walked over to the round table and picked up the open pack of cigarettes.
“There are three cigarettes missing from this pack,” he said. “What do you do with your old pack when you open a new one?”
“Check the trash,” Callahan told one of the other officers, then turned back to Alex. “He still could have thrown it away before he got home.”
“It’s possible.” Alex nodded.
“What about the fire?” Danny asked. “It seems to me that it shouldn’t have burned out so quickly.”
“You’d like it better if it burned down this whole building?” Callahan said with a raised eyebrow. “Seems to me we got lucky.”