The Lost Nightingale
Chapter 2

"Ms. Jones," I stood up as she approached the table. Three nights later and here I was back at Santana's. But we weren't here for the sweet fizz.

She allowed me to remove her linen jacket and took the seat opposite me in the booth. She pulled off a pair of white pigskin gloves. "Mr. Anderson."

"Blaine, please." I told her, wrapping her coat over my arm, the night's chill ghosting through my sleeve to my skin.

"And call me Mercedes." She smiled but it was weaker than an English coffee. Her eyes were tired. Her eyes were sad. "I haven't got long. Karofsky will be back soon."

"Then let's not waste it." I gave the bar a once over as I sat down. Two other patrons. Both too far away to hear anything. And the blonde waitress. I was satisfied. "What did you want to tell me the other night? Why do you think Hummel is dead?"

"Kurt started at The Fury a little over two months ago. Just after me. He's nice kid. Was." She stared down at her hands but they had no answers. "He was good. Lovely voice. It was Karofsky's idea to call him Nightingale. Said it would bring in the art set. You could say that he had an invested interestin Kurt."

"An interest?"

"More than the rest of us, I mean. He was always at Kurt. Nothing Kurt could do was right. He'd work Kurt until his voice was hoarse and still want it again. Better. Louder. More. Sometimes he'd have Kurt so tired he'd just go to sleep on the floor of the changing room at the end of a shift."

I slipped into the role of Devil's Advocate. "Maybe he's just a perfectionist?"

"Or maybe he liked Kurt that bit too much?"

I frowned. "What aren't you telling me, Mercedes?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek and I saw a decision slide into place in her eyes. "He kissed him."

"Kurt kissed Karofsky?"

"No, the other way round."

I didn't have anything to say to that. Luckily she had more.

"One night he kept Kurt back late. We never thought anything of it. He always did. But the day after he was worse than ever before. Shoving Kurt around and calling him names? Kurt finally snapped and stormed out of the club. Later that night he told me that Karofsky had made a pass and that Kurt had rejected him."

I scooped from jaw up from my ankles and sat back in my seat. Karofsky was one of the boys, too? This was getting to be quite an epidemic.

"How long after this did Kurt go missing?"

"About two weeks? Yes, I think it was that. Karofsky finally began to let Kurt be. Kept his distance. And Kurt was happy. Well, happier. He was singing, he was in Los Angeles. He was having fun. Then Karofsky asked him to stay back again."

"Because it worked so well the last time?"

"I tried to get him to beg off. Honest, I did. But he was adamant. Said he could handle him. Said it would be fine." A bitter laugh. "This time Kurt turned up at my place in the early hours. He was roughed up. Shaking like a leaf and sobbing."

Under the table my hand made a fist, the nails digging into my palm.

"He said we had to go. Had to pack right away. He wouldn't say why. Just told me to meet him at the train station in two hours. That we were getting the next train to New York."

"And you were just going to go? Just like that? Without even knowing why?"

"I didn't need to know why when it came to Kurt. He was my friend. I waited at the station but he never turned up. They got to him first."

"Could he have gone without you?"

"No." It was said as gentle as a breeze but with the impact of a tornado. "I waited at that station for two hours, Blaine. I watched that New York train come and go. He never showed."

"And then?" Because her story wasn't over. We had a few stops yet.

"I went to his apartment." She named the street and I gave a nod. I knew it. "It had been stripped. And I mean stripped. They damn near took the wallpaper." She stared at me hard. "They wanted it to look like Kurt Hummel never came to this two bit town."

My finger traced the rim of my glass. "The "they"you keep mentioning?"

She bit her lip and cast an eye round the bar. "Wait. Who's that girl?"

I turned and my eyes bumped into the Berlin singer. She watched us with an unashamed hungry gaze. "Rachel, I believe." I shrugged. "She sings."

"She seems pretty interested in us."

"She can't hear. Unless she's George Arliss, I'm not worried."

Mercedes gave me a strange a look. I didn't mind. I had quite a collection. "Karofsky," she sighed. "I think it was him and his goons. Azimio and Sam. They are the ones he trusts the most."

"If you think this, why are you still there? Earning them a buck?"

"I was waiting for a chance to get them." She stood up and eased out of the booth. "I was waiting for you, Blaine." She slipped her gloves back on as I rose. I helped her into the coat and pressed my hand to the small of her back. "Find out what happened to him. And then nail Karofsky to the wall."

"This is real life, doll. And there's no Hays Code."

"I know that." She wrapped her coat tight around her. "But I have a good feeling about you."

"I'll find out what happened, Mercedes. I promise you that at the least." She nodded and smiled again. It was stronger this time.

"Get them for me, Blaine." She turned and walked away slowly. Watching her pass through the doors, I sat back down. I held my palm up. I studied the indents of my nails. I'd drawn blood.

"Hello!" Our admirer sat down opposite me, a smile so wide it was knocking on the ceiling for room. "Rachel Berry." She stuck out a dainty hand. Slowly mine joined it and the two danced together for a moment. "That was Mercedes Jones."

I raised an eyebrow. I didn't say anything.

"She sings in The Fury."

I still didn't say anything.

"She's good." She leant forward and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "But I'm better."

"I'm pleased for you." Not saying anything was getting old. "Now, if you'll excuse me." I stood up and smoothed down my lapels.

"Wait! Don't you want to hear me sing?" She grabbed at my wrist and gave a tug. It wasn't gentle. "My range is flawless, my style exemplary and my voice has been compared to that of a young Jo Stafford. Only, I assure you, Ihave more control."

"I'm sorry Ms...?"

"Berry." She nodded. "Rachel Berry. I know you're scouting. I know you think you've found something in Mercedes Jones, but just let me convince you that your success lies with me. I'll sing anything you want." Her fingers twinkled softly up my arm and she cast her eyes to the floor shyly. "Doanything you want."

I smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, sister, but this song isn't in your key." Her eyes widened. "I'm not an agent, Ms. Berry. I'm a private detective." Her hand spat me out and she shrank back like I was catching.

"And you let me go on like that?" She climbed out the booth. "Real nice guy! Real swell!"

I held up my hands in mock surrender. "You let yourself go on like that. Come on now. Don't be sore. It was just a misunderstanding."

"I'm sick of this town. I'm sick of the people." She flung up her hands and gave a comical stomp of her foot. "And I'm sick ofthisplace!"

I laughed. "Yet they all speak so highly of you."

Her eyes watered. "I don't like your tone."

"Would you like me to lower the pitch?"

She didn't stick around for a rebuttal.

"You just make friends where-ever you go, don't you?" Santana's waitress said with a smile. There'd been a thaw since I'd been here last. "Anderson, is it?"

"Blaine," I corrected. "You can call me Blaine."

She nodded and began to clear the table, wiping away the remains of the night. "Speaking of names," she said, wiping hard at a stubborn stain that brought her nearer. "Jesse St James."

"I'm sorry? I didn't catch that?"

She looked up at me from under her lashes, if she fluttered them just right she'd fly away. "Too bad, I'm not throwing it again." She left me standing. I opened my mouth to call her back but she was already gone. Three women in one night. Mother would be pleased.

I made my way out, my hands in my pockets and my head in the rafters. What was it about this case that was getting me so worked up? Everything was pointing towards the kid wearing a pair of cement slippers, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there. Alive.And for once I honestly didn't know if that was my gut instinct or wishful thinking. A passing merry drunk barged into my shoulder, knocking me back and breaking my thoughts. A muttered apology and then they were gone.

They had the right idea. I made my way home.

I woke up to a rapping at my door. I opened my eyes and gave a groan. The couch. I hadn't even made it to my bed this time. But the dreams found me no matter where I went. Karofsky may have the picture, but I didn't need it. Someone had painted the image to the inside of my eye lids.

I sat up and ran a hand through my hair, looking at the clock. Three hours. It was practically a lie in. The knocking came again. Harder. I opened my sideboard drawer and pulled out the roscoe. I checked the bullets. They were ready.

"Blaine! Open up!" Sam called through the wood. "I know you're in there." I tucked the Colt in the back of my pants, crossed the room and swung open the door. I took a surprised step back and he took a shaky step forward. He was drunk.

"I need... I need to talk to you," he stammered. "About the kid."

I slung an arm under his and helped him into the apartment. "So talk." I said, dropping him onto the couch as gently as a whale on a swing. I eased the gun out and returned it to the sideboard. I didn't think I'd be needing it when he was in this state.

"Get me a drink?" Sam asked, sinking into the cushions. "Bourbon?"

"I'll get you some java. And that's all I'll get you."

"Just one lousy bottle! That's all. One bottle never hurt anyone."

"Tell that to Fatty Arbuckle." I wiped a hand down my face. It didn't wipe away the tiredness. I sat down next to him. "Okay, you want to talk? Talk."

He grumbled some more about the drink and then grabbed tightly at his hair, clenching it into vicious little tufts. It had once being vibrant and blonde. Now it was just something to keep a comb busy. "He was a kid, you know? Sassy thing. Had a mouth on him, for sure, but deep down he wasn't so bad. Not really." He keeled over and for a moment I worried about my carpet. The landlord hated me enough. He rallied through. "He was just a kid."

"What did you do, Sam?"

"We got the call. My shift was over and I was in bed. It was Karofsky. He gave me the address and told me to meet Azimio there. Told us to sweep it. He didn't tell us it was Kurt. But there were all these pictures of his family and that, you know?"

Mercedes had been right. Hopefully there was something she was still wrong about.

"What happened to Hummel?" I asked my mouth dry. "Do you know?"

"He's dead." His words were cold. Missing their ownheartbeat. "He has to be."

"Did you get that in writing?" I stood up. I was mad as hell and didn't know why. "Did Karofsky actually tell you that Hummel had been rubbed out?

"No, no. Of course not. But he had a curse on him for sure. And Karofsky's too smart to end up making license plates."

"It would be the chair, Sam," I said softly. "If Hummel is dead, so is Karofsky."

"Well," Sam sat back, a cynical grin playing on his lips. "He's too smart for that, too."

"Get that look gone before I backhand it to the floor," I snapped.

The grin fell off and so did some of the liquor. "This case is getting to you, isn't it?"

I grunted and answered him with my back.

"Yeah, it sure is. You look like hell, Blaine. What's this kid to you, really?"

"Why are you here, Sam? Guilt isn't something that's motivated you before.

A silence. And then: "You know, if I could take it back I would," his voice was as small as a shadow at mid day. "I'd take it all back."

"Hummel?"

"No, not that. Well, yes. But not just that." A wet click in his throat. "Dalton."

I turned and looked him over. The years had thrown him around and then thrown him round him some more. There wasn't much of the Sam I once knew left. Just a man that looked like someone in faded clippings in an old photo album.

"Well." I turned away again. "Dalton was a long time ago."

I stood there for some time, until the door snipped quietly closed. When I turned a round again Sam Evans was gone.

And so was the gun.

"That's it? That's all you have to tell me?"

"With all due respect. I found more out in a week than your Noah Puckerman found out in a month, Mr Hudson."

"I didn't hire you to find things out. I hired you to find my brother!"

In front of me sat a very different Finn Hudson to the one that had came to my office that day. He was no longer the slightly dense client with the sweet smile. He looked years older, his fingers continuously battered against the table edge, little beads of sweat decorated his forehead like medals, and his eyes constantly swept the Breadstix café as if expecting the walls to start closing in any moment.

Hudson wasn't just worried. He was scared.

"That's what I am trying to do. I know where he worked, who his friends are," I told him in a patient voice. "His enemies."

"That's ridiculous. Kurt doesn't have any enemies!" He banged a hand down on the table and the spoons jumped in fright.

Tanaka gave me the eye from the counter and I held up a calming palm. Everything okay here.He nodded and continued drying his glass. But his eyes stared fixed.

"I assure you he did, Mr. Hudson. At least one. Sometimes that's all it takes."

"Are you telling me to prepare for the worst?"

"No." I shook my head. "I'm telling you not to expect miracles."

"He's not gone, Blaine. I know it. I feelit."

He did, too. I could see in his eyes that he believed it with everything he had. Not only believed.

But knew.

"Have you told me everything?" My voice was gentle. Probing. "Everything you know."

"Of course I have! Do you think I'd leave out anything that could help Kurt?"

He was lying. Call it paranoia. Guesswork. Or simply an ex cop's instinct. But Finn Hudson was lying alright.

"Listen, I'm late for an appointment. And this has clearly been a waste of my time." He wiped at his mouth with a napkin and stood up, throwing some nickels on the table.

"Jesse St James."

An experiment. A successful one. The blood in his face escaped and ran to his toes. His eyes blew wide and his jaw hung low.

"Who?" he said in a dry voice. "I don't know that name."

"Are you sure about that, Mr. Hudson?"

His jaw squared and jutted out in defiance. "Just find my brother, Blaine. That's all I want from you." He turned and walked out of the café without a backward glance.

I stared down at my nearly empty plate and pushed around some surviving grits with my knife. Karofsky, St James, Sam, Hudson and Hummel. What connected them? What did they all have in common?

A bell chimed a new customer.

I needed to go back to The Fury. Speak to Sam. Hell, speak to Karofsky if I had to. At the very least get my hat and my gun back. You can't be a shamus without a hat and gun.

"What have I told you about having business meetings in here, Anderson?"

"I'm just here for the fine cup of Joe, Tanaka," I soothed. "You know that."

"Yeah, yeah. You've got me blushing behind my skirts. That'll be four dollars."

I put my hand into my jacket and felt an empty space where my wallet should be. He saw the news on my face and his disposition turned mean.

"Oh, so that's your game? How about I call some of your old friends down at the station? How would that be?"

"That won't be necessary," the new entrant soothed. They walked over and pressed the green into his hand. "I'll get it."

Tanaka snatched the money as if it would sprout legs and follow Hudson out. "Your money, pal." He gave me a sneer and retrieved my plate. "You just watch yourself, Anderson."

"Thank you," I said, frowning in confusion as my rescuer sat down in the seat opposite. "And I really appreciate it, but I'm not looking for company."

"You look like hell," he said flatly, ignoring me.

"Well, I'm not planning on posing for any cheesecake pictures anytime soon. Listen, can I help…" The words died in my throat as I looked at him.

Really looked at him.

"Hello, Mr. Anderson," Kurt Hummel said. "I believe you've been looking for me?"