Hey, guys! Thanks for the interest in my re-write of The Maskmaker! I'm having a lot of fun writing it, so whether you like it or not, I'm continuing. (: I wanna do it with all the volumes, but unfortunately, I don't have iTunes money to go and buy them all. :c But anywho, thanks for the reviews, and I hope you guys like this first chapter! (:
Chapter One - Mal Fallon
I sit in one of those back-alley bars in the Mission District playing a heads-up game of Texas Hold 'Em. Diego, an old friend of mine, sits across from me.
"Come on, Diego, what are you waiting for? I don't have all day..." I suppress a smirk as the heavily-tattooed man in front of me twitches nervously.
"I'm thinking, man, I'm thinking..." he mutters with a scowl.
While I wait for him to make a move, I glance up at a blaring TV.
"The serial killer dubbed 'The Maskmaker' continues to elude and capture, frustrating law enforcement..." the television thunders.
"Hey, you hear about this Maskmaker guy, Mal?" Diego asks me. "Killing girls, making masks out of their faces. Pretty sick, huh?"
I suppress an agitated sigh.
"How about you leave the detective work to me, Diego, and focus on the game? You gonna make a bet or not?" Diego glances down at his two cards, then beams.
"Sure," he says with a grin. "I'm in for thirty."
Let's see... We're at the final round of betting, and I've got nothing but a pair of fours... But my gut says Diego's got even less.
Deciding to bluff, I say, "I raise a hundred."
"What?" he exclaims, clearly surprised. "No, man, you... You don't got it. No way you got anything."
"Then call it, Diego," I coax with a sly grin. I know Diego; he talks big, but he rarely follows through. "Put your money where your mouth is."
"Ahhh, screw this, man," he growls, giving up. "I fold."
With a smug smile, I reach across the table and gather the pot.
"Cheer up," I laugh. One of these days, your luck will turn. Diego mutters to himself and begins to shuffle the cards, when I see a familiar face approach our table.
"Mal," greets my best friend, Ken Greene.
"Well, this is unexpected," I say. "What are you doing here, Ken?"
"I had a feeling I'd find you here," he mutters with barely-suppressed disgust. "Gambling away with these other shady, unkempt lowlives..."
Diego glares at him, but I know Ken's joking.
"Hey, I might be shady and a lowlife," I laugh, "But I'm very well-kempt."
Ken laughs, too. "Anyway," he continues, serious again. "The Captain sent me to find you. You're needed on a case."
"I thought I was suspended until the end of next week..." I say with surprise.
"You were," he corrected. "Now you're not. Let's go."
I stand to follow him when Diego interrupts.
"You got suspended?" he questions with wide eyes. "What'd you do?"
I hesitate to tell him, but decide to, anyways.
"I punched the mayor's son," I confess with a sheepish grin.
"Damn!" Diego exclaims with an impressed smile. "That's hardcore!"
"'Hardcore' was what he did to the girl he assaulted," I correct. "I just helped him understand the error of his ways."
"As much fun as it is to rehash your greatest hits," Ken interrupts, "We gotta roll out." I nod and pocket the last of the money.
"What's the big rush, anyway?" I inquire.
Ken pulls his keys from his pocket before continuing. "Captain Yeong wants you to head up the Maskmaker Task Force," he tells me.
Wait, what? Maskmaker Task Force?
"Since when is there a Maskmaker Task Force?" I ask, slightly bewildered.
"Since we just found another victim," he sighs with a hint of sadness. "Let's go."
Complying, I get up from my seat and pull on my coat. I exchange quick good-bye's with Diego before following Ken towards the door.
"Oh, and by the way..." he starts.
"Yeah?" I say.
"It's good to have you back, Mal," he finishes with the warm, friendly smile that I'm so used to.
"Thanks," I smile back.
Half an hour later, I am driving down the busy streets of San Francisco. My superior, Captain Maria Yeong, sits in the passenger seat. Though I'm happy to be back on duty, I'm still unsure as to why this case was re-assigned to me.
"I gotta tell you, Captain," I start, "As much as I'm glad to be back on the beat, I thought Detective Blackwell was handling the Maskmaker case..."
"He was," she replies, "When the victims were all prostitutes. This new one's a college girl. When the press gets word of this, the public is going to go crazy... And whether I like it or not, you're the best detective I've got."
"I appreciate it," I say with a smile, though I'm slightly surprised.
"That doesn't mean you're off the hook! I want this one by-the-book, Detective," she continues sternly. "You understand that? By-the-book."
"You've got my word," I promise sincerely. "I won't let you down, Captain."
"Good," she says approvingly, the frown disappearing from her face. "And you might want to let your wife know you'll be home late."
My heart skips a beat and drops a little at the mention of Sandra, my ex-wife. We were high school sweethearts, but marriage just... didn't work out, I guess. She left me a few months ago, but I will admit I saw it coming. It still hurts, but I can't say I never expected it.
"Yeah," I say uncomfortably. "I'll, uh, give her a call in a bit. First, why don't you give me the basics on the case?"
"This is the third murder matching this M.O. we've had in three months," she informs me. "The victims were young women, age twenty-to-twenty-five, who washed up dead near the waterfront. All of them had plaster masks molded to their faces. We can't definitively ID this latest victim until we run her DNA against a comparison sample, but the student ID in her wallet says she's Sophie Patterson of Stanford University. I've already called the tech team. They'll fill you in on this victim when we get there." She pauses for a moment. "Any questions?" she asks.
"I know what I need to know," I say determinedly. "I'll catch this guy, Captain."
"I hope you can, Detective... Before he kills again."
After another few minutes of driving, I stop the car near a series of old, run-down docks, just outside of Fisherman's Wharf. I step out of the car and a cold breeze blows over me, involuntarily causing a shiver. I follow Captain Yeong to the all-too-familiar sight of a proximity roped off by police tape. A small huddle of grim-faced officers bustle around the scene, each doing their jobs. I push past several other officers and make my way to the center of the circle. There I am greeted by the body of a young, well-dressed girl with pale skin. A firm, white plaster mask is molded around her face.
"Ah, hell..." I murmur sadly under my breath.
"The body was found by some fishermen coming back from their morning trawl," Captain reports grimly. "Judging by the look of her, she spent the night in the water."
If she spent the night in the water... How did the plaster mask stay on?
"She was dumped in the ocean... But the mask stayed on?" I ask.
"Believe me," she almost-scoffs, "We're having a hell of a time getting it off. Our killer knew what he was doing." I nod formidably before moving to take a step further towards the victim's corpse. As I'm nearing it, a young woman in a dark suit steps out from the circle, crouches near the dead girl, and snaps a picture of the body. Surprised, I come to an abrupt halt to avoid tripping over her.
"Miss, please back away from the crime scene," I command politely. The woman looks up from the corpse and meets my eye. I'm immediately struck by the fact that she's extremely pretty, but her brown eyes are hard and almost cold.
"I would," she starts, "But that would make doing my job more difficult." She stands, reaches into her pocket, and flashes me an official FBI identification card.
"You're with the FBI?" I ask in surprise. I wasn't aware we were calling in any feds, s0 I want to make sure she's actually supposed to be here.
"You've got a serial killer on your hands," she says with a matter-of-fact, almost-condescending tone, "And the Bureau sent me to assist with profiling. Are we going to have a problem?"
I look to Captain Yeong. "Captain?"
"I didn't expect them to get someone out here so fast," she admits, "But yes, I heard we'd be receiving assistance from the Bureau." She steps in a bit closer so she's speaking into my ear, too quiet for the other woman to hear.
"Do me a favor and play nice," she tells me sternly.
"I'll try not to bite," I say with a sly smile. Captain nods at me, then turns to speak to someone else. I turn back to the woman.
"I'm Detective Mal Fallon," I introduce, extending my hand politely.
"Special Agent Natara Williams," she greets back, firmly shaking my hand.
"Can I call you Nat?" I ask jokingly, trying to see if her overly-serious demeanor could be broken.
"You can call me Special Agent Williams," she snaps back with a scowl. I think I see something flash in her eyes, but I can't tell what it is.
"Well, Special Agent Williams," I reply awkwardly, "Mind if I examine the crime scene?"
"By my guest," she responds tepidly, stepping aside. I nod curtly as I take a step forward and crouch down beside the body. Special Agent Williams kneels beside me, giving a respectable distance between us.
"Looks like she's been roughed up a bit," I observe, more to myself than anyone else.
"And her shoulder's dislocated," Williams adds. "This girl was dragged by the arm, hard."
I thought for a moment, recalling the other victims thus far. "Something went wrong here. This girl fought back. There was a struggle."
"But besides that," she continues, "There was no other trauma. No bruising around her neck. Even her clothes are neat. No rips or tears, no obvious signs of struggle. Unless our killer meticulously dressed her, I'm betting we get no evidence of sexual assault, either." She pauses to think for a few moments, seemingly concentrating hard on something.
"Hmm... That's interesting. This murder is different from the previous victims," she notes.
"You're right," I say, suddenly realizing what was different. "The cause of death is different."
"Yes, that's absolutely correct," she confirms.
"The other victims were strangled, but this girl has no bruising on her neck," I report, pointing to the girl's thin neck. Now, however, another question invades my mind. "So how'd she die?"
"Drowning, maybe?" she guesses.
Suddenly, Eric Mills, our lab technician, approaches us.
"No," he interjects expertly. "She couldn't have drowned. There's no fluid in her lungs. The victim was dead before her body entered the water."
Special Agent Williams glances up at Eric questioningly. I stand, and she follows suit.
"Special Agent Williams," I begin, "I'd like you to meet Eric Mills, our forensic technician." She nods and extends her hand. Eric shakes it, offering a polite smile.
"Well, if she didn't die from drowning or strangulation," she continues as if we weren't interrupted, "What killed her?"
"Look here," Eric says, crouching down and pointing to the victim's neck. We crouch once again, each on either side of Eric. "See that tiny welt? This indicated the victim received an injection just prior to her death..."
"The chloroform?" Agent Williams asks in speculation.
"No, if this victim is like the others, that was administered via a cloth over the mouth." Eric pauses, lightly holding back the victim's bright red hair to reveal a purple-y welt. "Look at the petechial hemorrhaging behind the ears. That suggests that her airways were obstructed."
I pause once again, processing what Eric just said. "Son of a–" I start, quickly cutting myself off. I try not to cuss in front of people I've just met. "He killed her with the mask," I conclude with a disgusted scowl.
"Come again?" Eric says, seeming taken-aback.
I reach over and gently move the girl's head to the side, lightly touching the edge of the mask and feeling for any signs of the plaster giving.
"Look how tightly it's plastered onto her skin," I relay, retracting my hand from her head. "My guess is he drugged her, plastered over her face, and let her suffocate to death."
"Then this crime is even more different than I thought," Special Agent comments stonily. "He made the mask while his victim was alive instead of doing it after she died."
"He's evolving,"
"Exactly. And when a killer this precise, this methodical, this disciplined, still has room to evolve–" she starts.
"–That's trouble." I finish.
"Yeah," she confirms again. "A lot of it."
Suddenly I hear a voice from behind me, calling my name.
"Hey! Mal!" I whip around to meet the face of a fellow cop, Officer William Rye. "You might want to see this!" he calls, hurrying up to us. I turn towards him as he shines a black light over the victim's body.
"Look what I found on her arm!" he exclaims. He shifts the light to focus on the inside of the girl's wrists, revealing a stamped circle of Chinese zodiac animals. I crouch down to examine it closer, when recognition dawns on me.
"Wait a minute, I know that stamp," I remark. "That's from the Zen Club in Chinatown. It's an upscale bar and karaoke club. I reach out and gently lift the girl's arm so I can take a closer look. "Given how crisp the image is, I'm guessing she was there last night."
"Someone there must have seen something," Agent Williams speculates.
"Well, Special Agent Williams, looks like we just got a lead." She nods and stands, and we take turns thanking Officer Rye.
"Let's go," I say, motioning to her to follow me to my car. I get in the driver's seat, followed by Agent Williams in the passenger's seat. As we drive down towards Chinatown, we sit in a stony silence as she wordlessly goes over her paperwork. The silence is starting to irritate me, so I disrupt it.
"Not much of a talker, are you?" I speculate with a humored grin. "Too busy profiling?" She looks up from her papers and glares at me.
"As a matter of fact, Detective, I am," she replies in a hard voice, eyes still cold. I can't help but smirk at her workaholic-type attitude. "And I'm not sure I understand why you find that so amusing," she growls.
"It's just..." I pause. I suddenly feel like trying to agitate her slightly. "Come on. That pop psych stuff probably sounded great in a classroom at Quantico," I say, "But it's not going to find us this killer."
"Oh really?" she taunts sarcastically. "And what is going to help us find this killer, Detective?"
"Real police-work," I state. "Hitting the street. Grilling witnesses. Following my gut."
"Oh, please," she scoffs melodramatically. "Spare me the 'tough cop' routine, will you? I've worked with enough detectives to know it's all an act."
Well, she's kind of a bitch.
"And you think you know me that well?" I ask. "Have you profiled me?"
"As a matter of fact, Detective," she utters again, "I have. Would you like to hear it?"
"Sure," I say, shrugging my shoulders. Let's hear it, Miss Smarty-Pants.
"Your name is Mal Fallon," she begins professionally. "I'm guessing that you're a descendant of Malachi Fallon, first Chief of Police of the San Francisco Police Department?"
"So you've read a history book," I dismiss passively.
"So police work runs in your blood," she starts again, "But your response to me suggests an innate distrust of women. Absent mother, I imagine?"
I nearly choke on my own saliva. I will admit, I'm slightly taken-aback. I'd usually come up with some snappy comeback, but her statement hit just a little too close to home. So instead, I glance over at her, scowl, and turn back to the road.
"I'm guessing you had a rebellious youth?" she inquires next. I glance over at her again, but say nothing. "Didn't play by the rules? Maybe even a little legal trouble?"
I say nothing, eyes on the road. The truth is, her profiling is completely accurate, but I'm not about to tell her so.
"And all of this culminates in a personality type that serves authority without fully respecting it," she concludes matter-of-factly. "How'd I do?"
I glance over at her again, forcing myself to remain civil. Though I know she has no reason to have knowledge of my mother, I still don't like her being talked about like that.
"Pretty good," I reply with another shrug, "But you're wrong about my mother. The woman was a saint." I'm not sure what, but something about her makes me want to tell her things I haven't even told Ken yet, but I have to remind myself that I met the woman no more than half an hour ago.
"Now how about I tell you what my gut thinks of you?" I ask, changing the subject to avoid further questioning. Something about her seems... off. I'm no profiler, but the coldness in her eyes suggest a fall-out of some sort. Something tells me she wasn't here on her own devices.
"Be my guest!" she chimes with a smug smirk.
She says 'as a matter of fact' and 'be my guest' a lot.
"Well," I begin, "If I'm not mistaken, the local FBI branch is working the Flores Cartel, their biggest organized crime takedown in fifteen years... And yet you're stuck helping us with this."
"What are you implying?" she inquires brusquely, her eyes narrowing.
"You must have pissed someone off," I proclaimed confidently. I glance over at her to see her frosty demeanor falter for a split second, before a scowl is own her face again. Ha! Nailed it.
I grin smugly. "I'm right, aren't I? You're on crap detail."
"I'll admit I'm not on the best of terms with my District Chief," she allows after a short pause.
"I knew i!" I exclaim. I give her another smug look, and she rolls her eyes. "What'd you do? Blow a major lead? Get too cozy with a reporter? Did you shoot someone you weren't supposed to?" I look over at her again to see her expression falter once again, and several emotions flash through her eyes. They are gone just as quickly as they came, though, so I can't tell what they are. By the way her eyes grow even colder, though I know I hit a nerve.
"How about you leave the profiling to me, Detective?" she snaps.
"All right, all right," I say with a slight grin, deciding to ease up. "Just keep your gun holstered around me, okay?"
"I make no promises," she announces.
Ten minutes later, Agent Williams and I approach the Zen Club. The glowing neon letters greet us as we walk up to the door.
"So how'd you recognize the stamp, anyway?" she inquires, turning to me. "You don't seem like the karaoke type."
"You're only saying that because you haven't heard me sing," I say. I actually have a pretty decent voice; a childhood of church choir does that to you.
"Oh really?" she says, actually seeming genuinely surprised and interested. In the past hour, that's the first time I've seen her with some other emotion other then... well, emotionless.
"That and I know the owner here. Shady guy, but he helped us out with an investigation a while back." She nods, then pulls open the door and strides in. I step in behind her and my eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting. It's still before business hours, but some of the staff are bustling around setting up.
"Ah, crap, it's you," mutters Milo, the club owner, from behind the counter. "Listen, I already told the last cop, I had no idea those kids were under twenty-one."
"Relax, Milo," I say. "This isn't about your liquor license. There's been a homicide. We have reason to believe the victim was here last night."
"We want to know about a redhead in her twenties, with a tattoo of a constellation on her lower-back," Agent Williams interjects, adding information to the conversation. "That ring any bells?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know the one," Milo recalls, face lighting up slightly. "She's a regular." His face drops when he seems to realize that the girl would no longer be present. "Hey, wait... Is she... You know..."
"Just tell us," I press, ignoring his sort-of question. "Was she with anyone?"
"Yeah, yeah," he answers distractedly. "She was talking to Jared."
I think for a moment, but the name doesn't sounds familiar. "Jared?"
Milo jerks his thumb in the direction of a young, muscular man standing behind the bar table, wiping down shot glasses.
"Hey, Jared!" he calls out. "Some cops here to see you."
Jared's head shoots up. "Oh, uh, just give me one sec..."
I narrow my eyes suspiciously. He steps away from the bar, tosses down his towel, turns... And bolts straight through the kitchen door, running away from us.
"Damn!" I yell. "He's getting away!" I take a running start, jump the bar, and jerk the handle of the door Jared just disappeared through. I pull, but it appears to be locked. I step back and kick the door in. It flies off its hinges in a spray of wooden splinters.
We both rush through, ignoring Milo's shout from behind us. "Hey! You'd better be paying for that!"
Ahead of us, Jared races through the kitchen, speeding rapidly towards the rear exit.
"Freeze!" I yell, though I doubt he'll actually stop. Jared grabs a steel sauce-pot off a rack and hurls it at my head. I quickly duck, and the metal pot clammers harmlessly to the ground behind me. Without turning to see if he hit me, Jared continues to sprint through the kitchen, weaving in and out of stoves and counters, and streaks through the back door.
"Stay on him!" I command loudly to Agent Williams.
"I am!" she snaps back with another scowl.
We burst out the back door and follow Jared through a tight alley and onto a crowded street. Civilians soon swallow him up, and he is lost in a sea of innocent bystanders.
"Where the hell is he?" Agent Williams yells in frustration.
"Keep your eyes sharp!" I remind her. Remembering his distinctive brown hair, I search the crowd for a similar shade.
"There!" I yell, spotting him about thirty feet away. "Down by the street!"
"FBI!" Agent Williams shouts, shoving past several people. "Get out of the way!"
We sprint after him, hot on his trail. Sensing this, he desperately spins around and darts into the street.
"Geez!" I exclaim as horns blare. An SUB swerves right by Jared, nearly clipping him as it tries to get out of the way. Jared stumbles, but quickly pulls himself up and keeps running.
"I got him!" she calls, sprinting ahead... Right into the path of an oncoming city bus. I know the bus won't have time to stop, and pulling her back could cause us to lose the suspect. So I take my chances and tackle her forwards, throwing myself behind her and propelling her and I past the bus.
"Thanks for the assist," she exhales with genuine-looking gratuity. Up ahead of us, Jared is still running, desperately trying to lose us.
"I got this!" I announce, sprinting top-speed after him. I hop over the hood of an idling cab, get right on his heels, and tackle him into the curb.
"Gotcha!" I shout triumphantly, pinning him down beneath me.
"Aaaaagh!" he yowls with scowl fiercer than Agent Williams. "Damn, man! Get off me, pig!"
Why am I always getting called 'pig'?
With Jared still pinned beneath me, I reach into his pocket and extract a baggie of small white pills.
"I'm guessing these aren't prescription," I observe loudly. "What are they? Roofies? GHB? You secret weapon when it comes to knocking girls out at the club?"
"I'm not saying anything until I talk to my attorney!" he yells back defiantly.
Soon enough, uniformed officers arrive, hand-cuff jared, and take him down to the station.
"That was a pretty close call with that bus," I recall with a relieved sigh.
"Yeah, I... It was..." she replies.
I was expecting some form of a sardonic reply, so her discomposed expression and words took me by surprise.
"You doing all right, Special Agent?" I ask, legitimately concerned.
"I... I am," she replies after a slight stammer. "Thank you, Detective," she adds.
I nod with a slight smile. "Please," I insist, "Call me Mal."
She smiles appreciatively. "Alright, Mal. Call me Natara."
Natara and I stand back at the precinct, waiting to enter the interrogation room to speak with Jared. Suddenly, Captain Yeong pulls me aside.
"So, think the kid did it?" she asks. Though the evidence points towards it, something didn't feel right. My gut tells me otherwise, so I go with a non-committal reply.
"Could be," I answer. "Jared's connected to the victim, but we won't know if he killed her until we speak to him."
"Good to see you're not getting ahead of yourself, Detective," Captain Yeong mentions approvingly. "What about you, Agent Williams?" she asks, turning towards Natara. "What's your take?"
"He fits the standard serial killer profile. Mid-twenties, white, prior relationship with the victim. But he also works in a high-social profession. Serial killers tend to be detached and awkward around strangers."
"I doubt that'll be enough for a jury, Special Agent," she dismisses passively. Natara nods and looks away, slightly embarrassed. I catch her eye and flash her an encouraging smile, and she appreciatively smiles back.
Just then, Eric walks over.
"Detective, I've got that analysis of the drugs Jared was carrying," he divulges. "It's a morphine derivative called hydromorphone, or hydro."
"I know hydro," I mutter, recollecting numerous instances of college kids using it to get intoxicated. "It's popular with club kids who like a medicine cabinet high."
Eric nods in acknowledgement and continues. "Overdoses cause dizziness, light-headedness, blackouts..."
"So it could've been what the killer used to incapacitate Sophie?" Natara questions.
"We'll need the completed tox screen to know for certain, but it's certainly plausible," Eric confirms. "Then again," he continues in a lighter tone, "It's also possible that your suspect's just using them to get high."
Something still doesn't seem right, but I don't want to say it out loud. "Thanks, Eric," I say instead. "I think it's time we had our little chat with Jared."
I lead the way into the interrogation room, and Natara follows close behind. In the room, Jared and his lawyer are seated at the table in the center of the room.
"Hello, I'm Catherine Krutzik," the lawyer introduces. "I'll be handling Jared's case." Natara and I both nod. "You should know that I've advised my client not to speak," she adds.
"That's okay," I say calmly. "All he needs to do is listen. This is about murder."
"Murder?!" Jared bursts. "Why's he talking about murder?"
"Jared," Catherine mumbles quietly. "Let me handle this."
"But–" he starts.
"I said, stay quiet," she growls impatiently. She looks up at us. "Well, Officer, you've succeeded in unnerving my client. Now explain yourself."
Ha!
"My pleasure," I reply smugly. "Last night, Sophie Patterson went to the Zen Lounge. Six hours later, she was found dead. Jared, as far as we know, you're the last person who saw her alive."
"Wait, what?!" Jared exclaimed, eyes wide. "You're saying Sophie–"
"–Is dead," I finish. "And right now, the evidence isn't looking food for you. Last one to see her alive... Access to illegal drugs... Trust me, it'll be better if you start talking now." I pause. "What can you tell me about Sophie?"
"... Sophie?" Jared mumbles after a slight pause. His face turns somber, and tears well up in his eyes. "Sophie's just this girl, you know," he states sadly. "Cute, fun... We even hooked up a couple of times." He pauses again. "Mostly, though, she came to me when she wanted to party."
"And last night?" I inquire suspiciously.
"She found me," he relays. "I fixed her a drink, but that's it! I wouldn't sell her anything harder."
"Why not?" I press.
"Because she looked like she'd already been partying," Jared says, his expression hardening slightly. "Unsteady on her feet, you know? Last I saw, she was stumbling towards the rear exit, and then..." Yet again, he pauses.
God, get on with it.
"And then?" I urge impatiently.
"And then nothing," he says blankly. "She was just gone. I figured she'd bailed."
I nod and glance at Natara, who had been scribbling notes down on a yellow legal pad. She looks up, nods, and we both stand and exit the interrogation room. Uniformed officers escort Jared back to the holding cells.
"Well, any luck verifying my client's alibi?" Catherine asks as she strides up to us.
"Yeah," Natara says reluctantly. "The club owner confirmed Jared was still mixing Mai Tais at Sophie's time of death."
"Very good," Catherine replies with a smug, patronizing smirk. "I want it noted that my client cooperated fully with your investigation." With that, she turns on her heels and strides away, heels clacking annoyingly on the precinct's tiled floor.
Captain Yeong soon walks up to us. "I think we've done all we can today, at least until the Medical Examiner comes back with a full autopsy report tomorrow."
"I have enough information to draw up a profile," Natara joins. "I'll have it ready by tomorrow morning."
"Go home and get some rest," Captain Yeong orders, seeming to ignore Natara. "I'll want you both alert tomorrow."
We both nod and thank her before walking out of the office. The night air is cold, and the sky is hidden behind thick clouds.
"Need a lift to your hotel?" I ask, remembering that she doesn't live in this city.
"It's not far," she answers. "I'll walk." I nod.
"You did well out there today, you know," I tell her encouragingly. "Even if we didn't get the right guy."
"You weren't bad yourself, Detec... Er... Mal," she corrects.
"You have a good night, Special Agent Williams," I say with a smile.
"You too," she smiles back. She walks off, and a moment later, Ken walks up to me.
"That your new Fed partner? She's one good-looking woman," Ken comments. I chuckle. "Think I'd have a shot with her?" he asks jokingly.
"As far as I can tell? She'd break you in half," I say.
Ken laughs. "You happy to be back on the force?" he asks, as if he doesn't know the answer.
"Yeah, I am," I say with a slight grin. "I just wish I'd come back under better circumstances," I add grimly.
"Well, I bet your wife's happy you're not lying around on the couch all day," Ken comments. "How's she doing, by the way? Things still good with you and Sandra?"
I feel that slight familiar heart-drop, but quickly try to conceal it. "Uh, yeah. Yeah. Couldn't be better."
How is it that I am good at bluffing in poker, but I am a horrible liar at real-life issues?
"All right, Mal," Ken dismisses like he doesn't quite believe me. "I'll catch you later. Don't be a stranger."
I nod, and we say good night. I drive back home and park my car on the street. I wearily climb the stairs and walk into my apartment. I step through the door and am immediately greeted by the familiar air of loneliness. The lights are off, and packed cardboard boxes labelled in Sharpie marker are everywhere, lining the walls and sitting in the middle of the floor.
Damn. The light's still out. I really ought to fix that one of these days...
I instinctively look across the room to where the phone sits. The red answering machine light is blinking, indicating an unheard voicemail. I walk over to the machine and press 'play'. A familiar voice fills the room, and that same dull ache finds its way to my chest again.
"Hey, Mal. It's, um... It's me. I wanted you to know that I'm going to come by at the end of the week to pick up the last of my stuff. I know you're not going to return this call, because you don't want to deal with this or anything else..." She pauses. It's a short pause, but it's painful. "Just don't make this difficult, okay? I'll leave my key when I'm done. Goodbye, Mal."
The machine beeps, signifying the end of Sandra's message. I sigh.
Well, that's not what I needed to hear right now.
I'm tired in more aspects than one, but for some reason, I don't feel like I can go to bed yet. So I resolve to watch TV instead. I walk over, flip it on, and fiddle with the remote.
"As we reported earlier," the news anchorman reports, "The serial killer known as The Maskmaker has claimed a third, as yet unidentified, victim. Police Captain Maria Yeong has reportedly assigned controversial Detective Mal Fallon to lead the task force..."
I'm 'controversial' now? That's a step up.
I sigh and flip off the TV. The weight of everything that happened today, along with everything that has happened in the past six months, comes crashing down, and I am suddenly exhausted.
Talk about one hell of a day...
I shove past another stack of boxes, open the bedroom door, and sprawl out onto the small bed, not even bothering to change clothes. Sleep doesn't come easily, but I finally fall into a light, restless slumber.