The thick gray cloud cover late in the afternoon turned the long barren stretch of beach into a wide overcast expanse of colorless space. The only break in the pale was a thin line of barren trees to the east and the darker gray vastness of ice and water to the west. In the midst of this bland landscape stood three dark figures. They stood in front of a fourth silhouette, one surrounded by yellow police tape. In a moment of reflection, Myka thought of it as a missing piece from a life-sized puzzle; like the piece with the face of the Rat King from her Nutcracker puzzle she had lost, then found under her couch, so many Christmases ago. Separated from where it belonged, strangely out of place. And just like the squinty black eyes and pointy nose of the Rat King, this puzzle piece had a slightly menacing aura about it; though the difference here was that this was indeed real.
"You've got to be kidding me." Pete gawked at the abandoned jewelry case half-sunken into the beige sand, leaning near-precariously to the right, like the tower in Pisa.
His partner only stared, unblinking, at the case, then at him, back at the case, and back at him again. Once again they'd succeeded in encountering the unfathomable.
Just an hour before, Myka had met Bill on the porch of the Wilder. He greeted her warmly and warned her not to go into the kitchen, for Myrna was cooking up a 'surprise' dinner for her 'favorite guests'. "She loves to cook," He said smilingly. "…Which is just as well because I can't even boil an egg. Myrna cooks, I wash the dishes."
Myka grinned. "Sounds like you guys have a good system."
"Years of practice my dear. That's all it takes. Who cooks in your house?"
Myka faltered, searching her mind for any memories of Pete being at all domestic, and coming up empty. Figures. So, like any good undercover agent, she fibbed. "Neither of us is really any good at cooking, and our jobs keep us so busy, we eat out most of the time."
Bill gave her a friendly smile. "Well you're in for a treat then. Myrna cooks better food than you'll find anywhere around here, including Hank down at the tavern, and he's no slouch."
They stood on the porch for another few minutes, Myka sharing anecdotes from their day around town, while they waited for Pete to pull up with the truck. As he did, Bill offered his arm to Myka in the gentlemanly fashion so rarely seen in our modern age, and escorted her down the long stone path.
Pete watched this transpire from the driver's seat and chuckled to himself. Myka, being treated like a lady? Hah. She'd smack me if I tried that.
Myka had accepted the gesture mostly to be polite, but she was inwardly impressed that people still did things like that. It touched her to know that he was this attentive and respectful to women, and probably more so, with his wife. She sort of wished that all men would treat her like that, until she noticed Pete smirking in the front seat. Well, maybe not all men. I'd smack him if he tried this, fake wife or no.
The ride to the ghost town site was uneventful. Myka sat in the back seat, her gaze steadily trained out the window, allowing herself to daydream as Pete and Bill kept up lively conversation in the front seat. She sat still, observing. The ambient light dimmed as they passed through the red covered bridge; as they emerged on the other side seconds later Myka exhaled heavily realizing she'd been holding her breath. For what reason, she had no idea. Brushing the thought aside, she returned to her reverie, watching the charcoal silhouettes of the trees reflect in the ice covering the inlet. After crossing the wooden bridge only minutes later, and Myka once again realized that without intending to, she had held her breath, almost like she expected something to happen. An unbidden chill ran the length of her spine and she once again brushed it off. Get a grip, Bering. You don't get vibes, that's the man-child's job.
The road ended only two miles later, turning into densely packed sand, and Bill instructed Pete where to park the truck safely.
They stood around aimlessly for a few minutes, Bill sharing tidbits about the wildlife, until he told them to follow him up the beach so he could show them the old Singapore site.
"It's nothing but lumps of sand now, there's not much to see, but it does lend a chill to the bones, knowing how many people lived their lives right there. They lived, worked, and died there, and all that's left is a lump of sand."
Myka and Pete shared a look, and a covert smile at the old man who was so passionate about his hobby.
Windswept sand piles appeared on the horizon, but that was not what caught the attention of our young agents. The yellow tape was like a 10,000-watt beacon in the sea of gray and beige, beckoning them to investigate. They approached it and found it exactly as Artie had described. The three dark figures stood there staring at a fourth.
Bill broke the silence that had reigned since Pete's first comment, inviting them to forget the crime scene "police business" and to let him regale them with the stories he so loved to tell.
Pete and Myka held a silent conference, and yet another wordless decision was made. Pete turned and followed Bill's beckoning gesture as Myka pulled out her phone, pretending to check it for messages.
"Oh," she said feigning surprise, "My boss sent me an e-mail. I'll catch up with you guys in a sec, ok?"
Bill nodded. "Of course, you'll be able to see us. It's just over there."
Pete followed him, tossing looks over his shoulder at Myka the whole way.
She watched them go, waiting until they were far enough away. She started by taking a few pictures with her phone's camera, immediately sending them to Artie. She circled the case several slowly several times, sizing it up, confused as hell about how it had possibly gotten here. Myka crouched to clear the sand carefully from the base where the wind had swept a significant amount of loose sand up against the glass front. The case looked undisturbed; apparently the police hadn't even swept it for prints or evidence yet.
When she reached the base of the glass she ran her fingers underneath the bottom of the case. Near the middle her fingers brushed something. She peeled it off slowly, gathering sand on the small pieces of clear tape that had affixed it to the bottom. She held it up with her fingers and felt no familiar 'artifact' shock, but she put it in the shiny bag from her pocket anyway. It gave off a barely discernable glow for less than a second, if it was part of the artifact; its energy had already been used up.
After deciding it to be benign, she laid it on top of the case and looked at it through the clear side of the containment bag. It was some sort of currency. It said "Singapore" and "three dollars" in block printing next to an image of a ship with full sails. The signature was what caught her eye. They were signed and dated D.S. Wilder 1837 on a printed line labeled "President". She had no doubt about what she had just found, an old Singapore bank note, but what she couldn't grasp was why it was taped to the underside of a stolen jewelry case. She sent Artie a picture and continued her investigation of the glass case.
It held no other clues, but she was sure Artie would find something now that he had a picture to go off of. He always did.
She tucked the evidence in her jacket and trotted off towards her two companions she could just spot in the distance.