I'm writing a fic that involves 2p!s, and what did I have for dinner the night after I finished the last chapter? Pizza from a place called Luciano's. Truly, the universe works in mysterious ways. The shops and so on mentioned here all actually do exist (I used Google), but I must remind you all that the people I mention are all fictional and are intended to bear no resemblance to any real people, living or dead. Therefore, please don't bug them. And hello to Mondechan, whose appreciation for the story is much appreciated. Guest, your wait is over.
June 23rd, 2018
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement's.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know,
Says the great bell of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!
3rd Person POV:
The air was cold and faintly damp, like a cave, and the faint flickering lightbulb above glowed like an archaic lantern, contrasted to the harsh white blast of light coming from the table lamp on the floor. Soft muttering sounds bounced off the bare walls and concrete floor –the skritch of a pen, a cracking rustle of paper, muted sounds of aborted exclamations and hushed tails of syllables, fragments of words born out of a mind racing far ahead of the commands of its body. Dots of ink stained Arthur fingertips, a mug of tea steaming softly on a shelf safely beneath the sheafs of paper he was so feverishly scribbling his thoughts upon.
Allen kills Alfred.
Allen left on a bike –make and model?
See DMV –modifications also (decals, paint, repairs, etc.)
Nearest DMV:
2929 Chicago Ave, Minneapolis
Minneapolis Motorcycle Dealers (Carriers of Harley Davidson):
Honda Town
4215 E Lake St, Minneapolis
Midwest Cycle Supply
4300 Nicollet Ave, Minneapolis
Go Moto
3346 N Washington Ave, Minneapolis
Scooterville Minnesota
904 19th Ave S, Minneapolis
2K Motorsports
6525 Penn Ave S, Minneapolis
The Moto Collective
211 St Anthony Pkwy, Minneapolis
Twin Cities Harley-Davidson Blaine
1355 98th Ave NE, Blaine
PD –check in with Ludwig to see why there was no follow-up on Allen's report after Alfred's death. Should have been procedure even if parents did not push for it.
Police leads & progress –also check with L.
L's thoughts on the matter.
Direction?
Allen had a Brooklyn accent, obviously not local.
Former college student, obviously little wealth. May have turned to petty crime to support self?
No leads from PD, check police records in that area.
Dozens upon dozens of other sheafs of paper littered the shelves, Arthur's only form of writing surface, detailing phone numbers, email, police station locations, record, and anything else readily available to the public internet, and Arthur paused to run his aching pen-hand through his ruffled blonde hair. His eyelids felt heavy, and without looking he fumbled underneath the shelf for his mug of tea. He put it to his lips and took a long sip, willing the dry sludgy sensation against his teeth and the back of his throat to be either the massive dose of sugar he had put in or the natural dose of caffeine the drink held.
He blinked sluggishly when the tea seemed to have no effect, looking down at his wrist and pulling back the sleeve of his jacket.
1.37 AM
"Ugh…"
Words could not express Arthur's disdain for the hours he was currently keeping, but goddamnit Alfred was murdered and Arthur was the only one who even had an inkling of how or why. Sleep could wait. Everything could wait. The heat in his eyes was not only from exhaustion, and his fists clenched hard at his sides.
"You're going back to England?"
Alfred's sapphire eyes blinked from behind his square-rimmed glasses, and Arthur suppressed the urge to frown as he glanced up into them, knowing that it would upset the 17-year-old greatly. His foster brother had shot up like a weed these past few years, and now topped Arthur's height by a good margin, even when they were both sitting. At age 21, Arthur didn't exactly care to be reminded of the fact that his younger and admittedly in all ways more immature foster brother was taller and broader across the shoulders than he was, and never mind Arthur's jujitsu training.
"Well, the competition back home is less fierce. And it's to be admitted, I've never really quite gotten the hang of your systems." Arthur huffed, adjusting the smooth lapels of his jacket self-consciously.
A slow half-grin slipped onto Alfred's face. "D'ya mean metric, Fahrenheit, or our wacky MN weather?" he jibed, and as expected Arthur scowled and lightly punched his shoulder.
"Don't be a tosser." he scoffed as Alfred looked away.
"Okay, yeah, but c'mon, seriously!" the younger blonde whined like a child, knocking his head back against the wall. "Movin' back to England? That's like, way far away!"
"And don't be a whiny little brat either." Arthur looked down at the book in his lap and licked a finger, turning the page.
Alfred didn't say anything, but his face fell in that kicked-puppylike way that always made Arthur feel like an utter arse, even if he was completely innocent of any wrongdoing.
It was odd. Even though the two of them there were sitting only a few feet apart on Alfred's fluffy blue bed, Arthur felt as though miles of distance had just been put up between them, a wall created by his words and plans that had then spread apart and distanced the two of them as effectively as if the older blonde had already been plonked down on the other side of the Atlantic. The barrier between them was nothing new, of course –but it had just widened sharply.
As Arthur gazed without reading upon his page, the answer came to him slowly. It was not him who changed, or at least, his change was not the sole cause of their distance. Alfred, too, was changing, in his graduating year of high school, poised and ready to fling himself into college and higher education. He had a job selling comics and such (Arthur was not the only one to tease him for that, poor bloke) at a local store, he was taking AP courses to prepare him for the extensive education necessary to become a barrister, and Alfred was finally starting to branch out from his small group of friends.
No longer would Alfred come and ask his elder brother about the fireflies he had caught in a jar, huge blue eyes wide with wonder, certain that Arthur know all about the flickering bugs purely by virtue of his age. No longer would Alfred fling himself dramatically through Arthur's door and toss himself or his homework dramatically on the bed, bewailing his time constraints and/or the knotty problems contained within his papers. No longer would Alfred enthusiastically drag him down to the living-room couch for some inane movie marathon that Arthur always ended up secretly enjoying, for the popcorn-rich bonding time if nothing else. No longer would Alfred clobber him every winter with a well-made snowball, starting an epic snowy battle that always ended up dragging every other child on the block into the fierce melee.
The gangly brat had finally grown up, and he was starting to pull away from Arthur.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to send you off the best way that we can!" Alfred suddenly laughed, baring his glittering white teeth in a broad Pan-Am smile as he nudged Arthur nearly hard enough to overbalance him. "Whaddya say about maybe headin' out with Gil and Mattie and having a totally kickass camping party? We can do a campfire and roast s'mores and tell ghost stories and hike and fish and swim, and you can stare at a bunch'a nifty rocks!"
"For god's sake, Alfred, I'm not that much of a geologist. I just like to take the time to admire your natural deposits of agates and quartz…"
Arthur's breath hissed through his teeth, and he slammed a fist down against the wooden shelf, making the thin surface creak in warning complaint. Even when they were well-trimmed, his grip was so tight that his nails bit into his palm with little harsh stings. He blinked back the tears of rage and pain welling in his eyes, leaning his forehead forward and resting it against the cool wood, closing his eyes as he did.
Breathe. Breathe. Relax. Temper. The blonde Brit cautioned himself, taking in and blowing out a long calming breath. You need to focus. Don't get distracted. Focus. Calm, cool, centered.
A few more measured breathes bought Arthur time to implement that strategy, and slowly, the boiling rage and grief in his heart lowered into a mere simmering sense of aching loss and anger. He raised his bowed head and unclenched his hands, pausing to frown at the four little red crescents in each palm. It was getting too late for this kind of buggery –when he was reduced to seething and uncontrollable shifts in temper, his resources were all but tapped out. Arthur needed to sleep and recharge his battery, as it were, and it wasn't as if he could contribute further at this time of nigh…morning. No one else was awake, except those working the graveyard shift, and few if any of the establishments he needed to visit had overnight hours.
It was time to hit the hay and hope for a better tomorrow.
Forcing himself to turn away from his spun web of supposition, guesswork, and late-night internet searches, Arthur shook his head and turned out the lights, starting to climb –almost literally– up the cold, steep staircase. Perhaps it was due to his sleep-deprived state, but he had a strong feeling as if he should be knocking in belay anchors and attaching carabiners to the hard surface as he clawed his way upwards, shivering and wishing for a good cuppa or a better heating system for the downstairs portions of the house. The chill was familiar but different from the death-cold that ghosts carried with them, though similar enough to put up the hair on the back of Arthur's neck and imperceptibly hasten his steps. He knew he was fine, and safe, but knowledge and instinct were two very different beasts, and the deathly frost that had seared the flesh of his throat made even the memory of cold a harbinger of danger and a warning of wicked things to come.
Confined in a freezing, dark, narrow place, with his breath feeling as if it must be misting before him in the pitchy blackness, a phantom of fear lurked over Arthur's shoulders, sending his hair to prickling and his spine to tensing, lending wings to his feet as he all but scampered up those last few steps and slammed the solid oak door behind him.
Safer, now, in the light and heat, Arthur exhaled slowly and went to go make himself that tea.
***Time Skip***
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
Arthur wanted to swat away that annoying sound permeating his senses, like a gnat buzzing around his ear. Even after lord-knew-how-many-hours of sleep, his body still felt heavy and sluggish under the warm clasp of the duvet blanket and the marginal softness of the cot beneath him. It told him that he was sleep-deprived, and not well-equipped to function. Arthur needed more rest to recharge his brain, help keep him at optimal capacity, otherwise he might falter and fail at the worst time possible.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
No. No no no no no no no. Arthur was not prepared to engage as a functioning human being. He grunted and burrowed deeper into the minor give of the flat pillow that Bel had provided for him, hoping with every ounce of his foggy intelligence that the phone would just go away.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
With a long, rattling groan that would not be out of place in a Hollywood zombie flick, Arthur stretched out his hand from underneath his warm cocoon and fumbled on the soft carpet beside him. His fingers found a smooth, thin, rectangular object, and with a little more fumbling, the part of the touchpad that would silence it.
Bzzt.
Bz-
Blessed silence reigned. Arthur withdrew his hand and squirmed deeper into his fluffy nest of blanket and pillow, already sliding back into the second stage of sleep as cottony warmth wrapped around him and his aching, heavy body begged for recuperation, fogging his senses as completely as if he had been drugged.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
Bzzt.
"Oh fer fu's sake…" Arthur slurred angrily, cringing into his pillow as he tried to spontaneously become deaf. "Fuckin'…"
He reached out and seized the phone again, and it was only after a solid ten seconds of muzzy deliberation that he decided to answer instead of flinging it into the adjacent wall. If he flung it, it might still continue ringing, but farther away from him and out of the reach of his silencing hand, and if it was someone calling him about something important, he would miss vital information about the case.
Clumsily, he hit "Answer" and brought it to his ear without even checking the caller ID. "Wha'd you want?" he mumbled hazily.
"Artie? Oh thank god, I'd been calling for ages, I thought something must've happened! I was just about this close to saying "fuck it" and swinging by your place with a tire iron and a shitload of salt! Do you know how late it is?"
"Mm-mm. Jus' woke up to you callin' me." Arthur yawned, his eyelids already dragging downwards as his sense of urgency slipped away. She was just calling to make sure he was alive (debatable) and well (also debatable). No emergency. He could go back to sleep.
"It's almost four in the afternoon, Arthur. How late did you stay up last night?"
"Mornin'. This morning. I stayed up. That late." he slurred, having to think carefully over each and every word that his clumsy tongue and lips would form before he could coax them out of his Neanderthal-esque frontal cortex.
"Oh jeez, you really do need to get more sleep. You're getting too old for this stay-up-all-night crap, and don't you lie to me and say you aren't!"
"Mm-hm."
"I'm sure you have something to show for that long night of research, so I'll make sure you're awake and conscious to implement your ideas, but you really need to get some shut-eye. I'll stop by in an hour to pull you out of the house, 'kay?"
"M'kay."
"Go to sleep, Artie. You sound exhausted."
"M'kay."
Arthur barely had the energy and coherence to hit the "End" button on the phone before it slipped from his fingers, and even then he was uncertain if he had done it as he curled back up into the blankets and drifted off.
***Time Skip***
It turned out that Bel had needed to shake him awake, after all, and Arthur staggered down into the basement feeling more groggy than anything, even after five whole cups of sugar-loaded tea, even as he hit dial on the phone. It picked up almost immediately, which was no less than he expected.
"Farmington Police Station, how may I help you?" came a brisk, hard-edged voice that Arthur didn't recognize.
"My name's Arthur Kirkland, and I would like to speak with Officer Ludwig Beilschmidt, if that's at all possible." Arthur asked as politely as he could manage in his still-drowsy voice, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes with his free hand.
"Yes." the other officer –definitely an officer, by the no-nonsense tone, and not a receptionist– replied after a short, seemingly reluctant pause. "Please hold."
With little other option, Arthur waited as airy, tinkling music started playing in the phone receiver. He swayed a little in place, and Bel reached out a friendly arm to steady him. Arthur flashed his partner a brief smile, and retuned his attention to the floaty melody in the phone's speaker. If he had to guess, this particular piece would be-
"Hello? Kirkland? This is Officer Beilschmidt. You wanted to speak with me?"
"Yes, hello. I've dug up some interesting information that I think, perhaps, may be pertinent to the case. Do you have a moment?"
There was a faint rustle and a few clunks, as if Ludwig had hurriedly sat down and rummaged for paper, or pushed a few folders aside. "Of course. What do you have for me?"
Arthur inhaled slowly. He would have to filter his information carefully, here, and link it all back to evidence that could be copied over and clearly traced back to mundane matters. "I was trying to find some leads independently, as you might know, and I discovered that Alfred had an older brother by the name of…Allen Jones. He disappeared twelve years ago, and I was wondering, what exactly was the summation of the police investigation for that incident? I was wondering if the two events might perhaps be connected…"
"Allen Jones, Allen Jones…" Officer Ludwig muttered to himself slowly, the name sending a jolt down Arthur's spine, to hear it spoken by another so unwarily. "Name's not inherently familiar. If he disappeared that long ago, Alfred would've been seven…my older brother would've been nine. I don't remember any particular stir, but then –I wasn't an overly attentive child to anything but my schoolwork and activities. Let my check the records. Please hold."
Arthur held, as there was a faint click and a different piece of airy-fairy music began.
This pause was significantly longer, but then again, Ludwig had to sort through a dozen years' worth of files and so on, though Arthur was unaware if they were electronic or physical. At last, the other end picked up again –there was a soft vrrrrm and a shuffle of paper, leading Arthur to believe that something had been printed and laid out on the desk.
"Allen Jones, age 20, last seen at the Holland-Handers diner at 3 PM on October 17, in the year of-" Ludwig briskly read off the rest of the expected details, which Arthur already knew and waited impatiently for him to finish. "-son of Cathy Jones, née Hassan, née Rogers, and Gupta Muhammad Hassan."
That was news to Arthur, but –should have been expected, due to the circumstances. The dusky tint to Allen's skin, even in death, seemed too complete to have come from mere lazing about in the sun in retrospect. "Does it mention what happened to his biological father? Mightn't he have run away to this Hassan?"
"One of our first trains of thought, apparently. Despite having to go all the away to Manhattan to confirm, it came up as a dud pretty quickly. Gupta Hassan died in a car crash when Allen was two. After her remarriage, Cathy Jones paid to have his name changed."
"Ah". Bugger. "Any other leads?"
"None of note. We questioned witnesses, family members, school friends –not many of those, and it looks more like they were casual acquaintances– and he was unemployed, so no work associates to question, either. Apparently the officers in charge of the case ran his plates and spoke to a few of the mechanics for his motorcycle, but those people came up clean too. No likely suspects of any kind, or even unlikely ones, for that matter, and no evidence or clues to what had happened or when Allen Jones went. According to the reporting sergeant, it seemed like a pretty open-and-shut runaway case, and with an adult, no less, so technically not police business at all. Case was closed, and after the first year or so, even your parents stopped pestering the station about it." There was a pause, and Arthur could almost hear the pensive, eyebrow-furrowing frown from Ludwig on the other end. "But you're right. I'm not liking how this smells. A homicide in the same family as an unsolved disappearance? Hm-hm-hm…"
"Speaking of which," Arthur asked, his throat feeling tight. "How goes the investigation on Alfred?"
"It's not, and that's the problem." Ludwig replied bluntly. "Forensics can't even figure out how Alfred died, much less why the murder was committed in such a fashion, and we're running in circles because every single possible suspect has an ironclad alibi; even in the case of a freak accident from a passing psychopath, there weren't any itinerants within the most pessimistic driving distance of the Jones household on that night." The officer's breath hissed through his teeth in frustration. "It's like he was killed by a ghost!"
There was a pang in Arthur's chest –that one hit a little bit too close to home.
"I have my utmost confidence in you." he said woodenly after a few moments. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like the paperwork for Allen Jones's investigation, since I need to do something to keep myself busy."
"Sure. Same email as last time?"
"Yes please."
"Right, I'll send you the information. I don't think I need to remind you of confidentiality?"
"Of course not."
"Right. Goodbye."
"Ta."
The line disconnected, and Arthur lowered his phone as he moved to silence it. "So he's a missing case –unsolved. They never found any leads." the blonde announced to Bel without looking up, as her lively, curious face hovered at the edges of his vision. "They checked with family members, associates, and his mechanic. None had information, and all had alibis for his time of disappearance. Case was all-but-closed as a runaway incident."
"So they're right, and he was probably a runaway, and he died out of state, in New York or wherever?" Bel asked shrewdly, and Arthur nodded slowly, pursing his lips.
"He at least went there, or somewhere near there. The accent's too ingrained to be an affectation, and too light to be something he had for a while. Fits with the image, he didn't look all that much older than twenty as a ghost."
Bel inhaled and exhaled slowly, and then placed a hand on his shoulder. "What are you going to do now?" she asked.
Arthur had to think on that one. The likeliest, most efficient, and most useful course of action would to be to go to New York and search out where Allen had gone in life, which would inevitably lead to how he met his death –and hopefully, why that led him to kill Alfred. However, there was a slight problem; making excuses.
His parents, though well-meaning, were at the stage of grief where every shadow around Arthur was a mass-murderer and every car passing him on the street was a criminal waiting to pounce, and clung to the British blonde like rampant, strangling vines, terrified of losing their last son. There was Officer Beilschmidt to consider, and the other police, who would want to know why Arthur suddenly felt Allen would have gone to New York, what has made him think thus, and how he knew who to visibly search for.
The last was easily remedied. There would undoubtably be a photograph in the files Ludwig sent him, as they were almost always included in a Missing Persons file. Whether or not it matched Allen's most "recent" look, the look he died as, didn't matter. Arthur would have a basis for his claims of knowing Allen's face and form.
But how to suggest making such a trip…
Those at Inver College knew Arthur knew what Allen looked like, but that could be explained away by a specious old family photo which had started his whole investigation (though Arthur had never seen any) and with luck, they would never come under interrogation. For mundane information, Arthur had a red construction-paper Missing Persons report, the admission of his mother over the phone, and a few misdemeanor reports from the community college Allen had attended. If this was a regular matter, Arthur had to admit he would be stumped for finding more information. His mantra from the night before came back to him.
If I were Allen and I wished to flee from home, where would I go first?
Arthur knew now, unequivocally, that he'd gone to New York. But why? What did New York hold for Allen Jones that other avenues of escape did not?
A thought tickled at the back of his brain. Hadn't Alfred said that long ago, so long he was only a toddler-in-arms, that the family had used to take trips to visit a relative in New York?
Allen, the elder brother by thirteen years, would have definitely been able to remember that. Had he fled to this relative –with perhaps fatal results?
Wait. Why had the trips stopped to begin with?
"Arthur?" Bel asked gently, making him come to himself with a start.
"I think I have something." he replied briskly, moving his finger over his phone as he opened the email Ludwig had already sent. "When Alfred was very young, apparently our family used to go to New York on holiday to visit a relative. Allen would have been old enough to remember the experience…"
"-and so he might've gone to NYC to stay with that relative. Good job, Artie!" Bel beamed triumphantly, and he flashed a quick smirk, paging through the files.
"But the trips stopped by the time Alfred turned five. I want to know why." he muttered, flicking through the electronic records in search of the next-of-kin sections. His heart leapt when he found them.
Jones, Cathy (Mother)
Jones, Derek (Stepfather)
Jones, Alfred (Half-brother)
Hassan, Gupta (Father, deceased)
Hassan, Khemet (Paternal Grandmother, deceased)
Jones, L-
Allen's grandmother. Who, presumably, dwelled in the same place as her son –Manhattan. New York. And that borough was only a stone's throw away from the Bronx, the place where Allen had, presumably, settled and gotten that telltale accent.
Arthur knew a likely scent when he found one. The ghost would have been 18 when those visits to his grandmother had stopped, a scant two years from the time he ran away. New York still would have been familiar to him, and cast adrift in the wide and unfriendly world, Arthur knew from experience just how much safer even the most mildly familiar place might seem. So Allen had made his way to New York, believing –as it had rightly turned out– they the police would have no way of knowing for sure that that was where he had gone. As long as Allen had avoided old haunts and the New York police for six months or so, it would have been almost impossible to confirm that that was where he had gone. He would have, and had, disappeared into the seething throng of the metropolis like smoke in the wind.
And then –what?
He had died. Somehow, somewhere, Allen Jones had died, and his death had been both unmarked and unmourned, to escape official notice and recording.
It was all-too-likely that Allen was the victim of murder himself.
1.11 PM, USA Central Time