Choosing names for dead characters and characters never to ever appear again is stressful...


Madeline was scribbling urgently into a notebook when Alfred got home later that night. He raised an eyebrow and glanced around. Seeing no-one to explain, he dropped onto the couch beside her. "Hey," he said, reading over her shoulder. It was something to do with French, apparently. "What's up?"

"Mom pulled me out of school," said Madeline, not looking at her father but frowning at her book instead.

"What? Why?" asked Alfred, alarmed.

That caught Madeline's attention enough to look up, still looking rather irritated. "She wanted to go shopping. Apparently, 'New York is a hub for shoppers' and she 'simply had to catch up'." The teenager rolled her eyes.

"Oh. Well. Didja get anything awesome for me?"

Rolling her eyes once again, Madeline went back to her book. "Yeah, well, I had a test today, you know."

"The teachers'll let you sit it at some other time, won't they?"

"I have other tests and homework, Dad," Madeline sighed, sounding put upon. She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him. "I love Mom, you know I do, but I don't think I can stand it if she does this constantly."

"Yeah..." Alfred grimaced a little. "Well, she's probably just excited, y'know? She doesn't get to see you very often."

"I guess..." Madeline glanced at her book before swivelling on the couch, seated cross-legged in front of him. "So. Forgetting Mom for the moment... How was your day?"

"My day was all right..." Alfred replied, deciding not to tell her about Arthur's brother. "Just not getting anywhere with the cold case part of this murder."

"Oh?"

Seeing her interest, Alfred divulged a little more. "Five years ago, a mother was murdered and her son went missing. We thought the person doing the killing took him back to Nigeria but he didn't do it from a US airport. And this French guy – we looked into his heritage but no Nigerian ancestry – came from Chad, originally. So, we've got no lead 'cept this bag."

"A bag?"

"It was found at the scene."

"Huh." Madeline tapped her chin for a moment. "You're sure it's the same killer?"

"Sure is. Got his fingerprints off a bowl at today's crime scene." Noticing Madeline's thoughtful expression, Alfred cocked his head. "Why?"

"This is only a theory but... who said he took the boy with him?"

Alfred blinked in surprise, taking in her small smile. That theory was entirely possible. And now he was back, looking for him. Bako would be thirteen by now – would he be in a foster system somewhere? Did Borde know where he was? Had he lived with the Frenchman.

"That doesn't explain the bag, though," he said after a moment, frowning absently.

Madeline shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe it's just a coincidence." She turned back to her notebook. "I have to do this, though, so I'm going up to my room. If you don't mind," she added, though she was already standing.

Watching her go, Alfred considered her statement – the bag must have been a coincidence. Or had it...?


"So," said Alfred as he handed Arthur a cinnamon mocha, "which floor are we on."

"Ten," Arthur replied before he took a sip. "And the lift's knackered."

"'Knackered'? Ha, I gotta get you to write down all your British slang and stuff."

"Google it," said Arthur, dismissively. He entered the old, brown building and held the door open for Alfred.

"Anyways, I got some things to tell you," Alfred declared as he made his way in and spun around to talk to the detective.

"Oh, Lord. Do I want to know?"

"Yup! I'll start with the most awesome first!"

"I already regret this conversation."

Holding the door open to the stairwell, Alfred pouted at him. "Mean. Anyways, the first thing is that I've decided on a name for the character in my book." They started up the stairs, Arthur looking quite unamused with the topic.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. What do you think of... drum roll, please... Nicky Heat!"

Arthur almost choked on his coffee, staring up at Alfred in disbelief. "Oh, God. Please don't tell me you're serious..."

"Sure I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's a stripper name!"

"Huh? Aw, c'mon. It's a totally awesome name." Alfred grinned at him, eyes twinkling with mirth. "I mean, think of all the puns and the book title."

"Please, for all that is Holy, don't tell me the title," said Arthur, grimacing.

"But, yeah, Nicky's hot on the case, see? Nicky Heat. Geddit."

"I hate it. Honestly, it sounds like someone I'd pull up when I was in uniform." Pausing for a moment, Arthur considered his words. "Pulled up and not pulled."

Alfred tilted his head as they reached the halfway point. "Huh. You in uniform. I'd love to see that..."

"And, unless I'm fired for something, you never will."

"Aww!" Alfred pouted, making sure it was a very impressive pout.

"Moving on," said Arthur, firmly, "weren't you going to tell me something else."

"Oh! Right. About the case, I was talking to Maddie about it – vaguely, y'know – and she said something about the kid."

"Bako?"

"Yup. She pointed out that we're all presuming that he was found by the killer five years ago..."

"And what if he wasn't?" Arthur interjected, smirking at Alfred's surprise. Man, Arthur was good if he could read Alfred's mind. "I thought of that last night, actually. We have no evidence of either so we're going to have to keep an open mind." He took another sip of his coffee before tilting it towards Alfred. "Doesn't explain what that bag was doing there, though."

"Well, what if he was looking for something. Something in the bag which would lead him to the kid."

"Hm. Like a GPS system? And Borde happened to pick up the wrong one?"

"Yeah. If only there was some way to find out what it was and who was using it..."

"I doubt that's going to happen," Arthur commented when they reached their destination, slightly out of breath from talking and climbing. Alfred held the door opened and Arthur gave him a nod of gratitude. "But we have a second crime scene so perhaps there will be more evidence."

"Hope so. Gonna suck if we can't catch the guy."

"Sometimes that happens, Jones."

Alfred grimaced as they approached the cordoned off apartment. He just had to open his mouth didn't he? The information about Arthur's brother had completely slipped his mind for a moment and now he sounded like an asshole! Well, there were worse things he could do, he supposed. What they were, though, completely escaped him.

Entering the apartment, they found it in a complete mess. The living room and kitchen were combined in one tiny room. All the furniture had been squeezed into the available space making movement difficult: bookcases along the wall; crappy couch and armchair set cramped around a small, round table and facing a tiny, square television which had an aerial; awful, ageing, mustard-coloured fridge-freezer set against another wall beside a wobbly sink. A door seemed to lead to the bedroom and, hopefully, a bathroom.

Although it had been small, it was clear from what had been left in place that it had been kept clean and tidy. Now, though, paper was littered on the ground and over the seats. Some books nearby were open, pages ripped from them. The tiny table had collapsed and the couch and chair had been shoved into odd angles to reveal the body.

She had been young and thin. Black hair spread out beneath her head, framing an angular face. Deep, brown eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. She was wearing what looked like a starched and itchy waitress's uniform. Blood stained her shirt, a single rip in the fabric in the centre of the mess. Beside her lay a handbag, its contents left on the armchair.

What was easily the most alarming was the symbol drawn in flour on the floor: it had obviously been taken from a cupboard in the kitchenette where the cupboard doors had been left open. One of them seemed to have fallen from its hinges, barely hanging. The symbol itself was a swirl, little stars dotted around it. A triangle was drawn above it and another surrounded the entire thing.

Alfred was certain he had seen that somewhere before. Combining it with that niggling feeling he had had when cornmeal had been mentioned. He realised what it was just as Arthur began to start asking questions: wisely, Alfred decided to reveal his knowledge at the end of his usual routine.

"Beilschmidt. Who do we have here?"

Gilbert turned to him from where he had been peering at the ruined books. "This is Claudia Brown. Twenty-five years old, works in a diner. She studied in NYU, apparently. She was having a hard time with money."

"Which begs the question," Antonio piped up, coming through from the back of the apartment, "as to why that bag is more expensive than most of the things in here. It's Gucci again."

"That's too much of a coincidence," Alfred pointed out. Arthur nodded in agreement but turned to where the ME was crouched beside the body.

"Francis," said the detective, surveying the body as if it could tell him all the answers he seeked. "What's the verdict?"

"There was a struggle," said the ME, glancing up. "I've found skin under the fingernails. Cause of death is a single stab wound to the heart. We've lifted prints from around the flat to make sure it's the same guy but, with the bag, I would say it's a good chance it is – he just didn't get the chance to torture her. He must have slipped up when he attacked."

"That's somewhat of a relief," murmured Arthur, staring at the young woman's face. "Anything else of note?"

"She was killed at a minute to midnight."

"That's... specific," Arthur said, slowly, surprise evident on his features.

Carefully, Francis lifted a pale arm. "Her watch was broken in the fight and stopped – liver temp places her time of death between eleven and one but, with this, it narrows it down a lot."

"All right. Carriedo. Who found the body?"

"Her sister," was the reply. "She's in the bedroom – rather shaken up, poor thing." Antonio grimaced and cast a glance to the body. "Apparently, she has the spare key to the apartment and comes to visit often. She'd come to see if Claudia wanted to go out for breakfast."

"What's this?" Arthur finally asked, gesturing to the symbol.

"I'm not sure..." began Francis but Alfred decided to interject.

"Actually, I know someone who could help with that," he told Arthur. The detective raised an eyebrow so Alfred elaborated. "We'll have to show her pictures of the crime scene, though."

"Jones..." Arthur began, putting his hands on his hips.

"What d'ya have to lose?"


They left Gilbert and Antonio to question the neighbours and drove through the city. For the entire journey, Arthur expressed his doubts but Alfred was firm and had soon directed the detective into the suburbs. The car was brought to a stop outside of a whitewashed house, a little path leading up the middle of the lawn. Wind chimes moved sluggishly without a strong breeze to help them dance.

Alfred led Arthur to the door and jabbed the doorbell. "She's real nice, by the way. Kept feeding me when I was doing my research."

"Is that why you're a little chubby?"

"Hey-!" The door opened to reveal a short, dumpy, black woman with a scarf tied around her bushy hair. She was wearing an apron and seemed to have been in the midst of baking; flour dusted her cheek and the pocket of the bright cloth protecting her clothes. "Rayowa Fofana!" Alfred exclaimed. "Long time no see, huh?"

"Alfred, my boy!" she cried. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Rayowa quickly spotted Arthur. "Oh? Who's this?"

"Detective Arthur Kirkland, ma'am," the man in question replied, shaking her hand. "I'm afraid this is going to be a serious talk."

"Ah. Come on in."

Rayowa led them into the house which was as white and clean as the last time Alfred had been there. Well, except for the flour coating the kitchen unit and the dirty dishes. The kitchen space was the focus of the large room they walked into. Seats and couches were angled towards the TV at one side of them. A long dining table and what appeared to be a games area were opposite. At the far end of the room was a door leading to the rest of the house.

The woman refused to talk until she had made tea for her and Arthur and coffee for Alfred. Once they had their drinks and were seated at one end of the dining table, Arthur pulled the pictures out from the file. First, he set down one of the symbol.

"Alfred tells me you know what this is."

Taking it, she nodded. "It's a symbol used in a findsman ritual."

"Findsman?"

"It's part of the Vodun religion," Rayowa said, setting the picture back down. "Vodun has a number of rituals, most of which involve a veve. This" – she tapped the picture – "is what helps to summon the particular Loa – or spirit – involved."

"Spirits?" said Arthur, sounding incredulous.

"Mmhmm. There are many different sorts of spirits in the world, you see. Agwe: the spirit of the sea. Erinle: the spirit of the forests. Yemanja: the spirit of waters. We believe that these rituals will put us in the Loa's favour. Usually, though, we only undertake these rituals on special occasions."

"What do these rituals involve? Sacrifice?"

Alfred snorted, deciding to chip in his two cents. "Don't be rude, Kirkland," he teased earning an eye roll for his trouble. "You're thinking of Voodoo. That's completely different."

"The boy's right," Rayowa agreed. "Voodoo was used to demonise our religion so that people stopped practising it and was monopolised by Hollywood. Christians at their best." She sighed, shaking her head sadly.

"Then could you kindly explain why we have found two dead bodies recently?" Arthur pulled out the pictures and laid them out. "Each of them appear to have been ritualistically killed."

"Oh, dear," said Rayowa, looking rather alarmed at the pictures. "Killing is not what Vodun is about. No-one who worships Vodun would do this."

"How can you be so sure?"

Rayowa chuckled. "Because I'm a mambo myself, Detective."

"Mambo?" Arthur blinked, looking bewildered. Alfred clamped a hand over his mouth so he wouldn't laugh at his expression. It was cute, really.

"A female Vodun priest," she explained. "We practise white magic in our rituals. Not this. This is dar- Ah."

"Ah?"

"You may be dealing with a caplata."

"And that is...?"

"One who practises left-handed Vodun. The black magic. I've never heard of one of them killing before, though. They usually just use substances which have certain effects on their victims."

"So, what you're saying," said Alfred, "is that this one is off the rails, yeah?"

"If you want to say that, yes."

"Do you know if there are any records about these people?" asked Arthur, beginning to gather up the photos.

"I don't think so. It's really a family thing. Then again, I was born in New York. I'm not sure how any other countries' priests keep up to date with their Vodun worshippers. We have Facebook and cell phones."

"Right. Thank you for your time – it must have been an inconvenience," said Arthur, smiling a little at Rayowa. "And thank you for the tea, of course. It wasn't necessary."

"Nonsense. You're a guest: next time you visit, I'll have cake ready."

Arthur chuckled and stood, Alfred following his lead. "Hopefully there won't be something as horrific next time."


There was no sign of Gilbert and Antonio when they got back to the precinct. Arthur made his way to the murder board and pinned up the pictures of the latest murder. Alfred sat in his seat to watch him work. As soon as he had pinned it up, Arthur noted down the words 'veve', 'Vodun' and 'caplata' below the picture of the symbol. Just as he was setting the pen down, Ludwig came out of his office.

"So how is this case going?" he asked, glancing at the board.

"It seems we're dealing with someone who practises Vodun rituals," Arthur explained. "He's looking for something or someone but, as of yet, we don't know what."

"The only clue to what he's looking for," said Alfred, rifling through a pile of sealed evidence bags, "is this." He held up one of the Gucci bags. "And even that isn't much of a clue."

Arthur nodded in agreement. "All we have is a ruined bag, the fact he's probably from Nigeria and this sketch – and that's five years old. He may have scars and other identifying features now."

"Not much to go on. What else are you looking into?" asked Ludwig.

"Well," said Antonio, suddenly appearing. "I've found something."

"Oh?"

"I figured I'd look into Eze's past. Apparently, he lived in a town called..." Antonio paused and squinted at the name on the report he was holding. "Pankshin. And who do you think stayed in a farm just outside of it?"

"The Onis?" asked Arthur, eyes lighting up.

"Yup. Omolola and Bako lived there with their husband, his brother and his wife, the Onis' parents and their grandfather."

"Is Bako there now?" Alfred asked, leaning over the armrest.

Antonio grimaced. "That was this year's census, actually. They're still declaring Omolola as staying with them. Bako could be there or he could be in America somewhere. Or anywhere else in the world if he managed to get to Canada or Mexico."

"Shit," grumbled Arthur. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Yo!" cried Gilbert from across the room, hurrying over. "I spoke to the neighbours and they saw the same guy – only they say he had scratches on his face as he left."

"Didn't they question why he was there?" asked Alfred, frowning at Gilbert as he grabbed a pen.

"Nope. Those apartments are shit so the people in the building come and go. No-one knows anyone and they assumed he had just moved in. They weren't sure what to make of..." He trailed off and drew three lines across the man's right cheek. "This."

Arthur stared at the board for a while before plucking the photo of Omolola and Bako off. He held it up beside the suspect and frowned. "Hm. They have the same nose."

"You reckon he's the kid's dad?" Alfred asked, standing to get a closer look.

"Yeah. If we got passport phot-"

"Kitten!" came a cry from along the floor. Alfred grimaced, eyes wide as he glanced over. Sure enough, there was Julianna, hurrying along to reach them.

"Oh, damn," muttered Alfred, glancing at Arthur.

The detective was staring back at him, eyebrows raised so high they were meeting his hairline. "'Kitten'?" he mouthed, appearing rather amused. Alfred envisioned that this would end badly.

As Julianna drew closer, he spun to face her, making sure a smile was plastered to his face. "Jools!" he said. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh, well, I just wanted to ask you for a favour," she said, smiling up at him. Several bags hung off her arms and Alfred was sure it was more clothes – all of which would have cost a small fortune. Honestly, couldn't she have bought something more practical – like a laser tag system?

"And what would that favour be?"

"I just wanted your advice on apartments in New York. And, perhaps, a little financial help?" Her smile turned sheepish.

Instantly, Alfred wanted to refuse. If she couldn't afford to live in New York she shouldn't bother moving. But, at the same time, this was not the place for an argument. Glancing at the others – who were all watching with interest – he said, "Maybe we should talk about this at home."

"Oh, of course. Which is why I was picking you up," Julianna responded with a smug look. She looked around at them all and seemed to be about to say something when she paused. With a squeal she picked up the handbag: Arthur raised a hand to stop her a second too late. "Ooh! Is this Gucci- Oh. No, it's not."

"It's not?" said Arthur and Alfred in unison. They glanced at each other and instantly looked away.

"No. Look at the G's. It's slightly squint." Arthur leaned forward to squint at it and hummed in agreement. Julianna then pointed to the edge. "And this stitching's all wrong. Definitely a knock-off."

"Well, I'll be damned," murmured Arthur.

"That explains how Claudia could afford it," said Gilbert, rather matter-of-factly.

"Looks like you have a lead, Kirkland," said Ludwig.

"Oh?" Julianna looked happy, glancing between them all as she handed the evidence over. "Did I just help solve a case?"


I'm sorry. I had to keep in the kitten thing. It amuses me. :D

This case seemed pretty simple to begin with - and now I realise it's frigging complicated to reveal each thing bit by bit. Honestly, like, they're still not all that close to solving it.

All the stuff Rayowa says about Vodun I got from a site. It's pretty interesting. Here's part of the link (sort of), if you'd like to read more about it: religioustolerance. org /voodoo . htm.
In the story, Rayowa summarises and paraphrases - I didn't want to bog it down with too many specifics. (Arthur kinda turned into a parrot in that scene - mainly so they will still there and it wasn't just a huge couple of paragraphs of her almost preaching to them as she rambled on about it.)

Season 2 has a Halloween episode... Should Arthur dress as a cop? (I can't remember what Beckett wears - I'll look that fact up later.) And then what happens at the end of season 3... (I've started thinking of Castle in terms of the final episode to remember which season is which - kinda like what I do for Supernatural.)

Phew. Better make a start on the next chapter...