author's notes: I've tried finishing this for two consecutive Snowbarry Weeks, for the prompt 'private investigators/noir' as well as '(not quite) damsel in distress' AND HERE IT FINALLY IS. Time is an illusion. Set in the 'Duet' universe. For convenience sake (and my sanity) I only used the alternate names the musical episode gave us and didn't make up any of my own. Special thanks to anisstaranise for beta-reading.
warnings/tags: alternate universe - noir, detective noir, film noir, not canon compliant, mystery, murder mystery, ambiguous/open ending, sexual content, strangers to lovers, implied/referenced abuse, private investigator, detectives, angst and hurt/comfort
.
.
Like a Sour Diesel
(She Burn, She Burn, She Burn)
.
IF LOOKS COULD KILL, Millie Foss might've leveled the entire city block at one fell swoop, her sharp as knives brows creased in judgment over her dark eyes. She carried both her privilege and her anger in her shoulders, demanded she be seen at any and all times; the kind of woman that walked into his office and turned up her nose at the smell of stale coffee barely disappeared out the window.
The rancid stench spread through the office overnight, the result of some half-emptied cup of coffee he lost track of three days ago, between developing the latest batch of cheater-of-the-week pictures and his celebratory bar crawl.
Barry spent the better part of the morning in silent isolation, snoozing on the office's ratty leather couch, nursing yesterday's coffee with a generous shot of whiskey added to it. All the while his thoughts kept straying toward the file locked in the bottom drawer of his desk, one involving a gross criminal negligence case that still required the burden of proof.
He would find that proof, even if it meant the end of him.
Barry cracked his knuckles and shook his head, mind fraught with months-old newspaper headlines.
Eight Dead in S.T.A.R. Labs Explosion.
That was before Miss Foss' stark silhouette shone through the frosted glass of his office door; her quick knocks shook the glass, his name in mirror writing trembling with a foreboding he'd scarcely assigned any of his clients. He blamed that on Millie's sudden though not altogether unpleasant appearance; clad in an emerald green dress, bordeaux gloves, faux fur wrapped around her shoulders, her 5ft 4 would've been less imposing if it weren't for the 3 inches her heels added.
"Mr. Allen," she said, handbag clutched to her chest, "I'm in desperate need of your help," and settled without further hauteur in the club chair facing the desk.
Girl like her? What could she possibly need from him she couldn't get from anyone else?
"My friend Grady said you had a friendly face."
A smile followed as Millie perched at the edge of her seat.
"Grady," he mused, a little bit undone by that smile. Which was the purpose it served, he reckoned, since Grady Schott, pianist at the Moon River nightclub, was no friend of his. "Awful nice of him."
Even if Grady were a friend he never did anything that didn't profit him, so what was the angle? Gain his trust by dropping familiar names? Or was Grady playing the lady?
Quickly tucking in his shirt Barry sat down behind his desk and smoothed a hand down his tie. "What can I help you with?"
Millie handed over a folded picture. "It's my friend, Caitlin."
With some hesitation he took hold of the picture, apprehensive about why someone of Millie Foss' standing would come to a lowly private eye. He would do well to tread carefully— one never knew whose interests he'd be serving if he helped out the daughter of one of the most notorious crime bosses in the city.
"I'm afraid she's disappeared."
Tearing his gaze away from the enchanting Miss Foss he directed his attention to the picture. It was a headshot with a handwritten bio at the back — "Since when?" he asked —, capturing the seductive gaze of one Caitlin Eleanor Snow, twenty-five, Georgia born.
Unlike Millie, Caitlin Snow couldn't use the leverage of a smile to put him under her spell, yet her black-and-white portrait, from the lavish curls framing her face to the eyeliner accentuating her eyes, ran his mouth dry at the prospect of meeting her in person. Gazing into the camera with sultry dark eyes, the subtle hint of a smirk pulling at her lips, she looked like entirely too much trouble for him to be getting mixed up in.
And yet—
Girls like her didn't tend to disappear into thin air.
"Since last night."
"Last night?"
Eyebrows rising, Barry huffed a laugh.
"Miss, I hate to break this to you, but your friend probably met a guy and-"
Millie rose from her chair. "Caitlin ain't a floozy, mister," she said, tapping her index finger at the desk for emphasis. "It ain't like her to stay out all night, and she sure as hell wouldn't miss work over any good-for-nothing man."
Barry cleared his throat, loath to get on Miss Foss' bad side. Or worse, her father's.
"Work?" he asked, though he suspected Caitlin no different than any other aspiring actress in this town— some fella or other probably offered her the moon and stars for a night in her arms. Two things Hollywood loved, a vamp and a virgin, and it had plenty of use for both.
"She's one of them telephone girls."
Millie strolled over to the open window, leaning up against the window sill. Arms crossed over her chest, she looked at him. "You know, operates the switchboard at the Bell Company? Awful good at it too, with her head for numbers."
Barry's fingers ruffled against the back of the picture. "This is a headshot, isn't it?"
Millie's head inclined, her eyebrows lowering over her eyes. "Don't mean a girl can't aim high."
No. Of course not. He never meant to imply anything of the sort, but a single night didn't warrant worry about a lady's whereabouts, no matter how virtuous she purported to be. Besides, Millie must have plenty of connections around town to put out some feelers as to where Caitlin might be, so why come to him before there's anything to worry about?
Overhead the ceiling fan swished an acerbic rhythm, and the sun shining through the slatted windows cast Millie in a succession of black-and-white lighting that spelled out nothing decorous. She knew she'd get exactly what she'd want long before she walked into his life today, the decision well out of his hands. But did that mean he'd take on the risk of a job like this? Could get him in trouble.
He sighed.
Not like he had anything better to do.
"I assume you can pay me."
Who knew, perhaps a quick and easy solve could chase away the bitter tang of marriages falling apart because of him.
.
.
CAITLIN SNOW LIVED INSIDE THE LOS ANGELES MIRACLE MILE, a hotchpotch of real estate development, new suburban homes, and freshly erected department stores meant to keep up with the growing urbanization. Clean air was a rare commodity in the heart of the city, so the boonies often left him lightheaded, his fingers tingling, slightly off from his usual rhythm.
A trio of swallows chirped from atop a telephone pole.
Further down the block, one of the neighbors mowed the lawn.
Heat bore down on every inch of the suburbs, slowing everyone down— it had the same effect on him as he stood contemplating the enigma of Caitlin Eleanor Snow. A telephone girl with ambition. An aspiring actress with a head for numbers. Or was she?
Neighbors weren't any help; everyone he talked to mentioned Caitlin's pretty face, her kind smile, but no one could tell him anything else— where she worked, who her friends were, or where a girl like her might go to have a nice time. People at the Bell Phone Company didn't tell him much more; Caitlin worked her hours, kept socializing with her colleagues to the bare minimum, and went home alone every night.
Had to be more to it.
Sweat dripped down his back, sticking his shirt to his skin.
One of four identical units, the door to the first floor walk-up stood slightly ajar, as if someone left so fast the door hadn't clicked properly back into the lock. Anyone curious could stroll right in.
Barry put his lockpick set back into his pocket, and slowly pushed the door open, creaking on its hinges.
"Hello?" he called.
No answer.
All was silent except for the sound of the suburbs, happily enjoying the first blistering pangs of summer.
"Miss Snow?" he tried again, taking a tentative step inside, hand reached across his chest toward the .357 Magnum holstered around his left shoulder.
If he expected Caitlin Snow to materialize in front of his eyes, or a soft "Yes?" to ring through the apartment he ended up thoroughly disappointed, his footsteps casting empty dull echoes into the room.
His shoulders relaxed, and he pushed on.
On the kitchen table an envelope rested upright against an empty glass, the early afternoon sun casting a shadow behind it that looked not unlike an arrow pointing left, as if telling him Caitlin skedaddled out the door, never to return.
Rent slash May, the envelope read on the outside. Below that, Caitlin comma Bisous.
Kisses.
How curious.
People who disappeared didn't tend to leave that month's rent or kind regards behind, even if leaving of their own volition. But then that wouldn't comply with the picture painted by everyone; kind, attentive, friendly Caitlin, a picture of virtue.
Barry grabbed the envelope and compared it to the handwriting on the back of Miss Snow's headshot.
Perfect match.
Could it be Caitlin simply moved away without telling anyone? without any of her furniture? without notifying her employer? Didn't strike him as too friendly.
He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over a kitchen chair, wandering through the rest of the apartment. Gas stove. Ice box. High ceilings. Terracotta floors.
No different than any other Spanish Colonial.
But it's the personal touches that interested him. When looked at a certain way, a person's home could tell him everything he needed to know. Their personality. Their hopes and dreams. Their secrets.
Caitlin Snow, for instance, liked her novelty magnets— the fridge had a small collection of them, shaped some 30 of the states of America. Three coffee mugs in the kitchen cupboards, attesting further to how isolated she kept herself, only one of them used regularly.
Living room housed a small couch barely big enough for two people, on top of a worn rug that'd seen its best days. On a small table stood a radio. No television.
Bookcase certainly drew attention. If the spaces between the books still standing were anything to go by, Caitlin had taken quite a few with her. The ones left were the usual suspects; cook books, romance novels, domestic travel guides, but on the bottom shelf, which had the most books missing, she'd left behind several books on molecular chemistry. Titles like The Catalytic Oxidation of Organic Compounds in the Vapor Phase, and The Nature of the Chemical Bond.
Tucked into a corner of that same shelf lay an empty picture frame, the kind a doctor might give a prominent place in his office, showing off a prestigious college degree. Nothing in his preliminary research suggested Caitlin went into higher education after high school, but perhaps that warranted further digging.
Barry smirked.
Caitlin Snow led a life of secrets, one more intriguing than the other.
Bathroom mirror broken.
Black tape along the doorjamb betrayed even more secrets; combined with the faint smell of chemicals, the green pastel tiled bathroom undoubtedly served as a makeshift darkroom at some point or another.
Had she developed her own headshots, perhaps?
Then, at last, the bedroom.
There existed words for a man who could invade a woman's privacy so easily, who could stalk into her bedroom and pick it apart -voyeur, pervert- but as his eyes slipped over the bright blue comforter, and another bead of sweat dripped down his back, he realized this room, too, got stripped bare of all its essentials.
Closet empty. Drawers cleared. Bed hadn't been slept in.
Four snow globes on the bedside table. One missing, judging by the ring of dust left behind.
French doors led out onto a small balcony, which looked out over a park with a large jungle gym and a sandbox. About a dozen children ran around laughing and screaming, their mothers rocking bassinets back and forth to soothe the babies still too young to play.
Barry watched the young families from Caitlin's bedroom window, and frowned.
Despite the personal touches that'd revealed some of Caitlin's character to him a lot of what he gleaned didn't make sense.
Outside, trees flanked both sides of the street, automobiles zipped down the asphalt, and try as he did, he couldn't figure out what the hell drew Caitlin here. Families settled this part of town, far from the bustle of downtown, from the fumes and ever growing amount of cars blanketing the streets. Single girls like Caitlin settled in the city, walking distance from work and the shops. Given how Caitlin made pennies on the dollar at the phone company she couldn't afford this place on her own, let alone the blue Tucker Sedan registered in her name. A car now missing.
It wasn't as if auditioning had been making her any cash.
In fact, having done his homework he learned Caitlin was no aspiring actress at all. Sure, her co-workers all thought so, even her boss, but all the numbers mentioned in her bio were bogus. Made up. The fiction of someone's vivid imagination.
But whose?
And why?
A telephone girl made decent money in this economy, not to mention it was a respectable profession that offered security. It seemed the only purpose the headshot served was a legitimate excuse for her to duck out of work from time to time. To do what?
Had he been right from the get-go in thinking Caitlin sold her body?
Would a girl that collected snow globes fall into the oldest profession in the world?
Barry turned a snow globe over in his hands.
In his mind's eye he watched as Caitlin entered the bedroom, cheeks a faint rosy from rushing back and forth through the apartment. She stuffed a bag of toiletries into a red suitcase, then scanned the room one last time.
Her eyes fell to the quintet of snow globes.
Something special about the center one. Did it have sentimental value? Was it the first she bought of the five? Or did it leave a clue as to where she planned to run to?
Anyone's guess.
It seemed less and less likely that anyone had taken Caitlin against her will. Her clothes were gone, along with toiletries and towels.
Place wasn't ransacked either. Everything pointed toward a clean and voluntary getaway. Empty picture frames and the missing books would even attest to a personal touch, a calculated step-by-step deconstruction of a life he couldn't make heads or tails of. Who was Caitlin Snow?
What inspired a girl to pack up and leave?
What was she running from?
Where had she learned to do it so efficiently?
Headed back toward the front door, he grabbed his jacket, placing the snow globe carefully into one of the pockets.
A small table by the door held an art nouveau ashtray. In it lay a half-empty pack of cigarettes.
And a matchbook.
Leading him straight to the Moon River.
.
.
TENSION WEIGHED HEAVY ALL OVER THE STREETS, with the recent bloody murder of Tommy Moran, shot dead in his own apartment. Son of mobster Cutter Moran, his death would not go unpunished, and Barry expected a lot more bloodshed before the summer ended. Moran and Millie's father were mortal enemies, if that was still a thing to be said in this modern age. Both came from humble beginnings, but where Cutter's operation was out in the open, disguised by casino parlors and nightclubs like the Moon River, Foss operated in the shadows, in back alleys and empty warehouses, or down by the docks, where he recently set up shop.
Not his concern. Not anymore.
"Whiskey," he called out to the bartender, leaned up against the bar. "Neat."
He thumbed over the matchbook he took from Caitlin's apartment —a full moon obscured by a thinning cloud over a dark tumultuous sea—, his eyes scanning the club as if any moment Caitlin might materialize here too.
No such luck. Much too early for the usual evening crowd.
A few of the staff cleaned the tables set up around the stage; its gold satin backdrop swayed in the breeze coming in from outside, but offered little reprieve from the stifling heat. Tonight's entertainment walked on stage for rehearsal, a beautiful young woman with long blonde curls, red lips, who tapped at the mic.
Kara, if memory served.
"Start me off, will ya, maestro?" she said, and winked at Grady, sat behind the piano.
Same Grady who dropped his name to Millie Foss.
Grady's fingers tickled the keys, a bittersweet melody soon filling the room.
Barry secured a cigarette behind his ear, slid some money across the bar, and took a swig from his whiskey. Smokey. Smooth and sweet.
"Barry Allen, PI," a voice sounded, beating him to his usual line.
It came as no surprise that people knew his face around here, and he knew enough high people in low places for his name and profession to get around.
He laid eyes on the Moon River's proprietor, a man whose reputation preceded him all the same. Rumor had it he got his nickname, Cutter, because he liked cutting people; whether those people were alive after was of little consequence to Cutter, who more than likely enjoyed the protection of some powerful people.
"What brings a disgraced cop to my humble establishment?"
"Looking for someone."
He pulled the headshot out of his breast pocket. "Caitlin Snow."
"Ms. Snow White," Cutter offered, without so much as glancing at the picture.
Barry cocked an eyebrow.
Cutter grinned. "On account of her creamy white skin."
"She sing here?"
"Oh God, no"—Cutter laughed—"girl can't carry a tune to save her life."
What did Caitlin come here for, then? Millie Foss, daughter of a notorious crime lord sent him looking for her alleged friend, whom he tracked to a man of equal notoriety. Was that a coincidence? Or the start of a terrible tale of woe?
"Came here on the regular though. Three, maybe four nights a week?" Cutter continued, and winked, which settled disagreeably at the pit of his stomach. "Gin and tonic kind of girl."
The thought asserted itself involuntarily.
Was this where Caitlin browsed for clients?
He could easily picture her in a place like this, weaving through the crowd in a long white ball gown, all Hollywood glitz and glamor, tapping a gentleman on the shoulder. Asking for a light. Red lips puckering around the butt of a cigarette, lighting up stars in a set of deep dark eyes. There wouldn't be a man whose head wouldn't turn, whose imagination wouldn't get the best of him, who wouldn't go home with her should she ask.
Had she asked the wrong man?
"When's the last time you saw her?"
"Two nights ago," Cutter said, surprisingly amenable to his questions. "Lady had some drinks. A dance or two. Left here alive and kicking."
Two nights ago. Thursday. Gave her plenty of time to put her affairs in order and pack everything up. But the question remained. Why?
Cutter clearly liked her and he liked her coming around. Working girls were good for business. Brought in new customers. Kept customers coming back.
But how could he rhyme that with the Caitlin Snow who collected novelty magnets, kept snow globes on her bedside table, and hid chemistry books on the bottom shelf of her bookcase?
"Was she with anyone?"
Cutter faced away, hands slid into the pockets of his white tailored suit. Eyes not too subtly scanning the room. "No one of note."
Barry grimaced and stepped to Cutter. "This isn't your first time, Cutter."
Without warning Cutter turned to him again, index finger rising toward his chest. "You're on thin ice, kid," he sneered, tapping at his collarbone with a Morse code warning embedded— danger, it encoded, followed by an all too familiar sinking feeling. Was he chasing a ghost? a wisp? a girl so ethereal she'd slip through his fingers like grains of sand?
"The gentleman accompanying Miss Snow don't take kindly to people sticking their noses where they don't belong."
Surely Cutter would never have let Caitlin leave here with an unsavory type.
"But since we're old pals and all."
Barry braced himself; Cutter never offered up information without a price.
Cutter advanced a step, voice lowering. "Kid walked out of here on Harrison Wells' arm."
The information had its desired effect.
He turned away in disgust as the name boiled through his skin with the ease of sulfuric acid— it opened up his veins, exposed him to the elements; the earth in which he buried his mother, the water polluted by S.T.A.R. Labs, the wind carrying smoke all over the city. Fire that burned inside him.
Eight Dead in S.T.A.R. Labs Explosion.
Founder Escapes Deadly Sea of Flames.
The name Harrison Wells carried weight not too long ago, respect and awe, now it accompanied a millionaire recluse yet to pay for his sins.
No two ways about it. He would hold Wells accountable for his mother's death and the seven other scientists who lost their lives running his questionable experiments.
Of all the men in this stinking city what possessed Caitlin to go home with him?
He'd met him a few times. Wells could well be considered charming, eloquent, intelligent. Not to mention his academic knowledge of chemistry.
Was that how he'd lured Caitlin in? With empty promises?
"Kara!" Cutter shouted toward the stage, shaking him abruptly from ill-tempered thoughts. "Something a little more upbeat!"
The blonde huffed and gave Cutter the finger, but didn't miss a beat once a more up-tempo tune started playing.
Barry rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to work out some of the kinks, ill at ease with how he'd let his mind wander. Best not to get distracted by idle speculation. He traded in fact, not fiction, and he was overdue for some good old-fashioned clues.
Sat behind the piano, Grady winked at him.
Sordid little man.
"Fair warning, kid," Cutter called after him, always keen on getting in the last word.
Weight shifted to the tips of his toes, Barry waited for the next inauspicious warning to come his way.
"Snow White ain't as saintly as she seems," Cutter said. "She comes with a bite."
Barry chuckled.
Girl like her? More than likely.
That never stopped him before.
He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and rolled it between his fingers, before calling over one of the busboys, who promptly tipped over the salt shaker he'd just lowered to a table.
"Mr. Allen, sir," Pablo said, a little flustered— barely out of Cutter's earshot it was dangerous for him to be seen talking to a detective, whether or not he carried a badge. He followed Pablo off the main floor to a small stock room, where they had all the privacy in the world.
"Grady sent Ms. Foss my way?"
"She needed help finding her friend." Pablo swatted at him with his towel, laughing nervously. "Who better than the best PI in town?"
Something sure had Pablo spooked.
Barry dug around in his pocket and pulled out a 20-dollar bill.
Pablo's eyes grew large.
"What brings a girl with her last name to the Moon River?" he asked, dangling the 20-dollar bill like bait.
"Honestly?" Pablo inched a step closer, eyes trained on his bribe. "Got the sense her and Tommy been going around."
"Cutter Moran's son and Digsy Foss' daughter?"
No good would come of that. Foss and Moran were mortal enemies. If they found out their brats were going at it— well, he couldn't be sure what'd happen but Tommy died three nights ago, right around the time Millie lost sight of her friend, Caitlin, who came around the Moon River often. Was there a connection?
"Yeah, and I'll tell you what else"—Pablo snagged his reward triumphantly—"Cutter's got no idea, and if you don't wanna end up like his cousin you'll keep it to y'self too."
"What happened to his cousin?"
Pablo stared at him pointedly. "He killed him, on account of him talking too much."
Smile slipped to a corner of his mouth, Barry handed Pablo another 10 dollars for his troubles.
His tongue clicked off the roof of his mouth. First Caitlin's story fell apart and now intrigue got added to Millie's. What did he get mixed up in?
Millie went around with Tommy. Caitlin proved a regular at his father's club.
A regular who disappeared right after Tommy Moran got killed.
Could there be a connection? With all the time she spent here, enough for Cutter to judge her character, maybe Caitlin saw something she wasn't supposed to. Maybe she was the one who did Tommy, under Foss' orders. But then why would Millie be searching for her? What did he get mixed up in? Where did all this lead?
.
.
THICK TAPERED CLOUDS OBSCURED THE FULL SILVER MOON, casting the alley in a mist of dubious grays, its straight lines two tall walls steadily closing in. Rats scuttled around a collection of garbage cans, the city roasted and wet like burnt toast, sour gasoline, a smell that clung to clothes and skin like plastic wrap.
A black cat crossed in front of him.
The last time he came near the 4th precinct Captain Singh arrested him on sight for trespassing. Singh marched him handcuffed through the bullpen in front of all his former colleagues, including one of the secretaries, Patty Spivot, who carried a not-too-secret torch for him.
All the detectives roared and whistled, some even applauded, because the prodigal son had returned to the scene of his crimes. He'd been well-liked in the department, considered one of the guys, taking the occasional bribe from low-level criminals, planting evidence in a few open-and-shut cases.
Everybody did it, it was one of the precinct's worst kept secrets, along with the deep-seated levels of corruption that infected the highest ranks of the justice system. Regular cops like him had to get by whichever way they could, and if that meant bending the rules a little...
Trouble was he got caught with his hand in the honey pot, and in an election year, with candidates preaching to clean up the streets and the police department, they made an example out of him.
Fired on the spot.
To say he'd been devastated would be taking the textbook definition of the word too lightly— all his life he'd dreamed about being a cop and when that got taken away he lost himself. In self-pity. In booze. In women.
Unable to pay his rent he'd moved back in with his mom, who didn't take kindly to having her grown son sleep in until noon, stumble home at odd hours, or let himself go simply because he'd hit a string of bad luck.
She encouraged him to go into business for himself; private investigators were tossed a decent amount of work and had far fewer rules to stick to.
She'd been right, of course.
Then Harrison Wells killed his mother.
And he saw no other course of action but to pick himself up, dust himself off, and try to make all that tragedy mean something.
He had his business cards printed the next day.
It proved the best cure to his ailment; he got back into a rhythm and routine, albeit a different one, and made a name for himself. He still had friends in the police department and confidential informants who were all too happy to supplant their income with money that didn't come from a cop. Safer bets, and all.
Still, he missed the camaraderie of his former boys in blue.
Every private investigator worked for himself, with himself, by himself.
Awful lonely profession, if one thought too long and hard about it.
At least there were still those willing to lend him a helping hand.
"Shot point blank range with two .32 caliber bullets," Eddie said, quoting from Tommy Moran's case file while he took a gander at the crime scene photos. Not a pretty sight, such a pretty boy spread out on the living room floor of his own apartment. Blood all over the carpet. No signs of a struggle.
Had he known his killer? Had he let him in, unaware of the gun cocked behind his back? Or had he invited her inside under false pretenses, and she had no other choice but to defend herself?
His mind came back around to the two key figures in this plot, Caitlin Snow and Millie Foss. One of them hiding. One of them desperately looking for her friend.
And a gangster's dead son at the dead center of it all.
Or was he seeing patterns where there weren't any?
Had Caitlin or Millie not stood over Tommy's lifeless body with a smoking gun?
"One in the stomach," Eddie continued. "One in the gut."
Center mass. Body's biggest target. Safe bet that whoever shot Tommy wasn't an expert marksman. Or woman. Singular. Plural. Who knew but the person who pulled the trigger?
"Bled out."
"No prints?"
"No prints. No fibers. No hairs. No nothing. Like he was killed by a ghost."
A chill ran up his spine.
Ghosts didn't kill people. People killed people, and some were better at it than others. That's why they'd started bending the rules when they saw too many of them get away with murder, thought themselves untouchable, and suddenly the presumption that they'd be able to catch them with the clues at hand seemed almost like hubris on their part.
They decided that in order to catch the bad guys, they had to think like them, and from time to time, act like them.
Wasn't like they ever killed anyone, or sent someone to jail who didn't belong there.
When he got caught Eddie offered to take the fall with him, but with a wife and kid at home he couldn't let Eddie do that.
So Eddie helped him in other ways.
"Any suspects?"
"Besides the usual?"
The usual meant gangsters like Foss and Moran, but things wouldn't have been so quiet at the Moon River if Moran had the slightest inkling of Foss being involved in his son's death— no, the streets would be drenched in blood if that were the case, and they'd have a gang war on their hands, not one murder and a single missing woman.
"A Caitlin Snow is a person of interest."
His stomach turned with a sinking feeling.
"She was spotted going around with Tommy a few times."
Given how often Cutter claimed Caitlin frequented the Moon River, her being acquainted with Tommy wasn't a stretch, but a relationship? Surely Cutter would've mentioned that before he conjured Wells' name. Unless he purposely tried to steer him in the wrong direction.
A love triangle, then? Tommy started a relationship with both Millie and Caitlin, and one or both of them got wiser.
"Witnesses saw her fleeing the scene."
Did Cutter suspect Caitlin, and that's why he fed him some cheap lies? Or was this merely the start of a long trail that led him back to Harrison Wells' door, to wherever Caitlin had hid herself away, and whatever bare bones truth lay at the heart of this?
The more he scratched this itch the more dirt came up.
Before long this would turn into a festering wound he couldn't help but pick at.
"You sure you know what you're doing?" Eddie asked, eyeing him with great concern— further proof that he was sticking his nose where it didn't belong.
But a PI didn't get to pick and choose. Cases chose him. He chased the cases.
That's how it worked.
"Do I ever?" Barry grinned, hoping to assuage some of Eddie's worries. "Give my best to the missus."
To his credit, Eddie merely nodded, sensing perhaps he could do little to dissuade him from seeing this case through. Wherever it may lead.
To his next stop, for instance.
To the man who killed his mother.
.
.
A CROW SAT PERCHED ON TOP OF THE WROUGHT IRON GATES STANDING GUARD AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE PROPERTY, at the start of a winding driveway that led up to the red brick house.
Dogs barked in the far distance.
Barry sighed. He'd stood on Harrison Wells' doorstep once before, though not for any official PI business. Months ago, in a blinding fit of rage and grief and too much alcohol he'd climbed over the ivy-overgrown fence and pissed against the facade of the house while screaming belligerent obscenities— Eddie came and got him before he made matters worse.
Wells hadn't pressed charges.
Which had only made him more suspicious.
His sobriety provided little comfort now, and he didn't relish the thought of having to face Dr. Wells after that embarrassing display, but he made a promise when he started working as a private investigator. He would go wherever a case took him, whether it put him in the midst of precarious situations or it meant eating a slice of humble pie. Caitlin left the Moon River with Wells two nights ago. He may well be the last person to see her. This was where he needed to be.
With that in mind he rang the doorbell.
Despite the sweltering heat it's cool inside, and the gentle beige and chestnut furnishings instilled in him an unexpected calm as the housekeeper led him to Wells' private study. A grandfather clock chimed midnight, its pendulum a hypnotic back and forth.
He checked his watch. Two minutes to midnight.
"Barry Allen," an all too familiar voice greeted him, followed by the methodical creak of poorly oiled casters. The explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs had left Dr. Wells crippled, confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his days. Slim comfort. The man lived. His mom and her team all died.
Seeing him made the cold of the house pinch at his shoulders, deconstructing his carefully laid plans one memory at a time. He couldn't believe this man went free, that he lived practically unscathed and his mom lay six feet under, turning in her grave every time one of his poor choices landed him in a bad situation. Why did his mom have to die and not the man who hired her, who'd built S.T.A.R. Labs from the ground up, set up his cloak-and-dagger experiments with no thought to the potential human cost?
And why had Caitlin Snow's case led him straight to him?
Barry cleared his throat.
Best to cut to the chase.
"You were seen leaving the Moon River with Caitlin Snow two nights ago."
Cutter's words maintained their desired effect as he pictured Caitlin in Wells' lap, long golden gown draped well above her knee as Wells' hand slipped up her thigh, her arms folded tight around his neck, head thrown back as she laughed.
Wells crossed his arms. "Cait's a friend."
Bile rose hot and acidic in his throat, and a torrid fever clutched at the back of his neck.
Not Caitlin. Not Miss Snow.
Cait.
A friend.
How long had they known each other? Did she keep him company often? Did she leech off the old man? Was that how she afforded her place?
Questions piled on one after the other, his head spun 360° and back again.
"Why do you ask?"
"Police are looking for her in connection to the murder of Tommy Moran."
That's when he sees the same shift in Harrison Wells' eyes he saw once before —doubt, fear— when the judge asked him what caused the explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs, what precipitated the events, and Wells started picking his words far more precisely.
Harrison Wells had lied, under oath, to a jury of his peers.
Would he lie to him now?
"I was helping her out," Wells answered. "I knew her mother, you see-"
Carla Tannhauser. CEO of Tannhauser Industries. Still on his list of people to talk to, but since she lived in Central City, Ohio, she wasn't high on his list of priorities.
"Way she explained it to me, Mr. Moran took pictures."
A concussive shock traveled down his limbs, rattled his bones and the ground beneath his feet, foundations shifting one presumption at a time.
Tommy Moran took pictures?
That didn't sound right.
The impropriety of it all seemed right up his alley —dirty pictures, blackmail, a woman scorned. People killed for far less than that.
Blackmail was an easy answer.
Tommy took pictures.
Tommy blackmailed Caitlin.
Caitlin killed Tommy.
Caitlin ran.
It was too elegant an answer, a decorative bow to tie this case up nice and tight.
But he didn't come here to find Tommy Moran's killer.
How did Millie fit into all of this?
Was she simply looking for the woman she thought killed her man? Or had Tommy scorned her all the same?
"Compromising ones," he said, following Caitlin's lie to its presumably intended conclusion, reminded of the hastily deconstructed darkroom in her apartment. Was it a coincidence that Tommy took pictures? Why else would she have needed a darkroom? For her fake headshots?
Could it be, despite the purported friendship between them, that Caitlin had lied to Harrison Wells?
"Let's just say they weren't the kind a young woman would want out there."
For a moment, two, three, he caught that same doubt flashing behind Wells' horn-rimmed glasses. Dark eyes stared back at him, loath the accusations he bestowed upon Caitlin.
"She didn't kill Tommy Moran," Wells said. "I can promise you that."
Maybe not.
Barry slipped his hands in his pockets.
Sure knew a thing or two about running.
"How much did you give her?" he asked, the handout implied at this point. Someone had to have been helping her. No one disappeared so thoroughly so quickly.
"Enough."
Enough to pack up her life and make a run for it.
Was he chasing faded skid marks on the pavement?
"Mr. Allen"—Wells' voice turned sullen, fused with the inkling of an afterthought he owed him a few times over—"For what it's worth-"
Barry shook his head, "Don't-", and stared down at his feet.
Too little too late.
Whether or not Caitlin killed Tommy remained up for debate but in the matter of who killed his mother he had his answer. Harrison Wells killed her. He'd prove that yet.
The wretched irony of the matter, for better or worse, was that Harrison Wells now proved his only lead in this crooked case. He would follow it to its conclusion, but the thought started a malignant headache behind his left eye, a sense of misalignment with his surroundings. Millie Foss steeped him into a wily case of twists and turns, pitfalls and red herrings, and he's none too sure where it would lead.
If it would lead anywhere at all.
Back at the office several messages awaited him, one more promising than the other.
The landlord took a message from the Bell Company, calling him to say Caitlin cashed her last paycheck at a local bank, which meant Miss Snow White was still in town and he still had every chance of catching her before she disappeared for good.
He returned a call from a contact of his in Central City, who'd unearthed a marriage certificate between one Caitlin Eleanor Snow and a Hunter Arthur Zolomon.
At this point, it came as no surprise.
Somewhere between getting married and settling in Los Angeles, Caitlin Snow learned to run, to hide, to live a life so small it went by undetected. Without having met the man, he knew Hunter Zolomon was trouble. Had he killed Tommy when he found his wife shacked up with him?
More unanswered questions.
Barry made a thermos of coffee to go and packed some food.
It would be a long night.
He returned to his last stop and parked at the end of the street, where he had an excellent vantage point of Wells' front gate.
Where he waited for Wells to make his next move. Experience taught him Harrison Wells lied and deceived, protected his assets like a gangster would, and he had no reason to believe he wouldn't do the same for friends. Wells knew where Caitlin hid.
No doubt about it.
.
.
CHILDREN'S HICCUPY LAUGHTER WOKE HIM LATE THE NEXT MORNING, a bunch of rascals rocking his car back and forth and scurrying off the moment he startled upright. Barry winced, a twinge in his neck reaching all the way down to his shoulder a painful reminder of where the night took him. Nowhere.
Harrison Wells hadn't left the house.
So much for intuition.
Yet he couldn't shake the sense that he was on the right track, that he was giving his all to see this case through to the end, and so he stayed put. Wells would slip up sooner or later, and Millie paid him enough to cover his expenses for another two days.
He stepped out of the car to relieve himself in some bushes, and finished the final inch of coffee in the thermos, along with a warm ham sandwich.
Even with all the windows rolled down the car heated up like a greenhouse, but he couldn't risk being seen, so he sat himself back down behind the wheel. He tapped his fingers against the hot hard plastic, eyes trained on the front gates of Wells' property, and beyond that, the black front door poking a hole through the sheer red facade.
Then, as fate would have it, that front door swung open.
Harrison Wells climbed into a sleek black Chevrolet with the help of his driver.
Barry started the car, pulse quickened.
Kink in his neck forgotten he followed behind as the Chevy sped down the lane, making a sharp left turn toward downtown LA.
The sun blistered on the roof of the car but the heat barely registered; he made sure to keep two car lengths distance, allowing the occasional car to come between him and Wells so as not to raise suspicion.
Wells crossed one intersection after the other, before the claustrophobic smog of the city gave way to the suburbs, to industry, until, at last, the desert.
Sand rose beneath his tires, ticking like rain against the metal of the wheel arches.
After half an hour Wells' car pulled off the road, far off the beaten path of anything that resembled civilization, and parked in the nearly abandoned parking lot of some roadside motel.
Parked no three spaces further, stood Caitlin's Tucker Sedan.
Gotcha.
Barry drove past fast and parked behind the structure, doubling back on foot in time to see Wells knocking at one of the room doors. Number 13.
Not another soul stirred in the rest of the building— by the looks of the empty lot, the motel didn't presently have any other guests.
Hemlock motel.
Painted a pastel blue, it evoked an Edward Hopper kind of solitude, bare and sun-washed, sandblasted, corroding the last layers of refinement. It looked lonely, too. Was this where Caitlin had hid herself away, in this desolate vestige of a bygone era?
He watched Wells linger at the motel room door and knock again.
No answer came.
Was Caitlin not here? Had she slipped away in the night, without her car?
Was this where the trail ended?
His mouth ran dry, his throat parched as he watched and waited, waited, and waited, for Wells to finally abandon his query and get back in his car.
The black Chevy sped off as fast as it came, a cloud of dust left in its wake.
Barry eyed room number 13 from afar.
Would Caitlin not have opened the door for Wells if he was helping her? Or had she double-crossed him, taken his money using half truths, and skipped town the moment she had the funds to do so? Was she hunkered down inside, wary of any knock on the door? Or had she all too consciously ignored Wells' call, cutting the last tie she had left?
Standing around wouldn't provide any answers.
With fresh resolve, he headed for the room, the curtains drawn halfway, enough sunlight streaming in for him to make out a cabinet under a small TV and one arm chair. Looked empty enough.
He knocked at the door, cheap wood rattling, and called, "Caitlin?" in the hopes of coming across as non-threatening.
No answer came.
He tried the door.
Locked.
With no one around to report him he took out his lockpick set and made quick work of the lock, slipped inside the room soon after.
A gun pressed up to his temple within half a heartbeat, emerged without forewarning from the dark corner behind the door.
Barry froze on the spot, heart seizing in his chest.
"Who are you and what's your business?" a voice demanded, none too concerned when she pressed the gun harder into his skin. Was this -at last- the infamous Caitlin Snow, holding him at gunpoint?
"Barry Allen"—his hands rose in surrender—"PI."
"I saw you drive by."
Damn it. Rookie mistake.
"You followed Harry."
He licked over his teeth.
Not Dr. Wells.
Harry.
A friend, after all?
"Not a smart move for such a smart man."
"Who hired you?" came Caitlin's next question, with an exactitude behind it akin to a scientist, or a criminal, someone who analyzed a situation and adapted accordingly. He wondered how his presence changed her plans, or his answer, for that matter.
"Millie Foss."
Silence followed in the wake of Millie's name, the kind that replaced snowstorms in the dead of winter, hushed and hypoxic, a strain on the lungs.
Caitlin lowered the gun. "Well, you found me," she said, and pushed past him, seeking out what little light she'd allowed inside the room.
A rush crashed through his body, a catharsis two days overdue.
Her headshot hadn't done her justice.
If looks could kill, Caitlin Snow was certain to leave behind a string of bodies. Her features were delicate and soft, her hair long and wavy, one side of it tied back behind her left ear.
The red of her lips matched the shade of polish on her nails, on both fingers and toes, her feet bare.
And her lips— Barry drew in a shaky breath. Her lips were thick as if bitten by honeybees, like she'd been chewing them since going missing, and eyes the chocolate brown of his morning coffee, fathomless, sibylline.
Something of a bitter taste to her, too, he imagined.
She wore a fitted black sundress, small bows at her shoulders.
"I take it you know Miss Foss."
Her eyes, so sultry and seductive in her headshot, now pinned him down hard and pitiless over his shot from the hip assumptions.
"I take it you know a whole lot more than that by now."
His eyes drew down to the gun in Caitlin's hand.
.32 caliber weapon. Not one of a kind, but definitely the kind that might've killed Tommy Moran.
This time, she hadn't even cocked the trigger.
Could she have, with hands as delicate as hers? Could she kill him, given the right incentive? Was he facing a scared woman fleeing from her past, from Cutter Moran and God knew who else, or was she nothing but a wolf in sheep's clothing, a stone cold killer?
Undecided, he let her in on some of the things that brought him to her doorstep; a well-placed phone call to her former employers, the matchbook at her place, Cutter Moran giving up Harrison Wells' name, the lies Wells spun for her.
He told her about the pictures Tommy supposedly took of her, but how Millie's need to keep this from her father led him to conclude they'd be her pictures he'd find, not Caitlin's.
By the time he summarized the past two days tears filled Caitlin's eyes. Crocodile tears? Or real?
Caitlin breathed out a rueful little chuckle. "What you must think of me."
Did she care, he wondered, when he was still none too sure where the truth started and where it ended? Had Tommy blackmailed her too? Was she a willing participant in his schemes? Did she have a care in the world for him, or had his death left her unaffected?
Worse. Was she the one who killed him?
She crossed the room barefooted, lightly as if treading on clouds, unearthing a pack of cigarettes from her purse. A shuddery breath escaped her before she lit one, inhaling deeply.
One long exhale expelled all the smoke from her lungs, filling the room with its sharp and acrid scent.
Beside her purse, as if placed there as an anchor to whatever life she left behind, stood the missing snow globe. CCU, it read along the rim.
Central City University?
Her hard eyes found his, and her mouth moved a little uneasy, as if she was still mulling over her story, what details to include and which to omit, and which he might believe. Had he been wrong about her?
Her lower lip slipped between her teeth.
Toes dipped in the early afternoon sun that reached deep into the room, the rest of her bathed in shadow.
"Yeah, me and Tommy had a hustle going," she said at long last, flicking her thumb against the butt of her cigarette. Ashes fluttered down like snowflakes. "I got close to the girls and introduced them to Tommy."
And then blackmailed them for cash.
Hearing her admit it struck him not unlike static electricity, caught in the fabric of his clothing, lined along his skin, raising the hairs at the back of his neck. He'd been wrong about her; she wasn't some damsel trapped in the machinations of a world she didn't understand, but rather moved about it freely, fathoming its immorality all too well.
But what on earth possessed either of them to try this trick on Digsy Foss' daughter?
"He was a sleaze and a con man, but- I needed the money."
"What for?"
Caitlin walked over to the window and stared out over the parking lot, beyond it, at the city she hoped to leave behind for good. In profile her features sharpened, and he saw what Hollywood might see, a timeless type of beauty who could do it all— drama and comedy, sweet and seductive, vamp and virgin, caught forever in cellulose nitrate.
Yet, that too, was a lie.
"You ever do something you shouldn't have, Mr. Allen? Against your better judgement?"
With a hint of shame in her eyes, Caitlin's eyebrows rose subtly. "Kinda mistake that haunts you?"
Not much of a stretch to assume that a man in his line of work might have a few skeletons in his closet.
Still, her point came across.
At the end of the day, they were all strung together one mistake after the other.
He nodded. "I got a few of those."
"I got out of something bad a long time ago." Caitlin crossed her arms over her chest. "Got me running ever since."
Eyes downcast, Barry didn't need to imagine the trouble she might've run from. Maybe her husband cheated with the secretary and never made any apologies. Maybe he turned out to be a brute, laid hands on her and refused her a divorce. Maybe he'd done irrevocable damage before she managed to get away.
Whatever the case, it took a special type of fear and a ferocious bravery to leave a bad situation like that. She carried her scars with great poise.
"I never would've killed Tommy," Caitlin said. "Lowly as it was we needed each other. When he didn't return my calls I went to check on him. He was already dead when I got there."
"And you turned to Harrison Wells for help."
Her mother's friend. A trusted ally who knew what she was running from.
Caitlin took a step toward him. "You have to believe me, Mr. Allen."
But before he had the chance to, a bullet exploded through the window, and wheezed so close past his ear he tasted gunpowder, the sulfur, charcoal and potassium nitrate.
Caitlin screamed.
"Get down!" he shouted, and wrangled her to the floor, praying desperately there was a bathroom window they could escape out of.
.
.
HALF AN HOUR AND FIFTY MILES LATER, he found himself in another motel room in an altogether different motel with Caitlin Snow. Two more bullets had followed the one that first broke the window, but the racket died down after that, right before the sound of squealing tires burning rubber into asphalt.
He'd double checked the coast was clear, then helped Caitlin grab her things together and hit the road. There was no telling whether or not the shooters would come around for round two and he wasn't about to stick around to find out.
"You don't seem at all spooked by this," he told her in the car, checking the rear-view mirror every half second.
Had he dropped the ball? Had he missed a tail earlier? Had he been so fixated on finding Caitlin he lost his focus?
"Looks can be deceiving, Mr. Allen," Caitlin said, pulled her seatbelt a little tighter, and clutched her hands together in her lap. She swallowed hard, her eyes big, chest rising and falling quickly.
"Who were they?"
Caitlin bit at her lower lip. "I don't know."
Couldn't have been Cutter or Foss. Their men would have stuck around to make sure the job was done, unless their intent was to scare them straight. Could it have been Millie, too impatient to let him do his job?
Or someone else altogether, because he couldn't be sure the bullets weren't meant for him. It could've been any number of cheating husbands or wives he caught red handed and cost them their marriage, their children, or their money.
He couldn't be sure.
Barry checked the rear-view mirror again, but if anyone followed they were ghosts intent on staying hidden.
"You're bleeding."
The words started a sudden burn over his left bicep, his shirt chafing against an open wound.
Whoever shot at them got closer than he realized.
He'd found a motel slightly off the beaten path and parked the car out of sight. They soon found themselves sitting next to each other on the bed, his holster, gun and shirt on the floor along with a small first-aid kit borrowed at reception.
Caitlin applied some antiseptic.
He winced.
"Don't be a baby." She scoffed. "It's just a flesh wound."
And maybe the adrenaline still running at high speed through his veins was to blame, but he smiled at that and looked at her, at her brow furrowed deeply in concentration, her dainty fingers skillfully covering his wound with some gauze, at her leaning back and surveying her work— Caitlin Snow was still a mystery to him.
"What?" she asked, catching his eyes.
"Nothing."
He shook his head, and smiled again. Things could've turned out a lot worse for both of them today.
"I just noticed you don't smile too much."
Caitlin cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. "What a male thing to say."
"No need to get frosty." He chuckled and, perhaps to put her to the test, rehashed one of her own lies. "Hollywood likes a smile."
"Two things Hollywood loves." Caitlin faced away. "A virgin and a slut, and I'm neither, Mr. Allen."
All that might've sounded righteous in and of itself if she had anything at all to do with Hollywood, but she had no aspirations to become an actress. What did she care how Hollywood might box her in?
He had. He'd boxed her in so many different ways he almost lost sight of the job. Caitlin Snow, the innocent, the damsel in distress, the prostitute, the destitute wife running from an abusive husband. Was she somehow all of these? None of these? A skilled con woman? A two-faced liar?
It should no longer concern him.
Millie Foss hired him to find Caitlin. Job done. Case closed. He did what he got paid for.
But he'd since learned the awful truth, the tragedy and pain both women endured. What did Millie want done about Caitlin? What more danger would he be putting her in if he handed her over?
"If you want to paint me as the damsel in distress-"
"Aren't you?"
Caitlin looked at him sideways with cold hard eyes. "Do I seem in distress?"
Her cold exterior didn't fool him. Tommy's murder spooked Caitlin, so much so that she'd packed up her life. Who was she afraid of? Cutter? Digsy? Millie? Her ex?
Who knew.
"I know you're in a whole lot of trouble, running from a whole lot of people."
"You saying I need you?" Caitlin asked, righting her shoulders.
"I'm saying I'm a much better ally than I am an enemy."
At that, at long last, Caitlin smiled, and it started an uptick in his pulse the likes he hadn't experienced in a long time. There was a subtle pull in her lips, her eyes grew wider, searching his face for- for what?
"You would cut me loose now?" she asked, her voice softened, deepened, and she leaned in closer. "After so gallantly saving me?"
Her eyes fell to his lips.
"I may not be a damsel in distress-"
Both her hands reached up toward his face.
Barry seized a hand around one of her wrists.
"-but a girl appreciates that kind of thing," she whispered, her breath a wisp against his lips, an intoxicating emulsion of allure and virtue.
What a class act this Caitlin Snow, sweet and sultry, honey and spice, hot and cold.
His eyes skipped to her pink mouth, he released his hold on her, and fell forward.
If a kiss could betray intentions, he wondered what Caitlin's said, if it mocked him for being so easy, or condemned him for mindlessly taking what so many others undoubtedly coveted. Wasn't he better than this?
As things were, the moment her lips touched his he lost all sense of propriety, and any rulebook he adhered to flew straight out of the window— his lips parted against hers, his tongue licked into her mouth and he slipped under her spell.
Heat brewed beneath his skin as she lifted herself in his lap, curling around him like a kitten, lite and weightless.
His head grew hazy, hooked, inebriated by her scent, her absinthal taste.
Their kiss deepened, his fingers tangled in her hair.
He undid the bows of her dress, kissed her bare shoulder and she trembled in his arms, this snowflake of a creature, so fragile, so breakable, like a porcelain cup that could shatter any moment.
His nose traveled along her skin, up her neck, inhaling her— she sank into his skin, his pores, expanded in his lungs, diluting in his bloodstream.
"Barry," Caitlin hushed, and he pulsed, throbbed with a ravenous itch.
He twisted them around and laid her down on the bed, settling between her legs. Their kisses grew more feverish, hands more bold, breathing lost to gasping and whispering each other's names.
With one hand he smoothed her panties down her thighs, past her calves, throwing them to the floor. He pushed her dress out of the way and peppered kisses down her stomach, her alabaster skin soft and smooth, warming beneath his touch.
He licked over her.
Caitlin's fingers twisted into the sheets.
.
.
AS THE IVORY SHEETS STEADILY COOLED DOWN, the heat made way for a welcome chill in the room, as if a sickly fever had been broken in the wake of their lovemaking. The adrenaline that'd animated his bones left his body along with any tension tying his shoulders together, and he relaxed into the mattress, sated.
Caitlin lay cradled in his arms, her head on his chest, and her flashy nails drew dulcet patterns into his skin.
Outside, the sun dove below the horizon, painting the room in fleshy earth tones the color of their skin. If no one looked too closely they would never be found, there'd be no need to run; the whole world could keep spinning and they'd be here grounded in this bed, content to live their lives in hiding.
"Penny for your thoughts," Caitlin said, and lifted her head.
Her hooded eyes begged for a few hours of decent sleep.
Wetting his lips he took a long drag on his cigarette, the fingers on his other hand tracing down to a scar on her back, and perhaps, beneath it, he detected old bruises, faded over time but still sensitive to the touch.
Had her husband done that?
He caught her eyes. He took no pride in it, being so easily seduced, but here he was, in bed with a woman he still hadn't figured out and who may well be at the center of a murder plot.
Cigarette smoke rose in rings over the bed.
"Tell me you just found him."
His lapse notwithstanding he couldn't deny what he did for a living; he may no longer carry a shield but he still considered justice one of his founding pillars. What if Caitlin proved a cold-blooded killer?
"I've never fired a gun in my life," Caitlin said, words she could've easily rehearsed, lies she'd spun Harrison Wells too. "Tommy was dead when I found him. Didn't want to stick around for whoever done him or for the police to show up."
"Stuck around long enough to get rid of the pictures."
A shiver ran through Caitlin's body, and she sat up, stuttering, "I-" while she rearranged the sheets around her.
She failed to deny the existence of any pictures.
It was a neglectable crack in her otherwise impenetrable armor, one he probably would've exploited, in any other setting.
"It's okay."
The bed creaked as he sat up behind her, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. Pushing her hair out of the way he kissed her shoulder, his lips lingering over the same spot.
"I understand why you did it."
Caitlin relaxed into him.
No matter whose pictures they were, it would've given the police a strong motive, one they would've easily followed to any of the girls depicted, Caitlin, Millie, others, and Caitlin needed time to get away.
"I got dreams same as any girl."
Lipstick smeared, she turned to face him, and for one infinitesimal moment he caught the truest snapshot image of her. Not a damsel in distress. Not a pathological liar. But a survivor who'd withstood the world, who'd come out stronger, who knew when to cut and run. Who knew how to lie, and cheat, and—
"And they don't involve this stinkin' town."
Barry blinked, and the image disappeared, under her spell again. "What do they involve?"
Caitlin pushed her lips to his.
"College degree," she whispered, and kissed him again.
"White lab coat.
"My own lab.
"A lab?" he asked, his addled thoughts skipping back to her connection to Wells and what that might entail, to her chemistry books, and her CCU snow globe. Who was Caitlin Snow?
"Shhh," Caitlin hushed, and together they sank down onto the sheets again, his burning questions lost to fiery kisses that kept the outside world far at bay.
.
.
SUNLIGHT INVADED THROUGH THE WINDOW BLINDS IN TINGES OF BLOOD ORANGE, diffusing the desert tans he and Caitlin intertwined with hours before, lacking its usual soothing warmth. Hands raised Barry squinted against the intrusion, and wondered when during the night Caitlin got up to open the—
Barry shot up in the bed, the space to his right empty, crumpled duvet heavy with perfume, a few stray hairs on the pillow, a girl-shaped outline left deserted in the sheets.
To his left, the bathroom door was closed, though he couldn't hear any water running.
"Caitlin," he called, stomach roiling.
Seconds ticked by thickly.
A vacuum cleaner whirred in the next room.
A cart rattled past the window.
No reply followed.
A cold sweat gripped the back of his neck as he stumbled toward the bathroom, swung the door open but there too— no sign of Caitlin.
The room spun around him and he held himself up by the doorframe.
Could she have left to get them breakfast? Would she risk that?
Skin tingling he looked around, the room devoid any latent sentiment, stripped bare of its essentials. No red suitcase, no clothes on the floor but his own, no goodbye note or further hint on Caitlin's honeycomb perfume.
When had she left? Had it been hours? Minutes? Or had the click of the door woken him? How had she managed to slip away so quietly, without alerting him? The past few days' events had left him bone-tired, but surely he would've heard something.
But he'd since learned Caitlin Snow made running into an instinct.
He walked toward the window and peered out, his car missing from the parking lot.
He instantly dreaded having to call Eddie to pick him up, but Caitlin had drawn this picture clearly. This was always her plan.
A sudden knock at the door made his heart leap in his chest and he called out, "Caitlin?" before he'd well and good realized the impossibility of such a question. It caught the room faithless and hollow, a fated delusion in amongst his other daydreams.
"Sir, check-out was an hour ago," a weary voice called through the wafer-thin door.
Barry sighed.
It's true then.
Ms. Snow White flew the coop.
She must've realized long ago the ice she skated grew thinner beneath her feet every day she stayed in LA and it'd only be a matter of time before she, Tommy, or both of them got caught. Had she killed Tommy to get away clean?
More knocks followed.
"In a minute!" he shouted, scaring off the cleaning lady with a few swift words.
His stomach continued to turn, mind racing a million miles an hour to make some -any- sense of this. Had she thought of him as some chump she could charm, use for protection, then ditch at her earliest convenience? A nuisance she made short work of.
In the corner of his eye he caught sight of the cabinet beneath the TV, sheer curtains covering it in a mesh chessboard pattern of red and gray squares.
One of the drawers left open, as if purposely inviting him closer.
A disquiet set in his chest as he approached, a brick over each of his lungs as he pulled the drawer open further.
Inside were dozens of pictures and their negatives.
Pictures of Millie Foss. Compromising ones.
She wore underwear in some of them, but there were nude shots as well, and she smiled at the camera with a twinkle in her eye he recognized. Millie Foss had been in love.
Poor thing.
The pictures didn't answer all his questions, but it sure explained a lot.
What probably got Tommy killed.
Why Caitlin ran.
Why Millie wanted Caitlin found.
Had Millie killed Tommy before she figured out Caitlin took all the pictures? Had he been hired to flush her out so that Millie could kill her too?
He still had plenty of questions left, some that would never be answered.
Caitlin was gone, off God-knew-where starting a new life, a different life, one he had no part in.
Not like he couldn't have seen that coming. He had enough warnings along the way; the swift manner in which she'd deconstructed her apartment, her ties to Cutter, her suspected involvement in Tommy's murder.
Even Caitlin had used clear language.
She was no damsel in distress.
On top of the cabinet lay a paper napkin with Caitlin's handwriting— Tell Millie I'm sorry, it said, and a single word added in thin penmanship below it.
Bisous.
Kisses.
Barry huffed a scornful laugh.
Snow White came with more than just a bite. She had a sense of humor too.
.
.
"I'M GOING TO TELL YOU A STORY, Miss Foss," Barry said, sat back in his desk chair, face-to-face with the alluring Millie Foss again.
Two big cups of coffee steamed like auguries between them, untouched.
Moments after returning her pictures Millie released a breath he hadn't realized she'd held onto for days, including that fateful day he first laid eyes on her —the anger pinched in her shoulders, the upturn of her nose—; he wished he never had now, that she'd never knocked at his door, never found her way there, never heard his name come out of Grady Schott's mouth.
In fact, he wished he'd never heard the name Caitlin Snow come out of hers at all.
Hindsight left behind a particular bitter taste, tinged with a hint of honey now, thick and difficult to swallow. His stomach lurched at the thought of coffee.
"One night," he said, setting the scene, "you're out at a bar. Respectable place."
Not the Moon River. No. That would've been too close to home, too close to Cutter Moran. Besides, Millie struck him as a clever girl— whatever sucker game Caitlin and Tommy played on her it must've been a class act to fool her so completely.
"A girl comes up to you and introduces herself. Caitlin Snow. New in town. Hoping to make it big in Hollywood. Even has the headshots to back it up."
His fingers rapped against the desk, picturing Caitlin in a blue chiffon dress with an ivory white collar, fluttery short sleeves. Her eyes tracking across the room until they found their target. Millie Foss. Rich. Big heart.
"The two of you get along. Become friends even. Such good friends that she introduces you to her friend, Tommy, who she has no idea is the son of your father's greatest enemy.
"Now, I never met Tommy Moran so my guess is as good as any, but he seduces you. And you fall in love. And you spend the night in his bed.
"And he asks to take your picture. To remember you by."
He scooted to the edge of his chair, plastering on a smile he neither felt or earned over the course of this investigation— but he had to sell this bullshit somehow.
"Am I getting warm?"
To her credit, Millie didn't rise to his challenge, nor invoked her family name to demand his respect; truth was people didn't talk to anyone with the last name Foss the way he just did.
Desperate times.
Or was he laying the blame for all this at Miss Foss' door?
Millie remained seated, humbled, wrangling her purse together in her hands, while her eyes slowly started writing out his death warrant.
Barry stood up and faced the window, hands sliding into his pockets.
Feverish heat broken, the sun outside made way for an overcast sky, and the artificial lighting in the darkened office failed to cast either him or Millie in a good light. She'd used him for her own agenda, set him up for heartbreak, but this wasn't exactly his proudest moment either. He took no pleasure in telling this story, given how he fell for a similar ploy.
Unlike Millie though, he couldn't use 'love' as an excuse for his behavior. Was it obsession, perhaps, that possessed him? Magic? Chemistry?
Certainly wasn't love.
"The only thing I can't figure out is who killed Tommy," he said, surrendered to speculation. "Our elusive Miss Snow, cutting ties with this godforsaken town?"
"Or you"—he looked at Millie over his shoulder—"when you found out it wasn't true love?"
If looks could kill, Millie's would've done him in a few times over, once for his impertinence, once for accusing her of murder, and once, perhaps, for implying she'd lost her heart to a good-for-nothing swindler. A sleaze who broke her heart and kept the pictures.
Had Caitlin -in her own way- done the same to him?
She played him like a fiddle, Miss Frost, but if Caitlin were some type of Pied Piper Millie's initial request surely painted her as an accomplice by placing him directly in her path. For all he knew the two women were in on Tommy's murder together. Caitlin had, after all, begged Millie's forgiveness in the note she left. Had they grown fond of each other in the weeks leading up to his death? Had they become real friends?
"How do I know these are all of them?" Millie asked, staring hard at the brown A4 envelope he slid her way fifteen minutes ago.
"Miss Snow has no reason to hold onto them."
"You let her go, didn't you?"
Seemed a logical conclusion in and of itself, given how he now possessed all the pictures, but the implication set offensively under his skin. His self worth notwithstanding he stuck to the parameters of his assignment— Millie needed to find Caitlin to get her pictures back. He simply cut out the middle man.
"I asked you to find her and—"
"You asked me because you didn't want to involve your father."
That much was clear.
"Which I'm not above doing."
Millie shot up from her chair. "You wouldn't," she cried, having at least the decency to act shocked.
"I got no reason to tell him, sweetheart."
He shrugged, taking no pride in the threat. But he needed some cover on this. Best to keep any crime boss as far away as possible. If Moran ever found out what kind of side business his son ran there was no telling what he might do, and should Digsy Foss ever find out what Tommy did to Millie— well, he shuddered to think.
"Unless you give me one."
Millie stared at him long and hard, and were he any more rattled he would've been the first to look away— as things stood the duplicity of it all should not have surprised him. What did he think would happen? That he'd get the girl, ride off into the sunset and turn his back on Los Angeles for good? To go where? To do what?
Things ended the only way they could.
At long last Millie averted her eyes, and headed for the door, the same door that'd painted her silhouette so dark and seductively, so unforgiving, no five days before.
That door claimed him a private investigator. A professional.
Millie paused at the door.
"I loved him, you know," she said, gaze set somewhere in a distant memory, "Tommy."
He reckoned she did.
"Thought I did."
"People wear masks in this town."
Millie eyed him with that could-kill look of hers, somewhat softened after her confession. Was that sympathy, or was it pity?
"You don't," she said, striking the final blow.
Yeah.
Maybe that's how he got duped.
Barry Allen. PI. Sucker for a damsel in distress.
Had he let a killer go? Was he letting one walk out of his office right now?
Who knew.
Would he report any of this to the police?
Unlikely.
He wouldn't pick at any more of the scabs covering this case; he tried that and look what it got him— more heartburn than he cared to admit, and the ghost of Caitlin's perfume embedded in his skin.
Sighing heavily, Barry unlocked his bottom desk drawer and retrieved the file on his mother's case, filled with dog-eared pages covered in red marker. Somewhere in there he'd hoped to find his answers, long sought after proof that Dr. Wells could be held accountable for his mother's death and the other seven scientists who lost their lives in the explosion at S.T.A.R. Labs.
No point in dragging this out. He'd read all the documents a dozen times over, memorized the incident reports and witness testimonies; he wouldn't find his burden of proof in there. The answers were out there, with a corrupt building inspector who ignored code violations or Harrison Wells himself, a man without a conscience.
Time to get back to the grind. Business as usual. The whole ten yards.
.
fin
.
.