Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
ICYMI: Arnold takes Vasquez's bait, but he has some tricks of his own for his attackers. Arnold settles a score going back to his days in Eritrea. An explosion leads to radio silence.
And now, on with the show!
14. Brownian Motion and the Human Condition
"And you're telling me that all the switchboards and the entire network, they just happened to be out of commission, exactly when World War III plays out over here?"
It was all an act, of course. Detective Mark Vasquez was fully aware of the order that had come directly from the Commissioner to shut down and test the Hillwood PD's entire communications network under the pretext of testing for suspected bugs and viruses, an order that won him no fans, but which nevertheless had to be followed. The Commissioner had received his orders directly from Scheck, and in implementing the shutdown had bought Arnold Shortman's hit team a one-hour window to do their job.
"Sorry, Sir, but that's what happened, like it or not," replied the uniform maintaining the perimeter around the cemetery.
Detective Vasquez was led towards the carnage. There, he saw a junior detective consulting with the coroners and CSU techs at work amongst the bodies, the spent casings and the bullet-damaged headstones. They were processing and murmuring, calculating and conjugating, seemingly oblivious to his presence, continuing undisturbed as they examined the scene.
Wait, back up a minute! Another detective?
The presence of another detective at the scene was serious grounds for concern. The hero detective was supposed to swoop in on the scene and instantly solve this case with elegance and panache. Scheck had even arranged for a press briefing in which Detective Mark Vasquez would be authorized to divulge certain cherrypicked details of the investigation. "To send the mindless rabble chasing each other's tails as well as their own", as the old man had described it.
So what the fuck was this asshole doing here?
"Detective Vasquez?"
The voice snapped Detective Mark Vasquez out of his cogitation so that he saw the other detective's outstretched hand. He grudgingly accepted the gesture and shook the hand.
"Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater, from Precinct 2," the detective introduced himself. "I was a mile or two out having a slice when the call came in. Never knew I'd get to work with the legend of Hillwood PD!"
Christ All-fucking-mighty! Vasquez's thoughts were of thermonuclear anger. A fucking bright-eyed fanboy got here first!
Vasquez maintained his calm demeanor as he replied: "Pleased to meet you, Drinkwater. Looks like we're stuck with each other on this one."
To the rest of the gathered crew, he said in a voice he hoped would convey a bit of irreverence: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Looks like we'll be earning our overtime tonight! What do we know so far..?"
Hindsight is always 20/20.
Knowing the meaning of the saying, its origin and how it applied to her at this exact moment, all of it presented absolutely zero comforts for her. She'd been mentally playing and replaying those final moments of their last communication.
The deafening bangs.
The sounds of many impacts.
Inarticulate sounds expressing pain.
Then…static.
No more communication. Only…uncertainty.
Did he survive? Did he perish? Oh god, please let him be alive!
In hindsight, maybe Phoebe should have engaged Arnold more readily and with less stammering when he let it slip that he loved her. She did have a response for him: she was falling as hard for him as he confessed he was falling for her. His violent tendencies had come to the fore at the time, but upon reflection, she realized that none of his anger or frustrations had ever been aimed directly at her. Yes, he'd gotten testy with her, raised his voice at her and endured a few arguments with her. But he'd never threatened her with violence; in fact, he was making good of his promise to prioritize her safety over everything else. He may have been a product and a victim of his circumstances, but to her – as was always the case with all his loved ones – he was kind, loving and fiercely loyal.
Inevitably, she also (blushingly) recalled his lovemaking skills which earlier that evening had emphasized his torridity, longevity, and intimacy.
Hindsight is a bitch.
How badly she wanted the chance to tell him that what they shared was love, not mere sex.
But first, she needed confirmation of his survival. The news outlets had latched onto the recent events and Phoebe had been following every new story, every new tidbit, fervently.
Nothing so far. At least, nothing she didn't already know. Lots of gunmen. Lots of bullets. An explosion nearby.
The reporters, anchors, bloggers, not to mention the countless Redditors, were all ablaze as they offered their hypotheses: gang warfare seemed to be the most accepted supposition, especially in the wake of Vitaly Santalov's demise.
Two hours of opinions, speculation and not enough solid facts later – during which she had also successfully retrieved the drone and backed up Arnold's recorded conversations – Phoebe Heyerdahl was about to succumb to the day's fatigue, and so she retired on the couch in the lounge while leaving the TV to cycle through the news.
Then something appeared. She saw him in the background on the broadcast.
Not Arnold. No, him.
Him.
Mark.
Mark Vasquez was being allowed into the cemetery by a uniformed officer. Phoebe's fatigue suddenly dissolved as she sprang to her feet; there was new work to be done.
She needed to change into a more professional ensemble, quickly. She did.
She needed to be strongly caffeinated to preserve her wits. She soon was.
She needed to depart speedily. She was gone.
"Drinkwater, are you saying this wasn't a gang war?" Detective Mark Vasquez asked the Junior Detective, whom he knew was smelling a potential commendation with this case. "Look at this advanced weaponry. Heckler & Koch G36's, brand new by the looks of it. All set to Full-Auto and with mags to spare. They didn't come here to save their ammo. They came to face multiple enemies."
Detective Vasquez was rattled that Arnold Shortman was not among the stiffs being examined. Had the footballhead – as Helga frequently referred to him – been among the dearly departed, the story would have been a tragic case of some poor sentimental bastard coming late at night to mourn his long-dead childhood friend only to stumble in on a gang meeting. But that wasn't the case, so he was now forced to sell this show as a gang war without the collateral damage.
"That's exactly as it appears, Sir," Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater replied before launching into a litany of his observations. "If this was warfare, then you'd expect the directionality of their gunfire to be all over the place. But look at this." He pointed at the pockmarked area surrounding the stone of Cynthia Snell – which miraculously had emerged unscathed for all the gunfire that had taken place. "The gunfire was concentrated just around this specific area, meaning they were after just one target."
Shit, thought Detective Vasquez. Of all the other detectives, he had to get Drinkwater, the young fucking up-and-comer who looked like a fresh-out-of-college Judge Reinhold. He was bright, astute and at least as intelligent as Vasquez, but he had one telling flaw: he actually believed in truth and justice and as such was eager to solve this case truthfully. He also happened to be closer to the scene when the call came out.
"And over there too, Sir," Drinkwater continued as he pointed towards a granite monolith that displayed the brunt of another constant stream of bullets. "You've got a similar concentration of gunfire over there. They were targeting someone specific. This was supposed to be a hit."
The junior detective then led his senior counterpart to the monolith, where he showed and explained the similar concentrated pattern. Detective Vasquez wasn't particularly interested in what Drinkwater had to say, so he occupied himself with the inscription on the monolith.
Holy shit! What were the odds?
Inscribed was the name of the PS118 students who perished during the Sunset Arms incident!
Eugene Horowitz
Harold Berman
Nadine…someone or other; bullet impacts had made her surname illegible.
Rhonda Wellington Lloyd
Sid…same for him; concentrated bullet strikes had also erased his surname.
Stinky Peterson…was that really his name?
Thaddeus Gammelthorpe
This was their memorial. This was where Shortman hid from his attackers. Shit, even in death his friends were looking out for him.
Drinkwater's incessant droning eventually snapped Vasquez back to the present.
Damn that Drinkwater! This was not going according to plan. Still, he had to try and poke holes in the Junior Detective's story: "Two targeted areas. But didn't you say there was one intended target?"
"There was, Sir," Drinkwater replied, "only…look at this." He motioned for a tech to bring over a bagged piece of evidence which he presented to Vasquez.
"Cute," Vasquez observed. "What is it?" It looked like the charred remains of a plastic cigarette box.
"It's a simulator. We found it stashed near Cynthia Snell over there. It's meant to simulate gunfire as a distraction. You know, like the one De Niro used in 'Ronin'. It drew the attackers' attention away from their target. Meanwhile, our guy is hiding behind the monolith over here. He uses their distraction to pick them off. We got several stiffs here with entry wounds in the back. They were all shot with a .45, judging by the casings we found that weren't .223."
Drinkwater then extolled the superior battlefield nous of the target, what with his use of a flashbang – the remnants of which had also been bagged – and how he was able to counter a six-man pincer movement.
"Sounds a bit much for just one man," Vasquez feigned doubtfulness.
"Not if he's ex-military. Marine Corps. Rangers. SEALs. Top tier, best of the best." And before Vasquez could question that conclusion, Drinkwater answered: "His shot placement…he only targeted the vital areas. Centre mass, vital organs, heart and head. One guy even copped one in the trachea. That's high-level military-grade shooting. He knew how to pick his shots."
Fuck, Vasquez cursed internally. At Drinkwater for beating him to the scene. At Shortman for not following the fucking script and dying.
"One thing I can say with certainty, Detective Vasquez," Drinkwater concluded. "Someone was meant to die over here and die horribly. Someone was lured to this location. Someone knew it was a trap, and so came prepared."
Damn that Drinkwater!
And fuck you, Shortman!
"…Information is still scarce at this point, four hours after police investigators arrived at the scene. What we've been hearing thus far paints a grim picture of Hillwood's fight against organized crime in particular. What you're about to hear is the result of hearsay, overheard as a result of the investigators themselves talking amongst each other as they passed us. As such, the information is still subject to fact-checking. The dialogues suggest a death toll of fifteen, although this figure is yet to be confirmed. Allegations have also been made of the deceased all being mercenaries with military backgrounds. Even more incredibly, further allegations have arisen which suggest that only one man may have been responsible for the deaths in the cemetery tonight. We'll be sure to follow up thoroughly on all the available leads and allegations.
In the meantime, we are still waiting for Hillwood PD to release a formal statement concerning tonight's events and provide clarity on the event that has transpired.
And with that, back to the studio…"
Big Gino was focussed on the latest newsfeed streaming on his desktop PC. The news of an almighty shootout at the cemetery and the explosion at a nearby abandoned rooming house was fuelling a buzz by the press who were seeking to link those events to Vitaly Santalov, and the supposed power void left in the wake of his death the previous day. Some of the more sensationalist outlets were already bandying phrases such as 'power grab' and 'power vacuum'. Gino knew that all their speculation was bullshit. What were the fucking odds, he ruefully postulated. The boy scout comes back home with Scheck on the brain, and on the same day, unholy hell breaks loose with a team of hired killers in the cemetery.
He decided to give the news a rest and turned his attention to Myron, who was being his cordial best on the phone. Despite not being able to hear the other side of the conversation, he got the feeling that his bodyguard and confidante was gaining the advantage.
"No, Madam Councillor, you misunderstand our intentions," Myron explained over the burner phone, one of several at his disposal. The rest were laid on the desk that was now his base of operation. "My employer's goal is not to threaten you. On the contrary, he sees a chance for you to continue prospering in your most esteemed career…Well, consider the financial and reputational damage you'll suffer if any word were to get out that you are in league with a domestic terrorist…That's right, domestic terrorism…Sunset Arms, seventeen years ago…Well, new evidence calls that notion into question. New, verifiable evidence, currently in our possession…Yes indeed, the monthly payments you received are drawn from the proceeds of terrorism that can be traced back to that event…Our terms? You forego any future involvement with your current benefactor, including all financial considerations. In exchange, we see to it that no harm comes to your employment or your pension. Plus, I guarantee that our requests will be infinitely more reasonable…Thank you very much, Madam Councillor, for your gracious co-operation."
When Myron ended the call, Big Gino immediately pounced. "So how'd that one go, Myron?"
"Very well, Sir," replied the living paradox that was Myron: a well-educated, 6'10", muscled brute of a man who spoke the most eloquent, highest-level English in an accent that sounded like a cross between New Jersey and Beantown.
"Good, that's the first one we've been able to turn over to our side. I'd call it a good start. Looks like our friends Arnold and that Heyerdahl girl delivered us some righteous intel."
The flophouse was their next destination.
Unlike the cemetery, this location didn't offer much in the way of physical evidence. It wouldn't offer anything at all until the Fire Marshall gave investigators the go-ahead to enter the premises. The structure was still standing even if it was missing most of the third floor, which was where the investigators needed to be pending the necessary approval.
In the meantime, Detectives Vasquez and Drinkwater found themselves, at the latter's behest, investigating the alleyways surrounding the building. All were strewn with debris from the explosion: bits of wood, jagged metal and masonry were the order of the day.
"Look! Look!" proclaimed an overly eager Drinkwater as he pointed at a badly indented dumpster situated next to a fire escape.
"Drinkwater, it's a dumpster," Vasquez couldn't muster any enthusiasm. "Damaged by high-velocity falling bricks."
"No, Sir! Look more closely!"
Vasquez did so, and he had to concede: The little prick is right! The jagged notches were spread in and around a single, larger and smoother dent on the top of the dumpster.
Drinkwater wasted no time as he theorized: "Looks like someone was on the top floor when all of this went down. He figures the place is about to blow then hauls ass for the fire escape."
This isn't happening, Detective Mark Vasquez cursed to himself in denial.
"Only…" the junior detective continued. "…he's not quite fast enough. I mean he makes it to the fire escape, but the concussive force from the blast sends him flying over the railing. Maybe he slams against the opposite wall, which slows down his descent. Enough so that when he hits the dumpster and it caves in, it's enough to break his fall so that the impact isn't fatal."
"Hence, no body," concluded Detective Vasquez while pretending to be interested.
"Exactly!" Drinkwater sounded giddy in his declaration. "I won't call our man a suspect yet, but he's definitely a person of interest and if we find him and question him, then at the very least he can shed light on this giant clusterfuck!"
'Clusterfuck' was the operative word. If he finds Shortman and takes a statement from him…
While Vasquez was cursing this less-than-desirable outcome of his and Scheck's scheme, Drinkwater had turned to leave the alley. Drinkwater strolled carefully out towards the exit of the alley, but his body language suggested that his commendation for this high-profile case was already a done deal. At that point, Detective Mark Vasquez's own detection skills came into play. He suddenly noticed how, despite both the buildings on either side of the alley being abandoned, several air-conditioning units still remained on the walls. He noticed how one particular unit was holding on by the flimsiest of metaphorical metallic threads, all but one of its mountings having been devoured by corrosion and left especially weakened and vulnerable by the neighboring explosion's shockwave. He noticed how Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater was about to walk directly underneath the unit.
Should be easy for a thrown brick to dislodge it, he thought.
He then noticed how the brick he had thrown traveled in a perfect trajectory before striking and dislodging the last remaining mounting. He watched, as the air-conditioning unit submitted itself to Newton's First Law and let gravity guide its course to the ground. He watched, as Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater stirred at the impact before looking up just in time to see the unit mere inches above him. He watched, as the unit came crashing on Drinkwater's head, driving him flat on his back on the ground where it summarily crushed his skull, killing him instantly.
"Oh shit! DRINKWATER! DRINKWATER! FUCK!" Detective Vasquez screamed a full lung capacity, making sure his colleagues and the assembled press could hear him. "OFFICER DOWN! OFFICER DOWN!"
He watched, as firefighters and other investigators came running to his screams.
He thought: You were just too goddamn clever to live…
The uncertainty was fast becoming tedious. Scratch that: it had become tedious a long time ago.
The life of the cop's wife.
Of course she loved him. Profoundly so. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. She just abhorred the notion that she was forced to share her husband with the criminal element of Hillwood, especially when none of the latter where particularly inclined to return him to her.
Olga Pataki-Vasquez was losing all sense of time and space behind the keys of her piano when Mark had called that he was responding to another high-profile multiple-homicide, this time at the cemetery and - surprise, surprise - that she need not wait for him. Murder at the cemetery? Death of irony right there, as she recalled his favored expression.
Since his call, she'd spent hours trying to lose herself in the more complex piano pieces. The more complex, the more discordant, the better, for whether she knew it or not, she was seeking music that mirrored her current tumultuous state of mind. She was finding particular solace in Concert Etude op.40 no.3 "Toccatina" by Nikolai Kapustin, it's fast-paced, seemingly random chord progression forcing her to focus on anything other than what was currently vexing her.
Her husband.
His dedication to his job, now becoming a distraction?
More cases, less time with her, more secrets.
Enough! She couldn't stand the uncertainty a minute longer! The music was no longer doing anything to her state of mind. She stopped; she had to know. Was there really a multiple-homicide tonight. The news channel confirmed that there was: fifteen dead in the cemetery plus one other in a nearby explosion that may or may not have been a related incident. Speculation was rife in the absence of any concrete facts. Then the news anchor announced: "We've received word that Hillwood PD is about to issue a formal statement regarding this incident. We cross over live from the location."
The picture changed to one of a makeshift podium adorned with microphones from different stations, somewhere near the cemetery. Olga watched as Mark came into view…wait, was he delivering the statement?
"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your patience. It's been a long time coming, but I am Detective Vasquez of the Hillwood Police Department and I've been authorized to brief you about certain aspects of Hillwood PD's investigation of the heinous crime committed at this location some eight hours ago."
It made sense, or so Olga reckoned. Mark was the face of Hillwood PD, a figurehead for its fight against crime.
"Approximately eight hours ago, a group of fifteen heavily armed individuals entered the cemetery's premises. We established this through footage courtesy of Hillwood's surveillance network."
Olga could only smile in admiration of his eloquent delivery.
"Further evidence suggests that they were in fact lured here by an individual who had set a trap for them. The group was subsequently ambushed by said individual and shot dead."
Olga's distrust of that statement was echoed by the collective gasps of the gathered reporters.
"We are currently treating this as an act of vigilantism as all the deceased – or at least those that have already been positively identified – are known criminal figures with some or other military background and histories of extreme violence. Regardless, Hillwood PD fully intends to pursue and apprehend the perpetrator, and punish him – or her – to the law's fullest extent."
A question from within the press corps: "Detective, are you seriously suggesting that one person gunned down fifteen heavily armed attackers?"
"I am merely relaying to you what the evidence we've processed thus far suggests. Unfortunately, due to the ongoing nature of this case, I am unable to divulge specifics of the evidence in case the matter does go to trial."
Damn, he was good! He could be quite the charmer when the situation demanded.
Another question from within the masses: "Detective, are you treating the nearby explosion as a separate incident, or is it related to the shootings that occurred here?"
"The short answer is: we don't know yet. We've been unable to process the scene due to the Fire Marshall not declaring it safe yet. On that note, I would also like us to remember Junior Detective Julian Drinkwater, who was tragically killed in a freak accident during the course of this investigation. In fact, much of what I'm telling you comes off his sterling detective work and his death is a heartrending loss for Hillwood PD."
Mark Vasquez: a case study of how to work a crowd's emotion. Olga was in awe at how he had the reporters hanging on to his words.
"Detective, does this mean you had arrived at a different conclusion to that of your…shall we say 'partner'?"
That one question changed the atmosphere radically. Silence descended suddenly. Mark's expression changed to one of displeasure, as if he was deeply, personally vexed either by the question itself or by whoever had asked it. A woman…with a vaguely, distantly familiar tonality. Olga watched Mark rein in his nerves and address the question.
"Why, Miss Heyerdahl! Of course, I should have expected someone as intrepid as you to grace us with your presence…"
Heyerdahl? Of course!
Olga's ear for music and voices and relative timbres finally had its catalyst. That was Phoebe Heyerdahl asking the question! Olga remembered her dead sister's childhood best friend quite vividly. She also had some imprecise recollections of stories she'd read which were written by Phoebe the reporter.
"…As for your question…yes, I was under the initial impression that this event was an instance of gang warfare, given the volatility following the death of Vitaly Santalov. Detective Drinkwater proved my hypothesis incorrect through solid evidence and his equally solid detection skills."
"And was the late Detective Drinkwater able to point out any characteristics of a potential suspect?"
Olga noticed as a smirk briefly appeared on her husband's visage. "Only that the suspect might be a highly trained, former military operative with, to quote Detective Drinkwater, 'superior battlefield nous'. As such the suspect will be considered armed and extremely dangerous." He paused for a moment, before continuing: "Plus, if we establish that the death of Detective Drinkwater was in fact an indirect result of our unknown suspect's premeditated actions, then the suspect would acquire an additional charge of Felony Murder of an on-duty police officer. And since the moratorium on capital punishment in the state of Washington was lifted, the suspect would face the death penalty if prosecuted. And so for that matter, would any accomplices."
Something about that second bit didn't sit easily with Olga. His tone and expression – that brief smirk in particular. The fact that he seemed to relish informing Phoebe – and only Phoebe – of that fact. It all hinted at an element of malicious pointedness.
The same could be said about Phoebe's follow-up question, asked in a calm, unperturbed manner. "But Detective, how sure are you of Hillwood Police Department's ability to handle such a…supposed…violent criminal? Recent articles have highlighted the brazen nature of Hillwood's underworld. The most recent example that comes to mind is the murder of your late partner, Detective Joseph Banks, whose badge was found in the possession of an assassination team in…"
Excuse me? What town did she mention?
Olga recognized it as the town Mark had told her on Sunday that whatever task force he was coordinating would be visiting to arrest a double-homicide suspect. That case, the outcome of which he never mentioned to her.
As she continued watching, she noticed a few tics on Mark's face – an indication that he was scrambling for a credible answer – before he replied. "I was under the impression that that particular case was closed. The perpetrator was part of that aforementioned squad that was gunned down in…"
That town again! What the hell is going on? What doesn't he want to tell me?
"But clearly that was outside of your jurisdiction," the voice of Phoebe Heyerdahl persisted. "Could you, hand on heart, tell us that you have crime in Hillwood under control? Could you honestly give that reassurance to Hillwood's citizens? To your family and loved ones. To your wife?"
Olga Pataki-Vasquez watched as her husband's cheeks became flushed as an angry expression threatened his theretofore calm and collectedness. "Sorry folks, no more questions!" he said abruptly as he stormed off the podium, presumably to continue his investigation.
But the doubts and questions remained in her mind.
That Podunk town: what really happened there that Mark was so reluctant – if not outright unwilling – to disclose to her? Why did Phoebe Heyerdahl bring up the matter of Mark's partner, Joey? Was she suggesting that Mark had some hand in the death of his best friend? And why did she place particular stress on 'wife' in her last question? For that matter, why did it cause Mark to end the briefing? He could have easily brushed off any question of such a personal nature.
God, I need answers.
So she retrieved her tablet and began a Google search: her search topic specified recent crimes in that rural town. The results were sparse, directing her to the website of that town's newspaper, to an article dated Monday. Olga read of a home invasion attempt that was successfully repelled during which eleven attackers were fatally shot and a twelfth subdued. The occupants of the home: Arnold Shortman, a military veteran; Phoebe Heyerdahl a houseguest of the former. The killings were deemed justifiable homicide and no charges were filed.
Arnold!
She felt the acrimony rise within her as she recalled how that bastard cost her the happiness and stability she so carefully cultivated within her family all those years back. Stability that she was now slowly and painstakingly rebuilding. And what was Phoebe's role in this matter? Was it mere coincidence that she was with Arnold on that day?
A follow-up article, dated the same day, reported on how one of the attackers had presented himself as Joseph Banks, complete with the actual badge belonging to 'the deceased Hillwood detective whose badge was not found on his person following his untimely shooting in Hillwood'.
Dated the next day was another article highlighting the fatal shooting of the twelfth member of the group, one Yuri Denkova, in a failed escape bid during which he expressed a deep fear of being marked for death once he was in Hillwood PD custody.
But no mention whatsoever of a female multiple-murder suspect taking refuge in that town. Nothing on her arrest nor on her extradition. Nothing on those days, nor today. It felt like there was no suspect at all.
Did Mark lie to me?
Why?
Why did that man have Joey's badge?
And how are Phoebe and that fucking Arnold involved?
The more she ran those questions through her mind, the more she dreaded what the answers would be.
So far they had a police captain on board, together with a judge, a medical examiner in addition to the Councillor they initially acquired. The flash drive which the boy scout and the reporter had given him, was a veritable goldmine. As Gino had anticipated, some of the respondents had unequivocally told him and Myron to go fuck themselves – and their mothers too, for good measure – though he was confident in getting them to see his way. He expressed as much to the bodyguard.
"But Sir, we presented compelling evidence to them and all they did was scoff at us," bemoaned Myron.
Gino didn't answer the question immediately. Instead, he was considering, collating and interpreting the events described in the latest news reports. His thoughts were particularly on that press release in which he had taken sadistic delight in hearing how the reporter busted the golden-boy detective's balls on live TV.
His mind was computing the salient data.
Fifteen dead.
One man responsible.
The kind of man, maybe, who could walk into my office, unarmed, and call me a piece of shit in front of my armed bodyguards without flinching.
It's gotta be him...
And it doesn't sound like he's dead yet. Maybe…
After the contemplation, Gino advised: "Give it some time, twenty-four hours maybe, forty-eight, tops. Then call again and tell them that they no longer have a boss, but we still have our evidence against them."
"On what grounds, may I ask?" returned a doubtful Myron.
"On the grounds that I think the boy scout is about to do us the biggest fucking favor we never asked for."
And that will do it for this chapter. Thank you so, so much for your sustained interest in this tale of mine. Feel free to review and/or comment on the content. I promise I won't bite...too hard (Don't worry, I've had my shots.).
Author's Note: Welcome to the second chapter in which Arnold doesn't make an appearance but is instead referenced. I needed, firstly, to remind myself that Phoebe's profession is no Macguffin and that it must have a sustained, intrinsic bearing on the story. Secondly, I'm taking the opportunity to set up Olga for a more pivotal role.
Author's Note #2: Speaking of Olga, I've always regarded her as a highly intelligent person severely lacking in Emotional Intelligence. I've never thought of her as a bad person, just someone unable to adapt to any changes in her life.
Author's Note #3: I got the surname Drinkwater from Danny Drinkwater, a Chelsea Football Club player. He was still playing for Leicester City F.C. when I first heard of him and I distinctly remember thinking: "Now that's a cool name to have."
Author's Note #4: Brownian Motion refers to random movements and collisions of particles suspended in a liquid. I believe what we encountered here was a seemingly random collection of events colliding with profound implications, hence the title reference.
Author's Note #5: Similarly, Newton's First Law states that any object will continue in its state of rest or uniform motion unless acted on by a net resultant force. This I learned way back in Grade 10 Science, in a section called (perhaps unfortunately) "Falling Bodies".
And here's the Spotify list that most influenced the writing of this chapter:
John Crow - Jimmy Cliff
Brothers on the Slide - Cymande
Young Disciples Theme - Young Disciples
True Faith - New Order
Swashbucklin' in Brooklyn - Fun Lovin' Criminals
So long now, and see you next chapter!