After his meeting with Francis, Mike had sat back down in his cream-colored Fairlane, needing several minutes to gather his bearings and digest everything that had been said.
He and Alex were going way back, much farther than many of his other friends in law enforcement. And Alex was no quitter, no matter how stressful a case had turned out to be.
Or so he kept telling himself, as he sat there, watching the traffic pass by his car and work its way down the elaborately decorated side street with large planters, candy cane stripers going up the streetlamps and immaculately taken care of yards.
With a weary sigh, Mike let his eyes drift to his lap, his hands interwoven to keep them from fidgeting, his chest below the bright red vest heaving from agitation and pain.
Oh Alex, how much he'd give for one more chance to talk to his friend, release him from the burdens that had so clearly held his soul hostage, talk him off that abyss of darkness. But death was final; it was the one heart-wrenching and burdensome fact he never did get over when it came to working Homicide.
And neither did his friend, if he were to judge what had been said.
Next to him, the banker's box sat quietly, a silent reminder of what had happened, a foreboding token of interest, a relic that summed up a case so dark and sinister that it drove a caring man with two kids and a wife, a seasoned detective with more than two decades of police experience into the depth of suicide.
Just like that.
It just…it didn't make sense.
Not Alex.
Mike bit the inside of his lip when he felt tears building in his eyes, the grief for his good friend overwhelming him after the tumultuous events of the past few days, his soul not having been ready for the bad news this morning.
For many long moments he stared at that box, ready to dig into the information hiding inside it, wondering for the umpteenth time why the case had been laid to rest to begin with but settling on the fact that he wouldn't know more until he'd talk to Sabatino's co-workers face to face, digging into the mystery that was his friend's last few months on this earth.
With a half hour to spare before his meeting with the Homicide Captain, Mike was about to reach across the seat and start researching, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.
It had been a tiny detail, a subtle iota the first time he noticed it, but two times within less than then ten minutes was no coincidence.
Mike glanced up again slowly, trying to disguise his curious eyes beneath the rim of his grey fedora as he followed the path of the dark blue Skylark making its way down the road at a pace just a bit too slow to blend in with the other traffic.
It had done so the first time around, causing an irate driver behind the vehicle to swerve back and forth, hoping for a chance to pass it. Now there was more traffic, other cars that were growing impatient behind the Buick, seeing it turn on the brake lights right next to Alex's house, slow down enough that the other drivers thought he was looking for a parking spot.
Instead, it rolled past the house, then sped up again suddenly.
Mike grunted and reached for the ignition keys of his Fairlane, cursing the other cars that obscured his view of the license plate. There was no particular reason for the driver of the dark blue sedan to act that way, unless perhaps he knew exactly whose house he was passing.
Was it an old friend? Somebody else Francis would have called? Maybe friends of the family or Alex's kids even? But why not pull into an open spot along the road just like Mike had done? Why circle the block like that?
He didn't like it. As a matter of fact, he didn't like anything related to his old friend's death.
Growing impatient, Mike waited for a gap in traffic and pulled out onto the road, ready to follow the Skylark, if nothing else to get the plate number and run it.
If this truly was an old friend just looking for Alex's last known residence, they surely would swing around the block once again looking for the right address, a good time for him to catch a glimpse of the driver.
Woefully aware that he was in his private vehicle, away from the convenience of dispatch nearby who could run a plate and provide him with instant information; Mike decided early on to keep his distance, not wanting to cause more issues in a situation as disturbing and emotionally charged as everything surrounding Alex's death had already been.
He followed the row of a dozen or so cars toward downtown, a few of them trailing off toward the nearby shopping districts, others remaining on the main road.
Far up ahead, the dark blue Skylark had sped up even more, putting some distance between it and the rows of cars following, as though the driver knew he was being tailed.
They came upon a busy intersection with an old factory on one side, several storefronts on the other and the main bank to his left, the historic old buildings blocking his view of the traffic ahead.
It would be on this interchange that the Skylark would have to turn left to circle the block once again to end up at Alex's house.
When the light turned green and the caterpillar of vehicles began to move again, Mike put on his blinker and turned left, along with four other cars that had been in front of him.
Barely half a mile down was another intersection, this one less congested and allowing the traffic to thin out and clear.
Unfortunately, much to Mike's dismay, the Skylark had disappeared into thin air.