ELEVEN

Something just wasn't right. The cogs were all turning, but all failing to connect together. Somewhere along the line I had missed something and everyone else thought I was on the same page. I was clearly at a disadvantage when Edmund took me for a trip down memory lane, and he seemed completely oblivious to it. Xavier's father was a part some government science project and it would appear to me that whoever stole the files knew of his involvement. I stumbled up the stairs to my apartment, fumbling for my keys.

I slipped the keys into the lock and shouldered the door open. It whined on its hinges and I looked over my shoulder to see light spilling into the hallway behind me. Mrs. O'Halloran stood in her doorway and beckoned to me soundlessly. I walked towards her door and smiled sheepishly. I hadn't been home to walk her to the door for a few mornings, and I was about to apologize when she pulled me into the apartment and held her finger to her lips until she pulled the door closed. "Logan," She said quietly. "I waited for you to come home."

"Yeah, I'm sorry…"

She cut over the top of me. "Logan, there were men in your apartment today. They were ransacking the place. I called the police but I was still on hold when they left. I called down to Joe Greenson but he wasn't home."

"Did you get a look at any of them?"

 She shook her head. "I was too afraid to even open my door. This is the first time there has ever been a break-in…" She looked at me with stern eyes, her demeanor changing from frightened old lady to hard as nails matriarch. "You are in some kind of trouble, aren't you, Logan?"

I took her little hands in mine and sat her down, but she would not be consoled. "I'm OK, Mrs. B. I guess I owe some yahoos some money. You know how bad someone gets when you owe them money?"

She shook her head. "No."

I patted her hands again and smiled. "Will you stay here for just a few minutes while I check out my room, see if everything's OK?"

She nodded and shuddered. "But I'm not sitting on my hands while you go. I'll make some coffee."

"Fair enough." I left her apartment and crossed the hallway to my door. It looked Ok until I came up beside it, my back flat against the crumbling plaster wall. I noticed the hinges were completely popped off, and the door was leaning against the door frame. The door itself was made of cheap plywood covered in even cheaper white paint, and I could see where someone's boot had connected with it. I drew my gun and advanced closer, my ears trained for the sound of any movement inside. Nothing. I waited a few moments, holding my breath, and pulled the door open with my free hand. The door fell inward with a crash and I stepped over it and into the apartment, taking in the scene as I swept my gun arm in a wide arc before me. My bed had been upturned, my drawers ransacked and my precarious tower of dishes was smashed to the ground. Whoever broke in wasn't looking for things to steal; they were looking for information, with the happy coincidence of sending me a message: We mean business.

I crept into the bathroom and opened the door slowly, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. No one there.

I holstered my gun and went back to the main room, moving to the dressing table that had spewed my underwear and shirts to the ground, and I tipped it over. I knew that eventually someone would toss the room, but I thought it would be Joe Greenson, so I hid the only thing of value in the whole room: Kwannon's sword. I felt under the table and my fingers slid over the woven sheath. I breathed a sigh of relief and stood up, stepped back over my fallen in door, and rejoined Mrs. O'Halloran, who had set two cups of coffee and some biscuits on a tarnished silver tray. She was seated, holding a jug of milk, looking at me questioningly. "Milk, Mr. Logan?" She had retreated behind the veil of formality now.

"Please. Two sugars." I slumped into the old chair opposite her and gratefully accepted the steaming cup from her. "Nothing was stolen," I said, as if that was any consolation. I wasn't attached to the stuff that sparsely populated my apartment, but I was struck by the disturbing thought that I would have been upset if Kwannon's sword was missing. I shook my head to rid myself of the ghosts of some strange desire to know a woman who tried to kill me, and stood up. "I really should be going," I said.

Mrs. O'Halloran looked up and clutched my sleeve. There was a kind of desperation in her voice. "Logan, be safe." She said.

"Jesus, Logan," North said with a sigh. "You shoulda came to me, made a statement."

"It's not as if this is a rare occurrence in that building. It coulda been anyone-and I keep my security lax, relatively speaking-I was practically inviting them in with only a lock and chain."

"None of the other rooms was touched."

"Yeah, that did get my attention."

North leaned forward in his old leather chair. "What aren't you telling me, Logan?"

I looked away for a moment, biting my lip. I let the silence draw out like a fine thread, then returned North's stare. "I think Worthington may have been behind this."

His response was so rapid fire I almost had to duck to avoid it. "You think Worthington is behind everything."

"Trust me on this one. This has his stink all over it."

He held up a hand and ticked off points on his fingers. "He has had to have you removed from his club-more than once-and can back this up with witnesses. Staff and performers have made some complaints-amounting to nothing more than drunken behavior in my book, but complaints nonetheless. One of his singers has told a female officer your presence makes her uncomfortable. He has enough information that, if presented to court, could land you in a bit of a jam. Now, I know Worthington and I know he's an arrogant ass. But there ain't a law against being an arrogant ass. Anything you have on him, give it to me and I'll chase it down. Otherwise drop the Worthington stuff." He glared at me hard, a look that has famously made career criminals crack. "So come on, Logan, but your money where your mouth is."

I shook my head and studied my hands. "It's not as simple as that. If I could offer something cut and dried, I woulda done something about it long before now, and I wouldn't have come to you first. All I can tell you is that I feel something not quite right when I hear his name. It's a deep gut feeling that I can't shake. I've learned not to ignore my gut."

"Nice speech," He said. "Buts you're still going over old territory." He changed gears so smoothly I didn't even notice the topic was now closed. "So you spoke to the girl?"

I caught a flash of flame-red hair and a smile that I could lose myself in, and closed my eyes tight. "Honey, yeah. She didn't give me much," I pulled my notepad from my back pocket and flipped it open. "She told me what we already knew about Kwannon's employer. His name is Barrington, could possibly be military or the like." I left out the part about the bald man and continued, "Honey claims Kwannon's file was collated by Barrington, or someone in his employ. North, I get the feeling she knew she was being set up."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Did Honey give you any indication that this might be the case?"

"No, she actually looked confused when I suggested it."

"So you base this on your gut feeling again? Or can you give me something concrete?"

"Not concrete. But think about it. According to Honey, Kwannon got tapped by Barrington only weeks before the actual hit. Now tell me North, you ever known a professional killer take anywhere under a month to do a hit? You gotta take your time, walk in the shoes of your prey, become their shadow. When you finally make the hit you do it clean, and seamlessly move onto the next job. Me, I was thinking this was just an amateur hit, but that isn't the case. Suppose she already knew I was no pushover, and she deliberately botched the job? So what would happen then?"

I could almost hear the cogs in his head clicking together. His jaw muscles were working as if he was crunching something bitter, and his brow was deeply creased. "She wanted this Barrington to kill her? She took his money, played him and got what she wanted."

I grinned at him. "Just a theory."

"I never would have seen it…So she may have written the note before the hit on you and not after?"

I nodded. We were bouncing ideas off each other, but we were close to something. Both of us felt the old white hot pins in out stomachs, the feeling you get when you run out of leads on a case, reach out in the darkness, expecting to touch nothing, instead grasp the intangible start of a good idea.

With Kwannon's case about to take a turn for the better, North and I decided to get ourselves a celebratory drink. North pulled on his jacket and I followed him out of his office, almost running headlong into the stationary figure of Scott Summers. Summers glared down at me with disdain, cocked his head to look over my shoulder and addressed North. "What is he doing here?" Summers demanded.

"Leaving." North replied with a grunt. "Was there something you wanted, detective?"

"I wanted a word about the case I'm currently working."

North nodded. He looked at your watch. "I just finished work five minutes ago, but I'll give you the few minutes it takes us to walk to the elevator." Without looking behind, North stalked off, leaving Summers and I trailing in his wake.

"I'd rather not talk about an active case with him around, sir."

"You got no other choice, Summers. Logan is familiar with the case anyway."

I was sure Summers was glaring at me, and I wanted to savor the moment, but being a guest and all I didn't think it was fair to rub it in. I looked at the floor and grinned.

"Well, sir, we've talked to most of the girls on the street, or tried to, and we got a pretty clear picture of who she was. She wasn't the happiest of souls. She owed some money here and there, but nothing major. A lot of the girls said she was difficult to know."

We rounded the corner. "Is that all the information you can offer?" North asked over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. "This is stuff the uniforms should be bringing back to us. What else do you have?"

Summers dithered. He struggled to find words that would dispel the doubt telegraphed from North's icy voice and cold, hard eyes. It was clear there was a level of animosity between the two men, one borne out of professional, not personal clashes. Summers the Boy Wonder was an insolent prick, but he knew when plat politics. If the rumors were true, North would be captain within a month. "There was something, sir. We found some files tucked away in Kwannon's flat."

"The papers on Logan," North said, looking at me. "Don't worry Summers, Logan knows about them."

Summers smiled at his feet for a moment and ran a hand through his shiny brown hair before replying. "She hid some other files, sir. They were hidden in her wardrobe. She had built a false bottom in it and hid the files."

"More of the same?" North asked, his casual air defying the obvious interest in his eyes.

Summers shook his head. "Just figures, what looks like a lot of medical speak. The files are considerably older. We don't know if they have a connection to Kwannon's murder. I doubt they were anything more than some insurance policy for her, like if she was servicing a doctor or something and she was keeping evidence to blackmail him later."

North nodded. "Have the files bought up to my office on Monday." We arrived outside the elevator and North turned to Summers. "Try and get some sleep, will you Summers?"

The doors slid shut and North pressed the Basement level button. We glided down, listening to the ratcheting clank of the mechanics above us. North would have more than files dumped on him come Monday, of that I was sure. Summers wasn't someone who could stand such personal outrage as his captain exchanging information with a barely employed private investigator, and he would see to it that every available official recourse would be used up to let his superiors know. North sighed as the doors slid open on the car park level. "He's a pain in the ass," North said as he strode towards his car. "But he's also a good detective." He started digging in his jacket for keys, found a pen, and jammed the end of it in his mouth. "He's twying to pwoove 'imseff." He said around the pen, while both hands searched pockets. He found them and pulled the pen out of his mouth, staring at it contemplatively. "He's too eager to set himself up as a leader of men, he's not watching whose toes he's stepping on."

"Kid should be watching the ground instead o' gazing at the stars." I smiled at North across the roof of the car. "Let's get outta here and drink some ale."

"Right with you, Logan."

Flanagan's Bar was not far away from the station and hardly merited North driving us, but the nights were still too cold to turn down the offer of a ride when it was offered, even if there was no heating and the car smelled as if it had been shut inside a dead horse for three years and baked on high. I tried to crack the window open just to get some fresh air in, but the handle wouldn't move. I sat back and exhaled loudly as we pulled into the lot behind Flanagan's. The place was a decent relic from a bygone era, restored to a fine shine by Pete Flanagan, an ex cop who plowed his pension into a bar where off duty and retired cops could drink away their memories. The place had a heavy atmosphere of smoke and misery as we stepped inside. It was moderately busy for a Friday night, clusters of uniformed officers hugging the bar after a long shift, regaling each other with stories of their day, old ex cops sharing a solemn drink side by side, and a few detectives off in their own little corner booth, talking with their heads together as if imparting state secrets.

I'd been to Flanagan's a few times, talked to a few of the old cops over a brew or two, but by and large I avoided the place. Cops smelled outsiders invading their territory, and they like it none too much when said outsider is a private investigator. I and most of the other guys like me are considered bottom feeders, smaller fish that cling to a larger and more important one. 

We slid into a booth away from the clutch of uniformed officers, who were laughing as one of them demonstrated how he busted a man for urinating in a public place. We ordered our drinks and North sat back and lit a cigarette. He smoked in silence for a few moments, then snatched up a menu. "You feel like some ribs, Logan? I feel like ribs."

"Sure."

North nodded and we ordered when the waitress appeared with our drinks. He wet his lips with the frothy head of his beer. "You did good to get that girl to safety." He said.

"I think its best just in case. She's the closest thing you have to a witness should this thing ever go to trial."

He raised his eyebrows and an amused grin spread across his face. "You think we will ever actually tap the person...people…behind this? So far they've done a pretty bang-up impression of shadows. We know they're there, but we reach out to grab 'em, and…" He held his hands cupped in front of his face as if he had caught a butterfly. He opened his hands, palms out flat, and shrugged at the nothingness he had captured. "…gone. The best we can hope for is to smoke out whoever did the hit on Kwannon, at least get a name. Whoever did it won't grass on their employers, I can tell you that much."

I nodded my agreement and took a gulp of beer. The clutch of detectives on the other side of the room was watching us. "They seem interested in our meeting over here. I feel like your mistress or something."

He followed my gaze and nodded, blowing smoke through his nostrils. "They're good men, committed. Every one a team player who would do anything for his colleagues. They are sitting over there wondering why I haven't invited them over to join us."

"So this is like the ultimate betrayal?"

He snorted a laugh, still watching the detectives. It was like he was daring them to come over and say something. "Nah. They will get over it."

Blue smoke clung to the ceiling, rolling as each patron came in from the street, each pair of cop eyes in the place trying to divine if they were looking at a civilian or one of their brotherhood. I noted the only females in the place were the waitresses, and even their uniforms were eerily reminiscent of police uniforms. "Look, I wanted to thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt over Kwannon…There's not a lot of men who'd take my word for it, especially on the force."

His eyebrows rose at me over the rim of his glass. He licked his lips. "Can't say I could tell you why I believed you," He responded. "It was this feeling, right down to my toes, that I didn't have the guy who killed Kwannon sitting in my office. You're a good investigator, and I don't give a good goddamn what Summers or anyone else thinks. I've been in this job too long to care about politicking. Summers thinks you had a hand in her death, although he won't come right out and say he thinks you killed her. Involvement is a less tangible thing to prove, and in many ways it makes it look very good in court."

"Lack of evidence?"

"Yep. The brass always wants results that they can take to the public to show that we are worth their tax dollars. Nothing says that better than a nice, watertight conviction. Summers works cases with this in mind. He stores information, squirrels little things away in his memory banks, so that when he is asked to testify his story is coherent and factual. I have a suspicion the little bastard has actually withheld evidence to make a suspect fit."

"Then why let it slide?" I asked as I downed another mouthful of beer. "String him up, make an example of him."

North shook his head. "He's garnered a lot of friends at the top of the food chain, and he knows it. If you look at all of the cases he has closed, you see an unblemished record."

"Nobodies record could be that clean."

He nodded and rapped the table with his knuckles. "Bingo! Nobody can have such a successful hit rate. Its part of the job, knowing you will never close some cases. Those cases will become like boulders on you back later, sometimes you see them in your sleep, but you move on to the next case and promise yourself this one wont hit a brick wall too." He smiled his humorless cop smile and shrugged. "Summers is the first of my guys to have so clean a caseload, and that makes me uneasy."

We ordered another round of drinks, then another, and I began to slowly realize why I liked North. He had a laconic way of talking that belied his fierce intelligence, a man who still believes in right and wrong, trusting his gut instincts and following where they took him. We were cut from the same cloth; I felt a deep kinship with him as we spilled forth our stories, sharing jokes about things that most people would find repellant and loving it. We were getting drunk and we outstayed the staring detectives. Looking across at David North, with his movie star good looks, a Jimmy Dean wannabe replete with trench coat and a cool, menacing look that reminded me of the way a fox looks at a henhouse. I felt like I knew him, like we were long lost friends re-connecting. I closed my eyes and was assaulted with an image of North in a cheap suit, holding a gun in one hand, his other hand clutching his bleeding shoulder, looking up at me with his fox-in-the-henhouse eyes, asking me if I was ready. We were partners, and we were standing in a filthy, dark hallway…

"You having another?" North said in the present, in the here and now. He was holding his empty glass up and shook it expectantly, eyebrows raised in a question mark. He stopped for a moment, frowned. "Hey, you even listening?"

"Yeah," I said after a few long seconds of rapid blinking. My head felt fuzzy. I looked up at him. "Yeah, I think I need it."