Chasing Phantoms
Part I: Mad World
Chapter Seven: A Restless Road
Casey stood in the window of the shop, basking in the warmth of the late February sun. The air may have been cold outside, but the sun shining through the window in the morning lifted Casey's mood considerably, since the last weeks in New York had been increasingly gloomy and tiring. He sipped his coffee and sat down in the leather armchair, which squeaked in complaint at his weight. The glare of the glasses reflected back in the window and illuminated his stark blue eyes.
The little book shop on West 77th Street had become a comfort to him, even though he had never been much of a reader. He corrected himself; he was not much of a reader, but Casey was. He removed the glasses and cleaned them, trying to reduce the glare of the strong rays just peeking over the tops of the buildings. He guessed that it was just about nine in the morning, which of course meant that he had been awake for almost four hours now.
His life in New York had been quite foreign when he had first arrived, trying to adjust into the habits of a man that was not like him. But slowly, Casey came to life, thriving in the large city. The subway was more crowded that where he was from and he had usually taken his car to work because of the distance, but it was not too different. The streets were noisier and the sidewalk larger; everyone walked in Ney York and it was completely impractical to have a car, but Casey knew that he needed it, just in case. He loved that damn blue dodge.
The street scene seemed to be the same as it was every day, and in no hurry, he left the squishy chair for the back room of the store. The back of the store had a huge stack of boxes waiting to be unpacked and sorted, but Casey ignored them. Rather, he focused his attention on an old metal desk in the corner, dust thickly piled in the corners, but the center clean from recent use. Casey sat down in the rickety, graying oak spinning chair and removed a ring of keys from the front pocket of his black trousers. He found the smallest key on the ring and stuck it in the padlock on the drawer, struggling with the rusting metal as the deep filing drawer opened with an eerie screech.
From inside he pulled out a manila envelope and flopped in onto the table, stirring up a thin cloud of dust. Casey sneezed lightly as he unintentionally inhaled the cloud. He read over the notes in the file scribbled in his own handwriting. There were pages and pages, dated from the second week of November to today's date. He smiled slightly, remembering the detective that had given him the preliminary files.
The New York Police Department had been difficult to find in the giant clog that was New York City, and even more difficult to find because he had never actually been to New York before. He had parked near the building and made his way down the crowded block to walk through from there. He had looked at a blue post-it note with a name and department scribbled on it, and after consulting the map at the front desk for about five good minutes and getting clearance; he took the elevator to the third floor. Finding the office he wanted, he knocked gently on the door frame, where an aging, but extremely elegant looking police detective was waiting for him. He glanced once at the gold nameplate on her desk.
Special Agent Cecilia Thompson
NYPD Liaison to the FBI
He had reached into his black satchel and pulled a thick file and handed it to Agent Thompson, sitting down in a deceivingly comfortable chair in front of her desk. Her wavy gray hair was pulled into a nonchalant bun, her eyes lined fashionably in black. The elder agent's nose was strait and regal, the tip turned up just the slightest; her cheekbones wide; her forehead wide and intelligent; he face lightly lined but clean.
"What trouble did you get into, Probie, that the Hoovers sent you to me?" she said smiling lightheartedly.
He looked at her indignantly. He hadn't done anything wrong! Right…? She laughed throatily at his paling face.
"I am joking Agent Fenton. I wouldn't expect you to have done anything wrong. From what Special Agent Possible told me over the phone the other week, you are very experienced and can definitely handle yourself undercover. She was also kind of glad to get you off her hands. Apparently there's been absolutely no work, and she would rather deal with her managerial duties without having to worry about you Probies."
Daniel sighed in relief, but still felt a little off-put by the woman's casual demeanor and how she talked about him. He had worked in homicide in Baltimore for years before coming to the FBI. He had seen things that could cause Kim to cringe – cases that no one else wanted or was dedicated enough to solve.
"Thank you Special Agent Thompson for the reassurance," he had said contentedly, but with a sarcastic undertone to his voice.
"Agent Fenton, no need for sass, I have read your file twice. I know what kind of reputation you have down at Baltimore P.D. I talked to everyone; I can't make any mistakes here. This guy – or lady – that's been operating out of West 77th in the Upper West Side has made some nasty career out of selling really potent drugs and harvesting organs. It's not the worst you've seen, I know, but this guy is just nuts. Whoever this is, Daniel, is selling drugs that alter the neurotransmitter serotonin in the brain. The clients get severely depressed, but hopelessly addicted, and keep coming back for more. They need it, and when they get depressed enough, they are killed and their organs collected – probably sold. The families never suspect murder until it's too late – until their loved ones are rolled in here in black body bags."
She had pulled a file out of a large stack of manila folders behind her and handed it to Daniel.
"As you have been briefed before, you are now Casey Whitman. I expect bi-weekly reports disguised as office supplies. Don't screw this up. I'm tired of dead bodies being sent to my morgue missing half their body parts, and I don't need more people addicted to whatever hybrid drug that crack head is selling."
She pulled a paper out of a bin on her desk and handed it to him.
"On a lighter note, this is the place you will be staying at – you will be working as a bookkeeper at a used book store the same block that all this crazy stuff has been happening. The man who owns the shop is currently away on a vacation that we were more that than happy to give him, and he was more than happy to take. Your paycheck comes from the FBI, but it will be disguised as sales commission from the store – which, by the way," she had seemed distracted all of a sudden and twirled her desk chair around and shuffled in some more bins until she had found a post-it note with some blue scribbles on it.
"…is called Casper's Used Bookshop."
She had smiled at him through her thin glasses fames.
"Best of luck to you, Agent Fenton. Run along."
"I won't let you down Special Agent Thompson," he had said as he walked out of her office.
Casey closed the folder and replaced it, instinctively knowing he had been gone too long. He shut the file cabinet, which protested its use with another retaliatory screech, like that of nails on a chalkboard.
He peeked back out into the shop and checked the time on the odd clock that hung on the black wood paneling, behind the register. Satisfied that he had time, he removed his wool sweater and tossed it on the back of the desk chair, followed by his dress shirt. Left in his singlet, he began to move the boxes filled with exotic books to the space right in front of the door to the back room. The stack grew on the wall between the storage room and the especially rare book collection, and drops of sweat beaded Casey's forehead, occasionally leaving little brown spots on the cardboard boxes.
Half an hour later Casey straightened his back and let out a deep sigh of mild tiredness. He walked back into the back room and wiped the sweat from his body with a handkerchief he kept neatly folded in his pocket. Splashing his face with cold water from the bathroom tap, he removed the sheen of sweat from his brow and restored his orderly appearance. He pulled his crisp dress shirt back on, but neglected the sweater. It wasn't that cold in the shop anyways. Back in front of the looming pile of boxes, he pulled a knife out of his belt and swiftly, as if slitting the throat of an animal, split the seam of tape that kept the top box closed.
"Woah, you look a little too excited doing that."
Casey startled; his eyes wide and knife poised in his right hand like an accusatory finger.
"Oh, um....ah…are you looking for something?"
He quickly lowered the knife and replaced it in its sheath on his belt. He looked at her apologetically, knowing that wielding a pocketknife at a customer was not exactly considered courteous. His messy raven hair was tamed a little bit; his button down neatly tucked into his pants; the sleeves rolled up nonchalantly. Casey looked up at the unexpected visitor for the first time fully in the face, instantly intrigued by her unusual violet eyes.
"Actually," she said fully unafraid, her purple eyes staring challengingly back at his blue ones, "I was wondering if a man came into your store a few months ago. I don't really expect you to remember, but he is my thesis advisor."
She was a little strange now that he gave her a good look. She was scowling, which was a little off-putting and made him quite nervous. Maybe she was pretty, but he really didn't know what to think. That scowl was just so prominent – as if she had so much to be bitter about.
He replied with a goofy smile, trying to lift the corners of her mouth just a fraction of an inch, "I'm sorry, Miss, you're going to have to give me more than that. A few people who looked like teachers came in here, and there was one lady that could have been a real vampire."
Her eyes softened, but her scowl did not.
"He's bald, has a rather prominent beer belly, has a goatee, and uses the names of classic novels as exclamations. I don't think you could really forget him."
His eyes brightened as he laughed lightly.
"So I guess you are the student that recommended that he read 'The Psychology behind the Western Fear of Ghosts'? I like your taste in books."
She seemed to relax, and offered the young bookkeeper her hand.
"Samantha Manson, but if you call me that I will make sure you are never able to procreate. Call me Sam."
He grinned again goofily and shook her delicate hand avidly.
"Da-," he coughed over the beginning of his mistake, "Excuse me, dusty air in the shop. I'm Casey Whitman, nice to meet you Sam. Actually," he said, letting go of her hand, "Nice to meet anyone. I'm kind of new to New York."
"I've lived here my whole life. I went to university and graduate school here too. I'm almost finished with my doctorate in psychology."
Casey looked at her with surprise. She looked a bit young to have her doctorate already.
"So what is it that you're looking for?" he asked steadily.
She smiled crookedly, but without joy.
"I don't know. I'll know it when I see it. I didn't really have anything to do today. I'm Mr. Lancer's TA, but he let me off because the class seems to be getting better and he doesn't have a headache. I don't even really know why I came here. I guessed that it would be kind of cool to actually check this place out. It's totally my vibe."
Casey smiled again. He could understand that. The young woman wore three colors: black combat boots, black jeans, a black sweater, and a deep violet vest with lime green pinstripes. She looked like a woman who had been Goth in her teens, and found a way to keep that even as she grew up and went into a professional field.
"Would you like to have some coffee? I don't really get many customers and haven't met anyone in my …wow…almost three months here."
The corners of her mouth lifted a fraction, but they were genuine this time. She was a little surprised. All this time she had tried so hard to keep people away from her, but this young, goofy bookkeeper decided that he didn't care how much she glared and scowled at him.
"I think that would be nice."
He pulled up a stool from behind the register and offered it to her. He left the room and soon she could smell her favorite Columbian grind wafting from the back room. Casey reappeared and sat down himself, setting down two mugs of strong black coffee.
"I hope you like yours black. I never carry sugar or cream or anything."
"That's fine."
She inhaled the scent of the coffee deeply.
"Mmm… this is my favorite! No one else I know drinks this stuff. They all say it is way too bitter or too strong. Personally, I think it has character."
"You read my mind Sam. I can't even remember how many cups I've had today… this might be my third or fourth."
"Do you need any help unpacking those boxes?" she said sympathetically as her violet eyes beckoned to the looming stack by the wall.
Casey's blue eyes twinkled in gratitude and surprise as he finished his coffee in a few long gulps.
"That would help a lot. I have a new shipment coming in two days and if I dent get this dusty old stuff on the shelves, I won't be able to get into the back room anymore."
He stood up and took their finished mugs into the back room. Sam sat contentedly and quietly on the stool as she listened to the sound of thick porcelain being set down next to the sink. The rush of water from the faucet reached her ears as she thought about the young bookkeeper. Why was he being so friendly to her? She had done nothing but scowl and be unfriendly to – well, everyone. And, why was she offering to help him when she could be doing other things, like tacking up more posters or cleaning out her frog's tank? Lilith really needed her tank cleaned…
And then there was his personality, his motives. She almost had her doctorate! She should have been able to figure him out in the span of ten minutes, but now, almost within an hour of meeting him, she still couldn't figure out what kind of person he was. The normal things she had picked up on just didn't make sense.
A bookkeeper had no need to drink that much coffee. Where could he have gotten an addiction like that? And then there was a matter of his glasses. He seemed to see just as fine without them as he did with them. Were they just for show? His shirt had been tucked in neatly, but his sleeves rolled up with a disdain for complete formality and need for comfort. And he was too toned, she thought, blushing slightly, to be just moving boxes all day.
No, she corrected herself, not all day. Maybe he got new shipment once a week. The boxes looked to have been untouched for about five days. Again, her thoughts became jumbled. Five days was a long time to leave boxes unopened, and it didn't really look like he had much else to do around the tiny bookshop. He couldn't leave the shop while it was open, so what was he doing all day? What could he possibly be doing all day?
He reappeared after washing out the mugs, and put his glasses away into a case in one of the drawer in the counter that held the old register. Frankly, she liked the look of the old rusty machine. Sure, it wasn't very high tech, but the shop was spooky enough that she couldn't imagine anyone actually being brave enough to sneak in at night and raid the contents. They might just get cursed…or haunted.
"You sure you want to help? I can definitely do this myself…"
She looked at him with challenge in her fiery violet eyes. Of course she would help. She wasn't weak.
"Are you kidding me, Casey?"
He smirked and tossed her a capped box cutter. She caught it easily and jumped up from her stool. Sam followed him around a few tall shelves to the impressive stack of boxes in the back. He had already removed ten or so books from the box he had opened as she was first walking in. He deftly placed them on the shelf a few steps away and showed Sam where to put her batch.
Casey smiled at her so broadly, she could swear that his face would break. He was happy being around someone for a change, but Sam couldn't even begin to understand why it was her that he was smiling at, why he had offered her coffee and a friendly hand. His blue eyes were bright and shining; as if he had been quite absorbed with something and only now had he found some distraction, some light in a very long, dark tunnel. She couldn't help but smile back.
Daniel's cerulean eyes smiled just as brightly, his heart swelling with a secret victory. Maybe, that was all she needed all along: some dusty books and someone to smile with.
"I'm going to need some help on Tuesday, if you could swing by?"
She just smiled even wider. She couldn't stop herself.
(A/N): Thanks to everyone who has faithfully read and reviewed so far. I have done my best to update regularly, even though school has been absolutely crazy. Please review! I need the feedback. ACTION IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. Review, and I will update by friday night...
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