The Serpent's Whisper

by SciFiDetective

Detective story set in the Stargate Franchise. When Private Investigator Jack Pearson is hired to recover an artefact for a collector obsessed with Ancient Egypt, he uncovers a web of lies, murder and...aliens!

The Serpent's Whisper

Chapter one

Washington D.C.; a city of crime, scandal and occasionally politics. A city where people pay good money for discretion. You can find plenty of work as a private eye, if you don't mind getting your hands dirty, rubbing shoulders with politicians with shark smiles and cheap hoods in expensive suits. It was Monday morning, and I was driving the forty miles to Maryland. I sighed as I got closer, and the traffic became denser. It could be worse though; it was a beautiful day, and I had the sounds of John Coltrane's Giant Steps playing in my car. Trees lined the road as far as the eye could see, their leaves signalling the coming of spring. It was a warm day and felt stuffy in the car, so I had the windows down to enjoy a cool breeze. As I drove past cafés, the strong aroma of coffee felt oppressive, invading my nostrils like it was storming a castle. People walked leisurely; Couples, arm in arm, children carried on their fathers' shoulders, men and women in business attire enjoying a moment of repose. It was late morning, and people were starting to think about lunch. I turned onto Goldfinch Lane and heard the laughter of families gathered around the picnic tables that were dotted around. Some shaded by trees, others out in the open. Various birds were stalking the ground, optimistic that their exploration would be rewarded.

Usually, clients would come to me. Sit in my office, drink my coffee, use my ashtray and tell me their problem. But for people like Dr Philip Longmore, the rules are different. They don't need to leave the house for anything. Whether it's grocery shopping, a lawyer or a private detective, the world is brought to them. I didn't know much about Longmore. His name wasn't connected to any criminal activities or police investigations. Near as I could tell, he was a retired academic living a quiet life. I pulled into the drive of a modest looking house. It took less than 5 minutes to travel the length of the driveway. It was the only house on the block. In fact, the house was the block. Gravel crunched under the tyres as I turned off the road and through the front gates. A stone pyramid water feature sat in the middle of the drive. Water was gently cascading into a small pool that surrounded it. I couldn't tell you what the potted flowers were that decorated the perimeter of the house. Botany was never really an area I knew much about. I parked my old Mustang next to a car that probably cost more than my apartment building. The heap I drove had seen better days. The wheel arches were rusted, and when I got out and heard a groan, I didn't know if it was me or the car. When I bought it second hand five years ago, the salesman used words like "classic" and "reliable" and avoided word like "mid-life crisis" and "gas hog". I liked the car, so allowed myself to buy into his well-rehearsed lines. I took a last drag from my cigarette and looked for somewhere to drop it. I felt like I was making the place look untidy just by being there, so with a shrug I figured a butt on the ground wouldn't make much difference. The knocker on the door was held in the teeth of a bronze lion's head. Both shone brilliantly in the sun. Next to it was a doorbell. I rang it once and heard the classic two-tone chime from somewhere beyond the door. While I waited, I straightened my tie and smoothed my hair back. The well-oiled door opened silently revealing a well-dressed man who towered over me. I wasn't exactly short, maybe an inch or two above the average. He wasn't just tall; he had a strong build to go with it. I would put him in his mid to late forties. His dark hair was peppered with grey, and his face was closely shaved. His skin was so smooth, he looked like a China doll, and he was unnaturally pale, making him look unwell. He looked me up and down. If he was trying to hide the contempt in his eyes, he wasn't trying very hard. I gave him my name and told him Dr Longmore was expecting me, and he stepped aside to allow me to enter with a silent nod. The hall was lined with polished floorboards and more flowers, this time in vases on tables and on windowsills. A large round mahogany table sat in the centre of the hall. In the centre of the table sat a smooth wooden bowl that curled inwards at the lip. In the bowl was an arrangement of wooden fruit. I suppose when people have too much money, they run out of ideas of what to spend it on. The table stood on a thick burgundy rug, and a chandelier hung low from the high ceiling above it. The staircase on the other side of the table split at a landing halfway up and continued in opposite directions. "Dr Longmore will see you in the library." The butler said in a tone void of any emotion. When he spoke, his dense, prominent eyebrows danced energetically, taking on a personality of their own. They almost grew into each other, giving the impression of a monobrow. He led me through a door to the left that led to another hallway, this one lined with paintings on both sides. I guessed they were expensive, but to someone as uncultured as myself, seemed to me to be an acquired taste. If the rest of the house was any indication, he must have good eyesight to be able to see me in the library. I said as much to the towering butler, and he responded by adding a touch more contempt to his face. I watched as he ducked his head making his way through doorways as we walked. He opened a door and gestured for me to enter. I stepped over the threshold onto a thick carpet. Bookshelves filled with books lined the walls. I looked at some of the titles and authors. Dr Longmore had an eclectic taste. There were collections of classical literature, volumes of anthologies, and science journals. I saw a few books that discussed controversial theories by fringe scientists and explorers. The library smelled the way all libraries do; musty. The room was dimly lit by lamps that looked more decorative than practical. Beams of light captured the dust in the air and held it close. In one corner of the room, nestled between bookshelves, two high backed armchairs sat either side of a small table. On the table sat three decanters containing liquids that varied slightly in colour. On one of the chairs, with a book in one hand and a look of deep concentration on his face, was a very elderly man. The wrinkled skin on his face hung loose like a melted wax candle. His hair was unkempt and white. It was long enough at the sides to hide his ears but lacking on top. A thick tuft of white hair pushed its way over his shirt collar. He wore a white shirt under a black waistcoat that was undone. I could see that the back of it was red silk. I couldn't see the cover of the book until he placed it on the table. He was reading poems about Egyptian gods and temples. His eyes were hidden behind rolls of skin so that it looked like they were closed. Had I been able to see his eyes, I would say that he was studying me.

"Please sit down, Mr Pearson." He invited. His voice was quiet but clear. There was a slight rasp to it. I sat down on the other side of the table. He instructed his butler, whose name I learned was Eric, to pour me a drink. I opted for a scotch. Eric then poured a glass of water for his employer and placed some pills on the table. The label on the box was for a strong painkiller. I watched him drop two into his mouth and drink down the whole glass. He saw me watching him. "For my headaches." He told me. "Can't seem to get rid of them, only dull the pain for a while." He paused to gather his thoughts. "What do you know of Ancient Egypt, Mr Pearson?" Sometimes clients needed to circle around a bit before they got to the problem. Sometimes they needed a push, other times it was best to let them talk. They would get to the problem in their own time. I decided not to push.

"About half of what was taught in high school." I answered honestly.

"It's a fascinating history." He stared down into his glass, lost in his own mind, as if history was unfolding before him. "It's not how I made my living, though. More of a pastime." He paused, giving me the opportunity to join the conversation. I decided to let him carry on. "Gods living among men. Worshipped, loved and feared." He paused again. Despite my limited knowledge of ancient Egypt, it still sounded like an odd thing to say. I decided to leave it and give him a nudge instead.

"What can I do for you, Dr Longmore?" I raised the glass to my lips and breathed in through my nose before taking a sip. It was good scotch; the bottle probably cost more than my rent.

"Follow me." He slowly got up from his seat and we walked through a door on the opposite side to where I had entered. The large, high-ceilinged room we entered wouldn't have looked out of place in a museum. There were framed tapestries behind glass lining the walls. Pottery, some broken, some intact. There were headbands and rings and bracelets. A lot of it, I thought, probably had belonged to the Egyptian authorities at one point. Acquired through contacts who had no qualms about crossing a line or two in legal terms. Dr Longmore walked tall, keeping his back straight. He looked to be in his eighties but carried himself like a young man. He told me about the history of the exhibits in his collection as we walked; he seemed to know a lot. If this was just a pastime, he had clearly dedicated a great deal of time and resources to it. We reached the far end where a velvet cushion sat on a pedestal. There was a slight impression on the cushion as if something had sat there for some time. Until recently. "This was my most prized possession, Mr Pearson." He reached his hand into his pocket and revealed a photograph. It looked like a glove, but somehow only covered the tips of the fingers. In the middle of the palm, a jewel glowed boldly. I didn't know what to make of it but took his word that it was valuable. I figured he would know.

"When was it stolen?" I asked, sensing where this was going.

"Two weeks ago." He replied.

"Why did you wait so long before calling someone?" He looked down. Nervous about what he had to tell me.

"I didn't wait. I hired another private detective as soon as I knew it was gone."

"Why didn't you go to the police? I assume it's insured." His eyes still didn't meet mine.

"Because I believe it was stolen by a dear friend of mine. Dr Randolph Haynes. He's an archaeologist from England. I funded several of his expeditions. I admired his work a great deal. We shared a passion for ancient Egypt and the occasional dinner."

"Why do you believe it was him?" I asked.

"He was the only one who knew it's true value. He seemed to know more as well but wouldn't tell me. I don't think he wanted to part with it, but he didn't want to jeopardise funding of any future projects." I responded with a "hmm." I saw Longmore's eyebrows raise at that, but he didn't say anything.

"He went missing around the same time as the artefact." He said instead.

"What did you mean when you said he didn't want to part with it?" I asked.

"He discovered it on an archaeological dig that I funded. We agreed that I would add it to my collection."

"Do you just want me to find this glove, or him as well?"

"I imagine when you find it, Mr Pearson, he won't be far away." I gave him my fee and he gave me photos of the item he needed me to recover, and details and photos of Randolph Haynes.

"One more thing, Dr Longmore." I said before turning around. "You mentioned you hired another private detective. Why did he drop the case?

"I didn't say he dropped the case, Mr Pearson." He paused again. "He disappeared."

"What was his name?" I wanted to know.

"Charles McKenzie." I was familiar with Charlie, but mostly with his work. I knew he was good. A little old fashioned, maybe. Something of a throwback. I crossed paths with him once or twice back when I was on the force.

"What happened?" I asked. Knowing why he disappeared would hopefully help me avoid the same fate.

"He called me and said he found something. He told me he would come to the house, but I never saw him again. I tried going to his office, but he wasn't there either."

"Does Haynes have any family or friends? Colleagues who would notice if he disappeared?" If someone had reported him missing, then the police may have something. That and whatever Charlie found gave me a good place to start.

"Randolph is a life-long bachelor and makes a regular appearance at all the social gatherings where he might meet potential investors for his work." Longmore seemed to disapprove. I asked him for a list of people who might fall into that category, and he fished around for a pen and some paper.

Eric the butler was waiting by the door to escort me out. As we reached the front door, I heard footsteps and turned to see a woman walking down the stairs. She wore a red and black dress that was long enough to cover her legs but show off her ankles. She was younger than Dr Longmore by maybe 15 years, which would have put her in her sixties. I could see a lot of money had been spent in an attempt to look younger still, but the end result was not entirely convincing.

"I didn't realise we had company, Eric." She spoke as if I had already left, and she was only now finding out that someone had been there.

"Mr Pearson, ma'am." Eric informed her. "He was here to see your husband."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs Longmore." I reached out a hand which she either didn't see or chose to ignore.

"And what was he here to see my husband about?" Perhaps she hadn't seen me. I decided to join the conversation anyway.

"I'm a private detective, Mrs Longmore. I'm afraid I can't tell you what I was here to see your

husband about." She looked at me for the first time. A smile crept onto her face, but it didn't seem friendly. She looked mildly amused.

"Well, Mr Pearson. I'm just heading out to meet some friends for lunch. As you seem to be leaving, perhaps you could give me a lift." I returned the amused look and gestured with my hand for her to join me. We walked to my car, which didn't seem to impress her.

"Where to, Mrs Longmore?" I asked, as she waited for me to open the passenger side door. She got in and I closed the door and walked round to the driver's side. She gave me the address of a restaurant that wasn't close to any of the places I planned to visit today. As requested, I turned off the CD player and decided to let her carry the conversation. We drove in silence for a time before she finally spoke.

"So, what has my husband asked you to do?" She asked.

"As I explained, Mrs Longmore. I can't discuss it with you. People expect a certain amount of discretion from me. It wouldn't do to talk every time someone asked." She looked insulted. "It's not personal. That's the way it is in this business. If people hear that I'm willing to roll over for anyone, I'll never get any work." I could see that she wasn't used to being told no. I could detect something in her voice that told me she married money, rather than was born into it.

"You can't even tell his wife?" I shook my head. "Perhaps I'm the reason he hired you. Perhaps that's the reason you can't tell me." I knew what she was doing and didn't bite. She took my silence as her cue to continue. "Perhaps he hired you because of this glove he's been obsessing over lately." Of course she would know about it being missing. I could continue to deny, but maybe she could give me more information about it and why it's so important to him.

"What do you know about it?" I asked her. She smiled. She knew she hit gold, but it was worth it if I could find out more.

"He's been obsessing over it for months. It was discovered in a dig somewhere in Egypt, and he paid a lot of money to have it brought over here." She didn't give me anything new, it was the same story my client gave me.

I pulled up outside the restaurant. It was as I expected. The name was in French, and it would make my bank manager cry if I looked at the menu.

"Why don't you join me, Mr Pearson?" She invited, seemingly reading my mind.

"Call me Jack. Thank you, but maybe another time." I replied. She was as subtle as a stick of dynamite.

Chapter two

It was just after Twelve and I was starting to feel hungry, but I wanted to make a start on the case. The first thing on my list was to visit Charles McKenzie's office. He worked the case before me, and it sounded like he found something. If he had disappeared, the chances were, so did whatever he found. But it was still worth taking a look. On the drive over, I put in a call to find out if a missing persons report had been filed. A Detective Lopez informed me that he had a lot of work on, but said he would get back to me when he can. Charlie McKenzie had an office on Bonifant Street in Silver Spring. It was a big red-brick building surrounded by other commercial properties. There were a few coffee shops and fast-food joints at street level. They surrounded a square with a few planted trees, greenery and benches. The parking lot was full, so I circled a few times until I found a space that wasn't quite two blocks over. I stepped into a foyer that hadn't been cleaned this side of the McCarthy hearings. The black and white tiled floor was stained with years of spilled coffees and tracked mud. The only water that had gotten close to the floor is the rain when the wind was strong enough to carry it across the threshold. Despite the warm air outside, it felt cold. There weren't many windows to catch the sunlight, so the big empty space was cast in shadow. The Offices were listed on the wall along with floor and door numbers. Charlie's office was one floor up, with Smiler the dentist on one side, although I suspected that was not his real name, and Stubbs Accountancy on the other. The outside door to his office was frosted glass. It said:

Charles McKenzie

Private Investigator

The door was open. I knocked and waited to see if anyone would answer. After a few minutes I decided to let myself in. The office had been turned upside down. I closed the door and looked at it from the other side. It had been forced open with very little delicacy. Whoever it was didn't waste time trying to be quiet. I saw some filing cabinets that were open with the files scattered on the floor. His coat was hanging by the door but there was no sign of him anywhere. Despite the disarray, there were no obvious signs of a struggle. Either Charlie wasn't in his office when it was being searched, or they dealt with him quickly. There was no computer on the desk. As I said, Charlie was an old-fashioned guy. Any files would be in paper form. I tried the rest of the office but came up short. Closing the door after me, I stepped out into the hall. Maybe his neighbours knew something. I looked at the dentist's door and the sign said, "gone to lunch". I tried the other side and knocked on the accountant's door.

"It's open." A voice from inside called. I opened the door and immediately smelled the coffee and grilled cheese sandwich. "Oh, I'm sorry" The lady behind the desk said, rather embarrassed. "I thought you were someone else." She wiped her hands on a tissue. "I'm waiting for a friend. We're having lunch together."

"Looks like you're getting a head start." I said as I closed the door behind me. She smiled.

"I was hungry." Her hair was long and tied back so tight it stretched her face and pulled her eyebrows up, making her look surprised. She had gone a bit overboard with the make-up and her skin cracked like a poorly maintained sidewalk when she smiled. "What can I do for you?" She asked. I showed her my card.

"My name's Jack Pearson. I'm a private investigator. Do you know much about what happened next door?"

"You mean Charlie's office?" She asked. I didn't get a chance to answer as she carried on. "I've not heard anything. I figured he forgot to lock his door when he went out. I didn't want to involve myself in something."

"Involve yourself in what?" I asked.

"I heard raised voices a few days ago." She stopped to sip some coffee. "Two men stormed out. But Charlie wasn't one of them. I didn't hear anything else after that, and he must have stayed late because I didn't hear him leave before I locked up."

"Do you know much about him? Have you been neighbours long?" She glanced upwards, as if to pull down a memory she had filed away.

"Maybe three years now. I started renting this place in May 2003, and he had already been here for some time." I sat down in the seat opposite the accountant. "I think he probably carried a gun, though I can't imagine that's very unusual in your line of work."

"How do you know he carried a gun?" I asked.

"He always wore that coat. No matter the weather. I saw him sweating in summer and he still put the coat on" I gave a "hmm"

"If you see him, or if the two men come back, or anyone else for that matter, can you call me?" She said she would, and I thanked her before leaving. A young woman with similar hair and make-up to the accountant nearly bumped into me as I turned. "You've got some catching up to do, your friend has already started." The woman smiled at me before disappearing behind the door. I stepped back into Charlie's office and searched through the pockets of his coat. They were empty.

Next on my list was Randolph Haynes. Eric the butler had given me his address in Arlington before I left, so I started the engine in my battered heap and pulled away from the curb. The drive was quiet. Most people had decided where to eat by this time. The air outside felt cool despite the sun still being out. Charlie Parker was playing his rendition of Summertime. I let myself enjoy the music for a while. My fondness for jazz has been with me for most of my adult life. I kept CDs in the car for my journeys and a collection of old vinyls were stacked in my living room, next to an old record player. I parked my car on Pershing drive and walked over the road to Haynes' Park View apartment. Park View was a tall brick building on a quiet street; the kind of street driving instructors use to teach manoeuvres. The building had its own parking garage in the basement. A gradient led to a remote operated garage door. The pedestrian door next to it had been kept open with a brick. I left my car by the road and entered on foot. There was a faint smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes, and the walls needed a new lick of paint. Each apartment was assigned one parking space. They were mostly European cars. Haynes' apartment was number 12. I found the corresponding parking spot. It was occupied by a dark blue BMW. If there was anyone working maintenance down here, I couldn't see them or hear them. I explored further and found a small room which stored the kind of tools one would expect to find for working on cars. Through the window I could see a chair, desk and television. A young man in oil-stained overalls was devouring a sandwich and laughing maniacally at the screen. I left him there and made my way into the hall. If I needed anything, I knew where to find him. My footsteps echoed as I made my way across the polished floor of the hallway and found some stairs. The building was well lit and maintained. The walls were a deep red and there was a smell of citrus air freshener. A potted fern stood in each corner. One of Haynes' neighbours had her front door open a crack revealing a watchful eye, half a small nose and part of a fuzzy chin. Her lips were locked tight as she stared at me. Before making my way to my quarry's apartment, I walked right up to the open door and said hello.

"What do you want here?" She asked. I could smell the cigarettes on her breath. Now that I was closer, I could see the wall behind was stained yellow from years of smoking.

"Just looking up an old friend." I replied, keeping the lie simple.

"You're not going to cause any trouble, are you? The others who came made a terrible ruckus. We pay good money for these apartments, and we don't need that sort around here. If this carries on, I'm going to speak to the super about security. Anyone can walk in off the street." Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

"What others?" I asked her.

"Two men. They talked funny, some weird language. They weren't Americans, I can tell you that." I turned back to look at the hallway, as if by doing so I would see it in a new light that would tell me who they were.

"Can you describe them?" I asked.

"Tall, well built." She said after a thoughtful pause. "And black." She added, almost as an afterthought.

"Which apartment did they go in?" I asked.

"I don't know." She said too quickly, looking at the floor and shifting on her feet.

"You saw enough to know there were two of them and that they were black. Come on, spill the rest of it." I put some edge to my voice. It usually worked. I knew her type. Lives alone, bored, more interested in the comings and goings of her neighbours than what's on TV. Always knows what's going on. She doesn't miss anything. Every apartment building has one of her.

"You don't need to be rude." She said in an apologetic tone. "Apartment twelve. Right across the hall."

"Thanks." I replied. I walked over to apartment twelve. I could tell her eyes were still on me.

The door was closed but when I knocked, it opened inwards. I slowly opened the door and stepped over the threshold. I closed the door behind me and reached into my pocket for a pair of disposable gloves. It was a nice-looking apartment. Nice lamps that had been knocked on the floor, nice closets that were open with coats torn and hung haphazardly, or lying on the bottom of the closet. I went into the living room to find a very nice leather sofa, and matching armchair. A nice big TV stood in the corner. Nice antique trinkets and vases and bowls, the kind you would expect an archaeologist to have, that were intended to decorate any free space, instead lay broken on the thick plush carpet. There were signs of a struggle. Dried blood stained the corner of the coffee table and more had soaked into the carpet. I touched it with a gloved finger. It was dry as well. Whatever happened here didn't happen recently. I searched the rest of the apartment but came up empty. Haynes wasn't home despite his car being here. I scratched the back of my head and looked down. A wastepaper basket had been knocked over and a small piece of paper lay on the floor. I could see something was written on it. I picked it up and looked at the phone number scrawled on it. The handwriting was rushed and untidy. I put the paper in my pocket and made my way out. Before leaving, I took out a handkerchief and wiped the inside door handle and anything else I might've touched before putting on my gloves. The men who were here were probably the same ones who searched Charles McKenzie's office. They clearly didn't care about being careful. I made my way back to the garage and found the young man still sitting on his seat, still laughing at the TV. The sandwich had gone, replaced by a can of soda. I opened the door and leaned on the frame. The tools hanging on the walls were clean but rusted and only gleamed in a few spots. The carpet was as stained as his work clothes. On the table next to him was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and a couple more tools. These looked to be in better condition than the others. His eyes glanced up for a second and went back to his programme.

"Help you?" He asked in a voice that didn't sound like he wanted to help anyone.

"I'm looking for Randolph Haynes."

"He's not in here." The young man helpfully pointed out.

"He told me he'd be in but there was no answer when I knocked." The young man didn't move from his chair. He didn't move in any way that indicated he heard me. His eyes stayed transfixed to his TV.

"If he didn't answer, I guess he's not home." He took a long swig from his can. I took out a cigarette and held out the packet to offer him one. He smiled and slowly stood up. He was a little shorter than me and had a paunch that tried to breakout through his overalls. His red hair flowed freely as he walked. It looked like it couldn't decide between being centre parted or side parted. His face was freckled and had a light fuzz under his chin. His ears had been stuck haphazardly to the sides of his head. The young man took the cigarette, and I held out my lighter for him. I watched as the end of his cigarette glowed orange and smoke started to rise. I could hear the sizzling of the burning paper and smell the tobacco burning under it. When he was satisfied, he stood up straight and looked at me quizzically.

"My name's Jack Pearson." I said while reaching out a hand. He stared at the hand for a few seconds, almost as if he were unsure what to do with it. Eventually he extended his own and we shook.

"Jacob Mosely Jr." He responded. He leaned against the table while taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Thanks for the smoke." He said absently. "Now take a hike, buddy." I ignored him and stepped into his room, looking the place over.

"So, why wouldn't Randolph be home if his car is here?" I asked.

"Maybe he went for a walk." Jacob replied, trying to sound dismissive. I allowed myself a smile.

"Did you see him leave?" I could see he was beginning to get twitchy.

"No, but I wouldn't unless he came this way." He took another long drag and crushed the remainder in his ashtray. I flicked mine and let the ash fall to the floor. His eyes followed it down. He wanted to get tough with me, I could see it in his eyes. But he wasn't sure how to do it. I decided to give him a break and showed him one of my cards.

"I'm a PI working a case. When did you last see him?" I asked. I pinched a folded twenty-dollar bill between two fingers.

"Not seen him for a couple of weeks now." Jacob told me while reaching for the twenty. I palmed it before he got a chance. "He doesn't really go out. When he does go, he's gone for weeks, sometimes months."

"Does he normally take his car with him?" He thought for a while before answering.

"Yeah, he does." I thanked the young man and placed the twenty on the table. I went out the way I came in and walked to my car.

I sat in my car for a while and thought about my options. Randolph Haynes and Charles McKenzie had both disappeared. McKenzie's office and Haynes' apartment had both been searched. Someone was ahead of me while I was playing catch-up. Whoever did it wasn't worried about keeping a low profile, so I knew eventually I would gain on them. I had a list of names from Dr Longmore, so I decided to drive to my office and start making phone calls. On the way, I stopped at a drug store for a sandwich and a coffee. My office was on 16th Street, opposite Rock Creek Park. It was a popular spot for picnics and had a golf course, the park, not my office. It was also home of the Rock Creek Park Nature Centre and Planetarium. Sometimes I would walk the nature trails if I needed to clear my head. I always found it very soothing. My office wasn't much to boast about; I had a small waiting room with some old magazines I kept meaning to replace, that lead to my private office where I would invite my potential clients to discuss their problems. There was no kitchen, so I kept a water cooler in the waiting room and coffee on a drip in my private office. There was also a bottle in the deep drawer of my desk but that was just for special occasions. Although my definition of a special occasion was wide enough to encompass surviving the day. The toilets were at the other end of the hallway from my rented premises.

A light was flashing on my answer machine. I pressed some buttons and heard Detective Lopez inform me that a man named Haynes, Randolph, had been reported missing. There were no leads, no immediate family to contact, and the faculty member of some university, the name of which he couldn't remember of the top of his head, didn't have any useful information. I knew what that meant. The case would be put on the back burner while they find some easy wins to get their stats up and make them look good in the papers. I poured myself a coffee and sat down at my desk. From my inside pocket, I fished out the list of names Dr Longmore had given me. But first I fished out the phone number I found at Haynes' apartment. I dialled it and waited. After no one picked up it went to voicemail. Charles McKenzie, private investigator, informed me he couldn't get to the phone and instructed me to leave my name and number. I hung up. Why would Haynes have Charlie's number? While I pondered that question, I reached for the list of names and started making calls. The first was to David Maxwell, Head of the Maxwell foundation. His grandfather, Robert Maxwell, founded it in the 1950s and its aim was the discovery and preservation of artefacts of historic importance. History was a passion of his and he used the foundation to funnel as much money into it as he could. He strongly believed in its importance. He tried to pass his passion for history down to his children, but by the time it came to his grandson, David, the foundation's new aim was headlines. He just lacked his grandfather's vision to make those headlines. After five minutes of speaking to his secretary, it became clear that his knowledge of ancient Egypt was even less than mine. The next few phone calls were equally fruitless. But by my sixth call I got lucky. After being passed around a bit, I eventually spoke to Maureen Gantry, a lecturer in Archaeology at the George Washington University. I asked if she was the one who had filed the missing persons report with the police and she said she was. She was friendly enough with Randolph Haynes to be able to give me more information about the archaeological dig where this troublesome artefact was discovered. She also told me that while he mostly worked from home, he did have a favourite bar not far from the university. I wrote down the name and address and thanked her for her time and hung up. I sat back and pondered what I had learned. Dr Longmore financed the dig but was not involved beyond that. He didn't set foot in Egypt and as far as Maureen was aware, had never even been in the same room as the artefact in question. Randolph Haynes had told him about it rather excitedly over the phone and emailed him some photos. It was getting late, but I wanted to chase one more lead.

The bar Maureen Gantry told me about was Sullivan's on Pennsylvania Avenue. An Irish themed pub run by a family who could claim no more Irish heritage than the Emperor of Japan. The family had owned the pub for three generations and not one of them had ever been called Sullivan. While there were many rumours about where the name came from, no one knew for certain. I found it hard to believe this was the type of place Haynes would feel comfortable, but apparently the ambiance was the closest he could find to being back home on the other side of the Atlantic. It was lively when I walked in. There were many conversations taking place and they all bled into each other making it hard to concentrate on just one. I approached the bar and waited for the big, burly bartender, whose body was covered in more art than the National Portrait Gallery, to turn around. When he did, I could see the front was just as covered as the back. He made sure not to wear anything that would cover up too much of his masterpiece. I ordered a beer and looked around. It would have been too much to ask that Randolph Haynes was here, but I might meet someone who knows him. I took a chance and tried to strike up a conversation with the friendly bartender.

"Hi, do you know Randolph Haynes? I'm an old friend and I wanted to look him up while I'm in town." The bartender didn't say anything. He had the facial expression of a hubcap. "I tried him at home but no luck. I remembered he liked coming here." I continued. I could almost hear the echo between his ears. After he decided I wasn't ordering another drink, he gave his attention to the next person he could find. I turned on the spot and leaned against the bar with my drink in my hand. My eyes scanned the premises, and I could sense someone was watching me. I put my drink down to light a cigarette. My eyes continued to scan. There was a woman sitting by herself. There was a book and glass of wine on the table in front of her, but she wasn't paying attention to either. She tried not to make it look obvious but needed more practice. The next time she glanced in my direction, I locked eyes with her to force her hand. She stood up with her glass and placed her book in a handbag that she had kept on the chair next to her, and walked over to me. She looked to be around 5.5 and had dyed blond hair down to the top of her neck. The darker roots starting to show. Her blue jeans were worn and faded and the sleeves of her dark green jumper ended at her fingers.

"You know Randy?" She asked. When she spoke, I detected the faint trace of an Irish accent.

"Sure, I know Randy. We go way back." I replied with a smile. "I haven't seen him in a long time though. You a friend of his?" What little smile there was on her face was now gone.

"If you know him, then you know I'm more than a friend. You'd also know he hates being called Randy." She was good. Either that or I wasn't.

"I've never called him Randy, but it's been a lot of years. People change." I tried to recover.

"Where'd you meet 'im?"

"On a dig in Giza."

"You an archaeologist?

"I was just there for the heavy lifting." The quickfire quiz was getting old. "Okay, let's cut to the chase, sister." I said after a sigh. "You know Randolph Haynes pretty well, and you're trying to find out why I wanna find him. I respect that you're looking out for him, but I'm looking for something he discovered on one of his digs. I've been by his place but he's not there. I think he might be in trouble." I may have omitted a few details, but strictly speaking, I wasn't lying.

"Why do you think he's in trouble?" The mystery woman asked.

"He likely has something that someone else wants." A look in her eyes told me she knew something. But it was only there for a second. Blink and you'd miss it.

"Let's go outside." She suggested. "It's too loud to think in here."

"How about you tell me your name first? I'm not in the habit of following strange women out of bars" I said to her.

"After you." Was her response. I relented.

"Jack Pearson."

"Bridget Murphy." She replied. As we walked out, I motioned to the bar.

"Home away from home?" I asked her. She laughed.

"The only Irish thing about this place is me when I'm drinking here." We both laughed. We walked for a while. The shops were closed, and the shutters were down. The streets were quiet. We passed a few people who were more interested in each other. I felt a slight chill in the air, but Bridget didn't seem to notice it. The only light came from the streetlamps and the headlights of passing cars. The night-time air smelled faintly of smoke.

"So, Jack Pearson. Do you want to tell me why you're looking for Randolph?" Bridget asked after a while.

"Like I said before, I'm looking for something he found in Egypt. It belongs to someone I know, and they tell me Randolph took it." Bridget stopped walking and stared at me.

"If it's what I think it is, it never belonged to Philip Longmore. It belongs to the university." Bridget was the second person to tell me this. Maybe there was some truth to it.

"How do you know the name Longmore?" I asked.

"Randolph talks about him sometimes. He doesn't like him, but he's funded a few of his trips. Randolph sees him as more of a business contact. Someone he has to deal with."

"Do you know where I can find Randolph?" It was a longshot, but I thought I'd try anyway.

"No." Was all she said. I needed to speak to my client. I gave Bridget Murphy my card and asked her to call if she changes her mind or to give it to Randolph Haynes if she sees him. After some hesitation, she took it. We found my car and I offered her a ride home, but she declined.

"One last thing, Bridget." I said as I opened the car door. "Do you know someone called Charles McKenzie?" She thought for a while and then said she didn't. I thanked her and drove away.

Chapter three

The next morning, I got up early and let the coffee brew while I got dressed into my dark grey suit and a white shirt and red tie. The newspaper was waiting outside my front door. I glanced over it while whisking some eggs, then fried some bacon. I sat with my breakfast and a cup of coffee and looked through the paper. Senator McGowan certainly wasn't camera shy. He was able to mourn his fiancé who died in a tragic accident and make sure the press got his good side. He knew how to play politics. As he stood next to his fiancé's parents in the photo, they were clearly grieving while he was lapping up the attention. The apartment building I lived in was on Emerson Street, only a few minutes' drive from my office. It had a garage on the ground floor. I took the stairs as I was only two floors up, got into my car and drove to Dr Longmore's house. The picture of Randolph Haynes that Longmore painted was very different from the one I got from his friends and colleagues; Two different portraits of a man and of the events surrounding him. Like a Venn diagram, they overlapped, and the truth lay somewhere in the middle. The trouble was the stories were incomplete, so the truth was out of focus.

Either they were expecting me, or Eric just happened to be passing the door. It opened straight away.

"Dr Longmore will be with you soon." Eric informed me; his eyebrows giving a familiar performance. I thanked him and lit a cigarette while I waited. Eric saw me do this and asked me to smoke outside. When I finished my smoke, I stepped back through the front door which Eric was kind enough to leave open for me. I saw Dr Longmore walking down the stairs. He wore a red silk house coat over a salmon pink shirt and pale grey pants.

"Sorry to have kept you, Mr Pearson." He greeted, quite casually. I doubted he was really sorry.

"No problem." We sat down at his dining table. Longmore ate a hearty breakfast and offered me coffee. I drank while updating him on my progress. I told him about Charles McKenzie's office and Randolph Haynes' apartment both being searched.

"Have you found the glove?" He asked, seemingly not hearing me.

"Not yet." I answered. "Whoever ransacked the place, I got a description from a neighbour. Chances are, they either have the glove or they have an idea who does." He didn't seem concerned about Haynes, only his precious glove, so the chances were, he wouldn't be interested in my predecessor either. I decided to test the water with another matter.

"After Dr Haynes came back with the glove, when did he give it to you?" I asked. Dr Longmore thought for a while.

"I don't recall. It hardly seems relevant." He dismissed the importance with a wave of his hand.

"The impression I'm getting from his colleagues is that he never gave it to you. That it belongs to the university." Longmore wasn't being straight with me and the soft approach wasn't working.

"Dr Haynes told me about the strange glove while he was still in Egypt. He sent me pictures of it. I made it clear to him I wanted it for my collection. He agreed to hand it over once he returned. So, you see, Mr Pearson, it was as good as mine until he reneged on our agreement." I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette. This didn't seem to bother Longmore, but I looked around for his butler, in case he would send me outside again.

"As good as yours isn't the same thing as actually yours, Dr Longmore." He kept his voice calm and quiet, but I could see in his eyes that he wasn't.

"That is inconsequential. I hired you to retrieve the item, and that is what I expect you to do. I am willing to pay you well above your rates. How does ten thousand dollars sound?" I needed to gather my thoughts before telling him how it sounded.

"Okay, Dr Longmore. Ten thousand dollars. But I want no more secrets. You need to be on the level with me." I told my client that I still had some leads. We said goodbye and I got up to leave before pausing. "How much does your wife know, Dr Longmore?" I asked. He seemed taken aback but then smiled. There was almost a laugh.

"Did she ask you why I hired you?" The smile gave into a laugh, and the laugh became a cough. "She thinks I hired you to follow her, I suppose. She wants a divorce and knows that if I prove she had an affair, she gets nothing in the settlement. I know she's having an affair, and I don't care. But I'll be damned if she gets her hands on one cent." He shrugged. "Maybe when you've finished this business, I'll keep you on to help with the divorce."

"As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't do divorce cases. Good morning, Dr Longmore." With that, I walked out and to my car. I drove back to my office and went through my morning ritual of making the coffee and looking through the mail. I glanced over at the answering machine but there were no messages. Somewhere in the office, I heard a fly. I could have opened a window for him, but I decided I liked the company. I drained and refilled my coffee and was about to start making some more phone calls when there was a knock at the door.

The couple sat across from me were Mr and Mrs Grey. The computer monitor was tilted so we could all see it. They wanted me to see the funeral of their daughter, Charlotte. I had already seen it. Charlotte Grey was the fiancé of Senator McGowan. He was devastated when she slipped and fell from the balcony of his Downtown mansion. The funeral was covered by all the major networks. In fact, for the week that followed, it was all you could find on the news. The senator shed tears and embraced the parents of his fiancé. Although word of their engagement only spread after her death had made the headlines. The coroner ruled it as an accidental death. The senator was in his study and didn't see a thing, and a united states senator could always be taken at his word. Especially one who has been involved in such great work and improved so many lives. The video played through to the end, and we sat in silence before I dared to break it.

"How can I help you, Mr and Mrs Grey?" I asked them.

"I want to know… We need to know what happened." It was Mr Grey who spoke. It seemed to cause him physical pain to meet my eyes. Mrs Grey seemed unable to speak. She stared at a pen on my desk. It was insignificant, yet she couldn't look away.

"You don't believe she fell?" I offered them a stiff drink. Mr Grey declined. Mrs Grey didn't hear me.

"The police wouldn't tell us anything." I could see that he was using all his strength to keep the emotion out of his voice. "We want you to look into it the way they were supposed to."

"If I look into it, there's a chance I'll reach the same conclusion." I told them. I didn't want to take their money and give them nothing but false hope and disappointment in return.

"She didn't fall." A hint of anger showed itself for a brief moment before Mr Grey regained control. I told them my rates and promised to give them regular updates. They thanked me and then left. It was lunchtime and I was hungry. After they left, I made my way to the door and paused. I walked across my office to the filing cabinet. I reached in the very back of the top drawer and pulled out my Colt .45 pistol and shoulder holster. I had a conceal carry licence, but didn't always carry a gun. This business isn't always as exciting as people might think, but something about this Longmore case made me uneasy. I took off my jacket and put on the shoulder holster. I checked to see if the gun was loaded, and safety was on and put it away. When I opened the door, the fly saw his opportunity to explore new surroundings.

I hadn't decided where to have lunch, so I just drove around until inspiration struck. I spotted the tail pretty quickly. A grey Taurus was trying to stay at least two car lengths behind me. I decided on a diner I had passed a few times but never been to. I let my tail stay with me while I drove, but they struggled to keep up. I slowed down to catch a red light and make it a bit easier for them. While I waited for the lights to change, I had a look in the rear-view mirror. I could make out that my new friend was a woman, but she was too far back for me to notice anything else. After a few minutes of this, I reached my destination and pulled over. There was only enough room for one car to fit, but she managed to find a space over the road. I got out and walked straight over to the other car and rested my hand on the roof as I leaned down to the driver's window.

"How's it going?" I asked with my best smile. The driver turned to look at me. She wasn't smiling. The window came down and I got a better look without the light reflected on the glass. She looked to be in her thirties, younger than me by a few years. Her long blonde hair wasn't tied back, just a hair clip to keep it at bay. She wore a black trouser suit and white blouse with a few more open buttons than was entirely necessary. Her skin was lightly freckled. She didn't speak. Perhaps she didn't expect a confrontation like this. "Don't feel bad." I tried to reassure her. "I'm a detective. I'm good at spotting tails. Let me buy you a coffee." She nodded and stepped out of the car. I opened the door for her as we entered Mick's Diner, always the gentleman. We sat in a booth by the window that faced our cars. The diner was busy. I watched the young waitress dance between tables, expertly avoiding bumping into the many patrons. The chairs and tables were close together, so she showed great skill. She made her way over to us and filled the cups already on the table with coffee as she spoke.

"Welcome to Mick's Diner. I'm Sally, I'll be your server today. Would you like to know our specials?" She spoke her lines like an actress who had repeated the same words until they lost all meaning. "Mick makes a mean chilli cheeseburger." We both opted for pie which came with a generous helping of cream on the side. Sally the waitress gave a smile and danced her way to the kitchen. I heard a dozen conversations bleed into each other and could make out some of them. Some tourists were deciding where to head next, the Washington Monument or the Smithsonian. Eventually they settled on a bus tour. A businessman in a suit was talking on his cell and felt it necessary for the people around him to feel included in his conversation. One brave soul had ordered the chilli cheeseburger and was pleading for someone to put out the fire in his mouth. I turned my attention to the woman sat across from me.

"So, who are you and why are you following me?" I cut right to the chase.

"My name is Sophie Steen and I'm an investigative journalist." She showed me her press badge.

"Pleased to meet you, Sophie Steen." I said, in the same friendly voice as before. We were getting along famously.

"I got wind of a story. I went to interview some old PI, but he wasn't there. I overheard you talking to the accountant, so I looked you up." I was impressed. She clearly worked fast.

"I'm flattered." I replied. "But that doesn't explain why you're following me."

"I figured you're working on something. I need a story. My editor is up my ass wanting me to bring him something." She looked desperate.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not exactly looking for the Maltese Falcon. Most private detective work is pretty dull." Our pies arrived. They were good. Mick knew what he was doing. Sophie kept pushing but I wouldn't give. "In my business, Miss Steen, if word gets out that you talked, you get a reputation. Clients expect discretion. If I spoke to you about any of the cases I've worked, I can forget about being a private eye." I finished my pie and drained the coffee. "Enjoy your pie." I said as I got up to leave. I took some bills out of my wallet and left them on the table. I sat in my car and thought for a while. The university made sense as my next destination. It sounded like that's where the glove ended up when it first arrived in the states. If it had moved since, I hoped I could pick up its trail. But first, I wanted to see what I could find out about Charlotte Grey.

The Bullhorn started out as a dive bar back in the sixties and was owned by a lowlife called Happy. It was a nickname steeped in irony. He barely had two words for the people he liked, and he only tolerated the regulars who came to drink away their problems for their money. The barman he hired, along with tending bar, was in charge of all social interactions and deliveries so Happy didn't have to talk to anyone. He would sit in the corner of the bar, drinking the cheapest rye in stock. One might question the wisdom of opening a bar, given his disposition. Misfortune, or fortune, depending on how you look at it, had led to the death of his parents, but also a large sum of money in the form of inheritance. He had enough sense not to waste it, but he lacked the imagination and forward thinking required for any other forms of investment. Alas, opening a bar was the only option that he could see in front of him. He was a big, middle-aged man whose dress-sense could just about be forgiven on someone half his age. He was bald by the time he was thirty and had a permanent 5 o'clock shadow by the time he hit puberty. As is often the case with people and their pets, his bar looked much like its owner. He thought that with a fresh coat of paint and some fancy barstools no one would notice the bloodstains and boarded up windows. The Bullhorn was the type of establishment that needed to nail down its barstools to prevent them being used as weapons, for the people drawn to the Bullhorn were much like Happy, only more so. One evening, a young man called James Hart decided to have one too many drinks. He had convinced himself that taking down the owner of a bar with the kind of reputation the Bullhorn enjoyed, would earn him the respect and admiration of his fellow drinkers. The encounter didn't end the way he had imagined and Happy found himself in front of a judge with a murder rap hanging over him. He sold his bar to pay for adequate legal representation, so he didn't have to rely on the free lawyer that would be appointed. But despite this and his lawyer's best efforts, he was given a dime stretch in Atwater, which was the closest he ever came to a sunny Californian vacation. When he got out, he had no friends to turn to and no roof over his head. He ended up sleeping on the streets and was found dead one morning by a dog walker. The Bullhorn was bought by an ex-cop who took early retirement after losing an argument with a .44. Having an ex-cop as the new owner was enough to discourage most of the old clientele from returning. Any stragglers who were too stubborn to give up their familiar territory quickly had a change of heart when serving police officers started to patronize the Bullhorn. The place has been a cop bar ever since. Even after leaving the force, I was still welcomed. Those who didn't approve of my presence there kept their heads down and didn't argue. For Bobby Dupree, a man who had taken down some of the biggest and baddest criminals in D.C., was not a man with whom to argue. He decides who drinks in his bar.

Business was slow when I walked in. Two old men sat at one end of the bar, telling competing war stories that got more and more outlandish as time moved on. Some locals who were listening in eventually saw the need to call bullshit when one of the old timers claimed to have single-handedly thwarted a bank robbery, shooting two culprits and tackling a third. A few more patrons were spread out across the bar watching baseball. Bobby always had baseball on and never allowed any other sport in his bar. I saw Bobby walking the floor, picking up glasses as he went. He saw me and smiled.

"Hiya Jack." He called over. I returned his greeting and we both made our way to opposite sides of the bar. He poured me a beer without needing to ask what I wanted, and I smiled. We talked for a while. Small talk. His family, the weather, my lack of any sort of love life.

"Eddie around?" I asked. Eddie Russell was my partner when I first made detective. He was still a good friend now.

"He's sat in the booth on the end, by the jukebox." Bobby told me. I thanked him and bought another beer for Eddie. I didn't want to meet him empty handed.

On a cold November morning in 2002, I turned up for my shift at V Street Station. Detective Eddie Russell was stood by the coffee machine when I entered the bullpen. He gave me a smile when he saw me. His face was slightly red from his cheap razor, and there were bags under his eyes. He was on his second divorce, and was working all the overtime he could get to keep up with all the payments.

"Morning Jack, ready to get out there?" I said I was. We got in his car and started driving.

"B&E over on Hamlin Street." We talked for a while. Nothing deep. Eddie always kept people at arm's length. Conversations usually revolved around The Washington Nationals, food and crime. A few times I tried to steer the conversation somewhere else and was met with a raised eyebrow and silence, before carrying on with whatever he was talking about before.

We pulled up outside a house on Hamlin Street and made our way past the yellow tape. A few uniforms were making themselves look busy while another was stood next to a couple. I figured them to be the victims.

"Morning Sid." Eddie greeted one of the uniforms who walked over to us. Sid Vaughn was a young, fresh faced kid with pale skin and an athletic build. "What've you got for us?" Sid gestured to the couple.

"Nate Whelan and Samantha Drummond. Came home from a trip to LA. Arrived in the early hours of the morning to find the place burgled. Front door was still locked, looks like they got in round the back." Eddie looked up and down the street.

"None of the neighbours report seeing anything? Take a couple of guys and canvas the area." Sid nodded and got to work. "Come on Jack, let's go and talk to the vics." We walked over and introduced ourselves. Eddie flashed his badge with practiced smoothness. We asked what was missing. It was the usual things, games consoles, jewellery, television. Eddie told them we would dust for prints, so we'd need theirs for elimination purposes. After getting as much as we could from the victims, we headed into the house. The front door opened onto a small hallway. Staircase in front, but a few feet away, a door to the left took us to the living room and kitchen/diner. Not much looked out of place. The house had been emptied of all but the furniture. Nothing had been knocked over, so the perpetrator, or perpetrators, likely knew the house would be empty for days, allowing them to take their time. I shared these thoughts with Eddie, who nodded encouragingly.

"Not bad insights, kid." He would often call me "kid". It was his joke, as despite being of a similar age, I had only recently made detective. We kept walking and found a rock in the kitchen, and hole in the window. Broken glass glistened on the floor. As Sid had informed us, this was how the perps got in. We checked the rest of the house, but it was the same story in every room.

Sid and the other officers came back from canvassing. No one saw anything, but one neighbour remembered hearing glass breaking, but didn't want to get involved in case it was a domestic. We left the crime scene investigators to do their job and went to the neighbour who didn't want to get involved.

"Detective Russell and this is Detective Pearson." Eddie introduced us.

"Benny Hurst." The neighbour said. He was an older, white-haired man wearing a sleeveless vest. His eyes were magnified by a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and his nose was flat with prominent blue veins. His vest was white, but stained brown in places, and he wore a pair of grey sweatpants.

"So, you heard a noise that sounded like glass breaking." Eddie started.

"That's right, it was a couple of nights ago. I didn't think anything of it at the time." He was looking at the floor when he spoke.

"Where were you when you heard it?"

"I was sitting in the garden, having a smoke. The wife doesn't like me smoking in the house."

"What time was this?"

"Maybe a little after two. I was having trouble sleeping. I looked at the clock and went outside for a few."

"You didn't hear any other noises? No talking, nothing?" He shook his head. We thanked him and moved on.

The fingerprints got a match; Marcus Cook, twenty-one years old. Two stretches inside for burglary which meant he was on his third strike. We had an address for him. 12th Street, south of Lincoln Park. We were about to knock on his door when we saw him walking towards us, along the sidewalk. He stopped when he saw us and pulled a gun. We both went for ours. We shouted warnings, but he raised his gun arm. I took the shot. Eddie ran over to him and kicked the gun away. He stopped suddenly, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to pick up the gun. I walked over to him.

"It's plastic." Eddie told me. "A toy." I felt sick. We later found out the guy I shot wasn't Marcus Cook; it was his seventeen-year-old brother. Even though I was cleared by an IA investigation, I didn't feel any better about it. Eddie told me if I didn't take the shot, he would have. That if someone points a gun at you, you don't wait to see if it's real or not. That was the beginning of the end for me.

Six months later, Officer Jacobi was walking his beat when he called for back-up. We were only around the corner, so we took it. A kid who was maybe nineteen at most was waving a gun. All I could think about was that seventeen-year-old boy I killed. I didn't want to repeat history. My gun was drawn, but I couldn't shoot. I wanted to talk him down instead. My fellow officers never let me forget about Eli Jacobi, his widow, and their two children. Eddie and a few others stayed with me, but the rest of the department turned their backs. I put in my papers and walked away from the job. 12 months later, Eddie earned himself a promotion to Sergeant and a transfer to Major Crimes.

"How's it going, Eddie?" I said, placing a fresh beer in front of him. He looked at the beer and smiled.

"As well as anybody, I suppose." He finished the beer he already had and reached for the new one. "How's the private game treating you?"

"Good days and bad." I slid into the bench opposite. His eyes went back to his crossword. I watched him scratch his chin for a while. He had light brown hair parted at the side. His clean-shaven face was covered in scars from having acne as a child. His charcoal grey suit was cheap and worn. The shirt used to be white, but after years of wear, was closer to a greyish brown. The detective business doesn't pay too well whether you're working for the state or for yourself. Plus, he was paying alimony for more ex-wives than Rod Stewart. I leaned across the table to see what he was stuck on. He sensed me looking.

"Supporter of art. Five letters, second letter A." I thought for a moment.

"Easel." I finally said. Eddie gave me his thoughtful face followed by a nod.

"Easel." He repeated before writing it down. He put the pencil down and leaned back in his seat. "I assume you didn't come here to deprive me of the joy of completing a crossword all by myself, have you? What's up?"

"What do you know about the Charlotte Grey death?" I asked him back. He looked at me with a furrowed brow. He lifted his glass and took another drink.

"Why are asking about the Grey girl?" He stared hard at me, hoping I would give something away. The crossword far from his mind now.

"Her parents came to see me. They don't think her death was an accident." Eddie sighed and stared down at his glass, twisting it on the table. He raised it to his lips and poured more beer into his mouth.

"Charlotte Grey fell from her balcony, and trying to prove otherwise would be a career ending move, Jack. I know you always do your own thing, but my advice would be to leave this one alone." He reached for his cigarettes and handed me one before lighting his own.

"Who did the case go to?" I asked, pretending I didn't hear his warning. He sighed again and there was a long pause while he weighed his options. Help me or block me.

"It went to Captain Shaw of Homicide. M.E.'s report confirmed cause of death, there's one witness, saw the whole thing. Case closed."

"What witness?" I kept going.

"Window across the street. By chance someone happened to be looking in her direction and saw her stumble and fall." I could hear the doubt in his voice. We talked a little more and Eddie ordered another round of drinks. I wrote down the details he had given me in my notebook while it was still fresh.

Chapter four

I parked in the same spot I used when I visited Sullivan's. The university was only a block away and finding a parking spot took creative thinking on a good day. The university entrance was big and grand. The arch above read "Professors Gate". As I walked slowly through the grounds, students and faculty alike roamed. A large bronze bust of George Washington himself watched me as I walked past him. There was another George Washington after that, this time it was a full statue. It towered like a guardian, watching over those who sought protection from the harsh, unforgiving sun. The university was around two hundred years old and had been as well looked after and cared for as a rare jewel. I found my way inside and tried to decipher the maps and directions. Eventually, I approached someone who looked like they worked there and asked where I could find someone I could talk to about archaeology. His off-white linen jacket seemed to match the colour of his hair, and his glasses hung on a chain around his neck. He very enthusiastically showed the way. His hands dancing. I thanked him and moved in the direction he motioned. The artwork on the walls changed gradually, indicating the subjects being taught in each area. After nearly twenty minutes of walking, the motif became distinctly older, and I knew I was walking in the right direction. I must have had a lost look on my face, because a woman stopped me and asked if I needed help. She was slender and wearing a cream-coloured wraparound dress. Her long hair was a subtle blend of different shades of grey and was styled in a large bun that was seemingly held in place by a pen. The hair provided a comfortable nest for her glasses. She had a sternness to her face that proved to be deceptive. Her gentle nature, hidden just below the surface, revealed itself almost instantly when she spoke. I asked if she knew where I could find Maureen Gantry. Apparently, Maureen had just finished a lecture and would be returning to her office and my guide was happy to show me the way. She looped her arm through mine, and we set off down the hall. She told me a little bit of the history as we walked. She reminded me of Dr Longmore walking me through his own private museum, except she was more friendly. We stopped at a door with Maureen Gantry's name on it and my date knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. I never understood why people did that. If you're going to knock, give them a chance to answer.

"Hello Maureen." She said as we entered. Maureen Gantry was older than she sounded on the phone. She had long white hair tied back in a ponytail. Her eyes were watchful, yet gentle and there was a warmth to her smile that I believed was always there, no matter who she was talking to. She wore a yellow cardigan over a white blouse. Her long skirt was a dark brown, with sensible, flat shoes. "This young man would like to talk to you." I thanked her and introduced myself.

"My name's Jack Pearson, ma'am. We spoke on the phone." Her eyes were searching for the memory of yesterday's conversation and then lit up.

"Yes of course. Do come in Mr Pearson." She beckoned with her hand for me to come further into the room. She turned to her colleague. "Mr Pearson here is looking for Dr Haynes, Susan." She turned back to me. "We're all terribly worried about him." She lifted some papers off a chair and invited me to sit down. Maureen's office was what some would describe as organised chaos. Papers and books cluttered every surface. Despite its untidy appearance, I would bet Maureen knew exactly where everything is. Her degree certificate was gathering dust, hanging on the wall and there was a photo on her desk. It looked to be of Maureen with her husband in their younger years. Her hair was the same length, but blonde, almost golden. Her husband was a good-looking man with light brown hair that would flow in the breeze. They were both elegantly dressed. Maureen caught me looking at the photo. "Our tenth wedding anniversary." She told me. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping you could tell me a bit more." I said after settling into a chair that might have been older than the university itself. "Can you tell me about the recent dig he went on?"

"There isn't much to tell. A few people went over from here. They were met at the airport by some locals who acted as their guides and did some of the heavy lifting. They made a few good finds; some predate what we know about Ancient Egypt. The glove got Randolph the most excited, it didn't look like anything else we'd seen."

"What happened to it?" I asked.

"He told Philip Longmore about it. When his expedition came home, they brought everything to the university. Randolph looked a bit shaken. He said to be extra careful with the glove. Later, someone tried to take it."

"Who?"

"I don't know who he was. He was very tall and smartly dressed."

"What happened?" I wanted to know.

"None of us knew who he was, so we challenged him. He said he was here to pick up the glove and that Randolph knew to expect him. We told him we hadn't heard anything and wanted to check first. Someone must've called security, because when the man grabbed the glove and ran, they were here to tackle him."

"Do you know the name Charles McKenzie?" I asked her.

"No. Should I? Who is he?"

"He's someone Randolph tried to call. Other than that, I don't know." I lied. "Do you mind if I take a look at the other artefacts?" I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe I was just curious.

"If you think it will help, of course." Maureen Gantry stood up and beckoned for me to follow her.

"By the way," I started to say as Maureen reached the door. "You said on the phone you were the one who reported Randolph missing?" At first, she acted like she didn't expect the question. But after a few seconds seemed to accept it as something perfectly natural, given the circumstances.

"Yes. Even though he worked from home mostly, it was still unlike him to be out of contact for so long. Someone from the office went to his home to check on him. They said the door was locked and there was no answer when they knocked, but his car was still there."

"When was this?" I asked.

"Regrettably, it was nearly a week after we stopped hearing from him." I thought about that as we left her office and were almost swept away by the current of students swarming past. Maureen pushed her way through with great ease, as she had no doubt done many times before, and waited for me to join her.

"Is it always like this?" I asked after straightening my tie and hair.

"It's either a guest speaker giving a lecture or a new menu in the cafeteria." We walked for awhile. I looked around at my surroundings as we did. My education pretty much ended after high school. I thought about getting a degree, but I was never academically gifted. After I graduated, I wandered for a while, not knowing my place, hoping for inspiration to strike and discover my true calling. Eventually my soul searching led me to the Police. We stopped outside a door and Maureen punched a code into an electronic keypad. The door unlocked loudly, and we walked in.

The room was big. There were shelving units lined up against the walls and a series of tables joined together in the middle. A computer sat on a desk in the corner of the room. There was an old and musty smell. Lights in the ceiling glared down unrelentingly. Some of the items on the tables were what you would expect from an archaeological dig in Egypt. Plenty of pots and vases. There were a few items of jewellery. There were even some bronze tipped spears and knives with strange, curved blades. One or two looked out of place; a golden seal with a jewel in the centre similar to the one in the glove and what could only be described as a crystal ball or some sort of snow globe. I tried to picture the glove among the items here. Why was Longmore more fixated on the glove and not these other items that seemed equally strange. Maureen assured me that all these items were found together at the same dig.

"Is this everything that was found?" I asked, scanning the room.

"Most of it." Maureen confirmed. "Some items have been archived. Is there anything in particular you were looking for?"

"I'm not sure." I responded absently, while glancing at the tables.

"What about these two?" I asked, pointing to the two pieces that I though stood out.

"Yes, these are very unusual. They're the ones I spoke of earlier. They call into question everything we thought we knew about Ancient Egypt."

"Any ideas why Longmore wasn't as interested in these?" Maureen shook her head with a resigned shrug. "What happened to the glove? You mentioned that someone tried to steal it when it first arrived. Was there another, successful attempt or had it been moved?" Maureen looked at me, deciding if she could tell me.

"Randolph was worried about another attempt to steal it. He said he would move it somewhere more secure until the business with Dr Longmore was resolved." I thanked Maureen for her time and made my way through the labyrinth, back to my car. As I walked through the university grounds, my cell phone rang.

"Hello, is this Jack Pearson?" The voice asked.

"The one and only." I replied.

"My name is Randolph Haynes. I understand you're looking for me." I didn't say anything for a while.

"Yes, Dr Haynes." I said finally. "I would like to speak with you."

"What about?" Haynes asked.

"I would rather discuss that in person." I wasn't sure he'd go for it, but it was worth a try.

"If you can't tell me over the phone why you're looking for me, I don't think I want to meet with you. Good day, Mr Pearson."

"Hold up." I blurted out to stop him from hanging up. "I'm looking for a glove from Ancient Egypt. I think you know what I'm talking about and where it is."

"The glove does not belong to Dr Longmore." Haynes said with a sigh. It seemed only the mention of the glove was enough to connect me to Dr Longmore. "If we must talk, and if you insist on it being in person, come to Bridget's place." Haynes gave me an address right on the doorstep of the university. I read the address back to him. It was close by, so I decided to walk.

Bridget Murphy lived in a modern looking apartment building called The Ambassador. It was a place where you could get lost even if you knew where you were going. I took the elevator up to the third floor and found Bridget's studio apartment. I reached out my hand to knock but the door opened before I got a chance. Bridget stood in the doorway. The hardwood floors shone, reflecting the lights in the ceiling. I could smell coffee. Bridget didn't speak. She just moved aside to let me in. I walked through the hall into the living room. As I looked back at Bridget, I caught a glimpse of a short man in a suit that may once have been blue. He looked like he had been living rough but smelled clean enough. His hair was sticking up in places, though not through fashionable choices. He was unshaven, and it grew in clumps. He held a small pistol in his hand, but didn't look comfortable with it.

"You Haynes?" I asked. He nodded and sat down onto the couch. "Wanna tell me what's going on?" I asked him. Bridget shouted from the kitchen asking if I wanted a coffee or something stronger. I called back for a coffee. A few minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen doorway with a tray containing a cafetiere, a jug of milk and three cups. I thanked her and took a seat on the armchair facing Haynes while Bridget busied herself with the coffees. I watched Randolph Haynes for a minute. He shifted in his seat. He had put down the gun but kept glancing at it. I took out a cigarette and stuck it in my mouth, then threw Randolph the packet. He clumsily picked it up and let it slip through his fingers. He eventually got one out and put in in his mouth. His shaking hands struggled with the lighter, so I helped him. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange and he pulled his cheeks in as he took a deep drag and leaned back, his head tilting back as he blew smoke at the ceiling. Finally, he spoke.

"Two years ago, I made the acquaintance of Dr Philip Longmore; he was a medical professional and founder of some pharmaceutical company, I forget the name. Doesn't seem important anymore. He had suddenly developed an interest in Ancient Egypt and began financing digs in and around Giza. I remember there was talk about some significant finds over there back in the twenties, but information was scarce. His interest, at first, was equal to my own and I encouraged his pursuit, recommending books and papers. After some time, his interest became an obsession. I wanted to distance myself, but it can be hard to find funding, and here was a willing cash cow. I'm not proud of myself. Three months ago, Philip funded an expedition in Zamalek, an island on the Nile, just outside Giza. We came back with some incredible pieces; one was a glove of some kind. It had a spiralled sleeve, covered the fingertips but not the fingers, and had a brilliant jewel where the palm would be. It was made from a mineral I had never before encountered. I told Phil, and at first, I thought he was sharing my excitement. But there was something in his manner. He asked for the glove, but I told him no. Something like this should be shared. It was an incredible find and shouldn't be hidden away in one man's collection, hidden from the rest of the world." He stopped to take another drag on his cigarette. I had forgotten about mine. I crushed what was left in the ashtray that sat on the small table between us. "One day, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, someone pushed the door in, knocking me down. We ended up in the living room and I hit my head." He showed me the scar that was still healing. "I managed to fight him off, but I got scared. I left my car at home and used the bus to come here." I leaned back in my chair and took in what I had been told.

"What's your connection to Charles McKenzie?" I asked. The question caught him off-guard.

"He came to see me. Thought I had the glove." Haynes pulled a bottle of whiskey out from seemingly nowhere and poured some into his coffee.

"Did you?" I asked him.

"Not at the time. After someone tried to steal it from the university, I took it home."

"I stopped by your apartment the other day." I told him. "Someone turned the place over. A witness saw two men. Both big, both black. Does that mean anything to you?" He shook his head while reaching for another cigarette out of my packet.

"It must've happened since I left."

"So, if you don't have the glove, where is it?" I doubted he would tell me just like that, but you can tell a lot by how someone answers.

"I don't know." He answered too quickly, and his eyes shifted to the floor. His stare returned to me just as quickly, as if he knew he had given something away.

"Either you know where it is, or you've got a pretty good idea." I told him. He doubled down on his answer, his eyes drifting to the gun again. "Don't get any ideas." I said, following his eyes. I could feel my own gun pressed, reassuringly against me. I didn't want to kill him though.

"I think it's time for you to leave." Haynes said quietly, he didn't meet my eyes when he spoke.

"I'll go." I told him. "But sooner or later, he's gonna come for you. When he does, if you don't want my help, either give him what he wants, or don't be here." I got up and thanked Bridget for the coffee before leaving.

At some time after midnight, I was awoken by a knock at the door. I groaned and slowly climbed out of bed and slowly walked to the door after making sure I was decent. Two cops stood in the doorway. They weren't in uniform, but some people can't help but look like cops. They flashed me their badges and came in without waiting for an invitation.

"You Pearson?" The first one asked. He was bald and his jacket buttons fought hard to contain the bulbous frame underneath. His partner came in behind him. He was smaller in height. His suit struggled in the same way, but I could tell that it was muscle that was trying to break free. I told them I was Pearson and stood aside to let them enter.

"Sergeant Redgrave." The fat man introduced himself. He nodded in the direction of the other cop. "This is Detective Novak." Redgrave walked over to a shelf on the wall and inspected my record collection. Novak planted himself on the armchair in my living room. "You know anybody by the name of Haynes, Randolph Haynes?" Redgrave asked without looking away from the records.

"I'm not sure I wanna say. What's it to you?" It probably wasn't the best way to handle him, but I was tired.

"What about Bridget Murphy?" He turned his head slowly and looked at me. I sat down opposite Novak.

"You feel like telling me what this is about?" I asked back. Redgrave had a Duke Ellington record in his hands. He seemed to approve.

"Someone matching your description was seen talking to Bridget Murphy, and a private investigator called Jack Pearson was talking to a young mechanic and asking questions over at Randolph Haynes' apartment building."

"Is talking to people against the law now?" I replied.

"No, but shooting them is." Novak spoke for the first time. Redgrave put the record back in its place and walked over to us.

"We're just hoping you can help us figure out where all that lead in Haynes' body came from. Whoever did it, worked him over first. Him and his girlfriend." I tried my best to hide my reaction. "What kind of gun do you have?" Redgrave asked me.

"It's a Colt .45." I responded. "What was it that killed them?"

"Any other guns lying around?" He asked, still fishing.

"I keep a .38 snub in the office. I don't take it out much. Haynes had one when I saw him. It looked like a small compact beretta." The two cops looked at each other.

"Mind if we have a look around?"

"Sure, I don't mind." I replied. Novak stood up and they were both about to start their search. "If you've got a warrant." I finished. Redgrave gave an exaggerated sigh. Novak just looked unhappy.

"Now, why do you want us to go get a warrant? There a reason you don't want us looking around?"

"Sure is." I replied. "It's two in the morning. You show up here and get heavy with me and expect me to roll over and take it. Now either show me a warrant or get out. If you want me to make a statement, ask. But don't come around here and try and put the squeeze on me." Redgrave smiled. He didn't lose his cool. He spoke with a resigned voice.

"Alright, Shamus. Don't get excited, we've got a job to do. Maybe you got a right to be sore at how we played it, but that don't change anything. Now, will you let us look around, or won't you?" I sat back down and lit a cigarette.

"Sure, fellas. Go ahead." I put one leg up over the arm of the armchair and leaned my head back. They began going through the place. They weren't trying to break anything but weren't trying to be gentle either. After a couple of hours, and they hadn't turned anything up, they came back to where I was sat.

"This would've gone easier on everyone if you'd just let us get on with it." Redgrave said to me. They were about to leave when I stopped them.

"Let me pour you a drink before you go, fellas." I offered. "It's a cold night. Plus, I'd feel a whole lot better about you."

"We're on duty." Novak said, in that tone you use when you want to end a conversation. A half-smile crept onto Redgrave's face.

"Sure, pal. It is a cold one out there." Novak shot him a look, but he ignored it and sat down. I went into the kitchen and after a while came back with three highballs. I set two on the table in front of them and brought mine back to my seat. Redgrave lifted his glass, and I watched it disappear down his throat as quickly as I had given it to him. I took a drink from mine and watched as he claimed the third glass for himself. I lit a cigarette and threw the packet across. They both took one. We were finally becoming friends. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling and puffed on my cigarette for a while. I watched the cloud of smoke rise and break apart before looking back down.

"What else have you got to go on?" I asked.

"You first." Redgrave replied. Novak was still working on his tough guy stare. I decided to leave him to it. He needed the practice. "Why are you interested in Haynes?"

"I'm working a case. His name came up." I drank more of my drink. "There's a chance he has something that belongs to my client. There's also a chance he doesn't, and an outside chance that what he does or doesn't have, doesn't belong to my client."

"Clients must be lining up at the door for a service like that." Redgrave smirked. I shrugged.

"So, what else have you got?" I asked again. Novak tried to protest but Redgrave stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"Someone broke into the Murphy dame's apartment. She took two slugs to the chest and then they started to work on Haynes. If he knew anything worth telling, he would have told. I've checked you out, Jack. This doesn't seem how you would normally handle a case."

"That's real cute, Sergeant." I countered. His stomach moved up and down and he gave a short laugh.

"This something that may or may not belong to your client, that Haynes may or may not have. Wanna tell me what it is, something worth killing over?"

"An ancient Egyptian artefact." I told him candidly. "Something for his collection."

"Must be worth a fair bit, to go to all this trouble." I shrugged.

"I guess." I didn't think he was going to share anymore with me, and I didn't feel like sharing anymore with him. I finished my drink and watched Redgrave do the same before they both got up and headed back out into the night. I went back to bed but couldn't sleep. But at some point, I must have done.

Chapter five

The next morning, I was awoken at 8 o'clock by my cell phone ringing. I blindly searched for the phone on my bedside table, and after fumbling about with it finally answered.

"Yeah?" I grunted.

"Good morning, is this Mr Pearson?" The female voice asked.

"Sure is." I replied. It took me a while in the fog to recognise the voice. "What can I do for you, Miss Stubbs?" I asked with my eyes closed.

"Mrs Stubbs." She corrected. "A letter just arrived for Charlie. I had to sign for it."

"Do you often sign for his deliveries?" I asked.

"Sometimes. He keeps irregular hours. I'm always here, so he asked if I could sign for him when he's not around. You said to call if anyone turns up."

"Thanks. I'll be there as soon as I can." A new lead can wake you up better than coffee, sometimes. I got dressed and headed down to my car to battle the rush hour traffic. Once I turned onto Georgia Avenue, it was a straight line most of the way. When I hit Fenton Street, I hung a right onto Bonifant Street and started looking for a place to park. I ended up parking a block away. I let myself into the building and headed up the stairs. Mrs Stubbs the accountant was sitting at her desk with the letter in front of her. She was on the phone when I knocked. She looked up and gestured for me to come in. I opened the door and sat down in front of her while she spoke. After sitting for a while, I got restless and stood up and walked around the office while Mrs Stubbs continued to talk on the phone. Metal filing cabinets lined one wall, and shelves were filled with folders and books. A water cooler sat in the corner next to a coffee machine. Steam rose from the machine, carrying the strong smell along the way. I pointed to it with a questioning gesture and Mrs Stubbs nodded, so I picked up a cup and poured some out. Mrs Stubbs finished her phone call and apologised for keeping me waiting. Unlike the last couple of times someone had apologised to me, I actually felt like she meant it.

"Good morning, Mr Pearson."

"Call me Jack." I replied.

"Linda." She picked up the letter and handed it to me. I turned it over in my hand and looked at the return address. Linda followed my eyes and read the address out loud.

"He sent it to himself?" Linda looked questioningly at me.

"It's a good way to hide something for a few days." I told her. I tore the envelope open and looked inside. It was a key. I slid it into my hand and looked at it.

"What's it for?" Linda asked me.

"If I knew." I trailed off. It didn't look like a house or car key. I put it in my pocket. "Thanks Linda." She smiled.

"If you ever need an accountant…" She let it hang, and I nodded my appreciation with a warm smile and headed out the door.

I was hungry and realised I hadn't had breakfast. I looked around me a saw a diner, so I stopped in for a coffee and a bite to eat. While they were making the food, I used a payphone. After being passed around a few times, I managed to leave a message for Captain Shaw at V Street Station, asking for a meeting. I went back to the counter to eat my scrambled eggs on toast. As I walked back to my car, I felt the presence of someone behind me. I reacted too late and felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. I stumbled forwards before being grabbed and pulled into an alley. When I finally looked up, I was confronted by two men. One was using a staff of some kind to push me up against the wall, the other stood behind. They were both big and both black. I thought of the break-ins. My assailants had matching tattoos on their foreheads. They looked tribal. The one stood further back spoke.

"Where is the Kara Kesh?" He asked me. His voice was calm and quiet. If it wasn't for his friend, anyone who passed would think we were having a pleasant conversation.

"The what?" I asked him back. The silent partner lifted his staff off me, and I allowed myself a breath before the staff came back, hitting me in the side of my face. My head turned and I spat blood onto the ground.

"We know you have been searching for it. Why?" My reluctance to talk came as much from stubbornness as ignorance. I had no idea what a "Kara Kesh" is. But I could make a guess that he was talking about the glove.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The staff was jabbed into my stomach. I coughed and doubled over, falling to my knees. The attackers were kind enough to let me pull myself up, so I was standing tall again.

"We know who you are. We know you were hired to find the Kara Kesh. Who are you working for?" I stared at him and said nothing. "Do we have to make you talk?" He asked me.

"It's been tried."

"Is that right? Consider this a warning. If you find it, bring it to us. If not, we will find you." With that, they walked away. Cool as the breeze. I leaned against the wall and put a cigarette in my mouth. I took a deep draw before walking back to my car. I sat in the driver's seat and smoked my cigarette.

I got to my office just after two o'clock. I rubbed my hand on the back of my head and felt where the blow came. I took two aspirin and washed them down with water from the waiting room. After that I took a seat at my desk and considered my options. There was a message on the machine. I played it while preparing some coffee. Captain Shaw said she could meet me tomorrow morning. With a coffee in hand, I sat back down and took the key out of my pocket and stared at it for a while. Ten minutes of staring and thinking got me nowhere so I picked up the phone to call my client. Eric answered after the second ring; Either he always knew where to be and when, or he was quick.

"Dr Longmore's residence." I gave him my name and asked to speak to his boss. While he was seeing to that, I took out a cigarette and drank some more coffee.

"This is Dr Longmore speaking."

"Good afternoon, Dr Longmore. This is Jack Pearson." I started to update him, saying that Charles McKenzie found something and had to make it disappear. I was close to retrieving it. I also told him I found out where Randolph Haynes was hiding out and what happened to him. Finally, I told him about my encounter and asked if the two men sounded familiar. There was a silence on the line that was longer than it would have been if he knew nothing about them. That told me something.

"I imagine there may be other interested parties looking for the glove, Mr Pearson." He told me. "Deal with them as you see fit but bring me that glove." I hung up and leaned back in my chair, blowing smoke at the ceiling. When it could climb no higher, it started to spread out and dissipate. I opened a window to help it on its way.

I heard the outer door open but didn't move. I just stared down at the people on the street.

"Hi Jack, keeping busy?" Eddie stood in the doorway to my office, leaning against the frame.

"Just trying to pass the time" I took out the bottle from the deep drawer and two glasses. "What's going on?" I asked.

"I got wind of a report of a B&E . Some apartment not far from here. I thought you might like to come along for the ride."

"Why would I want to do that?" He drank down his whiskey.

"It's your apartment." We headed downstairs and both got in his car. A few minutes later, we were at my apartment building. We went inside and looked around. The place had been turned over. Drawers were emptied on the floor, chairs broken into pieces.

"Anything missing?" Eddie asked as we stepped over broken glass.

"Nothing as far as I can see." I replied. I looked at my record collection in the corner. They weren't broken, just scattered around.

"This got anything to do with Charlotte Grey?" He asked me.

"No. This is something else." I replied.

"What do you think they were looking for?" I took the photo of the glove out of my pocket and showed it to him.

"Probably this." Eddie Russell was always very good and not giving anything away, but for a brief second, his eyes betrayed him. He knew something. I knew him well enough to know I wouldn't get it out of him. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

"You don't need to stick around, Jack. We get any prints, I'll let you know." He turned to watch the crime scene investigators doing their work. "Should be out of here by end of the day and you can put the place back together again. If it takes longer, here's a spare key to my place. You're welcome to stay a night or two." I thanked him and walked back to my office and got in my car. I had Charlie's home address and hoped I might find something to tell me what that key was for.

I took Blaire Road as far as 3rd and parked on the corner. Charlie lived in a bungalow on Rittenhouse Street with a relatively small garden. The fence was low and the post by his path had been knocked over at some point, but not recently. The garden was not overgrown yet, but hadn't been looked after much, either. Paint on the walls flaked like dry skin. I circled the property and looked around the back. It looked much the same as the front. I examined the lock on the back door and took out my lockpick. Inside, McKenzie was living a spartan existence. He didn't keep trinkets or flowers in vases, no paintings on the wall. There were no photos of a family at Christmas, he never married and lived alone which made me think of my own existence. I came close to marrying once. But eventually she decided that a cop was a step down from her high-flying finance something or other and went back to him. My parents, while still alive, had moved to Florida when they had both retired, and made it clear from the start that they didn't approve of my career choices. What little Charlie did have was all in order. Nothing knocked over, nothing out of place. Whoever searched his office hadn't found his home. I searched all through the quiet, empty space but found nothing of use. I was about to give up when I saw the mail piled up by the front door. He hadn't been home in quite some time. I flicked through leaflets for takeaways offering two-for-one deals, junk mail asking if he's happy with his energy supplier, advertisements for retirement living that he would've been thrilled to see. Eventually I came across a bill for a storage unit in Downtown. I tore open the envelope and found the number of the unit and account reference number. I pocketed the letter and made my way out through the back, the way I had come in. I headed north on 3rd Street, back onto Blair Road and navigated the busy streets to Downtown.

U Store was on Takoma Avenue, opposite Upper Portal Park. I hoped Charlie hadn't been here in a while, or the staff turnaround meant that no one would recognise him and would therefore let me in with no bother. It was a big, concrete square, painted white. The blue sign in big, bold letters on top of the roof. I walked through the main entrance There was no staff on site, which was a stroke of luck. The floor was dusty with tracked mud running through. Cobwebs decorated the corners like every day was Halloween. On either side of the halls were shutter doors. The place was a maze. I wandered for what could have been an hour until I found the numbered unit I was looking for. The key was for a padlock. On the other side of the shutter was a relatively small space. A few boxes lay on the floor; They were mostly filled with paperwork and photos. In one of the boxes was a smaller box. Roughly the size of a shoe box. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. I untied the string and opened the box.

I had found it. The ancient glove discovered in an archaeological dig in Egypt. The sleave of the glove was spiralled, it had no fingers but covered the fingertips, and in the centre was a brilliant jewel that seemed to glow. Dr Longmore had promised me ten thousand dollars for it. Even if I did believe he would pay, I wasn't about to hand it over to him. I'm not in the business of stealing on commission. I also wasn't happy about handing it over to the tattoo brothers. There was something about them I didn't trust. Although, that could have been because of the beating. I needed to find out more about them before I moved the Kara kesh, as they called it. In the box with the glove was a photo. I picked it up for a closer look but didn't know what to make of it. The photo was of my client, Dr Longmore, and his butler, Eric. The wall behind them looked strange, Egyptian hieroglyphs on a golden wall. I already knew that Longmore's interest in Ancient Egypt bordered on the obsessive, so this didn't tell me much. I was drawn to his eyes. They glowed yellow. I understood what caused red glowing eyes in photos, but I had never seen something like this before. Whatever this meant, Charlie thought it significant enough to lock both these items up and hide the key. I pocketed the photo and started to put everything else back as I had found it. Suddenly, I felt a blow to the back my head and everything went black.

Chapter six

When I came to, I checked my pockets. I still had the photo, and I still had my gun. I felt the back of my head and winced at the pain. It took me a while to stand up, but when I did, I could see the box that had once contained the Egyptian glove was now empty. With no other ideas, I drove back to my office. For reasons I couldn't explain, my thoughts ran to Sophie Steen. I wondered if it was really just coincidence that she happened upon me outside Charlie's office. Something told me she wasn't going to go away; I called the Maryland Journal to see what I could find out about her. They told me she no longer worked for them directly and was now working freelance. They were happy to give me her email and phone number. I thanked them and hung up. I had Sophie on my mind now, so I gave her a ring and arranged to meet at the same diner as last time.

When I pulled up outside, I could see she was already there. She chose the same booth we had occupied before.

"Thanks for coming." I said as I slid onto the bench opposite her. Sally emerged, seemingly from nowhere with the coffee. She gave a smile, partly out of recognition for her returning customers, and partly for new couples who were still infatuated with each other.

"No problem." Sophie replied with a warm smile. She clearly thought she was making progress with me.

"Why did you lie about working for the Maryland Journal?" I asked. The question caught her off-guard. She didn't know where to look. "Don't be so surprised. You must've realised it would take all of ten minutes to find out." Sophie composed herself and looked me in the eye.

"I didn't think you would talk to me otherwise." I reached for my coffee and held it in my hand for a while.

"I was just as unlikely to talk to you whatever newspaper you pretended to work for. I'm in the business of discretion." I took a sip of my coffee and lit a cigarette while offering one to Sophie. She declined with a wave of her hand.

"What did you want to see me about?" She asked me, getting impatient. I took out the photo and showed it to her. Do you know much about photography? Or maybe know someone who does?"

"I know enough."

"Is there anything you can think of that would cause the yellow glowing eyes?" I asked. Sophie stared at the photo for a while before answering.

"No." Was the answer. "As you probably know, red eye is caused by the flash of the camera, when they reflect the retina. Less well known is the white eye, which is a possible symptom of cancer." I nodded along. I didn't know that about white eyes. It was interesting enough but didn't

really help me. "Whatever is happening in this photo, it's happening in his eyes and is not caused by the camera." I sighed and put the photo away again. There were a lot of puzzle pieces not connecting. I couldn't even be sure they were from the same puzzle. "What are you working on?" Sophie then asked me.

"Just passing the time." I said dismissively. She didn't believe me.

I pulled up outside my apartment building on Emerson Street. As I was locking the car, I saw, over the road, one of my tattooed assailants. It wasn't the talker. He was aiming his staff at me when the front opened up. I didn't need to know what it was, to know I should get out of the way. There was a bench by a bus stop that afforded some cover, so I got behind it. A beam of light shot out of the staff and through the bus shelter behind me. The hole glowed around the edge, as if a wound were being cauterised. I had my gun in my hand. It roared as I let off two shots. My attacker was quite a distance away. The first bullet missed and the second caught him in the shoulder just as he was sending another bolt of light my way. The bus shelter took another hit. He was reeling from the shoulder wound, and it allowed me some precious time to move up. Cars sounded their horns and brakes screeched on the road as I ran forward. I stopped behind a yellow cab that had slammed on the brakes. The cab driver was doing his best to keep his head down. I let off two more shots that hit the attacker dead centre. He stumbled back and fell. I ran forward and kicked his staff away from him. When I couldn't find a pulse, I called the police and waited for them.

I needn't have bothered calling, the gunfire was enough to bring a patrol car my way. Two men in uniform got out and stared me down. The first, a tall slim figure with russet, reddish-brown skin. Walked towards me. His partner stayed by the car talking into the radio. I couldn't hear what he was saying. He was shorter than his partner, Hispanic, and had a paunch.

"What can you tell me about this?" The taller officer asked me. The name on his badge was Clarke.

"I was about to head up to my apartment here," I indicated the building over the road, "when this man tries to kill me."

"Got any I.D.?" I showed him my licence and carry permit. He studied both documents for a while. "Any idea why he tried to kill you?" He handed them back.

"None whatsoever." I didn't like lying to the police, but I wanted to wait until I had all the facts together first. Not long after, more police arrived. Yellow tape went up and various members of the law enforcement community tried to make themselves look busy. I saw Detective Novak talking to some other detectives I didn't recognise. Novak saw me and started walking my way.

"You're certainly keeping us busy. From what I hear, you've as good as confessed. Why don't we take a ride to the station and get the paperwork out of the way?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked him.

"I'm talking about murder." I felt the cold metal on my wrists and heard a click as the handcuffs locked in place.

Capitol Heights was a small red bungalow. If not for the signs outside, you wouldn't know it was a police station if you were walking past. They let me stew for a while, but were kind enough to let me have a cup of coffee. The paint on the walls was chipped and flakes of it littered the floor. A sour smell came from the trash can and overpowered the smell of coffee. I traced the scars and deep scratches on the table with my fingers and stared at the mirror, wondering who was on the other side staring back at me. Eventually Detective Novak came in and sat down.

"Let's get your confession on paper so we can close this one and move on." It was a lazy, amateur opening gambit. "Why did you kill him?"

"He tried to kill me." I simplified for the detective.

"On that subject," Novak bulldozed through. "What the hell was that staff we found?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that. Whatever it is, it's serious firepower." There was no milage for him in pursuing the weapon, for now. He moved on.

"The funny thing is, we don't know who you killed. He's got no I.D. on him, and his prints aren't in the database." He paused, expecting me to fill in the blanks. The best he got out of me was a shrug. Novak stood with his hands still on the table. He was getting ready to escalate things, when there was a sudden knock on the door. He didn't react to it right away; he tried to give me the hard stare. It was getting better but still needed work. He straightened up and left the room without a word. He was gone for a while, and I could hear raised voices, but they were muffled. Whatever they were saying to each other, it was getting heated. Detective Novak returned to the room. He didn't look happy. His face had turned red.

"It's your lucky day." He told me, holding back the fury from his voice.

"What are you talking about?" I asked him. Behind him, I could see a man in a black suit. He was average height and average build. His straw-coloured hair was short and tidy. He didn't look like a cop; his suit was too nice for a cop's salary. He didn't say anything.

"You didn't kill anyone." Novak was looking down at the table when he spoke. He couldn't bring himself to look at me. He felt emasculated.

"Who's the fed?" I asked, looking at the man over his shoulder. He told me I didn't need to know and then walked off. I was free to go. As I left the station, I looked back. The man in the black suit was staring at me through the window.

The man I didn't kill would fall under the Maryland Medical Examiner's jurisdiction. I had only met the M.E. a few times. He became the M.E. shortly before I left the force. His background was common knowledge. Dr Sean Livingstone was born in Oxfordshire, UK. When he was five, his father was offered a fellowship at the Washington Hospital and the family picked up and moved across the Atlantic. The young Sean studied at Harvard Medical and followed his father into the family profession. He spent some time as a family doctor and then got a job working for the M.E, before eventually taking over the position. I pulled into the parking lot on West Baltimore Street. The building was a mix of brick and chrome. I had been there enough times to know my way around. I found Dr Livingstone surrounded by autopsy tables. Some empty, some occupied. He stood by one facing away from me. I could see the clipboard in his hands.

"Dr Livingstone, I presume." He didn't look up or move in any way to indicate that he heard me.

"That joke wasn't funny the first time, Detective Pearson." He said with a sigh. "Sorry… Mr Pearson." He turned his head. He was in his fifties. His grey hair had receded well past the middle of his head. Under his white coat was a pristine shirt and tie. "What can I do for you?" He asked.

"I wanted to ask about someone who would have been brought in this evening." I looked around the room, wondering which of the white sheet covered tables he was on.

"I had six brought in. You need to be more specific." He was always a little short on patience.

"Tall, black, in good shape, tribal tattoo on his forehead." I reeled off the details as he walked among his charges. He stopped when I mentioned the tattoo.

"That sounds familiar. I haven't had a chance to look at him yet. What's your interest?" He looked at me quizzically.

"I put him here. I was hoping to find something out. Who he is would be a start." I replied. He gave me a raised eyebrow and went back to looking at his clipboard.

"I'll probably get around to him later tonight. That okay with you?"

"Suits me fine. I'll drop by in the morning." With that I thanked him and left.

The next morning, when I woke up my head was pounding, and my mouth was dry. I found some aspirin and filled a glass with water. On the coffee table was the empty bottle from the previous night. In the past I had killed in the line of duty, but it doesn't get easier. Yesterday I had taken a life. The situation was made complicated by the weapon he tried to kill me with. It raised questions. For now, though, I had a meeting with Captain Shaw. I started my car and hung a left onto Arkansas Avenue and then took 16th Street all the way to V Street Station. I parked outside and made my way in. The desk sergeant pointed the way to Captain Shaw's office, and I thanked him. I knocked on the glass door and waited. I could see her sat at her desk surrounded by files. She was on the phone to someone. She looked up and waved me in. I sat down opposite her and waited for her to finish her phone call. She kept me waiting. Eventually, with a big show of apology, she put the handset down and stood up to shake my hand and thank me for waiting. I said it was no problem. Captain Shaw offered me a coffee and asked what she can do for me? I had told her in my original message that it was regarding the Charlotte Grey case. I could see it was one of the files she had out on her desk. I accepted the coffee and got down to it.

"I was hoping you could give me some insight into Charlotte Grey's death." Shaw smiled at me. It was the smile of someone humouring me.

"There isn't much to tell." She replied. "Charlotte Grey stumbled and fell from her balcony. She died instantly." She didn't give me anymore. "What are you doing, Jack?" She leaned back in her chair and looked at me. "I remember when you were on the force. You feel that the department turned its back on you? You wanna get back at us? You keep going with this and you'll lose what few friends you have left. Go back to your cheating spouses and leave this one alone." She leaned forward as I leaned back. I thought about what she said.

"It's not about getting back. it's a case, captain. I've got bills to pay like everyone else." I looked at the case file on her desk. Why did she go to the trouble of showing it to me if she wasn't going to tell me anything? "As for going back to cheating spouses, it just doesn't scratch that itch we all get. You know, the reason we do what we do." I got up and left. Captain Shaw got me to come down here so she could tell me nothing in person. As I walked back someone brushed past me.

"There's a coffee joint two blocks over on the corner of 15th, opposite the church. Meet me there in one hour." I didn't know who she was, but she looked like a cop. An hour didn't give me much time to do anything else, so I decided to have lunch while I was there.

I sat in The Coffee Spot nursing the drink advertised in their name. I was in a booth in the back, out of the way. The place was quiet. A few patrons sat at the counter ignoring each other, reading the paper, or doing crosswords. A young couple was sat by the entrance, giggling while trying to feed each other their cakes. One waitress was leaning on the counter with a magazine, and I heard the occasional chuckle or clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, which was on the other side of the very thin wall I sat next to.

"Mind if I join you?" It was the same voice as before. I looked up. The woman looking down at me had short, dark hair and wore a grey trouser suit with a pale blue blouse. Her skin was the colour of terra cotta, a strong brownish red. I indicated with a nod for her to join me and the waitress, like a spider sensing movement in her web, came over to pour a coffee. I didn't say anything, just watched her as she took a sip from her cup and looked around the place. "you're looking into Charlotte Grey?" She asked, finally. I said I was. "Captain Shaw's a good person. She's just caught up in the politics." I drained the rest of my coffee, and the waitress materialised next to me, refilling my cup. I thanked her and watched her retake her post at the counter.

"Why don't we start with your name?" I said patiently.

"Detective Stiles, Rebecca." She told me.

"Why did you want to meet me?" I asked.

"That poor girl deserves justice. That's why I became a cop. It's supposed to be why we're all doing this job. It shouldn't have anything to do with politics and power." She was circling, but I decided to let her get there on her own. "I heard about you when I was walking the beat over at E Street. It wasn't your fault, and you didn't deserve what happened to you. It's something we all dread. Is the person going for a gun? We don't have time to think "maybe not" or "it might not be a real gun". Making you hesitant – it's hard to carry on as normal. We all had the training, we all know what we have to do, but it's not always easy." She paused, staring into her coffee as if it were a deep dark well, and I waited for her to continue. "I worked the case with Captain Shaw. There was a possible motive for the boyfriend, Senator McGowan, but there was pressure to close it and not look too closely." She had my interest now. "A journalist believed the Senator was hiring illegal workers at a factory he owns. I think he tried to use Charlotte as a way of getting closer to the story." I let out a long sigh.

"Have you got anything to back this up?" I asked. She looked down at the table and shook her head. I shrugged. "What's the journalist's name?" I asked

"Michael Munro." Stiles told me.

"How can I find him?"

"He hangs around some fancy restaurants and bars. Anywhere he might find a celebrity doing something they shouldn't." She stopped to drink her coffee. "Otherwise, you can find him in some dive in Brentwood." Stiles paused again as she tried to remember the name. "Piney's something." I thanked Detective Stiles and dropped some bills on the table before leaving.

I drove back to West Baltimore Street to see if Dr Livingstone had anything on the tattooed killer. The eerie silence of the building was intensified by the echoes of my footsteps as I walked through the halls. A tall, middle-aged woman wearing a lab coat was sitting at Dr Livingstone's desk talking on the phone. I waited for her to finish. I seemed to spend most of my time waiting for people to finish on the phone.

"Excuse me, ma'am." I said after she put the handset back in its cradle. She looked up at me but didn't say anything. "I'm looking for Dr Livingstone."

"Dr Livingstone no longer works here. Mr…" she waited for me to fill the gap.

"Pearson, Ma'am. Jack Pearson. I'm a private investigator. Dr Livingstone was helping me with something." She had a polite, unintrusive smile that comes with years of practice.

"I see. As I said, Mr Pearson, Dr Livingstone no longer works here." She kept the smile as she held my gaze. Patient, but letting me know there would be no further conversation.

"When did he leave?" I asked.

"I'm afraid I don't know. If there's nothing else, Mr Pearson…" She stood up, indicating the conversation had come to a definite end. I thanked her for her time and left.

My next stop was Dr Livingstone's home address. He lived alone in a big house on Foxhall Road. It was a quiet cobbled street, surrounded by trees. I drove past it looking around. His car was in the drive, filled with suitcases. I parked across the street and walked over to him. He was making his way out the front door of his house with a few more bags when he saw me.

"What's going on?" I asked him. He looked like he hadn't slept. His eyes were wide and kept darting left and right. He tried to push past me and get to his car. "Slow down." I said, as I reached for his arm. He pulled away and walked briskly to his car. I caught up with him as he slammed the door closed. "Sean!" I shouted. His car sped away leaving tyre marks on the road. I looked back at the house. In his haste, or when I tried to stop him, something fell out of his pocket. I went over to pick it up. It was a book. I flipped through the pages to discover it was a journal. Either he didn't notice he dropped it, or he was in such a hurry to leave, he didn't care. There was nothing in there worth leaving town over. I flipped to the last pages. They had been torn out. There was an impression left on the back page as if he had pushed too hard with the pen. I looked up at his front door. It was locked, so I circled around the back and let myself in. His house had been turned upside down, but not from being searched like the other places I found; this was someone packing in a hurry. As I walked through, my feet knocked empty bottles. I didn't know if he was much of a drinker, but whatever spooked him was enough to turn him into a drinker now. I could smell smoke. I followed the smell to the living room. Livingstone was burning something in the fireplace. I knelt down to take a closer look. It looked like a photograph from a polaroid camera. The edges had burned away, but he wasn't good at building fires. There was enough left for me to make something of it. I picked it up for a closer look. It was the man I killed; a cross was cut deep into his stomach. Another photo had stuck to the back of this one. I peeled it off and was looking at some sort of snakelike creature half hanging out of the wound. I put the photos in my pocket and looked at the journal again. I found a pencil and holding it almost flat, sketched it lightly over the last page. The impressions left by his writing revealed a messaged that sent a chill through my spine.

It's not human

It was a thirty-minute drive from Dr Livingstone's house to Brentwood. I put any thoughts of aliens out of my mind. I still had cases to work and bills to pay, and I was starting to doubt whether I would be seeing any money for the Longmore case. I put on some Count Basie to keep my mind from returning to extra-terrestrials, but it wasn't working. My mind returned to the glove, and it brought with it the memory of the blow to the head. There were two likely suspects. One was Longmore himself; the other was the remaining tattoo brother. I now wondered if a similar alien creature resided in him as well. Just thinking along these lines made my head hurt. For now, I wanted to focus on something less "otherworldly". The clouds grew dark above me, and a few droplets of rain appeared on my windshield. Before long, the wind was howling, and the rain was a savage beast raging against my car. The wipers were working overtime to keep the road ahead visible. Outside, those who were lucky enough to have umbrellas were fighting to keep them upright. Those without were running for the nearest shelter. Eventually, I turned off onto Annapolis Road. There was a Piney's Bar on a side road, just off Downing Street. It was a fairly small, brick building with various beers advertised on the large windows. The owner had decided to paint his bar black. A yellow neon sign above the entrance had the name in cursive. The light of the sign captured the rain in its warm glow as it passed, falling from the sky.

The bar ran the entire length of the premises. On the other side were some booths, and in the middle, a few round tables were too close together, so people kept bumping into each other whenever they wanted to move. Most of them accepted this and didn't get too upset when they got knocked. One or two had less patience and tried to push back. One such man, shirt soaked in beer, was being manhandled out the door as I came in. I stepped to one side and let them past. He wasn't happy and tried to get back in, once he had gotten off the ground, but the big, tattooed bear of a man wasn't about to change his mind. His fist disappeared into the drunken man's stomach, and he was finally convinced to go on his way. I stopped the bruiser on his way back in and asked if Michael Munro was here. He told me he wouldn't know, and I should ask at the bar. I did as he suggested and made my way past the crowd. The young man working the bar looked to be in his early twenties. His blonde hair tousled, giving that "just out of bed" look. He had designed his beard to run in a neat line along the underside of his chin and up into a moustache. In his left earlobe an elongated hole drooped unnaturally.

"What can I get ya?" He asked when he saw me.

"I'm looking for someone." I told him. "Is Michael Munro here?" The kid looked at the booths at the back and along the bar.

"He was." He told me. "Must've gone."

"Any idea where he might've gone?" He thought for a few seconds and then gave me a shrug with a "sorry". He started to walk away, so I asked for a beer just to keep him here and talking. When he asked for the money, I handed him a twenty and told him he can keep the change if he could have a long think about where Michael Munro might be. He thought.

"There's a couple of celeb hangouts he goes to. Tries to catch 'em with their drawers down." The kid had a look of disapproval on his face. "Try the Glass House, downtown." I thanked him and gave him the twenty. "Just don't throw any stones while you're there." He smiled. I liked him.

The rain had let up when I stepped back out onto the street. I drove downtown and found the Glass House. It was exactly as the name would suggest; The walls, floors and ceilings were all thick glass with chrome frames. Inside, you could only see vague shapes of people. Upstairs was the V.I.P. area. The walls were more transparent, making it a lot easier for you to catch a glimpse of someone famous. The line to get in went around the block and by the entrance was a young man with a headset allowing him to communicate with someone inside, who was telling him how many young women to let in and when; occasionally letting in men who looked like they had money. He wore a black sports jacket over a t-shirt and jeans. His hair contained more gel than a 90s boyband. I saw one or two faces I recognised but couldn't say where from. Over the road, a group of men hung around on the corner, chatting and laughing, and glancing at the club, waiting for a known face to slip and give them a decent shot, like vultures circling an animal in the dessert. They know it's only a matter of time before someone forgets about these predators and shows them more than they intended. I pulled up close, but not too close, to the paparazzi and got out a book. I half read while listening to the conversations, waiting for Michael Munro to make himself known.

A big stomached, pale faced man in a crumpled brown suit with faded white shirt and stained tie said he was going for a leak. One of his friends informed Mike that it was too much information. I got out and called over to him. Michael Munro stopped and looked at me for a few seconds before walking towards me. His hair was mostly black with a white dusting. He was unshaved, but not in a stylish way.

"What do you want?" He said, in a not-so-friendly manner. I showed him my licence.

"My name's Jack Pearson, I'm a private investigator."

"Hi Jack Pearson, private investigator. What do you want?"

"I'm looking into the death of Charlotte Grey. I was told you might know something."

"How'd you know where to find me?" He asked, ignoring the name.

"You're predictable." I told him. "Any place where celebrities could be caught with their pants down, and look, a whole flock of you." Some eyes started looking over at us.

"You okay, Mike?" One of them called. Munro gestured with his hand that everything was fine.

"Okay, so talk." He ordered.

"Tell me what you know, and there might be something in it for you." He smiled. I didn't like his smile.

"A few months back, I got a tip that Senator McGowan was using illegal workers at his factory in New York." He paused, expecting me to recoil from the truth bomb he just dropped. I waited for him to continue. "They work as subcontractors. This way he thinks he can get away with not checking their right to work status, but the truth is, he already knows they don't have it." He put a cigarette in his mouth but didn't offer me one. I took out one of my own.

"I didn't know Senator McGowen was from New York. I thought he represented Arkansas." I asked, only because he was expecting me to say something about the illegal workers.

"He has a business partner in New York. Someone he went to school with. The Senator is listed as a director." Munro replied. "Charlotte Grey was an intelligent young woman." He continued. "I thought it was unlikely that she would be unaware, but she seemed to have a blind spot for him." I thought about that last comment for a while.

"Why would it be unlikely that she was unaware?" I asked him. "Just because she was intelligent, doesn't mean she was privy to his business dealings." I thought it was a fair question, but Munro became agitated at my lack of background knowledge. He wanted me to jump onboard with him and take everything he said at face value. I've been in this business too long to take anyone at face value.

"She was involved with the business." Munro told me.

"How did you approach her?" I asked.

"Ambushed her when she was hitting the shops. I wanted to make sure he wasn't around. I told her I knew what was going on and I won't leave her alone until she talks to me." My brow furrowed. I didn't like where this was going. There have been plenty of times when overzealous journalists crossed a line and started harassing people to get a story. I didn't want to be involved with one.

"You hounded her until she would give you want you wanted." I spoke my thought out loud. Munro smirked.

"Don't act so high and mighty, pal." His smile grew, making his face even more unlikable. "I'm providing a valuable public service. People have a right to know what's going on."

"People have a right not to be harassed by a shit-kicking heel." I told him. He laughed. "So, you're telling me you put her in a tight spot. You made it clear you wouldn't leave her alone until she caved." He put his arms up in an exaggerated shrug. The grin didn't go anywhere.

"Once I get wind of a good story, there's no getting rid of me. I'm not gonna get soft over some tramp." I felt a strong urge to hit him. I took a deep drag on my cigarette instead.

"What about the factory?" I asked him.

"Before I tell you anymore, anything you find out, you give me the story. Deal?" I didn't want to make a deal with him, and I could find out anything I needed to know about the factory on my own. I took a twenty out.

"Thanks for your time." As he reached for it, I crumpled it up and dropped it in a puddle before walking back to my car. As much as I wanted to hit him, it wasn't worth it. If I put myself on his radar, he could, and probably would, make trouble for me. I called Detective Stiles and asked to meet her at the Coffee Spot in the morning. By now it was late. The moon was reflected in the puddles and shimmered as they were disturbed by footfalls and tyres.

Chapter seven

I sat in the same booth I occupied the previous day. Some of the regulars at the counter had kept their same seats; an unspoken agreement between them. The waitress was in the same position, but with a new magazine. It was as if they were reliving the same day in their own little bubble. Every day at The Coffee Spot was Groundhog Day. I looked up from my coffee as Detective Stiles sat across from me.

"What did you make of Munro?" She asked me.

"I've seen enough of his type." I answered dismissively. I felt unclean from my encounter with him. "I understand there was a witness in the building opposite." The waitress was filling Stiles' coffee as I spoke. She thanked her and took a sip before she answered. The smell of her freshly poured coffee filled my nostrils and cleansed my senses like a warm breeze.

"Katherine Johnson." She looked up as she pulled the name from her memory. "Lives in an apartment building across the road. Just happened to be looking out the window at the right time and saw the whole thing." She sounded like she didn't believe it.

"Bad timing for her to look out her window and see something like that." I said, not quite believing it myself. Coincidences happen, sure. But there was something a little too convenient about this one. "Do you have any more on her?" I asked. Stiles frowned and leaned forward. She pushed the handle of the cup in a circle.

"Not much. Enough to say she's a real person, but I was told to stop looking too closely at her. She had given her statement, and I should leave it at that." I asked Stiles for Katherine Johnson's address, then drove home to see that my front door had been fixed. My super had been looking after me pretty well ever since I helped him a few months ago. His daughter had fallen in love with a bad person and disappeared. I found her, helped her break free from him after she realised that he wasn't the lovable rogue she thought he was, and the relationship between father and daughter had never been stronger. I tidied up the mess from the break-in and took the broken furniture away. After, I sat with a drink and smoked. After a while, I called Eddie Russell.

"Sergeant Russell." He answered.

"Hi Eddie, it's Jack." I drained the rest of the whiskey in the glass and refilled it.

"Hiya Jack. What's up?"

"Did you get anywhere with the fingerprints from my apartment?" I asked him

"After excluding yours, we had fresh prints from one person. Didn't get any matches, though. They're not in the system. Witnesses saw a black male, approximately 6.2"

"Tattoo on his forehead?"

"Can't say. He was wearing a baseball cap." I thanked him and we both said goodbye.

I found Katherine Johnson's condominium on the corner of 13th and O street. It was a big, white stone building surrounded by trees and parks. I stood outside the main entrance and looked across the road. I couldn't tell much from the ground level, but unless she had a telescope, it would've been difficult to see the senator's building from here. I walked in and headed to the elevator. The hallways were painted in neutral colours with photos of landscapes spaced far apart on the walls. My footsteps echoed loudly as I walked, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood. Out of the elevator, I turned right and found the witness's apartment. I knocked and waited. There was a television playing on the other side of the door and it went silent after my knock. A few seconds later the door opened slightly. The chain prevented the door from opening any further. Maybe it was a rougher neighbourhood than it looked. Or maybe she was worried about something. I smiled my friendliest smile and introduced myself while handing her one of my cards.

"What do you want?" She asked. Her eyes were wide. A cigarette burned between her fingers. The golden ember close enough that she must've felt it, if her mind wasn't distracted. She had bags under nervous, squinted eyes that kept darting left and right.

"I was hoping to speak to you about what you witnessed. The terrible accident." I tried to sound calm and unthreatening.

"I already spoke to the police." She spoke too quickly and tried to close the door, but I had my foot in the way.

"Forgive me for intruding, madam. I'm working for a third party. I'm trying to get a sense of the geography. Do you mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?" She didn't want me to, I could see it in her eyes. But at the same time, she didn't want me to suspect anything about her. The conflict played out on her face like a one woman show, and I had a front row seat. Eventually she sighed and closed the door. I heard the chain moving and the door opened again, this time all the way and she stepped aside to let me enter.

"Do you want coffee?" She avoided my gaze as she walked through to the kitchen, and started making coffee before I had a chance to answer. I said yes to the coffee anyway. Sometimes accepting a drink helps to ease the tension. I followed her into the kitchen. She had a minimalistic home. There were no paintings on the walls, just black and white photos of buildings. There weren't many signs that anyone lived here at all. It gave the impression of a show home, and she was the estate agent showing me around.

"I can't imagine what you went through." I said as she had her back to me, preparing the coffee. "It's an awful thing to see. How are you coping? Did the police offer you any counselling?" I tried my best to sound concerned.

"It was very traumatic for me. I've had to live through it again and again for the police. I don't want to have to go through it anymore. I'm trying to put it behind me." She was using the right words, but they didn't sound right when she spoke them. She sounded like she had memorised a script. An actor playing a role that they just couldn't connect with. I thanked her for the coffee and stepped into the living room. I heard her follow behind, shuffling her feet on the floor as she went. I walked straight over to the balcony and looked out at the view.

"Beautiful." I said with a smile. "A view like that is worth the price tag." I stepped closer. The trees danced in the wind. I squinted my eyes to see the building across the road. "Is that the building, over there?" I asked her. She was making me carry the conversation, reluctant to contribute. But I didn't mind.

"Yes, that's it." She replied nervously.

"You must have really good eyes." I turned to her and smiled.

"I think you should go." She said suddenly. "I'm expecting company." I doubted she was. She was reaching desperately for an excuse after deciding that she had made a mistake inviting me in. I decided I had seen enough and thanked her again for the coffee I hadn't touched before heading out the door. I turned around to wish her a good day, but the door was already closed. As I walked to my car I looked ahead and saw a figure leaning against a streetlamp. His hands were in his pockets, and he was staring at the ground. His clothes were bland and unremarkable. If a person was to try really hard not to be noticed, this is how he would dress. As I walked past him, I saw the alley and realised too late I was stood between them. In the alley were another two men, similarly dressed.

"Buddy, you got a light?" The leaning man asked. As he did so, the other two started to move in. I looked around at them and considered my chances.

"Do you really need one?" I asked him back. I knew what was coming and I was trying to stall until I had a plan.

"Not really." He answered. They moved quickly and surrounded me. I couldn't keep more than two of them in my field of vision and I couldn't back away without needing to get past at least one of them. The blow came from behind. Something hit my head, and I fell forward. I stepped into the fall and lunged at the man in front with all I had. There was no point turning to the attacker behind me, as I would be left vulnerable no matter which way I was facing. The best I could hope for was to make sure at least one of them regretted waking up that morning. My right fist connected with his jaw, while my left hand took hold of his shirt collar. Another blow from behind brought me to my knees. I could feel the pain, but my adrenaline kept me going. I reached out with my left hand and grabbed the back of the leaner's knee and used all my weight to push him over. Once he was down, I rained as many blows down on his face as I could before I was stopped. I felt a boot connect with my kidney and I fell off him, onto my side. Another boot, or maybe the same one, was brought down on my face. I rolled onto my back and lay there. I took a few more kicks before they'd had enough.

"You were told to walk away." The leaner said, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Next time, walking won't be an option." They left and I lay there a little while longer. When I found the strength, I stood up and found my car. I sat down in the driver's seat and lit a cigarette. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for a moment. When I felt ready, I drove home with the windows down, feeling the cool breeze. When I got to my apartment, I dropped a couple of aspirin and splashed some water on my face. The man staring back in the bathroom mirror wasn't me. He was a stranger. His face was bruised and bloodied and swollen. I didn't like him. I told him as much before going to bed.

The next morning, I was in my office going through my routine. I opened the window, and a fly landed on my desk. It could've been a different one, but I liked to think that my old friend had come back. I called the Greys and asked them to come by when possible so I can update them on my progress. I then started making calls and leaving messages, sending emails, to see if I could get in the same room as Senator McGowan. Chances are, he wouldn't want to see me. I don't take it personally, it's amazing how many people don't want to talk to me. I sat down in my chair and drank my coffee. I started thinking about the glove, the Kara Kesh. Once again, I had the feeling Dr Longmore knew more than he was letting on.

Mr Grey sat across from me. He had accepted the coffee and a cigarette this time. He apologised for his wife not being with him. She was unwell. Has been ever since they received news about their daughter. I suspected that, had his wife been here, he wouldn't have accepted the cigarette.

"I have made some progress since we last spoke." I told him. He looked at my bruised face.

"I'm sorry I got you involved, Mr Pearson." He seemed to genuinely mean it.

"Please don't be sorry, Mr Grey. The occasional beating seems to come with the job, lately. And you were right to suspect something. There's no way the witness was able to see what she says she saw. Also, the police were told to sit on the investigation. The best we can hope for is to cast doubt on the cause of death and put some pressure on them to reopen the case. I'm happy to carry on if you are." My client agreed to continue with the investigation, and I promised to update him regularly. The only motive I could find for Charlotte Grey's murder was that Michael Munro was making waves, and she was the weak link. If Munro was right, Senator McGowan had a reason to kill her. But also, whether he was right or not, she may have felt trapped. She may have seen suicide as her only way out.

I was walking the nature trail at Rock Creek Park. I couldn't get Dr Livingstone's words out of my head. Longmore's case had taken a sharp left turn, and I didn't know where I was. I didn't feel that I could come to him with talk of aliens. I had the photos, but didn't yet understand what they meant. I wanted to know who Dr Longmore really was, what he wasn't telling me. Who these tattoo brothers are, why they all wanted this Kara Kesh. I got in my car and drove to see my client. It was time he gave me some answers.

The sky was clear blue with a few clouds in the distance. I didn't admire the trees and open green parks this time. I drove on autopilot, trying to make sense of everything. Dr Longmore hired Charles McKenzie to retrieve an ancient Egyptian glove that he claimed was stolen by his friend and colleague, Dr Randolph Haynes. McKenzie had found it. Something spooked him and he hid the glove before someone got to him. Haynes was dead, and it was likely me who lead the killer right to him. A two-man team was turning the city upside down looking for this glove as well. It was likely they killed McKenzie and Haynes, along with Haynes' girlfriend who was just unlucky to have been involved with the wrong man. Longmore had all but confirmed that the glove wasn't his. He knew enough to know where to send a team of scientists; He knew the glove would be there. Was whatever spooked McKenzie the same thing that Livingstone had discovered?

Dr Longmore was growing impatient with the detective's lack of progress. A lot of things had changed over the years. He assured himself that this was perfectly natural; change was the only true constant. His wife had grown distant. Yet it was his lack of concern that interested him the most. Despite her affairs, he could never take his mind off the mysteries of Ancient Egypt. It was perplexing that he couldn't understand from where exactly this interest had come, nor could he understand where this intuition came from that caused him to send archaeologists to exactly the right place to make these discoveries. Whenever he tried to think about precisely when his new interest began, his mind started to wonder, almost as if the thought itself possessed some sort of defence mechanism that kept him from looking too deeply. It was around the same time the headaches started. He would take the strongest painkillers available over the counter. Something in his subconscious stopped him from seeing a doctor. They would do tests, possibly scan his brain in search of answers. He didn't want that. Although he didn't know why. There it was again. His mind didn't want anyone looking too deeply. That same thing that stopped him from looking inwards, stopped him from seeing the connection. The headaches started when the whispers did and the whispers told him of Ancient Egypt, of power and of secrets untold. They seemed to come to him in dreams, but he knew that couldn't really be it. Perhaps his subconscious picked up on them from the many books he had been reading. Yes, that had to be it. As for the voice that spoke these secrets, maybe he was simply losing his mind. Dr Longmore allowed himself a chortle as he sat on his couch, sinking into it comfortably. He was wearing his housecoat with a small revolver in one of the pockets. This was another strange development. He had never shown any interest in guns; he never had any need for them. The idea of owning a gun was something else that came to him seemingly through his subconscious, possibly in his dreams. No matter how much he tried to relax, the feeling of the gun next to him made it impossible. With the help of a small brandy, Philip Longmore closed his eyes and was able to find some rest.

Longmore didn't think he had fallen asleep, but he was suddenly startled into alertness. The sound of footsteps could be heard outside the room. It was probably his wife. He couldn't remember if he'd sent Eric on another errand; he had kept him busy recently. Something inside him sensed a presence entering the room and his gun was in his hand. He didn't remember reaching for it. It was as though he was no longer in control. Was it instinct causing him to act without thinking? No, that wasn't it. The man who now stood at the other side of the room was somehow familiar. However, he had never seen him before. The intruder was big. His skin was a dark brown, Umber with undertones of bronze. On his forehead was some sort of tribal tattoo. He both recognised this man and didn't. As if there were two sets of memories in his mind. He wanted to run, but he couldn't move. He raised the gun and fired. He tried not to, but his body was no longer his. The intruder was struck by a bullet, but it didn't slow him down. The intruder had a staff in his hands and was levelling it at Longmore. Longmore squeezed the trigger once more but was struck by a bolt of light. He fell back onto the couch. The intruder, having completed his mission, turned and left the way he had come in.

Upstairs, Mrs Longmore was on the phone to her lover. Her heart was racing with anticipation. Something that hadn't happened for her husband in a long time. She smiled as her lover made promises and suggestions that made her blush. He was a few years younger and always knew just what to say. He was informing Mrs Longmore of his plans for her later when a loud noise from downstairs made her leap out of her chair. Suddenly filled with panic and fear, she ran to the upstairs landing but lacked the courage to venture any further. Without another word, she hung up the phone and dialled 911. Another loud sound, and a third. She had finally built up the courage to run down the stairs and find out what had happened. Her husband lay lifeless on the couch. A dam burst somewhere inside her, and all the feelings and memories came flooding back. Here was the man she married, the man she loved. Whatever happened between them in recent years was now a distant memory. She ran to him and held his head in her lap. A sudden cough startled her and filled her with a newfound hope. He was still alive! His eyes, now open, looked up at her in wonder. She stroked his face and smiled down on him, trying to reassure him. Her husband looked like he wanted to say something. He opened his mouth, but instead, a howl that sounded almost animal came from deep within. A snakelike creature emerged from Longmore's mouth. His wife jumped back but it was too late. It lunged up and into her mouth as she tried to scream. Dr Longmore shuddered with convulsions and was gone. Mrs Longmore stood, staring down at her dead husband with curious eyes. She knew the police would be here soon. She knew a lot of things she never knew before. She knew why her husband had become distant. She knew who killed her husband, but how? She had never met him. She had a newfound purpose that she didn't understand. She tried to move but couldn't. Her body was no longer responding to her. Perhaps this was how it felt to be in shock. Yes, that was it. She just needed time.

Chapter eight

The first thing I saw was the flashing lights. The place was crawling with cops; both in uniform and plain clothes, and I could pick out a few feds in the crowd. I heard police chatter on radios as I walked up to the yellow tape. Eddie Russell was there. He saw me and waved me through.

"What happened?" I asked him. He looked tired. I could see the bags under his eyes.

"Dr Longmore was found dead by his wife." Eddie told me. A couple of uniforms came and talked to him for a moment, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. "Wanna tell me what you're doing here?"

"He hired me for a job." I replied, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. I offered the pack to Eddie, but he refused. I looked around at the scene being played out before me.

"Any idea who'd wanna kill 'im?" Eddie asked, bringing my mind back to where we were. I thought about the two tattooed men. I killed one, which meant one was still out there. I looked at Eddie and shook my head.

"No." I don't know why I lied. Not being forthcoming with the police was sometimes an occupational hazard for me, but I usually had a good reason. I guess this time I was just playing for time. The surviving half of the tattoo brothers was the most likely suspect, but I wanted a crack at him before I let the police in on what I knew. "Mind if I take a look around?" He sighed and gave me a resigned nod.

"Take these with you, Jack." He picked out a spare pair of disposable gloves from somewhere and handed them to me.

I slowly made my way into the house. There were no signs of a disturbance in the hall. I had only seen a few of the rooms in my previous visits, I walked into a lounge. A thick, oxblood rug lay on the hardwood floor. A leather sofa sat flanked by two matching armchairs. A grand piano stood idly in one corner. I suspected it was more for decoration than anything else. A drinks globe was open in the opposite corner. Dr Longmore was sat on the sofa, leaning back, looking up at the ceiling. He looked relaxed except for the hole in his chest. The hole didn't look like a bullet hole. The shirt was burnt and the skin surrounding the wound was scorched. I thought about the hole that was left in the bus shelter, glowing around the edge. This was caused by the same weapon. Blood had splattered on the rug but was hard to see over the already deep red colour. There was also blood around his mouth and on his chin, suggesting he had been coughing up blood. On the wall opposite the sofa, a table lay broken, and a bullet was lodged in the wall. There was blood there too. I walked back outside and found Eddie leaning on the hood of his car.

"What made you come here tonight?" He asked me. His eyes were studying me.

"Some pieces weren't fitting together. I was hoping he could tell me something." Eddie looked back at the house.

"I think you got everything you're going to get." He said turning back.

"I guess you're right." I said with a sigh. "Any suspects? Witnesses?"

"Not so far. The wife found him, like I said. We reckon that the bullet in the wall came from Longmore's gun, a .38 snub. It's registered in his name, but we can't find it anywhere. Why did he hire you?" The sudden shift in conversation was a well-used interrogation technique. Maybe Eddie was hoping I was as tired as he was.

"One of the items in his collection was stolen. He wanted me to find it." I didn't want to complicate things by throwing doubt on his ownership. He thought about that for a while.

"Something worth killing for?" He asked me.

"I figure it was valuable, but why would he be killed over something he didn't have?" Eddie conceded that one to me with a nod and half smile.

"The glove in the photo you showed me." Eddie said. I nodded

"Need me to stick around?" I asked.

"Not unless you've got anything to add."

"Mind if I talk to Mrs Longmore before I go?"

"Sure, Jack." I thanked him and walked away.

Sitting on a garden chair, wrapped in blankets, was Mrs Longmore. She had a faraway stare. She didn't notice me approach or seemed not to.

"My condolences, Mrs Longmore." I offered her a cigarette. She didn't look up, didn't react in any way, except to repeat "Mrs Longmore" as if the name sounded foreign to her. There was another garden chair a few feet away. I dragged it over so I could sit next to her.

"Is there anything I can do?" I asked her.

"I was planning on divorcing him. I suppose this works out better." She seemed to be talking to herself, but then she turned to face me.

"I wouldn't talk that way when you're surrounded by this much law." I told her.

"It's what they'll be thinking." She was probably right about that. I knew they didn't have much of a happy marriage by the end, but I didn't know much about the beginning.

"Is there anything you can tell me?" I asked her. She looked perplexed.

"Why do you want to help me? You were working for my husband."

"That I was. But with him dead, that doesn't mean the case is over, just altered slightly."

"I suppose you're still looking to get paid." It was an ugly but fair comment. "Do you have the glove?" I was more than a bit surprised by that question.

"Forgive me for saying, Mrs Longmore, but you didn't seem too interested in the glove before, and you don't strike me as the sentimental type." She smiled. It wasn't the same smile she had shown me the last time we spoke. This one seemed sad, and full of regret. Thinking of what was and what could have been.

"We weren't always like this, Mr Pearson. At one time, we were very much in love. We had a good marriage. We didn't have children; I wanted to keep my figure and we both wanted to enjoy our freedom."

"So, what changed?" Without realising, I had a fresh cigarette in my mouth. I lit it and breathed in deeply.

"He did." I offered her the pack again, and this time she accepted. I held out my lighter for her, thinking she would take it. Instead, she leaned forward with the cigarette in her mouth anticipating that I would light it for her, so I did. "It was a few years ago, now. He grew distant. I guess the spark went out. These things happen. After so many years, it's only natural to lose some of your affection for the person you once loved. We did well to last as long as we did." I noticed her use of the word "spark". I got the feeling that this wound was still fresh, despite the years since. "I started looking for love elsewhere, I suppose. It's easy enough to find if you have money. As long as you don't look too deeply. As long as you don't ask them too many questions, you can lie to yourself." Eddie was suddenly standing next to me.

"Let's take a drive." He said.

"Where to?" I asked him.

"Come with me." He started walking. I said goodbye to Mrs Longmore, and that I would speak to her tomorrow. Eddie Russell was waiting in his car. I got in next to him and asked where we were going, but he didn't answer.

We drove to Marshall Heights in near silence. Only the faint sound of the radio could be heard. Stevie Ray Vaughn was singing about it flooding down in Texas. The inside of the car smelled like cigarettes and fast food. It was starting to rain here as well as on the radio. A few drops, barely noticeable, but increasing with frequency until it became a steady downpour. The wipers squeaked as they rubbed against the windscreen, moving back and forth. Hammers falling on the roof of the car drowned out the music, so the volume was turned up. Eventually we pulled up outside a small house on the corner of 53rd and Drake. The house looked like every other house on the block. Non-descript, well-kept lawn, tidy. Eddie pulled into the drive, put the handbrake on and killed the engine. We were about to get out when he stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"Whatever happens in there, whatever he asks, don't lie and do whatever he says." We both got out and walked to the front door. He didn't run. He was a tough guy who didn't care about getting wet. Not to be outdone, I walked too. Taking it easy as I waited for him to knock and for someone inside to answer. The inside of the house was as non-descript as the outside. There were no paintings hanging on the neutral-coloured walls, a couple of armchairs that weren't too cheap, but weren't expensive. The downstairs was open plan. The man who answered had a stocky build and no neck. He didn't say a word as we entered and retook his position by the door. He had taken his jacket off, so was just wearing the shirt and tie. There was a holstered gun at his hip, and a long-barrelled shotgun leaned against the wall nearest the kitchen area. Between the two armchairs was a small table. On the table was a file.

"What is this place?" I asked. "FBI safehouse?"

"Not FBI, NID." The blonde-haired agent I saw at Capital Heights came around the corner like something out of a comic book. He walked over to the table and beckoned for me to join him. I paused for a moment. I didn't want to walk over straight away. For some reason, I wanted to see his reaction if he had to ask me again. He didn't ask, just stared at me. I stared back and then slowly walked over to join him. He took out a pen and handed it to me.

"What's NID?" I asked him.

"Need to know." He became more of a cliché with every word that came out of his mouth.

"This is a non-disclosure agreement. Sign it." He ordered.

"How about you start telling me what's going on?"

"I will do, as soon as you've signed this non-disclosure agreement." He sat back in his chair with the air of confidence of a man in charge. He had me right where he wanted me; this was his sandbox, and he wanted me to know it. I didn't speak. "A lot of people have died around you these last few days."

"What do you know about it?" I asked him.

"Sign your name and find out." After a long pause and some staring, I decided I couldn't read his mind. I gave up trying and signed.

The stranger watched from outside as the two detectives, one police, the other private, walked into the house on the corner. He had been watching the private detective for some time now. Just as he had watched the last one. He was about to uncover some secrets that should stay buried. Some of these secrets, he thought the detective must suspect, others, he couldn't begin to comprehend. Whether he believed them or not, it was dangerous letting him get that close to the truth. He had disagreed with his employer in that regard but knew better than to question him. Instead, he would watch, and when the detective got too close, he would be dealt with. Like his predecessor. Like the others.

"Where's the hand device?" The man whose name was Agent Glass asked me, getting right down to business.

"What hand device?" I tried to act innocent.

"Don't play games with me. Where is it?"

"Okay. My question first." I fished the photos and message out of my pocket and dropped them on the table. "What the hell is going on?" Glass picked up the photos and studied them.

"I have no idea." It was his turn to act innocent.

"Look, I signed your goddamn non-disclosure, so cut the bullshit and tell me!" I wasn't angry but wanted him to think I was losing my cool. He thought about it for a while.

"What would you say if I told you the man you killed was an alien?"

Sor was not a ruler, and he had no intention of being one. Sor was, to find a suitable Earth comparison, middle management material. He knew his place and he liked it. So it was, he came to be aboard a Ha'tak mothership in service of Ba'al. Sor was good at picking winners and knew early on to pitch his wagon to Ba'al's star. As long as he demonstrated his usefulness, but didn't show too much usefulness he wouldn't be regarded as a threat. The Tau'ri were a threat. Sor picked up on this, if anything, because of their sheer numbers. They had proven themselves to be formidable in battle, had developed technology far beyond what the Gua'uld believed them to be capable of. The System Lords were arrogant and that would be their downfall. He didn't share these thoughts with anyone, choosing instead to keep them to himself while he watches events unfold. He knew that those who were like him could not be trusted.

When Dakara was chosen as the final battleground, Sor took his servant, Arrik, on a fact-finding mission. If there was another way to squash the Jaffa rebellion, Sor was going to find it. Their journey led them to the Tau'ri home world. Sor used the equipment aboard his tel'tak cargo ship to monitor Earth's involvement, which is how he came to learn of the Jaffa victory. He had no plans to return, surely only death awaits him now. Instead, he would find a new host and try not to draw any attention to himself. Sor would find a new life amongst the people of the Tau'ri. He had watched them closely from his ship and it was clear to him that a life of comfort would be easily obtained. But while he did not share his Goa'uld brothers' ambition, he did suffer from their greed. Soon it wasn't enough to live in hiding. There was Goa'uld technology on this planet, and he knew where to find it. All he had to do was whisper to his new host and gently guide him. It wouldn't happen quickly, but Sor was patient.

While Sor was making plans for gaining wealth and power on Earth, on the planet Dakara, having fought hard to defeat their oppressors, the newly formed Free Jaffa Nation was finding its way on the galactic stage. There were those who weren't satisfied with simply winning their freedom, they wanted their former lords to suffer as they had suffered. But there were those who believed to build their new civilisation, they must lay down their arms. The threat of civil war brewed under the surface; the irony lost to all but a few. While the council debated, rumour spread of a Goa'uld who had escaped retribution. Dar'tec, formerly in the service of Shifam, before denouncing the false god and giving the lie to his claim of immortality, and his brother-at-arms, Amak, were secretly dispatched to find the Goa'uld. Dar'tec and Amak had served together for more years than the average human would live. Their bond only grew stronger after they conspired to end Shifam's life and then fought side-by-side at the battle of Dakara. Together, they would send a clear message to any surviving Goa'uld; they should fear the Jaffa; their former slaves.

"I ask you again." Agent Glass didn't raise his voice. He had a remarkable ability to remain calm when others wouldn't. "Where is the hand device?"

"I don't know." I answered truthfully, but he didn't believe me. His eyes gave it away.

"Where is it?" He asked again. "Your client has no more use for it, so you might as well hand it over. I'm sure I can arrange for you to be compensated for your trouble."

"I don't know. I found it, then someone found me. When I woke up, it was gone." The pain in my head reminded me of the encounter.

"Who do you think has it?" I figured the tattooed man was the most likely suspect. He made it clear he wanted it in that first meeting.

"Can you scan for alien tech, or something?" The look he gave me was one of amusement and condescension. I felt like a child trying to join a grown up's conversation. I was out of my depth, and I knew it. I looked over at Eddie. He was busy staring at the floor.

I didn't feel like contributing any more to the conversation without knowing more, myself. Eddie drove me back to the Longmore house where my car was still parked.

"What isn't he telling me?" I asked my friend. I saw his eyes look in my direction.

"A lot of things, Jack." His eyes returned to the road. "You've gotten yourself involved in something big. The worst of it is behind us, but we're not out of the woods yet. We need to find that glove and get if off the streets."

"Did you find anything of use?" I nodded my head out the window at Longmore's house, still decorated with yellow tape, but the cops and feds had moved on. Eddie shook his head.

"Nothing. Wanna take another look?" We agreed and got out of the car. Eddie went to the front door while I circled around to the back of the house, through the garden, past the greenhouses and flowerbeds. For all the garden furniture on the patio, it might as well have been another living room. It was laid out with sofas, armchairs and strategically placed small tables. I found the back door and tried it. It was locked, but I didn't expect any different. I took out my trusted lockpick and opened the door, stepping into a large conservatory. It was tastefully decorated; nothing garish, merely simple with a couple of armchairs, a mini bar in one corner. A few potted plants and cactuses. I carried on, deeper into the house. The hallways all looked the same as the ones I had encountered on my first visit. The living room hadn't changed. The bloodstains and bullet holes still in place. I searched the downstairs rooms and could hear Eddie making his way through the rooms upstairs. I found the library and museum, along with a few other rooms, the purpose of which I was unsure. I crept up the stairs. I hadn't seen or heard anyone, but the sound of my heart pounding was deafening. So much so that I was sure anyone else in the house would have heard it. Eddie found me in the museum.

"Anything?" He asked. I shook my head. "Quite a collection he had." Eddie looked around at the artefacts and walked to the end of the room. He stopped and knelt down, looking at the floor.

"What's up?" I asked him.

"This is a ring platform." He told me. I walked over to see a big metal ring on the floor. I couldn't make anything of it, but the look on Eddie's face told me he could. He had made it clear he knew more than he was letting on. He gave it away with the glove, and by even staying in the room at the NID safehouse, and now here with this giant ring on the floor. I decided now was as good a time as any.

"What's going on, Eddie? You've known something from the moment I showed you that photo." He stood up and looked at me. I could tell he was deciding how much he could tell me. "I signed Glass' NDA. If there's more to this than you've told me, I think I need to know." Eddie's head dropped and so did his shoulders as he sighed.

"Okay Jack, you're right." He leaned against the pedestal. "I told you I was in the Marines, didn't I?"

"Sure." I replied. "Fought in the Gulf, didn't you?"

"I told you that, but no. I was with a top-secret faction, based in Cheyenne Mountain. This alien, this…Goa'uld. They were bad news. We were in a war against them."

"So, what about this?" I pointed to the large metal ring before us.

"Short range transportation device. If he had one of these, it means he must've had a ship in orbit somewhere. Cloaked, otherwise we would've seen it."

"I take it that's where the glove is." I thought out loud.

"That would make most sense."

"Can it get us there?" He looked around before squatting down.

"The control crystal's been removed." I pretended to know what he was talking about. "You head off, Jack. I've got some calls to make." I wasn't happy with him keeping me at arm's length, but I understood. I got in my car and drove home.

Chapter nine

The next morning, I didn't want to get out of bed. I reached for my cigarettes and smoked while thinking about aliens. I still had a decision to make, and a possible murder to solve. That gave me the willpower to get out of bed, get dressed and drive to my office. Once I had completed my morning ritual, I sat at my desk with a coffee. I don't know for how long I sat there. I reached for my coffee, and it was cold. I thought about Longmore's relationship with Haynes. If the Goa'uld has been here for as long as the NID think, and he's been adding to his collection all this time, maybe Haynes wasn't the only one he was sending on these errands. Before I could take that thought any further, two men in suits came in without knocking, opened the door to my office and made themselves at home. The one stood by the door, staring me down, was over six foot and had a heavy weight boxer's build. His bald head caught the sunlight, giving it a yellow glow. He stood rigid in a black suit and tie. I could see in his eyes that he was dangerous. The man who had sat down in my guest chair was leaning back quite casually. His brown hair was close cropped. He looked at the coffee filter and smiled.

"Two sugars for me." I looked from him to the man behind him, back to him, to the coffee filter and back to him again.

"What about you friend?" I asked, trying to sound hospitable.

"He doesn't drink coffee." He was still smiling. I poured the coffee, added the sugar and stirred before placing it on the side of the desk closest to him. I sat down but didn't talk. He slowly lifted the cup and took a sip. "This is some pretty nasty coffee. You really should have something better-quality for your guests."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Do that. This isn't drinkable." He made an exaggerated face and put the cup back on the desk. "You're to come with us." He said finally.

"And why is that?"

"Our employer doesn't like you nosing around in his affairs." He stood up and walked out, expecting me to follow. The bruiser waited for me to move and stayed behind me. We arrived at their black town car, and I was told to get in.

"If it's all the same to you, I'll take my car and follow you."

"No need for that. Come on, ride up front." He said, still smiling.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'd rather take my car. Don't wanna get stranded somewhere." He shrugged with a tilt of the head.

"Have it your way. I'll ride with you in your car." He turned to his friend. "Pete, you follow us." The big, bald man nodded and got behind the wheel. I did the same with my car and waited for the talker to get in next to me.

"Where to?" I asked him. I was weighing my options. He didn't stop smiling the whole time.

"How's this for some magic? I can read your mind. I know you're waiting for your moment to turn the tables. However, anything happens to me, and you'll have a closed casket." I drove, following his directions and ended up downtown. I spotted a blue ford tailing us. I didn't say anything to my passenger, in my head I thought of all the possible people who might have a reason for keeping an eye on me and decided that was a problem for later and brought my mind back to where I was. There weren't many houses in this neighbourhood, and each one wasn't quite big enough to have a street to itself. An iron gate was opened remotely from somewhere and my guide told me to drive through. I knew where we were, and who their employer was. I had seen this house on the news, and on the front pages every day for a week. A white haired, grey skinned, thin man greeted us at the door. I was about to go in when smiler stopped me with one hand.

"Hand over the rod." He ordered. I used my left hand to retrieve the gun from the holster and handed it over. He nodded to Pete, who started to pat me down.

"I've only got the one." I told them both, trying to be helpful. After they had their fun, I was escorted into a tastefully decorated study. An oak wood desk in one corner, landscape paintings on the walls and the opposite wall lined with bookshelves. In the middle, between the bookshelves, was a drinks cabinet. In the middle of the room was a glass coffee table and couch with two matching armchairs. Sitting behind his desk with a brandy glass in one hand was Mr Charm himself, the hero of the people, Senator Kurtis McGowan. He wore a black three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt and understated, striped tie.

"Thank you, Harvey." The man who rode with me took this as his cue to leave. The Senator beckoned with one hand for me to sit down opposite him. I did as I was instructed. "Drink?" He offered. For a potential killer and hirer of illegal immigrants, he knew when to play host. I accepted and the grey man brought me over a brandy. Senator McGowan eyed me over the rim of his glass.

"I understand you've been trying to get an appointment with me." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "What can I do for you?"

"I've been following the news about your fiancé's tragic accident. I wanted to offer my condolences." Mentioning Charlotte Grey so soon might have been a mistake, but I wanted to rattle him.

"I appreciate that, but you could have done it the same way everyone else did whom I don't know, and sent a card. Mind if I hazard a guess?" I thought the question was hypothetical, but he was waiting for me to answer. I told him I didn't mind. He smiled and drank from his brandy. I did likewise. "You're an ambulance chaser; a two-bit hustler; a cheap gumshoe. You heard some rumours, or maybe someone pointed you in my direction, and you thought you'd make some easy money. Blackmail money. I could have your license, your carry permit, and leave you stacking shelves in Walmart within a week." I drained my glass and stood up, walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured myself another.

"I can assure you, Senator, that I'm no blackmailer. I found some of the details weren't adding up. I believe Charlotte was under a lot of strain and you were under a lot of political pressure. I thought that if this wasn't an accident, then you of all people would want to know." He sat back in his seat and stared at me.

"Of course I would want to know. But the M.E.'s report was conclusive. Charlotte's parents have been through enough without their daughter's death being dragged through the mud, without her photo being everywhere they look." His voice was still calm, but his face was getting red. He knew how to handle himself under pressure. I told him I understood, finished my drink and started to walk out.

"By the way…" I stopped to turn around. "Is there any truth to the rumours that you're hiring illegal workers?" The red in his face grew a shade darker.

"No there is not. Now get out. If I find you're still nosing around, your life won't be worth living." I opened the door, and Harvey was waiting for me. His smile was back, or maybe it never left. He walked me to my car.

"Does your jaw never get tired?" I asked him, holding out my hand. I smiled at him and his smile somehow got wider. He handed me my piece and I turned over the engine before driving home. When I looked in the rear-view mirror, the blue ford was still with me. On the drive home I called Eddie and filled him in on my theory regarding Longmore. Eddie told me he would take a look at his phone records and see if any names jump out. There wasn't much else for me to do while I waited for Eddie to get back to me, and I figured tomorrow I would take a drive to New York and pay a visit to McGowan's factory. For now, I decided to give the blue ford the run around. I drove to The Bullhorn to shoot the breeze with Bobby. It stayed with me all the way, far back enough so I couldn't quite make out the driver. I assumed Agent Glass had put some of his people on me, but if he had, he would have used a big enough team that I wouldn't have seen them.

Bobby was busy dealing with deliveries and paperwork, so I sat in a quiet booth nursing a whiskey. I was staring at the photo of the glove. The Kara Kesh. I wasn't even sure what to call it. Dr Longmore called it a glove, but he was feigning ignorance. If he had called it a Kara Kesh, I suppose he might have thought I would suspect something, but truthfully, I don't think I would have thought anything of it. Agent Glass referred to it just as a Goa'uld hand device. It was the Jaffa who called it the Kara Kesh. Three names for the device, and three motives for wanting it. With Longmore dead, that left the Jaffa and Glass. Glass made his position clear, but I didn't know about the Jaffa. It could well be that they want the weapon for its power, just as Longmore, or Sor, did. I ordered the biggest burger on the menu and a beer. I hoped that whoever was tailing me brought an empty plastic bottle with them, because I was going to keep them there for a long time. I ate my food, drank a few beers, found a newspaper with an untouched crossword, read the paper cover to cover and completed the crossword. Finally, I decided it was time to head back to the office. The blue ford stayed with me all the way back and parked half a block away. When back in my office, I went to the window. They were close enough to see when I came and went, but not close enough for me to see them from here. I had the license plate and was about to call Eddie when the phone rang.

"Any closer to getting the hand device?" Agent Glass said when I answered.

"It's been less than twenty-four hours. At least give it two days before you start missing me."

"I'm getting impatient." He replied. Someone high up was leaning on him, wanting results.

"You wouldn't happen to have anyone tailing me, would you? In a blue ford?"

"Why would I wanna do that? Not to hurt your feelings, but you're not all that important."

"Stop it. I'm gonna cry." Once we had run out of nice things to say to each other, Agent Glass filled me in on the Longmore shooting now that he knew more. An autopsy had been carried out and revealed that there was no snake in Longmore's head. On a normal day, that would be like being told an autopsy revealed just the one heart. I'm sorry were you expecting something different? But in this case, it meant that the Goa'uld had survived and had likely found a new host. The two prime candidates were Mrs Longmore and Eric the butler. After we hung up I called Eddie to see if he could find out who was following me. I gave him the licence plate number and a description of the car.

McGowan was listed as a director and majority shareholder of Liberty Munitions factory in Brooklyn. It was roughly four hours by train from Washington Union Station. I got off at Nostrand Avenue just after six and found a cab to take me the rest of the way. The air on 36th street smelled of street food. But under that layer was a pungent, sickly-sweet smell. I found the factory on the corner, close to the water. Over the road was an all-night diner, so I took a seat by the window, drinking mud and burning cigarettes while I watched the building. Eventually, the lights went out, so I circled the building, looking for a way in. Some stone steps around the back led to a basement door. I managed to open it with my lockpick. I could see the cameras and heard the footsteps of security guards. I played hide-and-seek with them as I made my way through. I was looking for a personnel or human resources office; somewhere I could find names. The hallways were a maze of shiny, polished floors. Keeping my noise to a minimum took all my effort. I finally found some stairs and took them as high as they would go. At the top of the stairs was a door. I could hear footsteps on the other side, so I waited. When the footsteps had gone, I gently opened the door just enough to see a security guard's back. Once he turned the corner, I entered the hallway. Both sides were lined with doors. I tried each of them as I walked. Some were locked; some were storage rooms. Eventually, I found an open plan office. There were filing cabinets in one corner, desks spread out at regular intervals, like a classroom. Each desk had a set of drawers. I went through everything and found nothing useful. Some invoices, memos, safety data sheets. Nothing that would help me. I stepped back into the hallway to try the next door. The layout was much the same. I searched the drawers and cabinets and found a printout of an email from Julie Rothman, head of HR. The email was informing the recipients that all necessary background checks are carried out when recruiting, and any questions should be addressed to her and not to any of the directors. I kept digging but didn't find anything else. Back in the hallway, next to another door leading to another stairway, was a map telling me where I am. I searched the map for Julie Rothman or HR and found them to be one floor up. I climbed the stairs and stepped into a hallway that looked identical to the one I had left. The doors were in the same place, the storage rooms and bathrooms, I walked to the other end of the hallway and found a door marked HR. It was locked, so I let myself in using my lockpick. Inside were fewer desks than the other offices I had found. I looked through drawers and cabinets but only found a few mentions of recruitment processes in a general sense. Opposite the door I came in through was another. The name on the door was Julie Rothman. I opened the door, hopeful that I would find a smoking gun. Instead, when I entered, I found Harvey with that same grin, sat with his feet up on the desk.

"Hello Jack." I closed the door behind me. "Breaking and entering. What are we going to do with you?" He tutted at me like he was telling off a wayward child. "You were warned, Shamus." He pulled out a gun and levelled it at me. "Did you think you were sneaking around like a ninja, and no one saw you? We've got cameras, genius." I looked around the room for something to give me an edge. Harvey could end it all from there if he wanted. I wouldn't get to him before he pulled the trigger. He told me to turn around with my hands on my head. I did as he instructed and heard him stand up, pushing the chair back. I listened to his footsteps to gauge where he was in the room. I felt the gun pressed against my back as he reached into my holster and took my gun away. I heard it hit the floor when he threw it aside. He told me to open the door and step through to the other room. I did as he instructed. The door opened outwards, into the larger room. I took my chance and dropped to the floor and moved to the side while slamming the door back into him. I heard him stumble. The gun went off before the door had closed. I checked myself for injury, but the bullet impacted in the ceiling. I ducked behind one of the desks as he kicked the door open again. I could hear him breathing as he cautiously searched for me. The first thing I saw was his gun held out in front with both hands. I was crouched down to his right, behind one of the desks as he started to turn to my side. I leapt up and grabbed for the gun with both hands. I used the momentum and my weight to pull him down to the ground while we both had hold of his gun. His grip loosened as we hit the floor, and I pulled it away. With his gun now in my hand, I turned to face him and brought the gun down on his head. I brought it down again and he went limp. I checked for a pulse. He was still alive, but out of commission. I found some cables to tie his hands together and made my way back into Julie Rothman's office. I recovered my gun and started to look through the drawers. Her desk drawers were locked but I managed to get them open. There was nothing in them of any use. I tried the filing cabinet, again there was nothing. I sat on the chair leaning back and sighed. I looked at the desk drawers again. Something didn't look right. The bottom drawer should've been deeper. I tapped the bottom of it, and it gave off a hollow sound. I smiled as I removed the false bottom and found my smoking gun. There were pages of printouts from an email exchange. Kurtis McGowan had ordered Julie Rothman to delete the emails after reading, but instead she printed them as her insurance. The decision not to do background checks or check on their right-to-work status was McGowan's. Rothman knew she was in some hot water and did what she could to protect herself. It's possible she was the whistle-blower who approached Munro. In the corner of the office was a fax machine. Instead of taking the papers with me, I faxed them to my office and put everything back as I had found it. Harvey had his eyes open but was still in a daze when I walked past him.

"Your days are numbered, Gumshoe!" He shouted to me as I left. I snuck out the way I came in. Either the guards were in on it, or Harvey didn't tell them about his plan. But the fact that I was caught on camera was going to cause problems for me down the line. I found a cheap place to sleep and was back on the train to Washington in the morning.

Chapter ten

I spent the train journey going over everything I knew about Longmore. He started out as a medical doctor and founded, by all accounts, a very successful pharmaceutical company. His fascination with Ancient Egypt came after becoming host to the Goa'uld, Sor. He was a good candidate for Sor, but no more than many others. He was susceptible and had the resources. He had turned his house into a shrine dedicated to his obsession. The museum, the paintings and literature, the pyramid water feature in the drive. Eddie and I had searched his house top to bottom and reached the conclusion the glove was on a spaceship orbiting the planet. It made sense that Sor was there too, occupying a different body. The only option open to me was to wait for Eddie to come through. I took a cab home for a change of clothes. I then drove to my office. There was a message waiting for me when I began my morning ritual. After pouring a coffee, I sat down and listened to it. Eddie wanted me to call him, so I called him.

"Hi Eddie." I said after he answered.

"Jack, where you been?" He asked me. I told him about my visit to McGowan's home and subsequent visit to his factory in New York. I could tell he wasn't happy that I was still working the case, but he knew better than to say anything. Eddie went on to tell me that his team went through Longmore's phone records, emails and any other communications they could find. They had come up with three names: Jennifer Steinbeck, Adrian Harkwell, and Simon Donaldson."

"What can you tell me about them?" I asked.

"Jennifer Steinbeck is something of an explorer. She's spent a lot of time in Antarctica."

"Why's that significant?"

"Dr Longmore's been obsessed with Ancient Egypt. Why would he be interested in Antarctica?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me." I replied.

"It's been a location of interest for several years, but there is an extensive military presence there. Some of my former colleagues. If it was important to us, it would also be important to a Goa'uld."

"What about the other two?"

"Simon Donaldson moved in similar circles to Randolph Haynes, but the two of them never met. Adrian Harkwell is the only curve ball. I can't find anything on him."

"Then why mention him?"

"Because I can't find anything on him. Not a trace. Anyone who hides themselves that well is worth a look." I thanked Eddie for the names, and we hung up.

I switched on my computer and started digging. Simon Donaldson was an archaeologist who specialised in Mayans. From what I could find out, he was one of a few scientists who stipulated a connection to Ancient Egypt. There it was. That was the link. More digging and I found some of the papers he published. His theories were interesting, if a little far-fetched. A little more digging told me he was living in Chicago and gave lectures up and down the country, although most of the attention he got was from conspiracy theorists and other fringe scientists. I found his contact details and sent him an email asking about his relationship, if he had one, with Randolph Hayes, and with Philip Longmore. I didn't expect a reply anytime soon, so I moved onto the next name. Jennifer Steinbeck was born in America, her grandfather emigrated from Germany after the second world war. He married a number of women, one of whom gave birth to Jennifer who decided to keep the name. She was something of a bored socialite until something triggered her interest with Antarctica. There were rumours it came about when she made the acquaintance of British adventurer, Sir Charles Green. After an expedition to Antarctica, he was invited to give talks around the world. He brought with him truly fantastic stories and a few trinkets. Jennifer Steinbeck discussed in interviews how she attended one of his talks and had the pleasure of meeting him afterwards. She had the resources, connections and determination to make a name for herself. Over the years, her stories became more and more remarkable and less believable to all but those same conspiracy theorists. Getting hold of her was more challenging than sending an email. I had to fight my way through assistants, publicists, managers and swarms of sycophants. The best I could do for now was to leave a message and hope it gets to her. There were more things I could do, but I didn't want to go to those lengths just yet. The third name, Adrian Harkwell, was exactly as Eddie had described. Internet searches gave me several Adrian Harkwells, but none of them had any connections to Longmore, and none of them had any interest in fields that would be of any interest to Longmore. I knew some people I could talk to, so I put Harkwell on the back burner for now.

I bought a sandwich at the drugstore and found a bench at Rock Creek Park. A squirrel ran down a tree trunk, its eyes set on an acorn. It slowed its approach after seeing me, moving cautiously. While I sat watching, I reached for my pack of cigarettes and the sudden movement was enough to change its mind. It froze on the spot, torn between hunger and survival. Survival won out this time but eventually hunger would become desperation. If we were to meet again under similar circumstances, hunger may lead the squirrel to choose differently. I lit a cigarette while watching the squirrel run back up the same tree it came from. Back to familiar ground it knew to be safe. I thought about Sor. He had remained hidden for years and could have gone on that way for many more years if he hadn't gotten complacent. Sor had used Dr Longmore and disposed of him like a snake shedding its old skin. He had found a new home for himself and a new lease of life, and when the time came, he would repeat the pattern. A circle of death. Finding the spaceship was my best chance of finding Sor and the glove. Eddie had given me three names. I hoped one of them would point me in the right direction. I crushed the cigarette butt under my heel and walked back to my office.

Back behind my desk with a cigarette burning in the ashtray and a coffee sat next to it, I heard the buzz of a fly somewhere in the room. I decided my old friend had returned and toasted our friendship with my coffee. When I was done with that, I saw that I had received an email from Simon Donaldson. He had replied sooner than expected. His email contained a phone number and invitation to call him. He had a lot to say about Dr Longmore, most of it not fit for print. Longmore had offered to finance his expeditions, but only to specific locations. While the offer of funding had interested him, he didn't like there being so many conditions involved. Donaldson wanted to go where the research took him, Longmore wanted him to go where he was told. Another email arrived while we spoke. This one was from the manager for Jennifer Steinbeck, thanking me for my interest. She would pass on my details to Ms Steinbeck but could not promise that she would respond. However, the email signature did include a phone number and address for an office in Baltimore. It was an hour's drive to Charles Street. I wasn't sure what I was going to achieve, but I had a distinct lack of leads. With no better ideas forthcoming, I put on some Chet Baker and pointed my car at Baltimore.

Susan Turner had been a publicist for more than twenty years and in that time, had never progressed beyond D list celebrities. She thought she had what it took for the big leagues, but sadly, those who determined such things didn't agree with her. Her office on Charles Street was a second story room, with living quarters in the back. Putting on a front might get you noticed by the Hollywood elite, but front cost money, and that's something Susan Turner didn't have. She represented a couple of best-selling authors, a gameshow host and a few washed up actors. Jennifer Steinbeck was by far the biggest name on her roster, but despite having the attitude of a star, she wasn't as big a name as she thought she was. Susan had dismissed the email from some private detective and sent the usual non-committal response, but the mention of Dr Philip Longmore gave her a pause. She was almost certain that she had heard the name mentioned at some point by her client. She couldn't decide if she should tell Jennifer Steinbeck about the email. The adventurer had a habit of reacting poorly and rather unpleasantly when she thought her time was being wasted. Despite her friendly persona and warm smile, Jennifer Steinbeck was volatile and the source of most of Susan Turner's headaches. But was also the main reason she had remained solvent.

Charles street was quiet. It was mostly residential with a few shops and bars. I managed to pull up outside Susan turner's building. The ground floor was a bodega and there was a door on the side. On the wall was a buzzer. Susan's name was written in pen. I buzzed and waited for someone to answer.

"Hello?" The voice said.

"Good afternoon, my name's Carl Penn. I'm looking for Susan Turner, publicist."

"Sure, come on up." I heard a click and pushed the door. The publicist may not have had much, but what she did have was spotless. There wasn't so much as a speck of dust in her office. She only had the one filing cabinet. I figured she kept the files on her hard drive, with the most important ones backed up as paper copies. She sat down at her desk, which was perpendicular to the window, and invited me to sit down opposite her. I sat.

"So, what can I do for you?" Susan asked. She looked to be in her late fifties. Her hair was dyed blonde, but her eyebrows were a dark grey. There were lines around her eyes, and the skin below her chin drooped. She was wearing a red velvet blazer with a white blouse decorated with flowers underneath. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke, but no ashtray in sight, and other than the smell, no other signs of smoking.

"I'm a writer." I told her. "I'm working on a book about Antarctica. I want to write about the side of its history that's been hidden for so long. My aim is to open a discussion. I want people talking about it."

"And why would you come to me about that?" I didn't understand why she was being cagey.

"I understand you represent Jennifer Steinbeck. I was hoping to meet her." It was a lazy story, but that was the point. She thought for a while. I could see the cogs turning as she connected me to the email she received.

"I'm sorry, Mr Penn. I can't help you. If there's nothing else, I have a meeting." Her response was as I predicted. I thanked her for her time and walked out. When I returned to my car, I put on a pair of headphones and listened to Susan turner through the listening device I planted in her office. While I couldn't hear both sides of the conversation, I could hear enough to know I had rattled her. Susan Turner wanted to talk but kept getting shut down. Her client wasn't happy talking on the phone. She hung up and I could hear the sound of movement. Before long, the publicist emerged from the front door and crossed the street to her car. I allowed enough space between us and pulled into the road. We drove south towards St Pauls Street. After roughly fifteen minutes of driving, we found our way to the harbour and pulled over at South Bond Street. I watched as Susan Turner got out, and made a mental note of which house she walked into as I continued driving and parked around the corner. I headed back on foot. The house was further back from the road and the walls were floor to ceiling windows.

There was no way of approaching unseen, so I didn't try to hide and went straight to the front door and rang the bell. A maid answered and showed me into a sitting room away from the windows. There were thick rugs on a hardwood floor and the walls were painted in warm colours. A fireplace sat beneath a mantlepiece. It hadn't been used in a while and the mantlepiece and other shelves were decorated with various statues and ornaments retrieved from Jennifer's many excursions. In the centre of the room sat furniture pieces that looked antique. In the centre, bottles and decanters sat on a low table. On one of the sofas, I saw Susan Turner looking nervous at my arrival. On another, Jennifer Steinbeck sat coolly with a glass in one hand and a pearl gripped revolver in the other. The gun's eye stared at me unblinking. It didn't waver. Jennifer looked much calmer aiming a weapon than Randolph Haynes had done.

"Come in, Mr Penn." Jennifer invited with a smile. Her tone, as she spoke the name, was one of amusement. She knew it was a false name. I sat down on an armchair and took out a cigarette, leaning back as I breathed the smoke in. The maid was instructed to pour me a drink. I opted for a scotch. "Do I call you Penn, or shall we drop the charade, Mr Pearson?" I allowed myself a smile.

"Apologies for the ruse, Ms Steinbeck, but I needed to meet with you and your staff weren't making it easy." I saw Susan Turner look down at the floor. Her pale cheeks turned to a light red. Jennifer's lips tried to smile but gave up halfway.

"Well, now that you're here, you may as well say what's on your mind." The gun never lowered, but she acted as though she forgot it was there.

"I understand you did some work with Dr Longmore. He hired me to retrieve an artefact that was stolen from him. I found it, but then he was killed, and it disappeared again." It was mostly true.

"I hoped that you might have some insight that would help me recover it again." She didn't seem disturbed by the news; Longmore's death would have made the papers by now.

"What insight would that be?" She stared quizzically over the top of her glass as she drank.

"From what I've read, your exploits tend to take place in Antarctica. So, why would someone who's interest lies in Ancient Egypt reach out to you?" A small ornamental bowl sat on a table close to me. I leaned across to flick some ash into it so as to avoid ruining the rug laying at our feet. Ms Steinbeck didn't seem to appreciate the gesture.

"Susan, can you show yourself out. I'll call you tomorrow." Steinbeck kept her eyes on me as she spoke. She waited for Susan to stumble nervously out of the door before speaking again. I shot her a questioning look. "Dr Longmore has some notion of a connection between discoveries in Giza and Antarctica." We were alone now. Ms Steinbeck's maid had departed, and I heard the front door open and close.

"Is that as crazy as it sounds?" I asked.

"At first glance, yes. But when he started giving me coordinates, I did start making some finds that looked very similar to artefacts found in Egypt. Sadly, I cannot tell you any more than that. The Airforce already had an interest in that part of the world and have discouraged others from doing so." She was sat down now, in the seat formally occupied by Susan Turner. I crushed the rest of my cigarette in the bowl I had commandeered as my ashtray. "If you insist on smoking in my house, Mr Pearson, I would rather you use the glass in your hand instead. That bowl is worth more money than I care to speak out loud." I drained the rest of the whiskey and then picked up the bowl, emptying the contents into the glass.

"Why would the Airforce be interested?" I asked her.

"That, I can't tell you."

"You don't know?"

"That particular part of the globe is wrapped up in so much secrecy, you'd have a better chance finding out what happened to D.B. Cooper." I considered telling the adventurer what I already knew about parasitic aliens and spaceships, but I had a feeling discussing such matters would land me in hot water. I doubted I would get much more here. I thanked my gracious host for her time and headed back to my car.

On the drive home, I left a message for Agent Glass. If there was anything going on in Antarctica that was connected to this case, he should know. I headed back to my office, stopping for something to eat on the way. When I reached my office, it was getting late, but Agent Glass was sat in my chair waiting for me. I could smell the freshly made coffee and saw a cup of it in his hand. I walked past him without a word and poured one for myself.

"I looked into the Steinbeck woman." Glass cut right to it. "She was already on our radar

because of the work she's doing with the Airforce, but we didn't pick up on any connection to Longmore."

"And?"

"She's a dead end. The Airforce are keeping her away from anything top secret. She has made some good finds out there. Probably that's why Longmore was interested." Agent Glass paused to drink his coffee. I did likewise. "She's a good public face for anything going on over there. Pretty, friendly, as least while the cameras are rolling, and likable enough for the public to overlook any military presence."

"What about Adrian Harkwell?" I asked.

"Who?" The look on Agent Glass' face was one of genuine puzzlement.

"His name came up. It's possible Longmore reached out to him, like he did with Steinbeck and Longmore." Glass had the decency to look like he was pondering the name before dismissing him completely. I shrugged and stuck a cigarette in my face.

Chapter eleven

It took a lot of searching, and a lot of asking questions of academics, scientists, and a lot of luck, but I finally found Adrian Harkwell. He had fallen off the map some years back. He had some notions that raised eyebrows even on the fringes of science. He talked about ancient civilisations that predate any that we know about today. His books wouldn't even show up at a yard sale. He was last heard of living in the middle of nowhere and the only technology to be found was a phone. I reached out to him and, either out of boredom or curiosity or a longing for someone to listen to his stories again after all these years, he agreed to meet me. He was teaching English as a second language at the Washington English Centre and living in a studio apartment not far from there. When he answered the door, he was dressed in an open shirt over a vest and a pair of worn jeans. His living space was filled with empty takeaway cartons that smelled like they'd been left out for a few weeks. There was no TV. Instead, the walls were lined with books and a radio sat in one corner. Despite the appearance of his home, he was clean shaved and smelled like he showered regularly. He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. He made no effort to tidy up a space for me to sit down, so I moved some papers from one side of the couch to the other. He offered coffee, which I accepted, and we both sat down.

"What can I do for you?" Adrian asked me.

"I'm looking for the wife of Dr Longmore."

"I hear Longmore's dead. They must be a family that things happen to. Foul play?"

"I can't comment on that. She has something that doesn't belong to her." I replied, keeping it vague.

"It must be something special if you've tracked me down to help you find it."

"A glove." I told him. His face told me I needed to give him more than that. "It was found on a dig in Giza, and it's significant enough to catch the interest of some bad people." Adrian thought for a while. He reached for some tobacco and papers and started busying his hands. Once the cigarette had been created, he started looking around for a lighter. I threw him mine before taking out a cigarette and waited for him to throw it back. I could see now that his fingers were stained yellow. Despite being a heavy smoker, his home didn't have the smell of smoke, and the walls hadn't been affected by nicotine. As much as he was a smoker, he didn't do much of it at home. Something about the glove I mentioned made him want to talk. As if he had been forced to keep silent for so long, it was a relief that the secret had been revealed, and he could breathe as he finally told his story.

"I wasn't getting much work when Philip reached out to me. He promised all that would change. There were some incredible discoveries waiting to be made, some that already had. He showed me some of them. Things I couldn't believe. He told me he knew where I could find more artefacts like the ones he showed me. He would tell me where to dig, he would keep some, but some I could go public with. He didn't want any publicity for himself. I was excited." I could hear the excitement in Adrian's voice as he spoke. It intensified as his story continued. The passion he felt was a runaway train and it suddenly hit a wall. His face dropped and the rest of his head followed. He was quiet for a time. He seemed to suddenly remember the cigarette burning between his fingers and took a long drag on it. "I was a fool." He didn't want to meet my eyes. I could see him reliving his past with deep regret. "I allowed myself to get taken in by his stories and trinkets. I started talking about these discoveries publicly, before I had even found one myself. I made promises of changing the world. Nothing I would have found would have lived up to the expectation. As it happens, I didn't find anything at all." A smile tried to find its way to Adrian's mouth but shied away, retreating deep within. He wanted to be able to laugh at him misfortune. He might get there one day, but that day was a long way off."

"Where did you meet him?" I asked. "Was it at his house or somewhere else?" Adrian thought for a while.

"At his house in Georgetown." Adrian's eyes finally dared to look at me as he crushed his rolled cigarette in an empty container that, judging from the remnants around the edge, had once contained noodles of some kind.

"When was this?" I asked.

"A year ago. My teachers at university said I had a promising future. It all went down the toilet because of that man."

"Do you remember the address?" He said he did and wrote it down for me. I thanked him for his time and left. On the drive home Eddie called me.

"Hi Eddie, what's up?" I said when he answered.

"Hi Jack. I found out who's been tailing you. He's a Jaffa called Dar'tec."

"Why would a Jaffa be following me?"

"You did kill a friend of his."

"I don't think that's it." I thought for a while. "If he wanted me dead, he's had plenty of opportunity to make it happen. If he found out that Sor is still alive, he probably wants to finish the job and thinks I'm his best chance of finding him."

"That would make sense." Eddie agreed.

"On that note, I may have found him." I told Eddie. "Whatever deal he had with Randolph, he was working it with a few others."

"Glad those names I gave you panned out."

"Me too. I was starting to run out of ideas."

"Anything I can do?"

"Yeah, keep this Dar'tec off my back."

Longmore's Georgetown home was a modest condominium on Prospect Street. The building only contained ten apartments, yet it encompassed the whole block. The street outside was quiet. There was a restaurant and a few shops within walking distance and a couple of bars further along. The clouds above brought with them a promise of rain that for most of the day had been unfulfilled. I knocked on the door to Longmore's apartment, not expecting anyone to answer. After waiting what I thought was a suitable amount of time, I let myself in. The décor was similar to that of his Maryland house. The paintings were of a similar style, the ornaments on display were similar to those in his museum, the library was similar in theme. His condo was a downsized version of his house. Judging by the beds that were undisturbed and a general feel about the place, no one had occupied this place in quite some time. Whatever I was looking for, I didn't find it. I was working under the assumption that Sor had left Longmore's body when he was dying and took up residence in either his wife or butler, but that's all it was, an assumption. It could just as easily have been a delivery boy or neighbour. I walked back to my car and drove back to my office.

I pulled into the curb and killed the engine. When I approached my front door, I could see something was wrong. Papers scattered the floor in the hall outside my office. Without a conscious thought, my gun fell into my hand, and I gently pushed the door open. The waiting room was relatively untouched barring a few chairs out of place. As I entered my private office, more papers were on the floor, the filing cabinets and desk drawers were all open. In the bottom drawer on the filing cabinet was my safe. It appeared to still be locked, but efforts had been made to open it. I walked over to the window and looked down to the street. If they couldn't get into the safe, they might come back when I'm here so they can try to persuade me to open it for them. I sat down at my desk and poured myself a whiskey. I place my gun on the desk and lit a cigarette. If they would come back, I would wait for them. I had a feeling I knew who it was, and my blood was up. I wanted a fight. I don't know how long I stayed. Long enough to drink most of what was left in the bottle. If they had come back, I wouldn't have been in a position to go three rounds with a fish on dry land.

Chapter twelve

The stranger stood watching the detective's office. It was late, yet the detective gave no indication that he was finished for the day. The streetlamp that stood over the stranger was broken. He had engineered this the night before and was engulfed in shadow as he watched silently. He had warned his employer of the risk the detective presented. Now that Sor possessed the Kara Kesh, there was no need to keep the detective alive. Yet this suggestion was dismissed which was decidedly out of character based on what he knew about Sor's species. The Goa'uld were perhaps more complicated than he gave them credit for. But despite the Kara Kesh, the detective was still asking questions. Sor still wasn't ready to get him out of the way just yet, he may yet still have his uses. So, the stranger continued to watch. The others would need to be watched too, but he couldn't be everywhere at once. He explained this to his employer but was dismissed with a wave of the hand. Pearson was the one who mattered.

The following morning, I put on a suit while taking some others to the dry cleaners. The old man behind the desk wanted to talk but I wasn't in the mood. After ten minutes and several failed attempts, to which I responded with one-word answers and short, non-committal phrases, he handed me my ticket and said they would be ready in a week. I thanked him and left. He didn't see my reluctance to partake in small talk as a signal to give up, but as a sign that he wasn't trying hard enough. He kept going until I was out the door. Something about the weather and a chance of rain later and that I should try to have a good day. My cell rang when I got into the car. It was a call I wasn't expecting. Captain Shaw wanted me to meet her. I found myself sat in her office with a coffee in front of me. On the other side of her desk, Captain Shaw sat with a matching cup.

"I hear you got roughed up pretty good." She told me. I didn't deny it. She stood up and went to the window, watching her team go about their work. Handcuffed perps were being walked into the bullpen, beat cops were grabbing a quick coffee from the machine before getting back to it. The desk Sergeant was handing out forms to civilians. Captain Shaw let out a tired sigh. "Why did you have to carry on with this?

"Too many people told me to stop."

"Sometimes I don't like this job, Jack. When you're a rookie, you're going to change the world. You're going to chase down the bad guys and put them behind bars. For the most part it is kind of like that. But when you move up, you find it's mostly politics. You're given crime statistics that say you're not doing your job. You're told to crack down on one type of crime to get those numbers somewhere that will get politicians re-elected, but doing so means looking the other way for other minor offences. Those victims don't deserve justice because they don't make the papers. Sometimes you're leaned on to go that little bit further, and it's no longer about putting the bad guys in prison, it's about keeping politicians in power." She opened a desk drawer. "When Charlotte Grey died, the ME's original report didn't read how certain people wanted it to read. It was suggested to him that he might've made a mistake. There are three copies of the original. One came here, one went to the DA, and the last stayed with the ME. If one of these were to go missing, I would be forced to move heaven and earth to find it and punish whoever was responsible. But if the details of the original report were somehow leaked. We would all be forced to deny any knowledge and blame each other to save face." She looked at me steadily. I didn't expect her to be willing to go this far. "I'm going for another coffee. Do you want one?" I said I did, and she left the room. I looked out the window. Everyone was either busying themselves working or busying themselves looking like they were working. I walked around to the open drawer. I took out the original report and used the camera on my phone to photograph every page and had it back in the drawer and was sat back in my seat when Captain Shaw returned with two steaming cups of coffee. I thanked her and we both drank.

When I got back to the office, I reached for the bottle and poured a generous glass. I had enough to force a re-examination of the Charlotte Grey murder. I was happy about that. I forwarded the photographed documents to Sophie as the final piece, the final nail in Senator McGowan's coffin and then called Mr Grey and told him to keep an eye out for the papers. I hoped I had done enough to give the Senator a bad day and for Charlotte Grey's parents to feel that their daughter had received some sort of justice. As far as the glove was concerned, I was fast running out of leads. The apartment was all I had to go on. I couldn't camp outside it indefinitely, but I knew someone who could.

On Monroe Street, near the corner of 12th sat the Christian Centre for Wellbeing and Spiritual Enlightenment. It was founded in the early nineties by Father Brian Starkey of the Church of Our Saviour, which sat a few doors down from the Christian Centre. It had started out as a soup kitchen, then some local medical professionals volunteered some of their time. Ten years later it was offering warm beds, health check-ups, spiritual guidance as well as assistance in finding long-term housing. While some of the funding came from donations, a large portion of it came from local government. It was a quick win for any politicians who wanted their photo taken while pouring stew into bowls and sitting next to, but not too close to, some of the city's downtrodden. The Christian Centre for Wellbeing and Spiritual Enlightenment had become a legacy of which the late father would have been proud.

Billy had been on the streets for more years than most people would survive. So long that his last name was lost to time, faded to obscurity. That much hard living changes a man. Either you become a reflection of the hardness of the streets or become lost to the streets themselves, another trophy claimed. Billy was a rarity. He had taken on the hardness but also retained some kindness. When a new person, due to circumstances, joined their ranks Billy would find them. He would show them the best places to shelter from the wind and the rain, which cafes and restaurants sympathised with the less fortunate, and sooner or later, he would take them to the Christian Centre of Wellbeing and Spiritual Enlightenment. A hot meal, a hot shower and a warm bed for the night, and one might temporarily forget one's misfortune, if only for a day. Once you fell through the cracks of society and you weren't lucky enough for a kind stranger to reach out a hand, you were on borrowed time. If the elements didn't get you, ill health would. And that's without taking into account some of the other homeless who would take a knife to you out of desperation, hoping for an extra dollar, a sleeping bag or a pair of warm boots. Billy was well liked and respected by the homeless community. He would share what he had when he could, and people would know they could leave their bag with him, and nothing would be missing when they picked it up again. Sadly, this gesture could not be returned. He tried once after taking someone under his wing. His kindness was not returned on that occasion. He would never try again. But that didn't deflate his generous spirit. Despite any misfortunes, he still did everything he could for those less fortunate than himself. For they were, in his mind, less fortunate. He may not have been rich is money or assets, but he was rich in wisdom. I found Billy sat by himself eating a bowl of stew. Next to him was a backpack with a sleeping bag attached. He smiled when I sat down opposite him. His clothes were clean, and his hair was still damp from using the shower.

"How're things?" I asked. Normally when asking someone in his situation how they are, you wouldn't get you a very friendly response but that wasn't Billy's way.

"They found me a nice little apartment." He stopped and thought for a while. "Maybe not nice by anyone's standards, but four walls and a bed, with a shower."

"That's great. When do you move in?"

"I told them to give it to this kid I met. He was having a much harder time than me. He wouldn't survive out here." I smiled. In the years that I had known him, he had been offered the chance to get out of the streets five times. Each time, he found someone he believed needed it more. Whenever I needed another pair of eyes, or some leg work, I would come and find Billy. No one could survive on the streets as long as him without learning the secret to being unseen. We talked a little about changes happening in the town, a little about baseball and then walked down to The Messy Diner on Jackson Street for a coffee. I told him a little bit about the case I was working but left out the aliens. I gave him some quarters to use the payphones to call me with updates. I would always pay him properly when the job was done, regardless of the outcome. Billy agreed to watch the apartment. Most people in this town would go out of their way not to notice someone living rough.

I stopped to eat something on my way back to the office. When I finally arrived, the door was slightly ajar. My gun fell into my hand, and I held it level as I slowly entered. Nothing was out of place in the waiting room. The door to my private office was open. Sat at my desk with a pistol in his hand was Harvey. I could still see where my gun had connected with his head. He sensed me looking at it and winced involuntarily. I kept my gun pointed at him but stopped when I heard the sound of a hammer being pulled back.

"You should've walked away, Jack." Harvey spoke as he drank my coffee. He made a face.

"It's still disgusting. I thought you were going to get something better in."

"Your boss is through." I told him. "Nothing you do now will change that."

"You'd be surprised. It won't take much to kill that story." He showed his teeth as he smiled. His mind went somewhere briefly before he spoke again. "Or to kill the one who wrote it." I could feel my trigger finger twitch as he spoke. It felt heavy. It wanted to speak for me. It wanted this man to be silenced. I did my best to control it. Suddenly, Harvey's eyes were wide with alarm. I thought about that first meeting when he said he could read my mind, but he was looking behind me. I turned to see what was happening and heard a shot ring out. A body fell behind me and I felt a sharp pain in my head as I fell. The room turned pitch black, yet it was still afternoon. When my eyes opened again, I turned to my side a looked into the empty eyes of Pete as he stared past me at nothing. A red pool had dried on his white shirt. In my hand, I still had my gun. I looked down at it, but it wasn't the same gun I had held before. It was my revolver. I didn't know why that mattered, but I knew that it did. Harvey was gone and I could hear the crescendo of off-key harmonies that only a chorus of police cars could bring. There wasn't enough time to fix anything up, as I could already hear them coming for me. And being on the run from the law would, at the very least, be a hindrance on finding Sor. I had to take my chances. I still had a friend or two in the department. I sat in the same interrogation room as the last time I was here. The same flecks of dried paint on the floor, the same scratches on the table. The only improvement was that someone had emptied the trash can. It was the same act as before, and I played my part without question. Novak walked in and sat down in front of me.

"Detective Novak, we need to stop meeting like this." I said.

"Well, that's easy enough. Stop shooting people. My life would be a lot happier if you weren't in it."

"Funny you should say that, I didn't actually shoot this one."

"The bullets in victim's chest came from your .38 revolver. Traces of gunshot residue on your sleeves." Novak leaned back in his seat with his arms folded. I could see in his eyes he wanted to make some remark. The word 'Checkmate' was practically forming on his lips.

"Any prints on the gun besides mine?" I asked him. He shook his head.

"Only yours."

"It can't be that surprising to find mine on them. It is registered in my name." He thought about that for a while. "As for the traces of residue, you remember I shot somebody else a few days ago. That stuff just doesn't come off."

"You've got an answer for everything, but this one's too easy to let go. A neat little homicide all wrapped up and handed to me."

"I'm starting to get the feeling you don't like me."

"It's nothing personal, I just don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth." He gave a sly smile as he spoke.

"Trouble is," I leaned forward. "Everything you've got is circumstantial."

"He's right." I looked up and Novak turned to see Eddie Russell standing in the doorframe. "You've got nothing."

"There a reason you're here, Sergeant?" Novak could feel the case slipping away from him. "This is a homicide case. Major Crimes don't deal with homicide, sexual assault or domestic violence. You've got no business here."

"I'm here to stop you from turning the department into a joke. You know as well as I do that this man didn't do it. Instead of trying to pin a murder on him and get an easy win, why don't you try interviewing him as a witness? See if he can lead you to the real killer." Eddie spoke calmly, which only riled Novak more. He was getting scolded in front of his suspect, losing what authority he thought he had. If Eddie had shouted, he could have used outrage, but this talking down was worse.

"You have no business getting involved. I'm taking this higher." With that, Detective Novak left. Eddie smiled at me.

"Getting yourself into trouble again?"

"Two guys working for the Senator were waiting for me in my office. Someone unknown came in and my lights went out. When I woke up, they left one of the Senator's boys dead to put a frame job on me. Don't know about the rest. Not yet." Eddie gave me a ride back to my office so I could pick up my car. The yellow tape was still up, and a couple of uniforms were standing guard while others were busying themselves with crime scene business. I got a couple of looks from people who saw me taken away in cuffs and didn't expect to see me a couple of hours later, free as a bird. We drove to the Bullhorn and found a booth. Bobby Dupree brought two cold ones over and the three of us talked shop for a while before Bobby returned to his bar duties.

"Novak could make trouble for you over this." I told Eddie. He smiled and gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"He's too much of a politician. This town's swarming with them." Eddie lit a cigarette and threw me the packet. I lit one and handed it back. "He knows it's a weak case. There's no mileage in taking it higher, he was just blowing smoke." I nodded thoughtfully and lifted my glass to drink.

Harvey opened his eyes to see Egyptian hieroglyphs on the walls. He moved his head and winced at the pain. He put his fingers to the side of his head and felt the wetness. When he examined his fingers afterwards, they were red with blood. Harvey couldn't remember what happened. He was in the detective's office with Pete. Someone came in and there had been a struggle. Where Was Pete? He closed his eyes as he tried to remember. There was a gunshot. Both the detective and Pete were on the floor. Harvey felt an intense pain in his head as he tried to remember more, but no more would come to him. He needed to shift his focus to the here and now. If Pete was still alive, they would find each other. They always did. If it was the detective who survived, he would kill him. The stranger stood over him silently, watching. Harvey turned his head again to take in his surroundings and the movement brought back the pain. It came back so intense, for a moment his vision had faltered. Next to the stranger was another man. This one was very tall, with wild eyebrows. A door opened to the sound of compressed air and a woman walked in. She was older and walked with an air of authority. She looked at him and smiled. Her eyes glowed and when she spoke, the voice didn't sound right. He thought it might be because of the headache he was feeling.

"What is your business with the detective?" She asked him. Harvey didn't know how to respond, or indeed if he should respond. The woman wore a strange glove on her left hand. Its sleeve seemed to spiral, and a brilliant jewel glowed in the palm. The jewel started to glow even brighter until he felt a pain in his head. He was suddenly unable to move and could only stare up at her as he felt the life drain from him. Then just as suddenly, the pain stopped. "I'll ask you again." She said, before repeating her question.

"He was causing problems for my employer." Harvey couldn't keep quiet this time. Anything not to bring that pain back. He didn't understand it, but he had never felt anything like it before and he hoped he never would again.

"There's more. Tell me." She ordered."

"There is no more!" Harvey shouted, pleading with her. She smiled again. He didn't like her smile.

"It matters not." She turned to look at the tall man with the wild eyebrows and he started to unbutton his shirt. Harvey was confused by this and continued to watch. The stomach had two deep cuts that crossed in the middle. Some sort of snakelike creature emerged from within. It slowly ventured out further and Harvey screamed until he was silenced.

Chapter thirteen

The cops had finished with my office, and I was allowed to return. The tape was still up, and they could have at least had the decency to tidy up. I sat down and poured a drink and lit a cigarette. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes while blowing smoke. Novak would be busy trying to pin a murder on me. I wasn't too worried though. Apparently, I had more friends on the force than I realised. There was no other reason I could see why they were giving me such a wide berth on this. Even if they didn't think I killed the guy, they would still want to speak to me. As if summoning him simply by thinking his name, Novak came in. he didn't knock, didn't wait for an invite, just came in and sat down.

"Your friends can't protect you forever." He said as he sat down in front of me.

"Round two?" I asked, still leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

"Three by my count. But that's not why I'm here." I threw the cigarette pack, and it landed on the desk within his grasp. He reached for it and took one out. "You may not have killed him, but you still know something." He was smarter than I gave him credit for. A man gets killed in my office, with my gun. I'm the only witness, so I must know something. I pointed this out, though I may have phrased it differently.

"I was hired by Charlotte Grey's parents to look into her death."

"The Senator's girlfriend." By the way Novak said it, I couldn't tell if he was asking or confirming.

"Yes, the Senator's girlfriend. Her parents weren't happy with the lack of progress with the

police investigation." I could see Novak getting a little red in the cheeks "No disrespect to the department, you guys have a lot of red tape to deal with." Ever the diplomat. "They wanted some fresh eyes and someone who could act with a little more freedom." I thought he would have used that moment to jump to the department's defence, but he stayed quiet. If he was thinking, he didn't let it show. "Anyway, I made some progress before being jumped by some thugs. When I wouldn't scare, two men came by and took me for a drive to the Senator's cute little home. Those two men came back for me and one of them stayed behind while the other left, although the bullet holes suggest it wasn't his idea to stick around." It was Novak's turn to share.

"The man you killed… Sorry, the man killed in your office with your gun was Peter Skelling. He had some brushes with the law in his youth, but nothing big." I reached into my drawer for a second glass and poured Novak a drink. This time he accepted. He took a drink and tried to hide a slight shudder. "A friend from the old neighbourhood made something of himself and looked out for Pete when he could. Made sure he wasn't mixed up with anything big. Another friend of Pete's was a little guy called Harvey White. We took some prints while we were here, and it looks like he was the one who got away." I congratulated him on making the connection. He gave me a look and muttered something I couldn't make out, but I think the gist was that he didn't like me. "In your statement, you said you took a blow to the head and woke up later. It would make things nice and simple if you said it was Pete who hit you. Because then you shot him before collapsing." I shook my head while leaning forward to crush the cigarette end in the ashtray.

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Figures. Did you get a look at him?"

"No, I didn't." I thought for a while and stared into my whiskey. "Male. He was bigger than me, maybe six one or six two."

"If you didn't see him, how do you know how tall he was?"

"The blow to the head. He had to be taller to come down at that angle with that much force." Novak conceded with a shrug.

"Anything else you can give me?" He wanted to leave. Maybe he didn't like the idea of having to work with a private eye.

"That's everything, but if I think of anything else I'll be sure to let you know."

"You do that." Novak said as he stood up. He crushed what was left of his cigarette in my ashtray and left a card on my desk. After he left, I thought about the recent developments. If a frame job was his intention, it was a pretty poor effort. It was possible Harvey chased him out. It was also possible, though less likely, that he had taken Harvey with him. I leaned back with a sigh and massaged my temples with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. I looked at the desk. Novak had left most of the whiskey in his glass. I reached over and poured the remainder into what was left in my glass and drained it. The sun had set a while ago and I switched off the lights in the office.

Two days went by. I traced a missing husband to LA without leaving my office, thanks to the power of phones and the internet; recovered some stolen jewellery that wasn't stolen, merely hidden in a weak attempt to claim on the insurance. I didn't hear from Detective Novak. I figured he wouldn't come to me again unless he had no other choice. I poured myself a coffee and lit a cigarette before opening the window. The sound of cars passing below and the smell of street food rising in the air reminded me that I wasn't dead. The phone rang and I slowly walked back to my desk, sat down and answered it.

Despite the sun, there was a chill in the air. Spring gave the impression of being in full floom, but despite appearances, the icy bite of winter could be felt in the wind. Billy had found a quiet spot away from the streets, hidden from the crowds and relatively protected from the elements. He sat at the entrance to an alley with a clear view of the apartment building he was told to watch. In his backpack were all the things needed for survival on the streets. He had a good quality sleeping bag he found just after Christmas. That was always a good time to find things. The rich and the spoilt would throw away perfectly good items just because they'd been bought the latest model. He had a small camping stove, but was running low on gas, without which it wasn't much good. There was an extra jumper and a blanket for when winter gets serious and there aren't any beds at any of the shelters; The sad truth was there were more people sleeping rough than there were facilities to accommodate them. The detective always paid him well when leg work was needed, and he could make things comfortable for himself for a few days, or tolerable for a few weeks. In the bottom of his bags, he had a couple of bottles of the hard stuff and a small bag of weed to offer a momentary distraction from reality. For now, he was content with his flask of coffee while watching and waiting. He was given photos of the three people who lived there. One of whom was dead, so was less likely to make an appearance. Given it was an apartment building, and the detective's quarry shared that front door with two other apartments, it was hard to say if any of the people who came and went were of any importance. Despite this, Billy made a note every time someone came or went. There wasn't much activity to speak of except two men who entered. The only reason they stood out to Billy, was that one of them didn't seem very happy to be there. He was shorter than the other man and wore a suit. He walked with a limp and seemed to wince in pain as he did. the other man was much taller than the average man. He wore a black coat and white shirt. His hair was equally white. They entered together and two or three hours went by before the taller of the two exited on his own. Billy waited, but the other man didn't leave. It was possible that he lived there, and a friend was helping him home, but something about his face suggested this was not the case. Maybe he had picked up a thing or two from the detective. He went to a payphone and reported in what he had seen.

I made some calls on the way and pulled up on Prospect Street. Billy was waiting for me in a diner around the corner. His hands were wrapped around a mug of coffee and his stare looked more inwards than out. I sat down opposite him, and a waitress materialised next to me a pot of coffee. I thanked her when she had finished pouring and after she left, we got down to business. Billy described again the two men he saw. I lit a cigarette and breathed in deeply. Billy helped himself to one and did likewise. There was no doubt in my mind who the two men were that billy had seen. What I didn't understand was why they would be working together.

"They weren't." Billy told me. "The little guy didn't wanna be there. The big one must've been stronger than he looked because although he was tall, there wasn't much muscle to him. Little guy could've given him a fight if he wanted to. The big one left a while later. I still haven't seen the other one leave." I turned my head to look over my shoulder and saw that Billy had a pretty good vantage point on the house. We weren't very close, but close enough to see if there was any movement. I took out a hundred bucks and handed them to Billy, thanking him. He thanked me for the cash. I dropped some bills on the table and we both left. After he made sure he had everything, Billy headed to the nearest bus stop. I made my way to the house. Using my lockpick, I found my way inside. The place looked as it did the last time I was there. Nothing had changed. I expected to find at least something out of place. Two men had entered and only one of them left, so at the very least, there should have been someone. I searched every room in turn. When I came upon, what I believed to be, Longmore's den, it gave me the first indication that someone had been here. A cigarette burned in an ashtray. Next to it was a glass of brandy. Some of the contents had spilled over the lip and was still wet. As I searched through the room I scuffed my shoes on a rug. It was hard to see, but there was a very slight outline of a circle. I lifted one corner and threw it to the other side. Underneath was a metal ring identical to the one in Maryland. Somewhere above the clouds, orbiting the planet was a spaceship. That was where I would find Harvey, the glove and Sor. I didn't know how it worked, so I inspected it from the outside, looking for a switch of some kind. Unable to find one, I stepped into the circle to see if there were any controls more visible from the other side. As I did, metal rings rose from the floor surrounding me. There was a bright light, and they disappeared back where they came from. I looked around confused at my surroundings. I wasn't in Longmore's den. I wasn't in his house. I had a strong feeling I wasn't even on the planet anymore. I was in some sort of storage room. There were crates, some closed, some open. There were artefacts that looked to be Ancient Egyptian in design but looked much more technologically advanced. I looked around but couldn't see the glove. There were two staffs lying on top of one of the closed crates. They looked like the one I was attacked with. My gun instinctively found its way into my hand. As I searched, I tried opening some of the closed crates. Most were filled with more artefacts; Some small metal spheres. I saw other hand devices of varying designs. I opened the last crate and found Eric, Longmore's former butler, lying peacefully. I tried for a pulse, but he was dead. He was dressed in just a shirt and pants, and the shirt was unbuttoned all the way down. His stomach was exposed, revealing two deep lines cut in a cross. I couldn't find any obvious cause of death, no wounds or marks on his skin, no blood. It was almost as if he died of natural causes, but I doubted that was the case. From what I had learned, there should be a Goa'uld symbiote inside keeping him alive. I reached my hand in. It was a very strange feeling, an empty pouch where normally there would be organs. If the snake wasn't inside, where was it? Suddenly, I heard what sounded like compressed air being released and a door slid open. I only just had enough time to duck but not enough to close the lid on the crate. Staying low, I made my way around the maze of boxes. I heard footsteps make their way to the open crate.

"Déjà vu, Jack." Harvey's voice called out. "We've gotta stop meeting like this."

"I don't know how you got involved in this, Harvey, but these are some dangerous people

you're working with." I stood up behind him with my gun levelled. "Not some harmless politician."

Harvey turned to face me and pointed his gun my way. The gun was shaped like a snake curled into

an S with the head facing me. It looked alien, but at this point I was no longer questioning, just

taking it on faith.

"I know exactly who I'm working with." Harvey said. His eyes glowed yellow and his voice

changed. "It is you who does not know. There is a god standing before you."

"Gods generally don't need guns." I replied. He smiled. I heard the door open again.

"Mr Pearson. How good of you to join us." Mrs Longmore stood in the doorway. "I have recovered my husband's glove, so your services will no longer be required."

"Let's drop the pretence, shall we?" Her eyes glowed as she spoke.

"How will you serve your god?"

"You may be a lot of things, Sor, but a god you are not."

"So be it." She raised her hand, and I saw the glove that started this. The palm faced me as the jewel began to glow. A light emanated from the glove, and I felt a pain in my head. I became paralysed, unable to stop what was happening. The pain grew more intense, and I fell down to my knees. I could hear things going on around me, but they sounded far off. The pain stopped as suddenly as it had started. I looked down to see Mrs Longmore lying on the ground. I collapsed next to her. The pain was still there, but I could feel it slowly fading. My eyes scanned the room which brought the pain back, but I saw Dar'tec grappling with Harvey. I tried to get up, but I was still too weak. I managed to reach for my gun and threw some lead at Harvey. My aim was poor as my arm lacked strength, but a few of the bullets found a soft target. Harvey staggered back and Dar'tec

struck him with his staff. His head hit the corner of a crate on his way down and he lay motionless,

the life leaving him with his final breath. Dar'tec offered a hand and helped me onto my feet.

"I had a feeling you'd show up." I told him. We both looked down at the same person, but I could only see a weakened Mrs Longmore; husband dead, far from home and dying. Dar'tec saw the Goa'uld Sor; a representative for all who oppressed his brothers. A symbol of their suffering. The hatred in his eyes blinded him from seeing the victim within whom, his enemy hid in cowardice.

"It's over." I told him.

"No." He lifted his staff. I was still too weak to stop him. He fired and two lives were ended in one motion.

When the rings brought us back down to Earth, we stood in Longmore's den. Agent Glass was already waiting for us. I handed him the glove.

"We're finished." He told me before turning to leave.

"What about the ship up there? There're crates full of those devices, along with other things." I asked. He smiled.

"What ship?" And he left. I reached out a hand to Dar'tec and he grabbed my forearm instead. A handshake for warriors, I guess. Then he walked away without a word.

When the stranger left Harvey at the Baltimore apartment he crossed the road to his car and barely acknowledged the homeless bum sat near the alley. He didn't smell, which made a change. The stranger had no time for down-and-outers. Why don't they just stop being so lazy and get a job. As he drove, he passed a few patrol cars. He couldn't tell if he was being paranoid or if cops were looking at him a little too long. As he turned onto Whitmore Avenue he saw the flashing lights behind him. He checked his speed, thinking he might've gone over. He hadn't. Maybe a busted tail light or something. He knew there was nothing to worry about, he'd been careful. The frame job on the detective wasn't great, but it would keep the police off his back. No one saw his face and he didn't leave any prints. Whatever this cop wanted, he would charm his way out of trouble and back onto the road. He pulled over and watched the driver of the patrol car look around for a while before finally getting out and slowly walking up to him. He ran his hand along the trunk as he approached.

"Is there a problem officer?" The stranger gave the police officer his most disarming smile. The cop looked old. Definitely a few years shy of retiring. Any dream of promotion would have gone out the window long before now. If the cop heard him, or saw his award-winning smile, he didn't show it. The name on his shirt read "Becker". Officer Becker had been at this a long time. He's heard all the lines, seen all the smiles. More than a few younger ladies had tried to flirt their way out of a ticket, but he never wavered. Not Officer Becker with his wife at home, kids who've long since flown the nest. This was no different to any other stop. He asked for the stranger's license and registration. The stranger was starting to feel less confident about talking his way out. His gun was under his coat. He figured Officer Becker wasn't as fast as he used to be but could probably reached for his piece before the stranger could reach for his. The odds weren't great. He took his driver's licence out of his wallet and handed it over. The name on it was Albert Carmichael. It was his name as much as any other name is. He didn't keep them for long, he wasn't the sentimental type. Today his name was Albert Carmichael but tomorrow it would be something else. That particular alias had run its course; its usefulness expired. When Officer Becker held the licence in his hand, it was Albert's best chance of getting the drop on him. His eyes were focused elsewhere. Albert opened the door suddenly, hard enough to push Becker backwards and lose his balance. His other hand reached for his gun, and he put two bullets in Becker before driving off and leaving him on the road. He took out his cell and dialled, while driving as quietly as possible. He needed an out and he knew who to call to make it happen. Baltimore International Airport was only a twenty-minute drive, but he stuck to the side roads, to stay out of the way as best he could. His friend, along with giving him a time and place, told him the local police had his description and the car's make, model and license plate number. They were looking to take him in. He couldn't tell his employer about this. At best he was no longer useful, at worst he was a liability. Albert pulled into a parking lot and dumped his car. He took his go bag from the passenger seat and quickly jacked a new car. He didn't need anything flash, just something reliable, that won't draw attention. Albert Carmichael pulled up in the airport's parking lot and killed the engine. His way out was a small, light aircraft in one of the private hangers. He was told the pilot can be trusted; he's done this type of thing enough times to know what he's doing. Albert surveyed the area. There were more uniforms patrolling than normal, but he already knew they were looking for him, so this didn't change anything. He knew where he needed to go and he knew the risks; in his line of work, risks like this one, while avoided as best they could be, were inevitable. The trouble was he couldn't help but be distinctive. He was well over the average height and his hair was whiter than white. He fastened the buttons on his coat and pulled a hat down over his eyes and walked, keeping his head down. In his left hand he carried his go bag; passports and enough cash to pay for his exit and lay low until he can come up with another plan. Plus, he still has one final payment coming his way for the job he did for the Goa'uld. As he walked, he could sense he was being followed. They were in plain clothes, but cops were always unmistakable. Their numbers were growing. He could turn around and start blasting or try and lose them. He would try the latter and fall back on the former if it came to it. He found a bathroom and locked himself in one of the cubicles while taking off his hat and coat. In the cubicle next to him was a man talking very loudly on his cell. He was shorter, but then so was nearly everyone. Albert waited for the door to unlock and kicked as hard as he could. The door flew inwards, striking the man in his face. He fell back onto the toilet seat and Albert wrestled his jacket off him. It was brown leather, and the sleeves weren't quite long enough, but it shouldn't draw too many stares. As he was about to leave, one of the plain clothes cops tailing him entered the bathroom. It was careless, and as much as Albert didn't want to kill police officers, not for any moral reason, just that it brings down the rest of them on you even harder than before, this one left him with no choice. He made it quick though, minimal noise and mess. Bag in hand, he was back on track. He thought it odd that no one was moving in. They've had plenty of opportunity. With one careless exception, he was being left well enough alone. It was possible they were using him to get to the pilot and take them both down. Albert figured that if they were going to leave him alone for that long, he may as well take advantage of the situation. He walked casually to the hanger, and as he entered, turned around with his gun in hand.

"If anyone tries to stop me getting on this plane, they'll get a bullet for their trouble." He announced. Suddenly cops in and out of uniform had surrounded him. The pilot appeared with a submachine gun in the open hatch of the plane, but was cut down by bullets before his finger touched the trigger. Albert raised his gun and started shooting. He couldn't see if he had hit anyone but felt the pain in his leg and his arm as bullets tore through flesh. His pistol dropped to the ground. There was no point in anymore fighting. He allowed the cuffs to click into place on his wrists and sat in the back of a patrol car with a detective called Novak keeping him company.

I sat in silence in my apartment. A glass of whiskey was on the table in front of me, but I wasn't touching it. My jazz records were in their place, but I didn't play any of them. A knock at the door brought me out of my trance. I got up and opened the door and Eddie was stood in the doorway. I went back to my chair, and he followed, closing the door behind him. Eddie looked at the glass on the table and went to the kitchen for another one. He poured a drink for himself and handed me mine.

"We put out an APB on the stranger you described outside Longmore's apartment. He was picked up trying to leave the country. His gun was a match for Haynes and Murphy. Novak's happy that he got his man, so I imagine he'll leave you alone for now. Just don't try your luck too much with him. We figure he's the one who killed the guy in your office too, but that's gonna be harder to prove. Turned out to be ex NID. Did a lot of nasty jobs for them in the past, before they cleaned up their act. Your friend, Dar'tec, has returned home." We drank, shook hands, and Eddie turned to leave. He stopped when he got to the door. "Do I need to remind you that nothing you saw happened?" I shook my head and he left me to my silence.

The front page of all the national newspapers was the scandal of the decade. Details of a second Medical Examiner's report that predated the first one, along with an email exchange between McGowan and Rothman, had been leaked to the press. The journalist who broke the story was Sophie Steen. There was talk of unethical behaviour from another journalist who wasn't named, but it was believed that his action also contributed to Charlotte Grey's death. Because of the leak, Captain Shaw and Detective Stiles were forced to reinterview everyone involved, including Senator McGowan and the witness, Katherine Johnson. It was decided that Katherine Johnson could not have seen what she claimed to see, and evidence of defensive wounds and scratches that the Senator couldn't account for was enough to put him in hot water. A couple of workers in McGowan's factory were also interviewed and they were found to be illegal immigrants. After that, a few more fled to avoid being questioned. It was going to be a long, drawn-out fight and eventually the public would lose interest. Senator McGowan's lawyers would have the DA's office drowning in paperwork. I sat at my desk and reached for the office bottle and a glass. I lit a cigarette. Eddie once told me the Goa'uld are evil; that there is nothing they won't do, no one they won't betray or kill in their pursuit of power. Humans aren't so different.