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 make him seek his escape in the bottom of a bottle. 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 extraterrestrials, 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 first 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 $20 bill 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 wearing a black sports jacket. He had a headset which allowed him to communicate with someone inside. They told 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. He 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 McGowen 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.