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Jan-23-2011 13:38

The heavy rain made the visibility much harder to see the man that Marc was chasing through the city streets. The sidewalks were slick with water pouring into the street. The chase started after a failed attempt on killing Marc, who had no clue why this man wanted to kill him. But then again, he could think of several reasons. They ran twisting and turning through alleys and then back into the streets on different parts of town. “STOP!” Marc yelled at the man. The man kept running.
The man kept his distance from the detective. Marc was only able to catch a glimpse of the mans feet as they turned around corners. Marc was out of breath as they stopped in front of an old abandoned apartment complex. “You have no where left to run, buddy,” Marc said to the dark figure. “Come on and get me, Marc. You’re right where I want you!” The man turned and ran into the building and slammed the door shut.
Marc swore to himself as he ran up the stairs leading to the closed door. Marc reached down and turned the handle. The door was unlocked. The man he was chasing was toying with him. The building was dark. There was no light except for what little the street lights outside gave out in the rain, which wasn’t nearly enough to depend on. Directly in front of Marc was a long hallway with six doors. Three on each side. Marc moved to the first door and kicked it open.
“ You can run,” Marc said, “but you can’t hide. I will find you.” He walked out of the first room and moved to the second door. Just like the first, that room was empty. He kicked in the third door. And walked in quietly with his revolver drawn out. “Where are you?” Marc whispered to himself. He turned to leave. As he turned around he found himself face to face with a masked stranger. “Here,” he said. The blow on Marc’s head knocked him unconscious.

Jan-23-2011 13:39

Marc awoke to the splash of cold water upon his face. “What the?!” Marc yelled. “Rise and shine, Marc,” a voice said. It was a man, there was no doubt about that. Judging by their outline in the dark, the man seemed to be somewhere close to Marc’s age. Give or take a year or two. “I was wondering when you would wake up,” they said. Marc could feel dry blood on the side of his head. He could feel where it had ran down his face when he had been put in the up right position and tied to the chair he was in now.

“Who are you?” Marc asked. “Oh, detective, that will come to you in due time. But for now, let’s just say that I know a great deal about you, Marc.” Marc didn’t know what to say. “That missed shot to your head was a miss and mistake on my part. You got lucky,” the assailant said. Marc tried to replay the events in his mind. He didn’t know what happened. He remembered leaving his agency office and started walking home. As he rounded the corner to go down 8th Avenue, there was a loud “crack” as a gun shot echoed in the street and Marc felt the bullet whiz by his head. Then he started chasing the man that shot at him. Marc got lucky twice.

Not only did the first bullet miss his head, but the person turned and ran instead of trying to shoot a second time. Marc knew he wouldn’t be so lucky if there was to be a second shot. He remembered chasing him into the house. He cleared the floor and turned to move up the stairs when he turned to face a masked stranger. He didn’t feel the blow to his head but when he woke up, he sure felt the pain.

“Someone’s going to find me,” Marc said, “and when they do, you’re going down, you son of a bitch.” The man laughed out loud. “It will be some time before they find you. And when they do, you’ll be lying face down in a ditch or in a riverbed. But right now, its time for you to talk, Marc. Let’s begin, shall we?”

Jan-24-2011 21:22

Riza tapped her fingers impatiently on the wooden table in the back of the bar where she was sitting, glancing up at the clock mounted on the wall every few minutes. It was 7 p.m. After waiting for what must have been an hour at the least, she gave an exasperated sign and muttered, “Where is that man?” She stood, and slapping down some bills on the table, took her leave.

Small puddles of rainwater pooled on the sidewalk and street, left over from the rain. She began to walk in the direction of downtown, hoping to catch sight of Marc somewhere. Riza tried his agency but saw that the lights were out and no one was in. She had walked only a few blocks farther, en route to his apartment, when she spotted something embedded in one of the building walls. Something shiny and familiar-looking.

Riza reached into her jacket, drew out her knife, and began prying the object out of the wall. It fell into her hand. A bullet. It was slightly cool to the touch. She furrowed her brow and looked around. On the ground about 10 feet away was a black object. Picking it up, she saw that it was a wallet, and inside among some cash and business cards was one ID card belonging to a Marc Lacrimosa. “Damn it,” Riza said, clenching her fist.

Who could she contact? She had no idea where to find any of her friends; they all seemed to be out on cases of their own. And the best part? The rain made it impossible to track down anyone. All scents and trails would have been washed away. She couldn’t do anything. It looked like she’d have to turn to her old friend for help.

Jan-24-2011 21:22

***
“I think I know someone who can help you,” said the man behind the counter, pointing towards the door which connected the back of the shabby bookstore to an empty complex on the other side. “Ask for an Edward Carlyle. He may not be the brightest of the bunch, but that man’s bright when it comes to stuff like this.”

Riza nodded her thanks, and then made her way through the door. What greeted her was a plume of hot air, a room musty with the smell of old cigarettes and sweat. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and sought out her target: a man of around forty who was sitting at a table with a group of men, playing cards. The sharp click of her heels rang out through the entire level and silenced the room of talking men.

“Ms. Hawkeye,” the men at the table grunted as she approached. She flashed them a quick smile. “Edward Carlyle?” she asked. One of the men raised his head. “You come with me. I have work for you.”

***
“I have no clue where he’s gone, but I want you to help me find him,” she finished. “Ms. Hawkeye,” Edward said with a hint of a grin, “I never would have taken you to be so soft, considering what I’ve heard about you.” Riza stared at him. “Soft? You think I’m soft? Here soft for ya!” she said coolly with a fake smile plastered on her face. She stomped the heel of her right boot down on Edward’s foot to the sound of a sickening crunch.

“Get to work,” she said, tossing him the bullet and the wallet. I’m going to go look for more people to help.” Riza clicked down the street, leaving her new acquaintance there to curse in privacy.

Jan-25-2011 09:00

"Good God, lady," I yelled as she stomped on my foot, "That hurt!" She looked at me. "Get to work," she said tossing me the bullet and wallet. "I'm going to go look for more people to help."

I turned around and looked at the hole in the wall where the bullet stopped. The hole was small. The bullet was also small. I turned and looked around. The killer could have came from anywhere. While, I didn't know this Marc Lacrimosa character, I knew that someone had a hunch on him and wanted him dead. The rain poured down harder as I stood alone in the darkness. As I started to turn and leave, I noticed something on the ground about twenty or thirty feet away on the other side of the street.

The cigar appeared as though it had been stepped on and dragged across the sidewalk. It was amazing to know that the cigar had not been washed away in the rain. Holding the cigar, I turned and faced the bullet hole across the street. Holding my hand up like a gun, I imagined someone near the hole and fired. I could see the imaginary bullet miss by mere inches. It hit the wall.

Marc had gone after his killer. Either Marc had been stupid to chase a man with a gun, or he knew he could catch him. His foot stepped on the cigar when the assailant dropped it. But this alley only led to what was behind it, which was the rest of the city. I had no clue where he could have been. There were endless possibilities as to where he could have been.

I looked back down at the cigar. There was no telling who could have wanted him dead. Anyone in this line of business made enemies. Whether it was small time crooks or crime families. The only thing I could do was find a cigar store and find some information about this.

Jan-26-2011 08:50

The light peeked through the room giving off a little bit of light. But not enough to see who this mysterious stranger was that had Marc tied to a chair. Minutes seemed like hours of no one talking. The shady person walked in circles around Marc. “In 1925, you were a detective with the NYPD. You solved a murder case no one wanted. One that involved the murder of suspects, witnesses, and one lone jewel that possessed the mind of those who were near it,” the shady person said. “Wait,” Marc said, “how do you know about that case?” “Like I said, detective,” the man replied, “I know a great deal about you. I want to know what became of the jewel!” “That’s classified,” Marc said. “Why should I tell you?”

The man picked up a small pistol and struck Marc across the face. Blood splattered across the room, onto the floor and wall. “You can tell me, or I can kill you. It doesn’t matter to me. Your friends have all abandoned you, Marc.” “Screw, you!” Marc yelled. “Killing me wont’ do you any good.” The man laughed and cocked the hammer back on a revolver. “Don’t force me to make a decision right now. If I kill you now, I can still find the jewel.” “You’re not crazy enough to kill me. You’ll be caught for this,” Marc said. “Crazy? Who said I was crazy? Killing you won’t be crazy. It will be the sanest thing I’ve ever done!” The man said with a dark, evil laugh. Once more, he hit Marc in the face. “Now, tell me what I want to know!”

Jan-26-2011 08:52

****************June 1, 1925*************

My alarm clock woke me up with a start that faithful morning. I had no clue what I was going to be starting on that day. Just as every other cop thought, I too thought the same thing that, “you never knew what you were going to walk into.” When I arrived at the station, I was greeted by my partner. Timothy Sullivan, an Irishman who’s family immigrated here from Ireland, some time ago. He was a year younger than I. “Marc,” he said, “it’s good to see you this morning.” I didn’t have time to reply. The chief walked in. He was big man with a deep southern accent. “Okay people, listen up,” he said, “ I got a stiff out on Eight street. Two gun shots to the chest and one to the face. Marc, you and Tim are on it. And don’t fail me.” Don’t fail me. Those were his famous words to every detective he assigned a case to. Not that we ever did fail him, but once in a while you would come across a case that would either break you, or one that you could never solve.

When Tim and I arrived at the scene, the police had already taped it off. It wasn’t hard to find the crooked cops, who were standing around smoking and not bothering to keep the press away from the body. “What do we got?” I asked. The first officer on the scene was a new guy named Karl Fairburn. He often stuttered when he got nervous. He led me and Sullivan to the corpse; a young man. “He was shot twice in the chest and once in the head. He as dead on arrival, sir,” Karl said. “Don’t call me sir,” I replied, “I work for a living.” Sullivan, pulled out his camera, took a picture, waited for the camera to recharge, and took one. “Any witnesses?” Sullivan asked. “No,” Karl replied. “Any identification?” I asked. “We have him identified as Erik Von Schmidt.”

Jan-26-2011 08:53

I looked around the body. There were three bullet shells not far from it. “Sully,” I said, come look at this.” I got down on one knee and picked one up. “.45 caliber,” Sullivan said, “looks like this guy really pissed off some people.” I turned around and looked at Karl. “Karl, any idea where he lives?”

Jan-27-2011 13:39

Karl told me where our victim Erik Von Schmidt lived. Sully and I got up to leave. As we approached my car, a stranger approached us. “Gentlemen,” the man said, “I understand there was a murder.” Sully looked at him. “What’s it to you?” He asked. The stranger laughed. “My name is not important, but I know who you two are. And I also know that you are about to be stepping into a case that will change your lives. If you drop this case, I’ll give you this,” The man said reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a large manila envelope and opened it. “Inside this is over two thousand dollars. It can all be yours.”

“Get lost,” I said to him, “or we’ll have you arrested for harassing a police officers and attempting to force a bribe.” “Fine,” he replied, “but I know more about you than you think.” And with that, he turned and left. “Who the hell was that guy?” Sully asked me. “Beats me,” I replied. “Let’s just ignore him for now, we have bigger things to worry about.” We arrived at Erik’s house and I knocked on the door. “NYPD,” I announced. The door opened and a beautiful young blond woman opened it. “I’m detective Marc Lacrimosa this is my partner Timothy Sullivan. May we have a word?” The woman gratefully let us in. “Ma’am,” Sully began, “is Erik Von Schmidt your husband?” “Yes,” she said, “why?” I cut in, “Mrs. Von Schmidt, your husband is dead. He was shot to death. We are going to find out who did this, but we need to ask you some questions.”

Jan-27-2011 13:39

“What kind of questions? I don’t understand,” She said. “Ma’am, do you know of anyone who would have wanted to kill your husband?” Sully started. As most people do, she gave us the general answer, no. We asked about any enemies, old friends with hunches, and even asked her alibi which checked out. Everything she said, was no. Despite seeing something in her eyes, I kept my mouth shut. While Sully questioned her, I took a look around her house looking for anything that might give us a lead. But there was nothing. Sully and I left with out a word. The ride back to the station was quiet.

We sat down at my desk. “Let’s start with square one. She doesn’t know anyone who would have wanted to kill her husband. As most every husband, he was a fun, caring person with a big heart. I think this was more than just a random murder,” Sully said. “You think its a mafia hit?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “Think about it. Every ‘fun, caring person with a big heart’ has been involved with some kind of crime family. I’ll almost guarantee you we can find his name in the hall of records and that he is tied to some kind of crime family. This should be a simple case.” I sat back in my chair and lit a cigarette. Sully was partially correct. Most of the time we did find people in the hall of records. But once in a while there was one person that wasn’t in there. “Okay,” I said after a minute of thinking, “we go look in the Hall of Records, then we go back to the house. I think she’s lying to us.” Sully nodded. “I agree,” he said. And we left.

Jan-27-2011 17:09

“Impossible!” Riza exclaimed to no one in particular. “Where are these people when you need them?” As she walked down the city streets and popped into bars and agencies in search of fellow detectives, she decided that she would head to Marc’s office again after all. There had to be some sort of clue there. She knew she was clutching at straws, but it was worth a shot.

Upon reaching his building and hearing her heels click up the steps up to the office, she remembered that it was nighttime, and his office would probably be locked. Trying the doorknob, she found that it was indeed locked. “Oh well, guess I’ll have to break it down,” she thought to herself, smirking. Tapping the door in spots with her knuckles, and listening to the sounds they made, she nodded to herself. Then, taking a step back, she aimed and knocked the door off its hinges with one perfect kick. She caught the door before it hit the ground and placed it against the wall.

Riza made her way over to Marc’s desk and ruffled through the papers in the drawers. Bills, business cards, and old case files. She pulled out a stack of files and dropped them on the desk. She flipped through them one by one, tossing them aside when she was done. One file caught her eye, or more specifically, one picture in the file. “Interesting,” she said, quickly reading through it. She then tucked the picture into her jacket and stood. Looking around her, she figured someone would get to the mess tomorrow, and took her leave.

Riza walked down the street towards the center of the city. It must have been midnight or just afterwards because it was silent save for the sporadic honking of car horns and the sounds of chatter emanating from bars. Across the street in one of the shops that was still lit, to her surprise, she saw Ed coming out. It seemed to be a cigar shop.