Chapter 1 : The Call
The rain never stopped in Ravenport. It was a constant, low-grade misery that seeped into the bones of the city and the souls of its inhabitants. I watched it smear the window of my apartment, turning the neon glow of the liquor store sign across the street into a watery blur.
My glass was empty. The bottle beside it wasn’t.
I poured another two fingers of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the dim light from the single lamp I kept on. The apartment was a tomb—a few boxes I hadn’t unpacked since moving in eight months ago, a couch that smelled of stale cigarettes and regret, and a silence so thick it felt like a physical weight. Suspension had its perks. No paperwork. No partners looking at you with that mix of pity and contempt. No bodies.
Just the bourbon and the rain.
The phone rang.
It wasn’t the soft chime of my personal cell. It was the harsh, jangling ring of the landline I kept for work, a relic from a time before smartphones, a direct line to the precinct. That sound cut through the silence like a shard of glass. My hand froze halfway to my mouth. The glass stayed on the table.
Three rings. Four.
I let it go to five before I picked it up. The plastic receiver was cold.
“Hale.”
“Marcus.” The voice was familiar, strained. Lieutenant Arlo Vance. A man who sounded like he smoked two packs a day and drank a bottle of Scotch to wash them down. “You’re needed.”
“I’m suspended, Lieutenant. Six more weeks of needed-less bliss.”
“Suspension’s over. Paperwork’s cleared. Get your coat.”
The bourbon in my glass seemed suddenly pathetic. “What’s the catch?”
“A catch?” Vance’s laugh was a dry, hacking thing. “You think I’m calling you back for a traffic report? There’s a body. Down in the wharf district. Old warehouse by Pier Twelve.”
“So call Donovan. Call Chen. They’re not benched.”
“They’re already there. They’re… unsettled.” He paused, and I heard him take a drag of a cigarette, the faint hiss of breath. “This isn’t a standard hit, Marcus. It’s… unlike. You’ve seen things. In the service. After.”
I had. Too many things. Things that didn’t fit in reports or slide neatly into evidence bags. “Define ‘unlike.’”
“I can’t. Not from here. You need to see it. Your unit’s been reassigned. Cold Case is on this, as of now. You’re the lead.”
Cold Case. The department’s dumping ground for mysteries that wouldn’t solve and detectives they couldn’t fire. My home for the past three years. “Who’s the victim?”
“No ID. Not yet. Just… a body. Come in, Marcus. Now.”
He hung up.
The rain tapped against the window. I looked at the bourbon, then pushed the glass away. The warmth it promised was a lie. It only made the cold inside feel heavier.
