Ravenport

Chapter 6 : Morning

The rain had eased by morning, leaving Ravenport shrouded in a damp, gray haze that clung to everything like a wet shroud. I drove to the precinct through streets slick with the night’s accumulation, my windshield wipers pushing aside a fine mist. My head was clear, a brittle, sharp clarity that felt more like hangover than sobriety. Chen’s advice had been sound; the bourbon bottle stayed in the cupboard, but its absence left a hollow space that the images from the warehouse filled completely.

The Cold Case Unit’s office was a corner of the third floor that smelled of stale coffee and despair. It was a room of forgotten files and abandoned leads, lit by fluorescent tubes that buzzed with a low, persistent hum. Donovan was already there, hunched over his computer screen, his broad shoulders tense. Chen stood by the window, staring out at the city, a steaming mug of something dark clutched in her hands. She wore a simple, professional outfit today: a charcoal gray blazer over a black blouse, the fabric crisp and structured, but her posture betrayed a lingering unease.

“Morning,” I said, dropping my jacket on a chair.

Donovan looked up. His face was grim. “Got the property records for Pier Twelve. Warehouse is owned by a holding company called ‘Blackwater Maritime Assets.’ Filed for bankruptcy three years ago. Property’s been in legal limbo since. No active leases. No security. It’s just… empty.”

“Perfect for a private exhibition,” Chen murmured, turning from the window. Her eyes met mine. “Facial recognition hit. Victim is Leo Mercer. Forty-two. Owned a small import-export business. Mostly specialty foods, spices. Office downtown.”

I moved to my desk, pulling my own chair. “Background?”

“Clean,” Donovan said, scrolling through a report. “No criminal record. Married, one kid. Wife reported him missing yesterday afternoon when he didn’t come home from a meeting. She’s at the precinct now, in family liaison.”

“A meeting,” I echoed. “Where?”

“His office, supposedly. He told his wife he had a late appointment with a potential client. Didn’t specify who.”

Chen set her mug down on a filing cabinet. “We need to see his office. And we need to talk to the wife. See if there’s anything in his life that could have drawn this… attention.”

“Let’s split it,” I said. “Anya, you take the wife. You’re better with the… softer approach. Liam, you and I hit his office. See what’s there.”

Chen’s lips tightened slightly. She didn’t like being assigned the ‘soft’ role, but she knew it was pragmatic. She nodded. “I’ll meet her in the lounge. See if she can shed any light.”

Donovan stood up, grabbing his own jacket—a heavy, waxed cotton number that smelled of rain and old tobacco. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”