Ravenport

Chapter 2 : Pier Twelve

My coat was a worn leather jacket, scarred from years of use and weather. I pulled it on, the weight familiar. My service pistol was in a locked case in the closet. I thought about it, then left it. This was a call to look, not to shoot. At least, I hoped.

The drive to the wharf was a journey through Ravenport’s decay. The rain made the streets slick, reflecting the sickly yellow of the streetlights. Buildings leaned against each other like tired old men, brick faces weeping with damp. The city had a smell—wet concrete, diesel fumes, and the salty, rotten tang of the sea.

Pier Twelve was a ghost of the city’s industrial past. A massive, rusted structure hunched over the black water, its windows boarded up, its loading bays choked with weeds and trash. Police cruisers were parked haphazardly near a side entrance, their blue and red lights painting the rain in garish stripes. The glow from their headlights illuminated a small group of figures huddled under the shelter of the warehouse’s overhang.

I parked my car—a ten-year-old sedan that smelled of mildew—and walked toward them. The rain needled my face. My boots splashed in puddles of oily water.

Detective Anya Chen saw me first. She was leaning against the brick wall, her posture tense. Her usual sharp, professional demeanor was frayed. She wore a dark blue raincoat, but her hair was plastered to her forehead, escaping from the hood. Her eyes, usually so focused and analytical, held a flicker of something else. Something raw.

“Hale.” Her voice was tight. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Lieutenant says I should.” I stopped beside her, looking at the other figure. Detective Liam Donovan was pacing a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He was a big man, solid, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite. Right now, that granite was cracked with unease.

“This is a mess, Marcus,” Donovan muttered, not looking at me. “A f*****g mess.”

“Show me.”

Chen hesitated. She glanced at Donovan, then back at me. “It’s inside. The uniforms secured the scene, but… it’s not secure. Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should see it yourself.” She turned and pushed open a heavy metal door that was already ajar. It groaned on rusted hinges.

The inside of the warehouse was a cavern of shadows and echoes. The air was colder here, stale, smelling of damp wood, rust, and something else… something sweet and cloying, undercut with a sharper, metallic note. Police flashlights cut beams through the darkness, illuminating patches of concrete floor littered with debris—broken pallets, shredded plastic, coils of old rope.

A pool of light was concentrated at the far end, near a stack of corroded shipping containers. Two uniformed officers stood there, their faces pale under the harsh LED beams. They weren’t looking at the body. They were looking anywhere but the body.

I walked toward the light. Chen and Donovan followed, their footsteps echoing mine.