The dark Game

Eight

The hallway behind the Micheline felt suddenly colder after the Architect's text. The air, thick with the smell of stale beer and disinfectant, now seemed to carry a new, metallic taste of fear. Davon and Claire's heads swiveled in unison, scanning the dimly lit corridor.

"See anyone?" Davon muttered, his hand drifting toward his weapon.

"Nothing. He's a ghost," Claire replied, her voice tight. "But he was right here. He heard everything."

Their attention snapped back to Leo Cruz. The big man was sweating, a fine sheen on his bald head. His eyes, once gentle, now darted away from theirs.

"You look nervous, Leo," Claire said, her tone deliberately calm. "Is there something you want to tell us? Something you didn't mention before?"

Leo's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "I told you everything I know. I don't want no trouble."

"The trouble's already here," Davon said, stepping closer. "And it seems to know your name. Now, we need to see the manager. Now."

Leo gave a jerky nod and led them to a heavy, soundproofed door at the end of the hall. As they approached, they heard the muffled, frantic tone of Mateo's voice from within.

"...I don't care how you do it, just make it disappear! The police were just—" Without knocking, Davon pushed the door open.

Mateo stood behind his desk, the phone receiver slammed down into its cradle with a sharp, final c***k. His face was a mask of sheer, undiluted panic, his skin the color of old paper. He stared at the detectives, his eyes wide and unblinking.

"We can see ourselves in," Davon said flatly.

Leo, sensing the shift in atmosphere, melted away without a word. Claire closed the door, the click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the tense silence. Mateo didn't speak. Instead, he turned, grabbed a crystal snifter, and poured three fingers of amber whisky with a trembling hand. He threw it back in one gulp, his eyes watering as it burned its way down.

"Bad time, Mateo?" Claire asked, her voice deceptively light.

"What do you want?" he finally croaked, avoiding their eyes.

Davon's gaze swept over the desk. There, beside an expensive pen set, were a few faint, grainy traces of a white powder. "Rough day?" he asked, nodding toward the residue.

Mateo followed his gaze and quickly swept a hand over the surface. "It's... sugar. From my coffee."

"We want to see Cassey's room. The one where she was killed," Claire stated, moving past his lie.

"It's... it's a crime scene. Sealed," Mateo protested, a faint sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. "You can't just—"

Davon took a single step forward, his presence filling the room. He didn't say a word. He just looked at Mateo, his expression promising consequences. The manager's bravado crumbled.

"Fine. Fine! This way."

He led them to the room. The yellow police tape was still in place, but the seal on the door was broken. Inside, the scene was as they remembered—the toppled furniture, the bloodstains on the carpet. But something was wrong.

Claire's eyes narrowed. "The bed. The king-sized four-poster. It's gone."

They had called the Texan woman on the way, and she had confirmed the bed's presence. Davon turned to Mateo. "You told us nothing was taken from this room."

"I... it must have been the cleaners," he stammered, his eyes shifting wildly. "I gave them permission to... to sanitize."

"Sanitize a murder scene before the investigation is closed?" Claire's voice was icy. "That's obstruction, Mateo."

Before they could press him further, a single, deafening BANG echoed through the building, followed by the heavy, final thud of a large body hitting the floor. The sound came from the direction of the security office.

They ran.

Barging into the room, they found Leo Cruz sprawled on the floor, a massive, dark pool of blood spreading like a grotesque halo around his head. A small, black semi-automatic pistol—a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield—lay loosely in his hand. The hole in his forehead was neat and precise.

"Damn it!" Davon growled, dropping to a knee to check for a pulse he knew wasn't there. "We just lost our only other lead." He called it in while Claire stood over the body, her face a mask of grim resignation.

They found Mateo back in his office, pretending to look over paperwork. When they told him Leo was dead, he merely shrugged.

"A tragedy. He was a good employee." His voice held no emotion.

"When people start dying after talking to us, we get suspicious," Claire said, her eyes boring into him. "Especially when their boss seems relieved about it."

When confronted about the missing bed, however, his composure broke. "I don't know anything about a bed! This is harassment!"

Fed up with the act, Claire produced her cuffs. "Mateo, you're under arrest for obstruction of justice. You can answer our questions down at the precinct."

---

The interrogation room at the precinct felt like a cage. Davon played the bad cop, his impatience a live wire.

"Who took the bed, Mateo? Who were you on the phone with?" he demanded, leaning across the table.

"I told you, I don't know!"

"Leo's dead because he talked to us," Claire said, her voice calm but relentless. "Who are you protecting? Was it Dr. Finch?"

At the name, Mateo flinched but said nothing. His story remained a flimsy wall of "I don't know." They got nothing.

Frustrated, they returned to the Micheline. The club was beginning to stir with its nightly energy, the air thickening with cheap perfume and anticipation. Without Mateo's intimidating presence, the dancers in the dressing room were more willing to talk, though their wariness remained.

The Texan woman, who introduced herself as "Dallas," gave the same vague description. "Honey, I told you—average white guy, brown hair, just... normal. But his eyes..." She shuddered, reapplying lipstick in a cracked mirror. "They were like lookin' at still water. Nothing movin' underneath."

Another dancer, a young Mexican woman named Rosa with wide, nervous eyes, approached them shyly. "Cassey... she was scared of him," she said in softly accented English. "She gave me this for safe keeping." She handed Claire a slip of paper with an address. "Her ex-boyfriend. She said if anything happened... but I was too scared to go to police before."

It was a third dancer, an older Mexican woman named Elena with a face like worn leather and eyes that had seen too much, who gave them the real break. She smoked a thin cigarette, regarding them through the haze.

"She brought trouble," Elena said flatly when asked about Cassey. "Some girls attract dark clouds. She was one."

"But you know what kind of trouble," Claire pressed, pulling up a stool. "The man who bothered her. You know who he is."

Elena took a long drag, her eyes narrowing. "You think because the wolf is gone, the sheep will talk?" She gestured with her cigarette toward Mateo's empty office. "There are always more wolves."

Davon leaned against the doorframe, his presence filling the space. "We found Leo Cruz with a hole in his head tonight. The wolves are eating their own. Talk to us, and maybe we can get you out of the pen."

Elena studied him for a long moment, then stubbed out her cigarette. "A cleaning company, Limpieza Total, they come after police leave. Take big things. The bed, sí. But also..." She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "The side panel from the wardrobe. Heavy wood. Treated pine."

She glanced around before continuing. "The man who asks for Cassey, the one with dead eyes... the girls call him 'el Pavo Real'—the Peacock. Always in fine clothes. His name is Dr. Alistair Finch." She spat the name like it was poison. "He has much... influence here. That is why Leo kills himself. These men..." She made a gesture of something breaking. "They are strong until they break. Then they shatter."

The pieces were finally falling into place. The treated pine. The powerful, connected "Peacock." They had a name.

---

Exhausted but wired, they drove to Claire's apartment. It was a world away from Davon's sterile box. Her home was on the fourteenth floor, with a breathtaking view of the city's glittering skyline. The space was warm and inviting, painted in soft creams and accented with elegant dashes of blush pink and deep burgundy. A plush, grey sofa was piled with velvet cushions, and a large, abstract painting in shades of gold and crimson dominated one wall. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves overflowed with a mix of thick forensic science textbooks, well-loved literary novels, and a surprising number of poetry collections. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and old paper.

They spread their notes on her coffee table, eating pizza and drinking the surprisingly excellent lattes she made.

"Treated pine," Claire mused, staring at their notes. "From the wardrobe. That could be our murder weapon. And this Dr. Finch... the 'Peacock.' It fits the note."

Davon found himself stealing glances at her. In the soft light of her apartment, away from the violence and death, he could see the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the quiet strength he had always admired.

She caught him looking. "You look enamored, Deshaun," she said, a faint, tired smile on her lips.

He flushed, looking away. "Just thinking about the case," he muttered, standing up abruptly. "I need some air."

He stepped out onto her balcony, the cold night wind a welcome shock. Claire joined him, leaning against the railing.

"All those books," he said, changing the subject. "I didn't know you were a reader."

"A lot has changed, Davon. We had lives after... after us."

They stood in silence for a moment, the city sprawling beneath them.

"Have you?" he asked quietly. "Found anyone?"

She shook her head, not looking at him. "No. You?"

"Nobody who could put up with this," he said, gesturing vaguely back toward the case files inside. "Or with me."

Claire made a dry joke about their shared misfortune, and Davon laughed, a real, unguarded sound he hadn't heard from himself in years. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the past and present colliding in the space between them. Then, the moment broke.

"I should go," Davon said, his voice rough. He left quickly, the unspoken words hanging in the air behind him.

Driving home, he cursed himself for his cowardice. The memory of Claire standing on the balcony, the city lights painting her profile in silver and shadow, played in his mind. He could still smell the faint scent of her perfume—something clean and subtle, like lemongrass and sandalwood—that had cut through the usual smells of death and despair that followed him. For a few moments in her apartment, surrounded by her books and her art, he'd felt something other than the grinding pressure of the case. He'd felt... peace. And he'd run from it like he always did.

He showered, the hot water doing little to cleanse his frustration, and fell into a fitful sleep haunted by images of Leo's dead eyes and a missing bed made of treated pine.

His nightmare was shattered by the cheerful, insistent ringtone he'd assigned to his sister. He fumbled for the phone, the digital clock reading 2:17 A.M.

"Maya?" he grunted, his voice thick with sleep and the remnants of a dream where he was chasing a shadow through a forest of falling pine needles.

"Davon! Did I wake you?" Her voice was a burst of sunshine, so at odds with the gloom of his apartment and his psyche.

"No, no, it's fine," he lied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Everything is perfect! We're in Berlin right now, and Jonas just surprised me with tickets to the opera tomorrow! A real, proper German opera house! I'm just... I'm so happy, D."

He could hear the smile in her voice, and it was contagious. A real smile, the first in days, touched his own lips. "That's great, Maya. Really. I'm happy for you."

"Mom and Dad called earlier. They send their love. Mom said to tell you to eat something that doesn't come in a takeout box, and Dad said to 'watch your six,' whatever that means."

Davon chuckled. "Tell them I'm trying. And Dad watches too many cop shows."

"So, I heard from Aunt Carol that you're on some big case? She saw your name in some article online."

The mention of the case was like a cloud passing over the sun. The weight settled back on his shoulders. "Yeah. Something like that."

Her tone softened, the giddiness replaced by a familiar, sisterly concern. "Don't worry too much, okay? You always carry the whole world on your shoulders. You'll get the bad guy. You always do. Just... be careful. Please?"

"I'm always careful," he said, the lie coming easily.

She saw right through it, as she always did. "Yeah, right. I love you, big brother."

"Love you too, Maya. Enjoy the opera."

He hung up, the ghost of his smile lingering as he looked at his phone. For a few minutes, the crushing pressure of the case had lifted. The simple, normal love of his family was a tiny, bright shield against the darkness.

By nightfall, the shield had faded, and the restlessness had returned. The four walls of his apartment felt like they were closing in. He thought about calling Claire, but what would he say? That he couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd looked at him on the balcony? That he was drinking alone in his apartment because being there reminded him of being at her place?

No. Better to be somewhere that made sense. Somewhere the darkness was expected.

He threw on some casual clothes and drove back to the Micheline, a moth drawn to the flame. The bass throbbed through the walls as he entered, the familiar sensory assault of flashing lights, swirling smoke, and the sweet-rotten smell of spilled liquor and desperation.

He found Dallas at the bar, her drawl already slurry from early drinking. "Well, look what the cat dragged back in! Buy a girl a drink, detective?"

He slid onto the stool next to her, ordering a whiskey, neat. As she launched into a rambling story about a customer from earlier, he only half-listened. His mind was back on Claire's balcony, the easy silence between them, the way her hair had lifted in the breeze.

"...and then he had the nerve to say my accent was fake! Can you believe that?" Dallas giggled, leaning into him. Her perfume was cloying and cheap, nothing like Claire's. Everything here felt like a cheap imitation of the genuine moment he'd fled from.

He drank. He drank too much, the alcohol a blunt instrument against the sharp edges of his regret and the haunting image of Claire's sad smile when he'd left. The world became a blur of neon and noise, Dallas's voice a distant buzz.

"Y'know, for a cop, you're not so bad," she slurred, her hand on his arm. "You got sad eyes. I like that."

The last thing he remembered was her leading him by the hand toward the back rooms, her giggle fading into the thunderous music. "C'mon, sugar detective, let's get you somewhere quiet."

He collapsed onto a unfamiliar bed, the world spinning, and passed out into a deep, black oblivion, the memory of Claire's apartment—the books, the art, the peace—the last conscious thought before darkness claimed him. He was completely unaware of the door clicking shut, of the shadow that moved in the corner of the room, or what was yet to come.