investigative work out. That's what Homicide does nowadays. We leave things unfinished, half-solved.” He sighed heavily, at a loss, “But this? I can't do it with this. Something just doesn't feel right .”
Chuck frowned, “In the gut, you mean.” He nodded. “Rus, you gotta' accept some things won't get solved. Hell, most shit that comes 'cross my desk is days or weeks old. There's no trail left to go cold by then. Shit's just frozen out.”
He managed his words with difficulty, “I accept that, Chuck. That's why I'm not a cold-caser. But this is different.”
Chuck understood with a quick once-over of Russell's posture, “I get it.”
Russell explained with a distant look, “When I was deloyed, I felt like I'd started to sense those IEDs. Like, I could feel them or something. It got to the point where I started trusting my gut more than dogs or mine detectors. I know I saved lives 'cause of it, and now I'm thinking I feel the plastique again.”
Chuck was silent. He considered Russell's words while Patty returned with two steaming plates, “One regular. One extra crispy. Want a refill?” She tilted the carafe at Russell. He thanked her as she poured, “Anything else?”
“That's it for now, hon,” Chuck said with another toothy smile.
Patty rushed off as Chuck sank back into his thoughts. He tore the paper ring off his silverware and dug in. “Well Rus,” he said between chews. “I'll give you a week. That's all I can afford. You're a high priority—the best, but I trust you.”
Russell nodded with gratitude, took a swig from his coffee, “So, what do you think then?”
“Well,” Chuck paused to shovel a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He sloshed it down with a drink, “If you're smelling plastique, you'd better find a way to disarm the damned thing before it all goes to shit.”
Russell looked sideways out the window, “Yeah… right.”
3.
Mr. Ryusaki
September 28th
12:15 PM
57 th Street Train Station
Maggie stepped from the El onto the platform of the 57 th Street Station. She carried a large bag of warm food at her side, faded in and out of a crowd surging and filtering through the train. Steam blanketed the air from mouths that spoke into cell phones or at one another in a steady gurgle. All were summarily overwhelmed by the departing train.
The cacophony faded as the mass divided for various staircases. Maggie streamed along one crowd to the street, hesitated at the curb for a line of cars. The mass further divided until she crossed the street ahead with only a few, random people left. They dissipated through the parking lot as she crossed it.
She zipped her wool coat closed against gathering wind, passed several rundown buildings bearing fluorescent-green stickers. She walked these streets every day, sometimes three or four times, and could pace it out blindly.
Her feet propelled her across the cracked asphalt of 55 th 's crosswalk. It broke to the high-curb and lines of shops of the busy side-street. Always less hectic than 51 st was 53 rd street's crosswalk. Beyond it, the main road of 51 st swelled the horizon with tall buildings.
Smog and exhaust fought their way into Maggie's nostrils at the last cross-walk as the wind shifted. It tainted them to the door of Get Inked mid-way up the block and along on the left side.
Oakton's bustling downtown area was anything but pleasant, but Maggie found comfort in the chaotic obscurity it allowed. She could blend into shadows or crowds, disappear if necessary. It was a comforting thought for an introvert.
She pulled open the shop's door, found Mandy at the counter, scribbling on a sheet of paper. Maggie made for the back-room with a single word, “Food.”
Mandy jumped up to follow, “Cool. Hey, I called about the ink. It's on back-order but we'll discounted for the wait.”
Maggie sighed, the distributor had been a problem in the past. She stepped into the back room, set the bag on a lone table in its center,
Chuck frowned, “In the gut, you mean.” He nodded. “Rus, you gotta' accept some things won't get solved. Hell, most shit that comes 'cross my desk is days or weeks old. There's no trail left to go cold by then. Shit's just frozen out.”
He managed his words with difficulty, “I accept that, Chuck. That's why I'm not a cold-caser. But this is different.”
Chuck understood with a quick once-over of Russell's posture, “I get it.”
Russell explained with a distant look, “When I was deloyed, I felt like I'd started to sense those IEDs. Like, I could feel them or something. It got to the point where I started trusting my gut more than dogs or mine detectors. I know I saved lives 'cause of it, and now I'm thinking I feel the plastique again.”
Chuck was silent. He considered Russell's words while Patty returned with two steaming plates, “One regular. One extra crispy. Want a refill?” She tilted the carafe at Russell. He thanked her as she poured, “Anything else?”
“That's it for now, hon,” Chuck said with another toothy smile.
Patty rushed off as Chuck sank back into his thoughts. He tore the paper ring off his silverware and dug in. “Well Rus,” he said between chews. “I'll give you a week. That's all I can afford. You're a high priority—the best, but I trust you.”
Russell nodded with gratitude, took a swig from his coffee, “So, what do you think then?”
“Well,” Chuck paused to shovel a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He sloshed it down with a drink, “If you're smelling plastique, you'd better find a way to disarm the damned thing before it all goes to shit.”
Russell looked sideways out the window, “Yeah… right.”
3.
Mr. Ryusaki
September 28th
12:15 PM
57 th Street Train Station
Maggie stepped from the El onto the platform of the 57 th Street Station. She carried a large bag of warm food at her side, faded in and out of a crowd surging and filtering through the train. Steam blanketed the air from mouths that spoke into cell phones or at one another in a steady gurgle. All were summarily overwhelmed by the departing train.
The cacophony faded as the mass divided for various staircases. Maggie streamed along one crowd to the street, hesitated at the curb for a line of cars. The mass further divided until she crossed the street ahead with only a few, random people left. They dissipated through the parking lot as she crossed it.
She zipped her wool coat closed against gathering wind, passed several rundown buildings bearing fluorescent-green stickers. She walked these streets every day, sometimes three or four times, and could pace it out blindly.
Her feet propelled her across the cracked asphalt of 55 th 's crosswalk. It broke to the high-curb and lines of shops of the busy side-street. Always less hectic than 51 st was 53 rd street's crosswalk. Beyond it, the main road of 51 st swelled the horizon with tall buildings.
Smog and exhaust fought their way into Maggie's nostrils at the last cross-walk as the wind shifted. It tainted them to the door of Get Inked mid-way up the block and along on the left side.
Oakton's bustling downtown area was anything but pleasant, but Maggie found comfort in the chaotic obscurity it allowed. She could blend into shadows or crowds, disappear if necessary. It was a comforting thought for an introvert.
She pulled open the shop's door, found Mandy at the counter, scribbling on a sheet of paper. Maggie made for the back-room with a single word, “Food.”
Mandy jumped up to follow, “Cool. Hey, I called about the ink. It's on back-order but we'll discounted for the wait.”
Maggie sighed, the distributor had been a problem in the past. She stepped into the back room, set the bag on a lone table in its center,
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