Chapter Text
The rain in this city gets worse every day. Some folks say it’s the climate, they think the end of the world is just around the corner, and maybe it is, but if so then armageddon’s hitting here first. The rain is just the icing on the rotten cake. When rapture time comes, I wouldn’t be shocked if this whole city sinks on down to hell. Don’t get me wrong, I love this city like a baby loves car keys. It’s flashy, distracting, and makes a lot of noise. But when you grow up here, like I did, you learn it’s real useful for a lot of things. For one, plenty of decent folks live here. Just ordinary people trying to get through their ordinary lives under the heel of the rich and powerful families who run this place.
They’re the real problem, the crime syndicates who barely even lurk in the shadows any more. They could get away with murder. And I think they have.
My name’s Martin Blackwood. I’m a junior reporter for The Daily Thread. I’ve never let a bit of wealth and influence keep me from getting to the truth of things, and I’ve never given up on a story before. Partially because I’ve only had the one before this and it was an expose on the local high school science fair, but I know I have a knack for this business. And I’ve sniffed out a story that’s going to put me on the map.
Gertrude Robinson. A hell of a dame. Or she was, at least, rest her soul in peace. She was something of a vigilante, no one knew who she was working for and she seemed to be real big on equal opportunity mayhem against all the major players of this city. Some real illegal stuff, too. I still remember listening to the radio coverage of the fallout of the Lukas fundraiser gala bombing in my kitchen with my mother. Didn’t think it sounded like a win back then, but now? Well. It’s not for me to judge. I’m just here for the truth.
Either way, Gertrude disappeared suddenly a few years back and none of the powerful families she’d made her business of disrupting had anything enlightening to say about the matter. Coppers ruled her deceased from a heart attack, which normally wouldn’t be too suspicious, considering she was pushing 80, if the bribe hadn’t been so recent that you could still smell the scent of ripped checks lingering in the air around them. That and they never recovered a body. Which made it pretty hard to conduct an autopsy.
That is, they didn’t recover the body ‘til today. Some kids found it while playing in the sewers under the city, surrounded by cassette tapes, dead by three bullets to the chest. Not your traditional symptom of a peaceful heart attack. Someone murdered her, and I’d bet my reporter’s badge it’s someone linked to the powerful families who love keeping this city under their collective thumbs. They all have a motive. The question is who.
I flick open the shades of my office blinds to watch the endless drizzle drip down my window. For how much they get washed, the rain only ever seems to move the dust around. I have a pencil pusher cubicle down at the Daily Thread, but all my real work gets done here, at home, with my decaying old desk and green corduroy couch. Can’t think right without the air smelling like mildew. Tim thinks I should spend less time on the job, but if the stories won’t sleep, then I can’t either. Whoever killed Gertrude Robinson won’t face justice unless they’re forced into the light. I have plenty of evidence, and a prolific list of suspects, but I’m not sure where to start with it all. Each family has at least as big a grudge as the next, and most of them are private enough, and rich enough, that it will take more than moxie and elbow grease to get an interview.
I’m knee-deep in troubled thoughts when I spot an entirely different kind of trouble walking my way. I’ve never had the misfortune of meeting him in person, but I listen to enough backstreets chatter to recognize that body anywhere. Even from my office I can see the streetlights glinting off the gigantic diamonds in his choker. Just one of those could probably pay my rent on this dingy place from now til I kick the bucket. I let the blind drop and hurry to clear the scattered muffin crumbs off my desk before he makes it inside.
He doesn’t knock. I suppose he knows I saw him coming.
Of course I'd heard of Jonathan Bouchard. Everyone in this godforsaken city has. They call him the Archivist. Say if you do anything, he's the guy who knows. He and his husband Elias Bouchard, they have eyes all over this city. Can't spit on the sidewalk without them knowing about it. But for all I'd heard, guess I wasn't ready for the day he walked into my office. He was wearing a red backless dress with slits all the way up, and had the legs to carry it. Dark skin and tousled black hair like an oil slick. I knew I was in trouble when I saw those eyes though. They went on forever, and deep inside them I could see myself doing anything to see what that pretty mouth of his looked like smiling. Damn.
“Do you mind if I come in, Mr. Blackwood?”
I fold my arms, trying in vain to keep the blush off my cheeks. He isn’t even in my office yet and I already want to fold like a house of cards. “I suppose a pretty thing like you isn’t used to people saying no much, huh.”
Jonathan lifts his shoulders and lets them drop in the smoothest imitation of a shrug I’ve ever seen. “Were you planning on saying no?”
“Depends what you’re here for, I suppose.” I step around to the front of my desk and lean back against it, trying to project confidence, but Jon’s eyes say he’s come up against far better men than me and won every time.
“I heard you were looking into the now-unsolved murder of Gertrude Robinson.”
“And how would you know something like that?” I ask with a grim smile. It’s not like I don’t already know the answer, but sometimes the dance is done for its own sake. “Or where I live, for that matter?”
“It’s the business of the Magnus Family to know things,” Jonathan says, and apparently sensing that no rejection was coming, or maybe just not caring if it was, he steps fully into my office and perches daintily on the edge of my old green corduroy couch.
The Magnus Family is one of what I consider the big three crime families in the city. Magnus, Lukas, and Fairchild. The Fairchild family is rather classic, crime for the sake of it and the profit, some corrupt bookkeeping but mostly smuggling, murders, and black market dealings. Only problem is, no one ever caught them at it. The Lukas family is more insidious, they run this city in the most literal way there is: politics. Doesn’t mean they aren’t greasing palms and disappearing problems behind the scenes, but it’s hard to make anything stick to their pristine public image. And finally, the Magnus Family. Some would say the worst of them all. Their business is information. The kind of information folks get killed over. They run the prestigious Magnus Library, and it’s a laughably flimsy cover for a wealth of money laundering schemes that just hammers in how corrupt the police force of this city is. Honestly, it’s a nice library, even I utilize its extensive resources sometimes, but the head of the family, Elias Bouchard, may just be the most dangerous person alive.
And second is probably his husband and secret weapon, Jonathan.
“I have a lead you might find interesting,” Jonathan says, picking a piece of non-existent dirt off his dress with two perfectly filed fingernails. “An in at the police station. I can probably get you access to the tapes that were found near her body.”
“And why would you bring that to me?”
Jonathan looks up at me and his eyes are black as raw coffee grounds and twice as electrifying. “Because you’re the only one looking.”
“But why do you care at all,” I press, because pressing is what I do. “Wouldn’t it be better for you and your husband if this case is never solved?”
Jonathan tosses his head aside, hair tumbling across his bare shoulder in the way I wish my fingers were. I’ve only just met him, but already I can see how Elias managed to get so much information out of people who knew he was extorting them. Jonathan just has an aura where you can’t say no.
“I knew her,” he says, after too long a pause, as if he’d just woken up from a daydream he wishes he was still in. “It’s important to me this case gets solved.”
“Not knocking my own skills here,” I clear my throat against the crack in my voice. “But if that’s the case why not work it yourself? I’ve heard the rumors, you’re quite adept at gathering intel, and you’ve got twice the connections I have.”
“I might have, once,” Jonathan says. He pushes himself up off my ratty couch and walks towards me. Every click of his high heels is like a nail being hammered into my coffin. By the time he reaches me, I would have done anything he asked. “But I’ve changed, Mr. Blackwood. I’m different now.”
“But wait,” I say, grasping at the last straws of my usually reliable self control. “How do I know you and your family didn’t kill her?”
“I suppose you don’t.” Jonathan slides a hand slowly down the front of my silk tie. “Sometimes, Mr. Blackwood, you simply have to take a leap of faith.”
***
You’d think the prominent husband of a crime lord would have a few reservations about strolling into a police precinct, but that’s just the kind of place this is. Even the coppers who aren’t in the pocket of the big three families can’t get enough leverage to actually make a move against them. Jonathan certainly seems at home, striding right up to the reception desk and leaning over it, chatting genially with the woman behind it. He catches the eye of every person in that lobby, and I take a moment to remind myself the kind of company I’m keeping. Beautiful faces hide dangerous secrets in this city, and I’m not about to be taken for a ride that could end with my corpse in the sewers with three “heart attacks” through the chest.
We get buzzed through and I follow Jonathan through the narrow hallways to a small office with a bronze plaque. Detective Basira Hussein. Certainly looks official enough, but you never know where someone’s allegiances could lie. Any detective who is “acquainted” with the Magnus family is about as trustworthy as a lawyer without a paycheck. Jonathan knocks and then lets himself in without waiting on an answer. I hesitate for a moment on the threshold, but I already have my snorkel on at this point. Nothing to do but dive in.
“What did I tell you about coming here, Sims?”
“As I recall, nothing specific. And I’m not looking for trouble, Basira. I’m just making some introductions.”
Detective Hussein snorts. “Guys like you are always looking for trouble.”
Detective Basira Hussein has a glare that’s sharp as nails, and an attitude that’s sharper. From the neat folds of her headscarf to the sharp cuffs of her uniform, she is the picture of no-nonsense authority. I have a hunch she doesn’t exactly do a lot of talking with reporters, and she doesn’t seem like someone who would run with the Magnus family either. I’ve met her type. The world hits hard, so you hit back harder. I knew immediately that I didn’t want to find out just how hard she could hit.
“I heard you’re heading up the Robinson case,” Jonathan is saying, lounging across the hard plastic chair in front of her desk in a way that could not be comfortable. “Is that true?”
“Don’t ask questions.” Detective Hussein stands from her desk and crosses her arms.
“Fine.” Jonathan stretches a bit, like a cat. “I’ll make statements. You are heading up the Gertrude Robinson murder investigation. You recovered the tapes found around her body. Your superiors are pressuring you to close the case as quickly and quietly as possible. They know it’s section business and will be more trouble than it’s worth. What I’m offering will help us both. Give over the investigation details and tapes to us, satisfy your boss with a neat little bow of lies and we’ll further the cause of justice in your stead. Considering we don’t have Nathaniel Lukas bankrolling our boss’ re-election to police chief, we’re far more likely to find the actual truth here.”
Detective Hussein looks over at me as if only just now noticing I exist. That’s a particular talent of mine, looking so ordinary I might as well be invisible. Comes in handy on my investigations. Doesn’t do worlds for my self esteem.
“Who’s this ‘we’?”
“Ah. Basira, this is Mr. Blackwood. He’s a journalist. And potentially the only person in this city besides you and myself actually asking the right questions.”
I feel myself get redder than a crab in a boil pot. That’s another particular talent of mine. Embarrassing myself in front of people. Definitely doesn’t come in handy ever.
“A reporter? No way.” Detective Hussein shakes her head once, sharply. “I let this get to the press and it’ll be my ass on the line. Either the police are involved and we get on the outs with one of the families, or the police aren’t involved and the whole precinct is embarrassed over the case some wet-nosed desk jockey could solve but we couldn’t. Lose lose.”
“He works for The Daily Thread.” Jonathan sits forward, looking at Detective Hussein seriously. The attitude in the room drops abruptly from chilly to sub-zero.
“Jonathan. This is a bad idea.”
“What does my newspaper have to do with any of this?” My reporter instinct is telling me this whole conversation is dipping into something darker than just one murder investigation, but my fingers keep scrabbling for purchase and I can’t find an in.
Detective Hussein looks at me like I just asked what two plus two is and then whips back to face Jonathan. “Seriously? This is who you’re working with?”
“Okay. That’s enough.” I step forward into the room, asserting myself. I’m not exactly the smallest guy, and every now and then it’s worth using that to my advantage. “I’m done being talked over. A woman was killed, it was covered up, and whether you give us the tapes or not I’m going to find my way to the truth. All you have to do, Detective, is pick which side of this story you’re ending up on.”
I feel Jonathan’s eyes on me, appraising, but at that moment I couldn’t care less for him and his dazzling world of secrets and double talk. I’d been planning on solving this on my own from the jump, and I don’t need to suffer condescension to do just that.
“Is he one of yours?” Detective Hussein asks, but her voice is softer now, considering.
“I’m not anyone’s.”
“He just told you, Basira,” Jonathan chimes in, pushing himself fluidly out of the chair, like a waterfall of fabric in reverse. “He’s on the side of truth. As we all are.”
Detective Hussein sighs deeply like Jonathan had dumped the whole world on her shoulders. I can’t help but relate. “Fine. I’ll get you some tapes.”
She straightens one of the cuffs of her uniform and sweeps past us out of the room. As the door clicks shut behind her, Jonathan lets out a breath and leans back against the front of her desk.
“I think she likes you,” he says with a playful glint in his eye. I snort at that and let a bit of the tension I’d been unconsciously holding bleed out.
“I don’t think she’s ever liked anyone.”
“Just one, maybe. But let’s hope we don’t have to work with her partner. She has a bit of a vicious streak.” Jonathan reaches across Basira’s desk and grabs a fancy looking fountain pen which he twists between his fingers. “Tried to kill me once.”
“Is attempted murder the sort of thing that happens to you a lot?”
“More than I’d like,” Jonathan admits with another of his smooth, graceful shrugs.
It was the closest we had come so far to discussing what rested unspoken between us. Jonathan Bouchard is a criminal. And not just any criminal, one of the most well known faces of one of the most prolific crime families in the city. Why he is here, playing murder investigation with me, is unclear, but we both know one thing. Sooner or later he’ll show his true stripes, and we’ll have to go our separate ways. I just have to hope his inevitable betrayal won’t end with my body buried under their library.
“Jonathan—“ I start, but I am interrupted by Detective Hussein’s return. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, unlabeled cassette tape.
“Here. You get one. I’m not about to start hauling bags of evidence out of lockup for you. When you’re done, send it back and I’ll send you a new one.” She holds the tape out to Jonathan stiffly. Her face says she is ready for us to leave, and I am inclined to agree. Jonathan reaches out for the tape in her hand and smiles. It isn’t even directed at me and I still feel my heart flip flop like a kid with a jump rope. Dangerous.
Detective Hussein holds fast to the tape for a moment, not letting Jonathan take it from her. She looks deep into his eyes and frowns. “Is Bouchard putting you up to this, Jon?”
“No. He doesn’t, well, he lets me use my judgment. You know that, Basira.”
“I don’t like him.”
“You don’t have to. But this is for me. I need to know.”
Detective Hussein doesn’t seem to like that answer much, but she lets go of the tape and Jonathan slips it down the front of his dress. He pushes off the desk and glides past her out the door, leaving me to stammer a quick thank you before hurrying after him.
It’s a few blocks away from the police precinct before Jonathan stops abruptly and turns toward me. He pulls at the deep v-neck of his dress and my treacherous eyes long to follow his hand down inside. He takes the tape and presses it into my hand. It is still warm from where it had been nestled against his chest.
“You should keep this.”
“What? We aren’t going to listen together?”
“I have a pretty decent idea of what’s on it.” I’m not sure what that means, but Jonathan doesn’t leave me much time to ponder it. “You get what you can out of it, continue this investigation. Like I said, this isn’t who I am anymore, I have other obligations.”
“So this is it?” I ask and try not to sound plaintive, but it’s about as much good as trying not to blush when he flashes me that smile of his again.
“You’ll see me again, Mr. Blackwood. Trust me. I can’t rest until I find Gertrude’s killer.”
I open my mouth, not even sure which of the dozens of clamoring questions will fall out first, but Jonathan steps forward and interrupts me by pulling my tie free from where it is tucked into my vest. He wraps the fabric once around his hand, tugs my head low, and presses his mouth to mine. It is gentle, so gentle, his plush lips barely moving. But even just that tiny taste of him is maddening.
“I’ll find you again soon, Mr. Blackwood,” Jonathan says, and in a whirl of red silk he turns and leaves me gaping like a fish on the sidewalk. I watch him go, left with nothing but a still-warm cassette tape in my hand and a head filled with more questions than I’d begun the day with. Two things are for certain, though. This case is going to be an interesting one, and I definitely cannot trust Jonathan Bouchard.