[b][color=9e0039][h1][center]Calvin Lovegrove[/center][/h1][/color][/b][color=9e0039][h2][center]En Route to Brooklyn[/center][/h2][/color][color=9e0039][h2][center]Noon[/center][/h2][/color]
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Calvin failed to marvel at the massive structures as he passed them by in his convertible. New York was all more of the same – a lie. A catacomb covered in glittering sculptures. His life among the shadows of Manhattan gave him an exhilaration that he could never find anywhere else, but his sentiment always drew him to Ossining. He could see his life outside of Manhattan evaporating before his eyes. Within days, weeks, or months, Evelyn would be gone and there would be no reason for him to ever leave the city again. He’d burn down his house for the quick insurance payout and find himself a place in Manhattan. 

Cal still had time, but it was running out. Evelyn and Ossining were slipping through his fingers like a fine powder and Danielle was beginning to envelop his existence. The part that killed him was the fact that it did not particularly bother him. There was a time when Evelyn was his sun and stars; he remembered being twenty. But it was gone. A peaceful life in a darling house with the woman of his dreams, accompanied by a comfortable and menial taskforce at the Ossining Police Station dominated his young mind, but it was nothing more than a dream. Once he’d found it, it was gone. Once he’d felt it, he didn’t.

But Calvin quietly understood that no matter how he’d played his cards, things would have ended up the same. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the cancerous growth inside of his wife. There was nothing he could have accomplished that would have prevented his lust for the neon pleasure of New York’s underbelly. Nothing—not even the bomb—could have kept him from sacrificing his job for the favor of a particular Hollywood starlet. And this, somehow, gave him peace. Nothing that’d happened so far had been anything he could control. Soon, Evelyn would be gone and his glamorous prodding of the underworld would consume his entire life. So be it.


[color=9e0039][h2][center]The House of the Fallen Detective[/center][/h2][/color][color=9e0039][h2][center]Afternoon[/center][/h2][/color]
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[i]Richard Smith[/i]. He sounded like a nobody, but according to the commissioner, he was a solid, by-the-books Ad Vice caseman. Poor thing. That notion alone was the reason he was killed. You didn’t survive Ad Vice by being a pillar of humanity. Cal had remembered Ash—the newbie of his desk—from the months prior to his suspension, but he’d never met Mr. Smith. It was more than likely that Richard had been hired as his replacement, and then killed upon the elapse of Calvin’s suspension. It had all been wrapped neatly into a bow like a Christmas gift.

Calvin parked his car across the street and lit a cigarette as he strolled toward the caution tape-suffocated house. The scene had clearly quieted down from the initial uproar of Smith’s demise, seeing as the only remaining vehicles were that of the coroner, one patrol car, and a civilian car that he did not recognize. He strolled into the house, satirically kicking off the grime of his wing-tipped shoes against the “welcome” mat in front of the door.

Inside, he found the culprit corpse – a young man, gutted on his living room floor and covered in roses. In fact, the fucking things were everywhere. The house had become a sickening garden of them. 

“What’ve you got?” muttered Calvin as he shuffled into the room. He narrowed his eyes at the coroner.

The man grimaced. “Oh. You’re back.” He looked at his watch. “You’re late. Very late.” He pointed at the dead detective. “I miss [i]him[/i]. He wasn’t a cunt like the man he replaced.” The coroner aptly looked at Calvin. 

“Nice to see you too,” Cal said as he knelt and observed the corpse. 

“[i]Whatever[/i]. People don’t change. It’s only a matter of time.” The coroner took a deep breath and removed a few of the roses from Richard’s chest. “He was killed around midnight last night.” He pointed at the ligature marks on the man’s neck. “Strangled. I gave this whole report to Detective Gallagher hours ago. If you’d been here, I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

“Well… I’m here now, so do your fucking job. [i]Then[/i] you can go home and complain to your lucky, [i]lucky[/i] wife about how much of a bully I am.” Calvin snapped and raised his voice.

The coroner seemed slightly shaken up. “Um…Detective Smith fired one round into the wall.” He pointed at the bullet-pierced wallpaper above the mantle. “I can assume that he fired at his assailant and missed before being subdued.” The coroner then shrugged. “No sign of Detective Smith’s weapon. The culprit must have taken it for himself.”

Calvin folded his arms. “Death by asphyxiation, then?”

The coroner looked mournfully at Cal and nodded. “Yes. He sure tried to put up a fight.” He pointed at a pair of scratches on Smith’s arms. “And then…he was gone.”

“So we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Yes, we’ve been able to hypothesize some of his—.”

“Uh uh.” Calvin outstretched his palm toward the coroner’s face and looked away. “I’m going to get it directly from the horse’s mouth. Not an over-glorified nurse. Is Detective Gallagher still here?”

The coroner sighed. “Yes. He’s wandering the house, seeing if there aren’t any breadcrumbs anywhere else. I told him that it was a waste, but—.”

“Enough,” Calvin interrupted. “Thank you for the help.” He wandered through the dead detective’s house until he saw the silhouette of Ashley Gallagher standing in the hallway. Calvin approached the man. He smirked, but relinquished it. This man’s partner had been killed. It was the wrong time for humor. “Describe what we are dealing with, and I will help you with this case. I want to know everything.”