As the forensics team worked their way through the scene, we gathered on the balcony, each of us lighting a cigarette. The air was heavy with smoke and tension, our eyes fixed on the specialists moving around inside. From the apartment next door, the muffled sound of a heated argument reached us. The little girl’s mother, who had returned home shortly after we discovered Miranda's body, was fuming, shouting at a police officer about how they’d disturbed her daughter’s sleep and tracked mud all over her clean floors.
The team had to enter through the same balcony to avoid contaminating the scene, so I could understand why she was so upset. Not that it made our job any easier.
“So,” Leo muttered, taking a long drag from his cigarette, “What’s our next move?”
“We’re missing something big,” James said, his brow furrowed in concentration. “If Miranda wasn’t the killer, then who was?”
“Then those bloodstains from the hotel—they weren’t Alisha’s?” Jane wondered aloud. “What the hell happened if they didn’t fight? And—Miranda couldn’t be the murder, right? They chased her into that stadium.”
James shrugged, frustration etched on his face. “Maybe they fought in that hotel room, maybe not. But if they did, why would they plan to watch a game together afterward?”
Leo let out a groan. “This day keeps getting worse.”
Just then, a man burst onto the balcony, yanking free from the grip of a police officer. His voice cracked with desperation. “I’m her husband! Let me through!” He charged forward, eyes wild with panic. "Miranda! Miranda, no! No!"
James and I moved fast, intercepting him before he could reach her body, holding him back as gently as we could. He caught a glimpse of his wife lying motionless on the floor, and his legs gave way beneath him. We softened his fall, guiding him down to sit on the cold concrete as he broke into gut-wrenching sobs, his head hung low, tears streaming down his face.
He kept looking at her, as if hoping she’d suddenly rise, smile at him, and tell him everything was okay. But the cruel reality remained—Miranda lay still, a dark stain spreading from the wound that marred her head, her blood soaking into the edge of the rug.
“How... why?” he choked out between sobs, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Was it—no. No, not them. Was it those Americans?”
“Please, sir,” James said softly, trying to console him. “You’ve got to stay strong, for her sake.”
“For her sake?” he shouted, his voice cracking with raw anguish. “She’s dead! How am I fucking supposed to be strong for her now?”
“I’m so sorry,” James replied, his tone gentle yet firm. “I know this is hell for you, but we need to—”
“Who did this?” the man interrupted, his grief twisting into rage. “Who killed her? Was it Jack? That psycho did it, didn’t he? I swear I’ll kill him!”
“Jack?” Leo asked, stepping closer, his interest piqued. “Who’s Jack?”
“Jack Star,” the man spat, his fury barely contained. “That obsessive freak. He... he...”
But his anger crumbled again when his eyes landed on Miranda’s lifeless form. He covered his face with trembling hands, shoulders shaking as he wept. I took a deep drag from my cigarette, then flicked it off the balcony. Whoever Jack Star was, we had our next lead—a name that could either crack this case wide open or lead us down another dead end.
We left the grieving husband in the care of other officers, leading him gently away from the scene. We didn’t have a specific location for Jack Star yet, but that wasn’t going to slow us down. A quick call to dispatch, and we’d have his entire history laid out for us.
“Jack Star,” Jane said, her voice sharp with determination. “Let’s go find him.”
James nodded, already heading back toward the car. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”
“I’ll stay here,” Leo said, turning back toward the apartment. “I’ll talk to the neighbours, the kid, her mom—see if I can dig up anything useful.”
Jane gave him a thumbs-up. “Alright. Let us know if you find anything new.”
“Will do,” Leo replied, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Good luck.”
—
Jack Star, 28 years old. His record was a mess—four counts of misdemeanours, two charges for obstructing a police officer, and seven charges for public indecency. Even by our standards, Jack was an odd one. Pinning down his location was straightforward; he worked at a bar a bit far from our usual haunt, Golden Cats. The place he worked at had a reputation for pushing red crystal, a drug that kept its hooks deep in West Antapolis. Chances were, Jack was using too, like so many others. Not because it was a thrill, but because it offered a fleeting escape from their problems.
James parked the car and pulled up the handbrake. The bar was set along the edge of a heart-shaped lake, in the Morelda district, known as one of the most popular tourist spots around. The bar didn’t have quite the same reputation as Golden Cats, but it still drew a good crowd, served decent drinks, and had attractive women.
“Well…” Jane said, glancing around. “We’re here. Ugh, I hate this district. It’s all shopping malls and concrete.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Yeah,” James agreed. “Concrete jungle.”
A dirty sign reading "Lucky 88" flickered in a rhythmic pattern. Above the sign was a cardboard cutout of a slot machine, its lever moving down in sync with the lights. When the lever dropped, three dollar symbols appeared in the slots, only to vanish as it reset. Occasionally, instead of dollar signs, the slots would randomly show three images of naked women.
Lucky 88 didn’t exactly care about regulations. It was the kind of place where one might spot a woman performing an… ‘illicit act’ for a customer in a shadowy corner of the bar. The place had racked up a fair share of fines over the years, as one could guess it.
"Oh, boy," Jane muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing. "Please let this guy be the murderer. Just this once, universe, do me a favor."
"Fingers crossed," James replied, though his tone carried a touch of skepticism.
"Wait," I said, gesturing toward the building's double doors. The words "No pigs" were scrawled across them in bold lettering. "Looks like we’re not exactly welcome."
"Well, guns and IDs stay here," James said with a resigned sigh.
"Good thing our car isn't marked as a patrol vehicle," Jane noted, removing her pistol from its holster. "At least it doesn't scream 'police.'"
Leaving behind our firearms and IDs, we got out of the car and approached the entrance of Lucky 88. The security guard eyed us suspiciously, probably wondering what we were doing at a bar this early in the day. But after a moment of hesitation, he let us through.
Inside, the bar’s attempt at luxury was visible beneath a thin veneer of neglect. The furniture was a mix of faux leather seating and polished tables that had seen better days. Dance poles stood scattered around, their purpose unfulfilled this early in the morning. Colored lights flickered dimly, waiting for the night crowd to breathe life back into the place. The walls were lined with tacky neon signs, advertising everything from overpriced cocktails to sleazy gambling deals. A low hum of music played in the background, too quiet to drown out the clinking of glasses or the occasional cough from the few patrons nursing drinks at this hour.
"There," Jane said, nodding subtly toward a man wiping down tables. "That’s our guy—Jack Star."
James squinted in Jack’s direction, his jaw tightening slightly. "Yeah, that’s him, alright."
Jack Star, in his late twenties, had a wiry build that made him look slightly hunched as he worked. His hair was greasy, slicked back into a half-hearted ponytail, and he wore a faded uniform that seemed one size too big. He moved with a twitchy energy, his eyes darting around the room as he stacked dishes on a tray.
We slid into an empty booth and shrugged off our coats. The plan was simple: blend in, watch Jack, and wait for the right moment to approach him, preferably when he stepped outside for a smoke or something.
"Golden Cats is still better," Jane said, her gaze drifting over the dingy surroundings.
"No contest," James agreed, leaning back with a smirk. "This place is like a glorified public restroom compared to Golden Cats."
"Who’d have thought the most popular bar in West Antapolis would be all the way in Kenli?" Jane mused, shaking her head. "This city’s got some weird priorities."
"Well, Cats is neutral ground," James pointed out. "It’s the one spot all the gangs agree to keep violence-free. That’s probably why it’s so popular."
"Hello," a waitress said, suddenly appearing at our table. Her smile was overly practiced, trying to mask the tired look in her eyes. "Welcome to Lucky 88. What can I get you?"
"Antapolis Red," James said, ordering a beer with a nod.
"Same," Jane added.
"Just water for me," I said.
The waitress nodded politely, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, and then walked off to get our drinks.
"How’s everything with your wife?" Jane asked, her tone softer than usual.
James let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't even get me started," he replied, shaking his head in frustration. "She’s trying to take 'my' kid away, even after I caught her cheating with two different guys."
"Didn’t you just take her to court?" I asked. "You got custody of Ela like two days ago, right?"
"Yeah, I did," he said. "But she's acting like I committed some kind of war crime. Texts me nonstop, won’t let it go."
"Obsessive much?" Jane said, crossing her arms. "That’s some scary behaviour."
"Scary for my kid," James said, his face darkening. "She keeps threatening to take Ela away from me when I’m not home."
Jane winced, shaking her head. "Poor Ela... Lucky she's only two and too young to understand any of this mess."
"Yeah," James muttered, his voice laced with worry. "I just hope I can figure this out before it messes her up."
The waitress returned with our drinks, setting them down in front of us with a smile that felt more like a mask. In West Antapolis, even the warmest smile could be as hollow as a bad promise, and it took a local to recognize the subtle tells. Unfortunately for me, I knew them all too well—I was born here.
Two women at the next table gave James and me a look, their eyes calculating. They were probably premiums, the local slang for women who’d turned their charm into a career of seduction and manipulation. In West Antapolis, these "working girls" played their part in luring men into spending money, giving them a fleeting taste of importance, only to rob them blind the moment they let their guard down.
"Premiums," Jane whispered, nudging me. "Think one of them's got her eye on you, C. Go say hello."
I let out a sigh and took a sip of my water. "Not really in the mood to get robbed tonight, thanks."
"Oi, focus up," James said, his voice all business now. "Where’s Jack? My back’s to the room, can’t see a damn thing."
Jane scanned the bar quickly, her gaze locking onto our target. "Still cleaning tables," she said. "Looks like we’re camping out here a bit longer."
---
After what felt like ten long minutes, Jack finally paused to check his phone. His eyes went wide as he read something on the screen, his face draining of colour. He glanced around nervously, muttering to himself before bolting toward the back door of the bar. We didn't waste a second, springing to our feet and trailing him. A waitress tried to block our way, telling us that the back door was for staff only, but James brushed her aside without a second thought, pushing the door open and stepping into the alley.
Jack froze the moment he saw us in the narrow alleyway, the smell of trash thick in the air. A homeless man lay curled up nearby, barely stirring as we stepped over the refuse that cluttered the ground. To the left, a rusty fence marked the boundary, and beyond it, the shortcut led to a park known for its proximity to an asylum.
"What the—" Jack stammered, eyes darting wildly. "You can't be here!"
"We need to ask you some questions about Alisha," James said, shutting the door behind us with a snap. "Keep calm, no sudden moves."
"You a cop?" Jack blurted, his voice rising in panic. "Hell nah, I’m not talking!"
Jane took a step forward, her voice steady but firm. "We’re investigating her murder. And, by the way, Miranda’s dead too. Her husband says you were obsessed with her, Jack. Care to explain?"
Jack's eyes widened even more, and without another word, he spun on his heel and bolted toward the fence. "Damn it!" I hissed, instantly giving chase. My feet pounded against the grimy pavement, closing the gap between us, while Jane and James struggled to keep up, their pace slowing in frustration.
"Sick of this," I muttered under my breath, already anticipating the chaos that was sure to follow.