Investigators: Mr. Alec Burke, Mr. Clay Laroche

Alec Burke hunched his shoulders and pulled up the weatherworn collar of his jacket to protect his neck from the cold rain. His walk to Rufus Napper’s apartment building under a light drizzle had turned into a puddle-dodging jog through a growing deluge. At first, Alec regretted leaving his umbrella at home, but on further consideration of its tattered state he concluded that the umbrella would have only slowed him down while providing little cover. Wet and shivering by the time he reached the six-story building, Alec took refuge in the quiet linoleum lobby. There was no place to sit, aside from the chair already occupied by the dark-haired woman behind the desk by the stairs. She did not look up from her morning newspaper.

Alec checked the wall clock—twenty-two minutes past eight. He had agreed to meet Clay Laroche here at eight-thirty. The Detecting Company had tasked them with locating Rufus Napper on behalf of Bluestone Recovery, the debt collection agency. Apparently, Rufus had defaulted on a sizable debt, the product of neglected high-interest loans, and Bluestone’s agents were having no luck tracking him down. Hiring a couple low-rank investigators was worth the expense to Bluestone for the chance to get their hands on Rufus and squeeze out the money that he owed. Alec leaned against the wall and produced his notebook—thankfully, the rain hadn’t completely soaked through his jacket pocket. Rufus was last seen three weeks ago, and while Alec wasn’t optimistic enough to assume that Rufus would return to his apartment, he hoped that an examination of Rufus’s last known residence would provide some sort of insight.

There was a muted crash and shouting from the apartment directly above the lobby. It sounded like a man and a woman. Dust and flecks of plaster floated down from the ceiling, and the woman behind the desk continued to read her newspaper, unphased. Must be a common occurrence. It reminded Alec of his own neighborhood, not far from here. Ignoring his gut instinct, Alec returned his attention to the notebook.

At ten minutes to nine, Clay arrived at the apartment building. He shook his dripping hat and ran fingers through his mess of ash brown hair. His slick, black raincoat had acquired a strange odor over the years, but it was masked by the everpresent scent of mildew in the building. Clay’s hooded blue eyes conveyed a conflicting sense of lethargy and sharpness, leaving his intentions difficult to read.

“Lose track of time?” said Alec.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” said Clay.

The two men strode to the dark-haired woman behind the desk, and Alec introduced them as investigators of the Detecting Company, holding up an eggshell white ID card. She glanced up without setting down the newspaper. Alec asked to see Rufus’s apartment, and Mr. Armand Porden, manager of the building.

“Mr. Porden’s office is on the second floor at the end of the hall,” said the woman. She went back to her newspaper.

Armand Porden had little time or information to offer the investigators. He was a round man with heavy breath, his chair squeaking under the strain of his weight. His shirt was stained with splashes of coffee and condiments from over the years, and he smelled of smoke and sweaty body odor. Like the woman in the lobby, Armand did not grant his full attention to Alec and Clay—he was engrossed in the drudgery of paperwork behind a cluttered desk, sorting through documents pertaining to rent agreements, tenant grievances, and lawsuits against the building.

“No, I don’t know where that snake is,” said Armand. “I haven’t seen him since last month. He left town for all I know, wouldn’t be first. If you do find him, bring him back here to pay his damn rent.”

“Do you remember the precise date of your last meeting with him?” said Alec. He had his notebook out and ready.

“No, I really don’t,” said Armand.

“When you last saw him, was he acting strange at all?” said Alec.

“I wish owing me money was unusual behavior, but this isn’t the first time that he’s been late on rent,” said Armand.

“Roommates?” said Alec.

“None,” said Armand.

“What about visitors?” said Alec. “Did you notice him associating with anyone uncommon before he disappeared?”

“There were debt collectors,” said Armand. “And there was a short guy that I saw around here a couple months ago, can’t have been taller than five feet, hanging around with Rufus.” He made a gesture to emphasize the visitor’s short stature.

“Do you remember his name?” said Alec.

“No,” said Armand. “I don’t keep tabs on him, all right? Look, I already told you, I don’t know where Rufus ran off to. I don’t know if he’s coming back. I do know that if he isn’t back by next week, I’m clearing out his apartment. No good snake, leaving me a damn mess to clean up. I’m busy here, can’t you see that?”

Alec nodded. “We appreciate the help, Mr. Porden. We’d like to take a look around Rufus’s apartment for a few minutes…”

“You got a warrant? No? Then no,” said Armand. “I don’t stay in business by letting people rummage through my tenants’ apartments.”

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It looks like you hardly stay in business at all. Alec thanked Armand and asked that he call with any new updates, passing a wrinkled business card across the desk. He suspected that it would be lost in Armand’s mess of papers within a few minutes. Alec and Clay left the stuffy office and stepped into the poorly lit hallway.

“Well, that wasn’t overly helpful,” said Alec.

“Did you expect anything otherwise?” said Clay. “If he does know anything about Rufus, which I doubt, then he’s not going to tell us unless we grease his hand a bit. But I’m short on bribe money—can’t keep that up with wages like this. We always get stuck with the worst cases. I’m sick of it.”

Alec and Clay had partnered on a few cases over the past six months: gathering evidence for the prosecution in a case of insurance fraud, tailing an unfaithful spouse that had no less than three secret lovers, and tracking a set of stolen jewelry after a break-in in Brixwell. Payouts were low and promotions remained elusive. The Detecting Company allocated cases and provided access to resources dependent on its hierarchy of investigators. Those at the top were assigned cases of international consequence—those at the bottom took what they could get.

They ascended the stairs to the third floor and started going door-to-door to interview Rufus’s neighbors. Only one out of seven answered the door at all, and he slammed it in Alec’s face with nothing to contribute. Clay stopped outside Rufus’s door, 3F, and tested the doorknob. Locked. Clay crouched down and peered in through the mail slot. It wasn’t an optimal angle for observation, but he could make out part of the kitchen and catch a whiff of rotting food. He repositioned and glimpsed a pile of unopened envelopes below the mail slot. Clay pulled out a rigid, plastic card from his pocket, positioning it parallel with the lock, and took a moment to check the hallway for any unwanted onlookers.

“Clay, come on, is it worth it?” said Alec. “The constabulary is processing Rufus’s missing person report, we can come back here with something more official once that’s finalized.”

“I told you, that slumlord doesn’t care if we go through Rufus’s room, he just wants his cut,” said Clay. “So, what’s the difference? We’re already here.” With one sharp jab the flimsy lock popped open, and the door swung slowly inward.

The moldy malodor was strong. Clay stepped inside, reluctantly followed by Alec, and the two began their inspection of the meager apartment. The residence was composed of a simple cooking and living area equipped with a crooked table and a few rusted pots and pans, a cramped bedroom with a desk and stained mattress, and a closet of a washroom. Alec wrinkled his nose as he wandered through the kitchen. There were scraps of moldy bread and spoiled meat and vegetables by the greasy wood stove. The muffled scratching and squeaking of rodents and insects sounded from the walls. Rain pattered against the apartment’s sole window, thick fog engulfing the street below.

“Did he leave on his own accord? Running away from debts?” said Alec. “Or was he taken forcefully?”

“Hard to say in this mess, but I don’t see any obvious signs of a struggle,” said Clay. “Not to say that every kidnapping begins with a struggle, of course he could have been coerced or tricked into going with someone without a fight. If he did leave willingly, then it doesn’t look like he took much with him.”

“I don’t see a suitcase,” said Alec after he had made a circuit around the apartment. “But look where the wall meets the floor, here, by the mattress, this is one of the only empty spaces in the whole apartment, everywhere else there’s furniture and junk pressed up against the walls. It looks like something bulky and rectangular used to occupy this space. A suitcase, perhaps?”

“Well, there’s one point toward leaving willingly,” said Clay. “One tenuous point.” He was standing over the desk, skimming through newspaper clippings pertaining to horse races at Lucky Meadows, a track on the southern edge of the city. “Lucky Meadows, that’s his last known place of work, right?”

“That’s right,” said Alec. “He worked in the stables. I called them already and they told me that they haven’t seen Rufus in weeks.”

“You ever get into horse racing?” said Clay.

Alec shook his head. “Never had any luck with that.”

“I won a little money last year on a big race,” said Clay. “Lost it all on bad bets within a month.” He pointed to the newspaper clippings. “Spot the common denominator.”

Alec spread out the clippings on Rufus’s desk and puzzled over them for a few minutes. The clippings reported the results of eight races that had occurred at Lucky Meadows. There were photographs from the races, grainy images of horses kicking up dirt as their jockeys whipped them emphatically. Alec tapped his finger on the name of the only horse to appear consistently in each clipping. “Moonshine. He’s in every race, all eight of them. Twelfth place, eleventh place, fourteenth… he’s almost dead last in each one. Looks like Rufus even underlined the name in this clipping, here.”

“I guess he knows how to pick a loser,” said Clay.

Alec turned over one of the clippings and found a photograph of Moonshine, the horse furthest on the left, dragging behind his competitors. Moonshine was a wiry, black stallion with a single white spot between his eyes.

“No address book or calendar, unfortunately,” said Clay. “Nothing that indicates who Rufus is close to, what he’s planning to do, or where he’s planning to go. He could be long gone, in another country by now, or dead in a ditch.”

There were heavy footsteps in the hallway, and Alec and Clay recognized the wheezing breath of Armand outside the door. They exchanged a cautious glance and stood breathlessly in Rufus’s bedroom.

“Damnit, I knew we shouldn’t have come in here,” whispered Alec.

“Shut it,” hissed Clay. “Listen, that fatso isn’t stopping in front of 3F, he’s going to the next apartment.”

Sure enough, Alec heard Armand knocking on the door of 3G, and the two trespassers could make out parts of an argument over missing rent payments through the thin walls. After a ten minute exchange, the sound of stomping footsteps faded down the hall and then down the stairs. Alec breathed a little easier.

“We should get out of here,” he said. “If you think we get crap cases from the Detecting Company now, just wait until we’re arrested for breaking and entering. We’ll lose all credibility.”

Clay took another cursory glance around the apartment. “There’s nothing left here anyway. Let’s go.”

The rain kept steady as Alec and Clay hailed a horse-drawn cab to Lucky Meadows. That’s where they discovered the dead body.