Todd stood in his living room in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, staring into the empty file box on the coffee table. He sighed and raked a hand through his black hair, still wet from the shower. Months of work, erased in seconds.
The phone rang. He stared at it, half-surprised it still worked. It hung on the narrow strip of wall above the sink, just over the counter.
He picked it up.
"Busy?" The voice was cold. Monotone.
He recognized it. His eyes widened. "Yeah—I mean, no."
"The Dregs. You know it?"
"Yeah. A bar in Robbinsville, run out of the old asylum."
"Thirty minutes."
Click.
Todd let the dial tone hum a moment before hanging up. His grin crept in before he could stop it.
Keys in hand, he slammed the door on the way out.
Todd sped across the Brown Bridge, peeled off at the first exit into Uptown, and cut through Robbinsville's edge. Three blocks from the harbor, the Rose Marie Asylum rose against the skyline. A five-story brick relic, abandoned since the 1920s, when Arkham Asylum took its place.
From a distance, the building looked almost respectable. Its tall, symmetrical windows gave off a calm, institutional charm meant to reassure. But it was just part of the illusion.
He turned into a narrow alley, parked, dismounted, pulled off his helmet, and hooked it to the seat. His fingers brushed the edge of his balaclava. He yanked it off.
From a side compartment, he grabbed a bag and slung it over the bike, tucking it behind a pair of overflowing dumpsters.
"Been inside?"
He spun. White eyes burned in the dark.
"Shit," said Todd. After a moment, he nodded. "Run by some of Maroni's guys. Top floor is the club scene."
"A girl is meeting a date here."
"Date?"
"He's got information."
"What kind?"
Something flicked through the air, thudding into his chest. An earpiece.
"Wear it."
"What do I do when they meet?"
"Watch."
Todd slipped it in. "That's it?"
The figure was gone, swallowed by the dark above.
Todd turned back to the building, trying to suppress the excitement rising in his chest. After he stuck the earpiece in his right ear, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
A sizable crowd gathered across the street: a hodgepodge of mohawks, tight jeans, loose-hanging torn shirts, dyed hair in bright colors, and metal glinting from noses and lips.
The young and lost, chasing a few loud hours to drown out the rest. Todd knew the feeling, and knew the answer wasn't in there. Then his thoughts drifted to Trinh. He pictured her among them. No piercings or tattoos. Just clad in black, with wide brown eyes on a round face that lit up when the music hit hard.
His heart was thumping, breath quickening. Excitement and nerves. His fingers drummed against his jacket. He needed something, anything, to take the edge off. The earpiece tugged at his ear.
"You there?" said Todd. He wasn't sure what to expect, but the long, droning silence felt right. "This guy—the target—he's connected to the missing girls, right?"
Silence.
He sighed. Then static.
"Yes."
"You do this kind of thing a lot? Stakeouts? I figured you were more the string-'em-up-and-let-'em-hang type."
Nothing.
"How'd you hear about the girls?"
Silence again.
"For me, it was just…a feeling, I guess. Trinh wouldn't vanish like that. She showed up early, worked hard, never made a fuss. Disappearing like that wasn't her."
Another silence, heavier this time.
"How were you able to find me?"
A short silence, then a voice. "Your necklace."
"That's it? Just that?" Todd's voice cracked with disbelief. "Any chance I get it back?"
"She's here."
He straightened, eyes sweeping the sidewalk. "Which one?"
"Pink hair. Approaching from the west. Remember, if he shows up, you don't take your eyes off them."
Todd scanned the crowd until his eyes caught on a girl: black jeans, platform boots, a ripped shirt cropped just above her stomach. A hoodie hung from her waist. Studded bangles circled her wrist, and a dog collar sat snug around her neck.
"If he shows up?" said Todd. "He's not standing her up."
He crossed the street and fell in a few paces behind her. She was average height, maybe 5'6″. Her pink hair looked fresh and bold.
She glanced back, eyes sweeping past him. He wondered if she knew.
When she went inside, he followed, slipping past a few to cut in line. He handed over a few bucks at the entrance and stepped in.
The lobby was wide, with a tall reception desk covered in dust and cobwebs. To the right was a set of stairs. He climbed, spotting her one flight up. She passed the second floor, where most of the rooms still looked medical with chipped tile, twisted metal beds, and rooms with the doors removed.
She ducked into the fourth floor. The crowd was thick. Clusters of people gathered in the corners, lounging on scavenged chairs, crates, and broken furniture. A thin guy rose from a battered black couch as she neared. Black jeans, studded vest, and on his neck a skull tattoo with the jaw gone its lines jagged like it'd been inked by an unsteady hand on a cheap needle.
Todd drifted past, settling by a wood beam where a knot of guys huddled. He leaned against it, eyes low but sweeping, keeping the girl and her date in the edge of his vision.
"Almost didn't recognize you," said the guy, teetering back and forth.
"Like I said, I clean up." She smirked. He leaned in as if to kiss her. She angled away.
"At least get a girl a drink first."
He chuckled. "We got beers. I know the guy running this place—lets us bring our own." He cracked one open and offered it to her.
She took a long swig. When she lowered it, he leaned in again. She shifted out of reach.
"Why don't we go somewhere private?" she said.
He scratched at the skull tattoo, the skin still raw from earlier marks. His eyes were pink. "Party's not even started."
"Let's make our own party."
He took her hand and led her toward the guys on the couch. Todd stayed back, close enough to listen, eyes on her.
The guys started talking as she sat between them, snug against their sides. She didn't seem to like it, but she faked a smile. Their interest in her was obvious. Each had a stupid, shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
Todd drifted toward another group, trying to blend in.
"She's with his crew now," he murmured. "Trying to pull him aside, but he's not gonna bite. Not until he gets his fix."
"You think he's a junkie?"
Todd circled left, leaning against a column. His eyes tracked the room, keeping on the couch. "Twitchy. Thin. Blotchy skin. I've seen it before—he's waiting for a dealer."
"Stay close."
He watched the guy, his shaved head, his sunken face. They needed him alone, and he wanted his fix. "I've got an idea."
"No."
"Trust me."
"I don't."
"You trusted me enough to call. Second floor's empty. I go there, and she tells him she knows a guy selling there."
Todd waited in silence.
"Go."
Todd pushed down to the second floor. The stairwell was clogged with bodies, but he slipped through and emerged onto a landing warped with rot. The floor groaned beneath his boots. He moved carefully and found an empty room. Faint light bled through the windows just enough to make out shadows and peeling walls.
Todd pulled his balaclava from his jacket pocket, pulling it over his face. His breath was rapid; he took slow inhales to calm himself, but his heart still raced. Then the music started pulsing and leaking down from above.
A loud, heavy creak cut through the silence.
Someone called out, "Someone selling down here?"
"Sure," said Todd, loud enough for the guy to hear.
The guy appeared in the entrance. Todd stood against the wall, waited until the guy entered the room, then grabbed hold of him and pushed him to the ground.
"Motherfucker!"
"Stop moving," Todd hissed.
"Fuck—" The man froze. Not because of Todd.
In the doorway. Darkness stood still and menacing. Then a voice came as though separate from the figure. Even Todd looked surprised, his grip loosened.
"Daze." The name spoken like a sentence being passed.
"Holy shit," the guy breathed, scrambling back on his knees until he hit the wall.
"The cop who drugged you. What was his name."
"How the fuck do you—"
The figure stepped from the doorway, shadows swallowing him again as he closed in. "Tell me."
"I—shit—I don't know."
His movements were too fast to track. One moment Daze was crouched on the floor, the next he was pinned, his face pressed into the wall. His arm pinned to his spine. Todd remembered the feeling. Remembered the chilling calm in the voice. Never wavering always cold.
"Alright, he—he showed up with some guy. They were waiting on that Asian chick. Ann. She didn't wanna leave—so the cop left with some dude."
"How do you know he was a cop?"
"TV, man. The ones that offed themselves. He was one of 'em."
"Name?"
"I don't remember—the Asian one."
"And the other?"
"I didn't get a good look at him, I swear."
Daze's arm cracked, he cried out. Todd stepped forward. "Then describe him." He offered.
Between cries of pain, Daze described him. "Average—I guess. Puerto Rican? Maybe? Young?" Then he dropped like wet laundry.
"Go to 52nd Precinct. Ask for Detective Gordon. Make a statement."
Todd stiffened. That name. The man from the tunnel.
"I can't snitch on a cop, even a dead one," Daze muttered.
Todd finally moved. He crouched beside Daze. "You can, and you will." He fished through the guy's pockets and plucked out his wallet. He tugged out his driver's license. "Jordan Lock, 4541 West Chester Avenue, Westside."
He tossed the wallet back at Jordan. "He knows your name and where you live now."
"Alright, I'll go," Daze muttered, rubbing his arm.
When Todd looked up, they were alone.
He left Daze on the floor and exited the room. He pulled off his mask and headed for the stairs. Outside, the street was cold and quiet. He scanned the rooftops. Nothing.
But inside, something stirred, a flutter in his chest. Not just adrenaline. Something sharper. That feeling he got when he was closing in on the truth.
Closer to what happened to Trinh. But also to something else.