“Probably nothing, but now that we know this is where he was taken, we need to make sure we didn't miss anything. Since we didn't know what we were looking for, exactly, something could have been overlooked easily.”

“I thought you didn't make mistakes like that.”

“Nobody's perfect, even me.”

“I wish I had my recorder on when you said that.”

“Get to looking.”

The scene looked no different than on their previous visit. The dust and dirt blanketing every inch showed that nothing could have disturbed the scene for decades without being noticed. Detective Knox was confident they had not missed anything, that there was nothing to miss, but due diligence was still a necessity. They turned their attention to the space in the center of the large floor that had been swept clean of the marks of age. The stains from George Hobbes' blood remained, soaked into the concrete, impossible to wash away.

No one had tried; there was no need. Crime scene or not, no one was going to enter that building. The dark residue of spent life was not going to scare anyone off; that had already been done. The building would stand as it was, uninhabited even by rats, until the structure finally collapsed under the burden of carrying the sad weight. The ensuing rubble would likely be an improvement.

“I don't think we missed anything. This place is spotless, or as spotless as a decrepit old building can be.”

“For once, kid, you're right.”

“So what was the point of coming here, other than crossing t's and dotting i's?”

“I'll tell you. While you were out gallivanting around, I made some calls to friends in other divisions.”

“Friends? Seriously?”

“Whatever. The point is, I made some calls, and it turns out that even in this godforsaken part of the city, people value their security. They might all be members of various criminal enterprises, but they have cameras plastered all over the place, to keep each other honest.”

“You're telling me this place has cameras? We can't be that lucky.”

“We're not. There aren't any here, but the place across the street has them. None of the gangs down here want to be on the hook for this, so the people in there gave us all the footage we need.”

“They did?”

“You might be surprised to hear this, but most criminals live by a code of honor, the same way we do. It's twisted, sure, but it's there. None of them want to be blamed for anything they didn't do, so they try and bring the competition down whenever they can.”

“So where's the footage?”

“It got sent to the tech guys downtown, but I just got a message. They found a van pulling up right in front here during the window of time when Hobbes was missing.”

“So that might be our suspects.”

“We'll see when we get back to the precinct. We might have gotten lucky.”

“I thought you don't believe in luck.”

“It's a better alternative than thinking this was all a big plan.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

Chapter 21

Film Noir

Silence rode along with Detectives Knox and Lane as they returned to the precinct. Knox preferred silence to any form of conversation; he enjoyed listening to the pistons firing in perfect sequence, waiting for the moment when the mechanism failed, and like everything else the heart of the mechanical beast died. Though he was no mechanic, Detective Knox could hear the sound of death in any form, so much so that he often thought death followed him around like a morbid shadow.

Detective Lane was of a different mind. He craved the camaraderie, the bond that was formed by the sharing of experiences. He was also a prudent man, and understood that pushing Detective Knox beyond the boundaries of their relationship was an exercise that would only serve to alienate him from his partner, would only stop whatever progress he had made towards becoming the detective he ultimately wanted to be. Thus, Lane sat in silence, listening to the engine's chorus rise and fall with each stoplight, feeling not altogether different than the gears themselves, forced to do their jobs with no hope of escape.

Freedom was not something Detective Lane craved. Following orders was a trait embedded in him from his earliest days at the academy, when he realized the risks he would face every day he was on the job. He did not sign up completely naïve, but the reality of life and death strikes more severely when you hold a gun in your hand, and you realize anyone standing opposite you might be doing the same. Freelancing was a signature on a death certificate, a fate Detective Lane preferred to leave up to nature.

They made slow progress through the city, every light red, the fresh bulbs burning brighter than usual, leaving echoes in Lane's eyes as they made their slow procession. The delays gave Lane more time to think, although he did not want to consider the conversation he had with his partner, the betrayal of going behind his back and revealing his distrust of Knox's methods as a teacher, but there was nothing in the moment to distract him. He was consumed by guilt, knowing he had proven all Knox's doubts about him right.

After what seemed like an eternity, the precinct came into view, the cold gray exterior as steely and stoical as the force itself. Lane wondered if the buildings were that way because the architecture had infected them, or if they had metamorphosed to reflect the people inside. Whichever the case, it was an appropriate setting, and encapsulated what policing the city entailed.

Detective Knox swung the car through the last corner; to him red was merely a darker shade of yellow, and he was unaware the car had functional brakes. His hands chopped over the top of the wheel, spinning it wildly from one direction to the other, sending the car onto the edges of the tires, testing their strength as they struggled to keep the air from forcing its way out. Knox stomped on the brake, bringing the heap of rust and steel to a stop, the cabin bouncing on the flabby springs as Lane put a hand to his chest to make sure his heart had not stopped.

Lane exited the car slowly, careful as he placed his feet on the ground, making sure it was solid. He turned his head to see Detective Knox standing at the car's nose, making mental notes about its placement.

“Getting old sucks, except for parking spots. There's something to be said for getting the best spots, because you've got seniority. I love it.”

“If you don't have to fight for a parking spot, why do you insist on driving like it's the last one on earth?”

“It's a game, kid. I see how fast I can go and still put the car squarely between the lines. Plus, I know it scares the hell out of you.”

“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”

“Because you put up such a stink about it. Hearing you complain is fun.”

Detective Lane threw up his hands, admitting defeat. Another lesson had just been taught about the value of silence, how he brought torment upon himself by voicing his complaints. Lane had figured that such juvenile thinking, that needling whoever spoke up loudest, had long since been outgrown. He was wrong, he realized. Those attitudes do not dissipate with time, they merely get reassigned to the few vestiges of the schoolyard that remain in adult life.

Inside, he felt more comfortable, as the droning routine of the job took over. By now familiar with the drill, he hugged the wall, heading to retrieve two cups of coffee, while Detective Knox went to their desks. When Lane made his way to his seat, Knox was hanging up the phone in his usual way, throwing the receiver and hoping it would end the call. If it missed, he at least was content that no one would be able to call and disturb him.

“Bad news?”

“Not at all. The tech guys said the footage should be on our computers now, so we don't have to make a trip down there. Pull it up, will you? Let's see what we have.”