Track 1: The Lost Love Song
A bleak blonde man lost his edge, living in a land of
loss
Bathe, shave,
brush and floss
Day in and out, mopes and cries
Scouring the weary world for worth with piercing blue
eyes
A heavy heat hung
miserably about the air, loitering to mock the room’s broken ceiling fan. A yellowing
keyboard clattered off like a machine gun. The monotonous chorus of clicks
served as a fitting anthem for dull deskwork, if it could still be called that. The office hadn’t seen the likes of a
desk in months, though it faced no shortage of paper. Somewhere within the ocean
of documents, a golden plaque gasped for air— engraved with the name of the slob
responsible for its suffocation.
SGT. DET. Edison B. Locard
A soft
blue glow lit up the face of a disheveled man in his thirties. The man’s face
was glued to his monitor. Perspiration
dripped out of the messy mop of blonde hair, leaking onto the man’s brow.
“Let’s see
what we’ve got…”
Edison
Locard wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“Clara Anderson’s thirty-five year living
streak ended when a family of five bullets moved into her chest. Her spouse,
Jonathan Anderson, discovered her body in their apartment after coming home
from work—”
A
long yawn interrupted the man’s narration. Despite attempts liven up deskwork
with a creative tone, Edison couldn’t stave off the boredom overtaking his
brain. It wasn’t that the detective failed to take his work seriously; he
simply yearned to be out in the field investigating murders. Writing up reports
on someone else’s findings didn’t account for a good time in Edison’s book— especially
not his former partner’s.
“According
to the ballistics analysis of Detective-Specialist Warren Michaels, the lack of
powder burns on the victim’s hands rules out suicide. The fact that Michaels
even considered the possibility of suicide with points to his lack of common
sense, considering the corpse was found with a full round in its chest. Not to
mention the missing gun.”
Edison
highlighted the jab at his former partner, realizing the report’s tone was getting
bit too unprofessional even for his standards. His finger hovered over the
delete key. The detective smirked as he envisioned Chief of Detectives Harold Delveccio’s
jowls flop in disapproval. As much as the prospect of simultaneously annoying
both Michaels and Delveccio tickled him, Edison pressed down on the key.
“Michaels
identified all six slugs as .357 caliber. Rifling marks match serial number
04673218-457, a Smith and Wesson revolver flagged in the database as sold to an
illegal redistributor. Vis a vie, the
bullets are a dead end and the gun is
MIA.”
Edison
scrolled down to the last page of the report.
It contained two photos with brief write-ups underneath.
“Suspect
Jonathan Anderson, the vic’s spouse, story checks out.” Edison continued. “The
task force sees no reason to continue looking in Jonathan at present. In
addition to his rock solid alibi, there is no discernable motive. The
investigation has gathered almost all positive feedback in regards to the
Andersons’ marriage.”
Edison
paused, turning his piercing blue-eyed gaze down at his mess of a desk.
“Except
from the testimony of the vic’s sister, Audrey Baines,” Edison read slowly. “Due
to the resentful and bitter tone of Miss Baines, the task force considers her a
person of interest.”
The
detective picked snatched a photo from the mess of papers. It was a portrait of
Audrey Baines, the woman mentioned in the report. Her beady, yellow eyes stared
back him like the eyes of a hungry mouse, twitchily alert.
“Audrey,
unmarried and unattached, is successful interior decorator living in Caramel, a
short drive from NYC. When asked about any problems between her and her sister,
Audrey admitted that she and Clara had been estranged for seven years,
attributing the rift as a result of her demanding career. She also blamed her
severe agoraphobia. Coincidentally, Audrey’s inability to leave the house doubled
as her alibi.”
This
time a splitting headache interrupted the detective’s reading. Edison stroked
his head back to a tolerable level of pain.
“Psych
evaluations confirm the prior existence of such a condition. Audrey also
produced a decade worth of receipts for home deliveries as well. All clients
confirmed her work as a ‘Skype-only service.’”
Edison
shook his head.
“Since
when has claiming to home alone during the time of a murder ever been a good defense?” the detective mused
aloud, no longer reading his report.
“You
have to love the way the system coddles murders these days. Decorating rooms
without entering them… Psh. Yeah, that’s
what a normal person does. Wish observable crazy was grounds for warrant. Then
again, I probably shouldn’t talk considering I’m having a full-on conversation
with myself.”
Edison leaned back, rubbing the tuft of yellow whiskers
growing out the bottom of his pointy chin. He peered quizzically at the ceiling,
wishing the solution would unravel itself in the muggy air above. The detective
dropped his head into a pillow of papers, letting out of a long groan of tired
frustration. He turned his head sideways, meeting eye to eye with a mahogany
picture frame. Behind its glass, a lanky upstart ten years his younger slouched
beside Edison Locard’s wife. Though decked in a snazzy black suit and tie, the
young man’s long blonde hair knew neither scissor nor comb. His gritty chin
looked like overused sandpaper crossed with a dying Chia-Pet. The man looked
more like a bum than a groom, especially next to the beacon of beauty that was
his wife.
The breathtaking bride in the photograph did not share the
unkemptness of her partner. Each strand of the buxom beauty’s flowing locks
radiated dazzling platinum. With elven ivory skin and a set of glinting emerald
irises that could outshine all the jade in China’s treasury, the girl both
defined and transcended the very concept of beauty. Her smile spanned ages,
lighting an eternity of hope in all who’d look upon its pearlescent splendor.
She had the look of goddess; a loveliness that deserved immortality.
The insolent knave that lured her in grinned
unappreciatively beside her. It turned Edison’s stomach. The detective slammed
the picture down.
“You have no right to smile.”
“TAP-TATTA-TAP-TAP, TAP-TAP.”
Upon hearing the distinctive knock, Detective Locard’s body shot upright. Edison
conditioned the response long ago, prone to naps as he was.
“Locawd, it’s Hawold Delveccio, I’d like to a woyd.”
The door flung promptly open, allowing the obese Chief of
Detectives to squeeze through. At 6’ 8”,
the cop had the height of a basketball player, yet his girth made him more fit
to be a basketball.
“Chief, you don’t have to announce your full-name every time
you—”
“Someone needs to make these things mowah accessible,” Harold
grumbled, playing the part of contortionist to conquer the doorway.
“Or you could cut back on the donuts,” Edison jeered,
damming the laughter creeping up his trachea. “You don’t have to
single-handedly preserve that old police cliché, you know…”
“Alweady with the jokes?” the Chief sighed, stuffing his
face with another donut. “I don’t know why you think you can talk down to a
superior like… JESUS CHWIST, LOCAWD.”
The Chief did a spit-take of crumbs at the sight of Edison
sty/office.
“I figured the son of God would be a little above making fat
jokes,” Edison snickered.
“Edison Locawd, the fiwst pewson to witerally dwown in papah
wowk,” chided the rotund police chief.
“Eh, my office is no dirtier than your Boston crème ‘stache,”
the detective retorted.
“You awh lucky I put up with youwah lip,” the Chief
muttered, dusting crumbs from his thick brown mustache. “Don’t think you might
be able to moh things accomplished if you spwuce things up? A life in disawway
is a life in decay.”
“Harry, give it up,” Edison said, smirking. “Asking me to
clean is like asking you to pronounce the word extraterrestrial.”
“I’ll give up when you gwow up.”
“Only if you stop growing sideways.”
Disappointed, the Chief swung his jowls side to side.
“Poke fun at me all you want, but you need to stop making
excuses,” the Chief advised sternly. “I know that case has got a gwip on youwah
mind. Shut it out. Focus on the pile
of open cases you got theyah.”
“I made peace with the fact I’d never be allowed near that
case,” Edison muttered. “That’s not the problem, it’s the system. If you’re
smart and have a decent lawyer, it’s easy to slip away from justice.”
“Have you fohgotten about—” the Chief started.
Edison stood upright and slammed his hands on the desk.
Papers fluttered off the desk like a frightened flock of pigeons.
“No,” Edison said
softly, sitting back down. “That’s the case that’s driving me over the edge.
Over three years and not a shred of evidence… Not a single suspect.”
“You can’t west on youwah lauwals just because he’s
inactive,” said the Chief.
“That’s what you think I’m doing?” Edison snapped.
The Chief fell silent.
“My best friend’s life will not be safe until the day that
bastard is caught,” the detective growled. “I want to catch him more than anything.”
“Wanting it isn’t enough,” Harold said. “Wesults. That’s
what I need to see.”
Edison shrugged and looked away.
“You need to get youwah act togethah,” the Chief continued. “Youwah
office was nevah this bad. I hate
looking at it. Clean it up alweady, will you? Back up youwah conviction. Show
me you take this job sewiously and add some pwogwess to that passion. I want to
see that outstanding detective I used to know.”
“You’ll have to dig him up,” Edison said somberly.
“No, wake him up,” the Chief corrected.
“Don’t act like you don’t know how useless I am now,
shoveling all this deskwork my way.”
Harold Delveccio grimaced sympathetically, feeling the
defeat in the sleuth’s tone.
“Maybe I have been a bit hawsh on you,” the Chief said,
picking up a few papers.
“A bit?” Edison
scoffed.
“Wemember I got my shawah of stwess,” the Chief said. “Commissionah
Suawez is bweathing down my neck about catching this serial killah. Can’t blame Julian though. You
can bet the mayah’s putting the same pwessha on him.”
Edison nodded distantly, his interest waning fast.
“It’s a chain of aggwavation, weally,” Harold rambled on. “With
the economy the way it is, we don’t need a guy destabilizing businesses like this.
New York City is the cowpowate capitol of the planet. It’s bad enough that—”
“Listen, I really can’t talk,” Edison interrupted “My boss
will eat me with sprinkles if this report isn’t on his desk by the end of the
day. You know, serve and protect… copy
and collate.”
Originally coming to discuss demotion, something in Harold
Delveccio’s gut— be it either pity or faith— had caused him to reconsider. The
Chief could practically hear Edison’s broken heartbeat, clicking desperately
like a lighter low on oil. Bringing up demotion was a lot like blowing on dying
campfire. The gust of oxygen could either resuscitate Locard’s flat-lining
career—or extinguish it completely. Detective Locard’s edge had dulled
considerably, but Harry could still feel faint heat— embers of Edison’s past
passion struggling to reignite on its own.
“Is that all you wanted to say?” Edison asked.
Harold cleared his throat anxiously.
“I hate to um, say it, but it might do you uh… good if you—”
“If this is about me dating again, drop it,” Edison cut in. “I
get more than enough pep talks from Leon.”
“That’s erm, not what I was getting at,” the Chief said. “I
have an idea that weally might help you.”
Edison raised both eyebrows and shook his head.
“Enlighten me…” he sighed.
“We could uh, lighten
your load,” Harold proposed, pulling on his collar.
“You’re assigning me an intern?” Edison asked, purposely
misinterpreting the Chief’s shaky euphemism.
The Chief nodded slowly.
“Wow, you guessed it,” the Chief chuckled nervously. “We
awah giving you a fwesh face to wok with, still in college.”
“How’d you come up with that idea?” Edison asked, smirking.
“Thwough teaching anothah we leawn the most about
ouwselves,” Harold answered, taking a brief pause to think. “And this office is
getting cleaned one way or anothah. If you won’t do it, the intewn—”
“Pass.”
“I beg youwah pawdon?”
“I don’t need some kid throwing off the perfect chi I’ve
strived so hard to maintain here.”
The Chief shook his head,
“My decision is final,” he grunted, facing the daunting task
of fitting himself back out.
“Don’t let the doorway fit you on your way out,” Edison
snickered.
…
An hour’s worth of editing later, Edison finally sent his
report off to Chief’s inbox. The
detective exhaustively pressed the power button on his computer, drained by the
insignificance of the assignment. He sloshed through his trashed office and
made his way out into sterile hallway. He shielded his eyes, blinded by the
sheer whiteness. One Police Plaza, the
NYPD’s relatively new central headquarters, décor was completely modernized— as
sleek and chic as the iMacs nestled on each desk.
A stubborn creature of habit, Detective Locard had every
last detail of his old office imported to the new building. Since Edison lacked
the rank or authority to merit his own office, the Chief had to pull some
strings to get him one—as well as permission to work solo. In the past, the
detective’s exceptional ability gave tolerance to his eccentric tendencies.
Dulled and unproductive as he’d become, Edison knew his privileged days were
numbered. Rather than respect, his name was propped up by pity. He could feel it
in the eyes the other, keener detectives. It
burned. Rather than risk making eye contact, Edison kept his gaze down at
the over-waxed floor, watching his haggard reflection amble underfoot.
The tired blonde tapped the down arrow beside the elevator, saying
a prayer for emptiness.
“DING.”
As the elevator doors parted, Edison breathed a sigh of
relief.
“Thank god I—”
“…MADE IT.”
A meaty hand slid between the crack of the closing doors,
dashing Edison’s hopes for a quiet descent. A tan, muscly cop lumbered into the
elevator and pressed the button for floor B-2, the address of 1PP’s state-of-the-art
ballistics center.
“How’s the shit in your toilet?” the hulking cop greeted
crudely in a heavy Brooklyn accent.
Edison gave not so much as an acknowledging nod to the loud
man’s presence. Though many tried, it was difficult to ignore the boisterous
Brooklynite, sporting a look as brash as his attitude. Scarlet aviators hung
over a titanic schnoz, razor sharp hair-spikes and sleeves rolled to his
shoulders with inked muscles on full display… The man looked more like a club
bouncer than ballistics expert.
“YOU DEAF, LOCARDI!?” the gaudy cop roared in Edison’s ear.
“I heard you, Warren…” Edison muttered.
Detective-Specialist Warren ‘Ace’ Michaels… just the man he wanted to avoid.
“Sorry, if I confused ya there, broski,” Ace said, giving
Edison a firm slap on the back. “Just sayin’ hi in a creative way. Lookin’ for
a new way to introduce myself, ya know? I want people to know Ace has entered
the room the moment he enters it.”
“Have you tried wearing a bell?” asked Edison.
“Bro, tell me you finished that Clara Anderson report,” Ace
said excitedly, ignoring his ex-partner’s jab.
“You best write me up proper,
SON.”
“Yes, your dead-end of a ballistics report has been
submitted,” Edison replied.
“What you get a papah cut?” Ace asked, frowning. “What’s
with the piss, Ediss?”
“Can you not talk for
two seconds?”
“What?”
“Think quietly about tattoos or something. Just do whatever
it is you normally do to amuse yourself when there’s no one around for you to
annoy.”
“Hop off, Locardi,” Ace barked. “Not much love coming at me
from your direction. Been that way for a while. Not sure how I feel about it,
bro.”
“You’re pretty fuzzy on a lot of things aren’t you?” Edison
asked snarkily.
“Watch it…” Ace warned. “I’m passed the funny business.”
“Yeah? That’s why you work undercover on the side, now? To
stay away from it?”
“Good one douche, I’m as clean as anybody. I’d appreciate an
end to the shit talkin’. Getting more than a little old, buddy.”
“Know what else is getting old?” Edison asked, finally
looking Ace in the eye.
“What?”
“My lack of closure.”
Ace shook his head and sighed.
“Don’t even, Locardi. I’ve been bustin’ my ass night n’ day tryin’
to turn that bullet into a lead. You’re just bitter ‘cus you ain’t allowed a
foot from that case. You think you’d do better, huh? Given your shit streak? I seem to recall a certain
serial-killer still runnin’ high and dry.”
Edison quieted.
“That’s what I thought,” Ace sneered, his left nostril
flaring up. “What happened to ya is a truly sorry thing. No doubt. But lay off
me, will ya? I ain’t no bad guy. I’m a detective. Same as you. Damn fine one,
if I do say so myself.”
“DING.”
“You’re a detective-specialist,” Edison corrected. “It’s an
honorary title, as in, made-up. Similar to how you call yourself Ace. You’re an expert marksman who isn’t
officially a—”
“Whateva, Locardi,” Ace interrupted. “I stuck my nose in
lots of pies and came up blueberries.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“It means I earned my title, same as you. I’m ambitious and
I take every opportunity and job that I can.”
“Warren, you know your way around a gun. That’s your niche. Save yourself some
embarrassment and stop trying to branch out. Calling you a fine anything is
going out on a limb. A flimsy one.”
The hue of Detective Michaels’ face matched that of his
sunglasses.
“Warren, you have a lovely evening,” Edison bid insincerely as
the doors closed.
...
The detective bolted out of One Police Plaza like a Kenyan
Olympian sprinting off hot coals. Fortunately
for the homeward gumshoe, his commute was quite walkable— no need to take the
subway or a cab. The man’s pace slowed significantly the moment his feet
touched the sidewalk. The smooth, orange oxygen proved immediately therapeutic,
blustering blithely into his sore pores. To Edison, breathing in Manhattan’s brisk
aura felt like taking the first bite of a crisp Macintosh. Despite all the city’s
airborne toxins, the spicy aroma of the constantly colliding culture made the
air a pleasure to inhale. A vibrant mixture of Manhattanites made up the cement
of the city’s summer sidewalks. Venders, tourists, businessmen, street
performers, beggars, lovers… all unique pieces making up the puzzle that was
the populous, and Edison Locard fit in perfectly. He rather enjoyed being a cog
in the Metropolitan machine. After all,
he shared his home with the Giants, the Yankees and the Knicks— for better or
for worse. Edison Locard’s heart truly rested at the core of the Big Apple. He
adored NYC— a city so alive, it had no need for personification. The gargantuan
advertisements, the flamboyant street life, the breakneck pace… Locard loved
feeling that he was part of a living breathing organism. People often smiled at
him as he passed, recognizing who he was and what he did.
The off-duty detective withdrew his ancient flip phone from
his coat pocket, deciding to check his messages. Text messaging served as
Edison’s main means of communication, or more accurately… avoiding communication.
(1) NEW TEXT MESSAGE FROM:
L. SILV
L. Silv stood for none other than Leon Silverman, the acting
CEO of Apollo Investments. Despite his preoccupation running the biggest
private equity investment firm in the world, Leon always wedged his dear friend
Edison into relentless schedule. While a normal person would practically kill
to be best buddies with a multi-billionaire, money meant nothing to Edison. In
fact, if anything, Leon’s wealth made things a bit uncomfortable. Edison felt
like a pebble attempting to befriend a mountain.
Up for a little soiree at my
penthouse, tonight? In dire need of my wingman haha. Plenty of exotic birds
looking to get their beaks wet- if you catch my drift. ;-)
“No, Leon, your drift blew right past me.”
The squire was
indeed a suitor with no need for assistance. Women salivated over mere the
prospect of breathing the billionaire’s air, let alone sharing his fine linen
sheets. The Englishman’s wit met his wealth, and he had debonair to match his
dash. Truly, with a veritable god like Leon Silverman at its helm, Apollo
Investments could not have been more aptly named.
no thx. work conflict...
mayb coffee n sparring instead later this week – ED
While Edison knew
he could use a night out, Leon’s little soirée landed last on his list of places he
wanted to spend one. Little. The billionaire’s choice in adjectives
could not have been worse. When it came to Leon’s parties, the word ‘hedonistic’
fit far better. Fountains flowed with the finest spirits and wines, and that
was only the tip of the ice sculpture. Mind numbing melodies sung by music’s hottest
of the hot rocked the penthouse— being able to perform at the party was the musician’s honor. Only the
upper-crustiest of Manhattan’s in-the-know nightlife attained Silverman’s coveted
invite— the invite Edison Locard casually rejected it via text.
The
anti-socialite was still scarred by the first Silverman shindig he’d attended.
Edison pledged the first to be his last henceforth with a toilet seat as his
witness. Social overload wasn’t the issue, the party simply proved too rich for
blueblood. With his high ranking job, Edison wasn’t poor by any stretch— he
just disliked overindulgence. While he did take occasional pleasure in the
CEO’s money sinks, the detective preferred a quiet conversation over a Café Americano à la Starbucks— or a
round of sparring of course.
“GESTAPO-LICE,
GESTAPO-LICE! WHO GETS JUSTICE WHEN JUSTICE GETS STOPPED BY POLICE?”
Members of the
Occupy NYC movement had once again marched their way to Police Plaza,
protesting the uncalled brutality unleashed upon them by the city’s resident
‘power-drunk pigs’—at least that’s what Edison gathered from a crudely crayoned
sign held up my a shirtless man in a Viking hat.
Detective Locard
had quite an open mind. As with the previous Occupy Wall Street movement,
Edison didn’t necessarily disagree with
the political activists’ plea against corruption and the unbalanced
distribution of wealth, but he did oppose their clogging of rush hour traffic.(Not
to be confused with the Dutch dance troupe that literally clogged during rush
hour traffic.)
While held up at
the crosswalk waiting for the protestors to pass, a huge advert hung upon a
distant skyscraper caught Edison’s eye. The ironic ad featured the latest
Broadway production: Atlas Shrugged, the
Musical.
“Ah, Broadway.
The memories I have with that stage…”
A stout woman standing
beside Edison snuck a peek at his ears, checking for a Bluetooth. Seeing none,
she widened the distance between them. Edison’s habit of self-conversation
often produced such a reaction. Like usual, Edison didn’t even notice the woman’s
discomfort, lost in his own sweet recollection. He pined for the way his heart
leapt each time the door handle to Christina’s dressing room turned, clutching
the bouquet of scarlet-tipped yellow roses nervously. He’d given his love a
tribute of flowers ritualistically. Cultivating a garden would have saved
Edison a small fortune, but money hadn’t mattered much to him anyway. The cost
of tickets, bouquets and cab fare were all minor expenses in his young quest
for companionship. Edison’s stomach gurgled at the thought of all the skipped
dinners. Lost in the mesmerizing ether of days past, Edison could almost hear
their song playing.
“Shadows grow
so long before my eyes
And they're moving across the page
Suddenly the day turns into night
Far away from the city
But don't hesitate 'cuz your love won't wait”
Suddenly, it
occurred to him that melody had not emanated from his imagination. This wasn’t just another forlorn
conjuration, a nearby street musician was actually
playing it. The enchanting tune led Edison to an odd street musician sitting
upon the stoop of a closed law office. The guitarist’s case sat beside him, filled
to the brim with bills. So taken by the street performer’s rendition of “Baby,
I Love Your Way,” Edison felt like time suddenly ceased to exist. The
musician’s elegant caress of guitar strings was a level of skill matched only
by pitch-perfect singing that exceeded even that of Peter Frampton, the
originator of the song.
“Ooh baby, I love your way, everyday
I wanna tell you I love your way, every way
I wanna be with you night and day, ooh yeah”
The performance transported
Edison back to his and his wife’s third date. The taste of his cheap lager
returned to his tongue, and his backside felt the ache of the hazardously rusty
metal chairs. Christie too sang to Edison. The very same song. The blonde man
had visited that crummy karaoke bar a few times in the past year, for whatever
reason. It only brought more pain, seeing young lovers dedicating drunken odes
to one another. They lived in a world he had to chance of returning to.
“Moon appears to shine and light the sky
With the help of some big glitter's
Wonder how they have the power to shine, shine, shine
I can see them under the pine
But don't hesitate 'cuz your love won't wait”
His mind’s next
destination was his wedding day waltz. Each step, sweep, spin, and turn was
mapped perfectly in the sleuth’s noggin. Like watching the fall of the Berlin
wall, Edison smiled as he felt the barricade placed around his sweet memories
crumble. The feelings conjured by Frampton’s hit were so strong, Edison hardly
noticed the street performer’s peculiar getup. The musician wore a grey trench
over a dark woolen hoodie— a more than questionable choice of attire for a
sweltering summer evening. With a red and yellow knit scarf and oversized
wayfarer sunglasses obscuring the man’s face, he looked a bit like the
invisible man. The street performer so much talent, there could have very well
been a famous musician hiding underneath those wraps.
“I can see the sunset in your eyes
Brown and gray and blue besides
Clouds are stalking islands in the sun
Wish I could buy one out of season
But don't hesitate 'cuz your love won't wait”
Upon the song’s
completion, Edison emptied his wallet into the guitar case and went on his way.
“This is over a
grand,” the musician said softly. His lime-green acoustic guitar vibrated with
the nostalgic tune once more. “You were… moved?”
Edison turned to
face the street performer.
“It brought back
some memories,” he said.
“Of a loved
one?”
“Yeah.”
“Divorce?” asked
the guitarist between slow, depressing strums of an elegiac beat.
Edison turned
away and took two steps.
“You know the
line the priest gives, till death do you part?”
The musician
nodded.
Edison pointed
at the street performer.
“Bingo.”
The street
performer abruptly stopped playing.
“My
condolences,” the odd guitarist said softly. “Anyway I can help ease your pain?”
“Sure, find a
way to save this city,” the detective answered sarcastically. “God knows I
can’t anymore. I’m a glorified paper pusher who’s too pitied to get the
demotion he deserves. I used to think that—”
Edison stopped
in midsentence, noticing the guitarist’s hand shakily gripping the frets of his
silent instrument.
“On second
thought, I’d rather not ruin your evening with my problems.”
The musician
lowered his head.
“Take care of
yourself,” Edison said, smiling faintly. “Good luck with the music. Try not to
waste waste all of that on weed. Your next investment should be a lighter set
of clothes. It’s summer, in case you haven’t heard.”
Edison wandered
down a nearby alleyway. He slumped
against a dumpster, able to make out the sound of the musician strumming a
different love ballad in the distance.
“Guy sure knows how to profit on sentimentality.”
Edison pulled
out his ancient flip-phone and stared pensively at the screen. A single droplet
of brine crept to the corner of his eye socket, contemplating a leap onto the cheek.
The image displayed the tiny low-res screen was taken over two years ago by his
wife.
The timestamp read: MON 12-18-11
7:26:02 AM— six hours and twenty-three minutes prior to…
…her murder.
