Rick walked into Sam's just after nine. It was still early, so the joint wasn't near as packed as usual. Delilah disappeared again. He woke up on the couch that morning, with a blanket he'd kicked to the floor in his sleep. It was like he'd had a bad dream. The bed was empty, already made up, and the girl was nowhere to be found. He didn't know what to think. Part of him worried about her, where she might've ended up, but the other part cursed himself for being stupid enough to fall for her tricks again. She was up to something, no matter how innocent it may have been. The girl was clever, he'd give her that much.
He'd hardly had time to take a seat at the bar when Joe and Lenny came strolling in, their blue uniforms blending in with the musty shadows of the pub. They weren't wearing their usual grins this time, Rick noticed as they approached.
"Evening, Rick. Care if we join you?" asked Lenny.
"Of course not, fellas, as long as you have a drink with me."
They nodded and took the stools beside him.
"Hey, Sam," Rick called to the barkeep, "three glasses and a bottle of Baliol, would ya?"
"Right away," said Sam, taking three short whiskey glasses from under the bar and grabbing a bottle from the shelf behind him.
Rick poured a bit in each glass and passed them down the bar.
"So what's wrong?" he asked. "You two have got a couple of the saddest faces I've ever seen."
Joe shook his head. "We've got problems, Rick. You've got 'em, too."
Rick took a sip and set his glass down hard. "What kind of problems."
"A dead body. That girl that hired you."
"Delilah?"
"That's the one. We had a few questions for her about a shooting outside Callahan's place last night, so we went to her apartment this morning. The door was locked up so tight we had to rouse the manager to let us in. There she was, sprawled out in the middle of the floor. One gunshot wound in the chest," said Joe.
Rick emptied his glass and poured another. "Jesus." It hadn't hit him yet. He didn't know what to think--whether to cry or shout or just keep drinking until his whole body went numb.
"That's not all," Lenny added. "We found a gun at the scene, half way across the room, just laying there on the kitchen table. It's a standard police issue, and it's got your name engraved on it, Rick."
"Whoa, now hold on a second, there, fellas!" Rick leapt up from his stool, sending the chair tumbling backwards onto the floor.
"Easy, pal, we ain't here to arrest you just yet. Let us finish," said Joe. "We won't lie. It looks bad. Your prints are all over it."
"Plus, you just plugged Ox the other night. We convinced Judge Harper to declare it justifiable homicide, but it's still fresh in everyone's minds," said Lenny.
"It's a frame job," said Rick. The wheels in his head began to turn. Delilah had disappeared from his place early in the morning, sleeping in the very same room as the closet where he'd kept that old gun, the one he'd been given the day he retired from the force. "She was with me last night. She must've taken it."
"Maybe so, but that still doesn't explain who shot her or why. If you don't care, Rick, we'd like to ask you a few more questions."
"Yeah, no problem," said Rick, "but I want to see her first. I want to see Delilah."
Lenny and Joe nodded. They piled into the patrol car that sat outside and headed to the morgue downtown. It started raining before they pulled up. They rushed inside, where the cold air chilled them to the bone Lenny led the way to the gray slab where a woman's body lay under a white sheet. He pulled back the cover to reveal the face of a young, pretty redhead.
"Who's this?" Rick asked.
Lenny and Joe stared at Rick then each other.
"This is Delilah, Rick," said Lenny, reading from a clipboard that hung off the end of the slab. "Delilah Morgan, twenty-nine years old, born and raised right here in the city."
"No," said Rick, incredulously. He stepped closer and stared down at the pale, lifeless face. "This ain't her."
"We had her brother identify the body this afternoon, Rick. There's not a doubt in the world that this is Delilah."
"There's one doubt right here, pal, and I'm telling you, this ain't her. The Delilah Morgan I know is blonde, with curls. There's gotta be a mistake." Rick ran frantically around the room, pulling back the sheets on all the other corpses in the morgue to see if there'd been some sort of mixup.
Joe grabbed a hold of him, shaking some sense into him before he tore the whole place apart. "Easy, Rick," he said. "Maybe you're asking the wrong questions. Maybe instead of asking who this girl is, you should ask yourself this--who's the blonde that stayed over at your place last night?"
Rick grit his teeth. Joe was right. How much did he really know about the girl he'd known as Delilah? She was smart, manipulative, and knew exactly when to run away and hide. It wasn't hard to believe that a woman like that could fake her own identity. But why would she kill the real Delilah? And why frame him? Rick had too many questions running through his mind, and he meant to find an answer for each and every one of them.
"Tell you what, fellas," he said. "I'll come into the station first thing tomorrow morning, and you can ask me whatever the hell you feel like, but right now, I need to check on this myself."
"Sure thing, Rick," they said.
Rick walked from the cold morgue back onto the rainy streets. It was a lovely enough night for a stroll, he said to himself. He set off across the city, his eyes set on the apartment building in the distance, where the late Delilah Morgan had lived. If there were clues to be found, this was the first place to look.
The phone rang, stirring Charlie from her reading-induced stupor.
"Charlie," came the hollow, measured voice from the other end of the line.
"Hey, Tommy. Everything all right?"
"Yes, but this unit has found something very interesting. This unit was researching Beame's background."
"So what'd you dig up?"
"This unit has discovered that her official profile in the National Identity Database has been edited by the Information Bureau. They've tried to hide their tracks, and they've done an excellent job, but this unit dug deeper."
"Wait a second," said Charlie, attempting to keep up. "What do the cops have to do with this?"
"Not just cops, Charlie--feds. Prior to two years ago, there is no available information on one Helena Beame."
"So you're saying it's an alias?"
"Close," said Tommy. "Helena Beame doesn't exist."
Charlie sat up straight, still clutching the book in her hands.
"Okay, Tommy, sit tight. Are you at the office?"
"Yes."
"The garage is dead, so I'm gonna head over. Wait for me, okay?"
"Okay, Charlie."
She set the phone gently back in its cradle and stared at the book in her hands. With an interested, curious huh, she tossed the book on top of her desk.
"I should've seen that one coming."
He'd hardly had time to take a seat at the bar when Joe and Lenny came strolling in, their blue uniforms blending in with the musty shadows of the pub. They weren't wearing their usual grins this time, Rick noticed as they approached.
"Evening, Rick. Care if we join you?" asked Lenny.
"Of course not, fellas, as long as you have a drink with me."
They nodded and took the stools beside him.
"Hey, Sam," Rick called to the barkeep, "three glasses and a bottle of Baliol, would ya?"
"Right away," said Sam, taking three short whiskey glasses from under the bar and grabbing a bottle from the shelf behind him.
Rick poured a bit in each glass and passed them down the bar.
"So what's wrong?" he asked. "You two have got a couple of the saddest faces I've ever seen."
Joe shook his head. "We've got problems, Rick. You've got 'em, too."
Rick took a sip and set his glass down hard. "What kind of problems."
"A dead body. That girl that hired you."
"Delilah?"
"That's the one. We had a few questions for her about a shooting outside Callahan's place last night, so we went to her apartment this morning. The door was locked up so tight we had to rouse the manager to let us in. There she was, sprawled out in the middle of the floor. One gunshot wound in the chest," said Joe.
Rick emptied his glass and poured another. "Jesus." It hadn't hit him yet. He didn't know what to think--whether to cry or shout or just keep drinking until his whole body went numb.
"That's not all," Lenny added. "We found a gun at the scene, half way across the room, just laying there on the kitchen table. It's a standard police issue, and it's got your name engraved on it, Rick."
"Whoa, now hold on a second, there, fellas!" Rick leapt up from his stool, sending the chair tumbling backwards onto the floor.
"Easy, pal, we ain't here to arrest you just yet. Let us finish," said Joe. "We won't lie. It looks bad. Your prints are all over it."
"Plus, you just plugged Ox the other night. We convinced Judge Harper to declare it justifiable homicide, but it's still fresh in everyone's minds," said Lenny.
"It's a frame job," said Rick. The wheels in his head began to turn. Delilah had disappeared from his place early in the morning, sleeping in the very same room as the closet where he'd kept that old gun, the one he'd been given the day he retired from the force. "She was with me last night. She must've taken it."
"Maybe so, but that still doesn't explain who shot her or why. If you don't care, Rick, we'd like to ask you a few more questions."
"Yeah, no problem," said Rick, "but I want to see her first. I want to see Delilah."
Lenny and Joe nodded. They piled into the patrol car that sat outside and headed to the morgue downtown. It started raining before they pulled up. They rushed inside, where the cold air chilled them to the bone Lenny led the way to the gray slab where a woman's body lay under a white sheet. He pulled back the cover to reveal the face of a young, pretty redhead.
"Who's this?" Rick asked.
Lenny and Joe stared at Rick then each other.
"This is Delilah, Rick," said Lenny, reading from a clipboard that hung off the end of the slab. "Delilah Morgan, twenty-nine years old, born and raised right here in the city."
"No," said Rick, incredulously. He stepped closer and stared down at the pale, lifeless face. "This ain't her."
"We had her brother identify the body this afternoon, Rick. There's not a doubt in the world that this is Delilah."
"There's one doubt right here, pal, and I'm telling you, this ain't her. The Delilah Morgan I know is blonde, with curls. There's gotta be a mistake." Rick ran frantically around the room, pulling back the sheets on all the other corpses in the morgue to see if there'd been some sort of mixup.
Joe grabbed a hold of him, shaking some sense into him before he tore the whole place apart. "Easy, Rick," he said. "Maybe you're asking the wrong questions. Maybe instead of asking who this girl is, you should ask yourself this--who's the blonde that stayed over at your place last night?"
Rick grit his teeth. Joe was right. How much did he really know about the girl he'd known as Delilah? She was smart, manipulative, and knew exactly when to run away and hide. It wasn't hard to believe that a woman like that could fake her own identity. But why would she kill the real Delilah? And why frame him? Rick had too many questions running through his mind, and he meant to find an answer for each and every one of them.
"Tell you what, fellas," he said. "I'll come into the station first thing tomorrow morning, and you can ask me whatever the hell you feel like, but right now, I need to check on this myself."
"Sure thing, Rick," they said.
Rick walked from the cold morgue back onto the rainy streets. It was a lovely enough night for a stroll, he said to himself. He set off across the city, his eyes set on the apartment building in the distance, where the late Delilah Morgan had lived. If there were clues to be found, this was the first place to look.
***
The phone rang, stirring Charlie from her reading-induced stupor.
"Charlie," came the hollow, measured voice from the other end of the line.
"Hey, Tommy. Everything all right?"
"Yes, but this unit has found something very interesting. This unit was researching Beame's background."
"So what'd you dig up?"
"This unit has discovered that her official profile in the National Identity Database has been edited by the Information Bureau. They've tried to hide their tracks, and they've done an excellent job, but this unit dug deeper."
"Wait a second," said Charlie, attempting to keep up. "What do the cops have to do with this?"
"Not just cops, Charlie--feds. Prior to two years ago, there is no available information on one Helena Beame."
"So you're saying it's an alias?"
"Close," said Tommy. "Helena Beame doesn't exist."
Charlie sat up straight, still clutching the book in her hands.
"Okay, Tommy, sit tight. Are you at the office?"
"Yes."
"The garage is dead, so I'm gonna head over. Wait for me, okay?"
"Okay, Charlie."
She set the phone gently back in its cradle and stared at the book in her hands. With an interested, curious huh, she tossed the book on top of her desk.
"I should've seen that one coming."
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