The man named O'Hara showed up at exactly ten o'clock, spent ten minutes trying to explain his problem to Charlie, then promptly called a taxi service, promising to return by five o'clock in the afternoon whether the brakes were fixed or not. Needless to say, Charlie didn't care for him.
She pulled the car to the center of the garage, right on top of the hydraulic lift. After a flip of a switch, the lift stuttered to life and raised the vehicle into the air. She didn't necessarily pay attention to things like makes and models. All she needed to do was look at a machine, and she could tell what was wrong with it and what it needed. This one was no different. It was a classic by the looks of the frame, and she quickly deduced the problem with one glance at the blackened remnants of the brake pads. She was honestly surprised that the car could still stop.
She tried to throw herself into the work, to forget about everything else that was happening. Unfortunately, it was a fast job, and she knew she had the rest of the day ahead of her to languish in the dangerous combination of fear and boredom.
She called Tommy at the first opportunity and told him about Helena Beame's visit. He was interested, but spoke carefully, especially as far as Fifty-two was concerned. For all the both of them knew, their phones or the garage itself might have been bugged. They decided to save the rest of the conversation until Charlie was back home again, where, they'd decided, they were free from further scrutiny.
At 4:45 in the afternoon, the door opened, and Charlie's eyes rolled back in her head. She was expecting O'Hara again, ready to be rid of his car as well as his patronage. At this point, all she wanted was to go home, but, as she soon realized, that would have to wait.
Detective Faraday walked into the garage, strutting like the self-important man he was. The first thing Charlie noticed was that his suit--that same blue suit he wore the last time she saw him--was soaked, marked with large dark spots that let her know it was raining. She closed her eyes, half-focusing, half-wishing Faraday would disappear, and she could hear the quiet, steady tap of rain against the roof.
"Perfect," she sighed to herself.
"Miss Grace!" Faraday said, loudly.
"Detective Faraday." She mustered a forced grin. "Something I can help you with?"
"Oh, I'm just following up on the Francis Heap case. I was wondering if I could ask you just a few more questions. It won't take more than a few minutes of your time."
"Ask away. A few minutes are all I've got."
He stepped closer to the office, hovering in the doorway before leaning back against the frame with folded arms, occupying the same space Beame had claimed earlier in the day.
"Actually, this line of questioning pertains more toward Helena Beame."
She felt a lump in her throat, and the more she thought about it, the more sure she was that it was going to keep expanding until she could no longer breathe.
"You met her in person, isn't that right?" he asked.
"Right," she replied with a cough. "The night she hired us. After that, we communicated mainly by messenger... or should I say, she contacted us by messenger, giving us the details on Heap."
"Do you have any of her personal information? Address, phone number, and such?"
"I believe she left a phone number in the information she sent us, but I'm not positive. We haven't used it yet, though. We're a bit more independent than that."
"Have you seen her since that night?"
She blinked. "Yeah, she came here earlier this morning to see if we'd made any progress."
"Good," said Faraday with his devilish grin. "To be perfectly honest, I already knew that. I just wanted to be certain I could trust you and your answers."
"Surprisingly, deception isn't the best way to establish trust, Detective," she said with a grimace.
"It is in my line of work. You should understand that, Miss Grace. People don't necessarily feel compelled to answer every single question a detective starts flinging their way, especially when the seedier side of society is involved."
"So now I'm seedy? That's sweet. So who've you been following, me or Beame?"
"Neither of you, actually. I followed the money. She made an awfully large deposit into your bank account this morning." He pressed the button behind his ear, making a face as if listening intently to something. "Does twenty thousand sound about right? Seems to me that if she was making a transaction of that size, she'd contact you one way or another."
"Wow, Detective, I'm impressed. It almost seems like you've put some real effort into this case."
Faraday sucked his teeth. "Now, Miss Grace, don't let my hardass facade fool you. The truth is--if you're going to be out on the streets everyday, asking people questions they don't want to answer, you have to be a jerk. You have to be condescending. Sometimes, that's the only way people will listen or respect you. See, that's the kind of person the city'll turn you into if you stare into its eyes long enough. So what's your excuse?"
"Me? I was just born mean, Detective." She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs beneath the desk. "So what's this about? Is Beame your prime suspect in Heap's death now?"
"Not exactly. Helena Beame is dead."
For a split-second, Charlie's heart stopped. She shot up straight in her chair, banging her knew against the lip of the desk, but at this point, she couldn't feel the pain. She couldn't feel anything.
"What?" she asked, hoping she'd heard something wrong or that her hearing had malfunctioned, inserting one of the names she dreaded the most into awkward sentences. After all, if the woman known as Helena Beame was dead, the rules of this game--Tommy's game that wasn't a game--were changing.
"We fished her out of the river early this afternoon. A bus driver hauling kids to a field trip spotted her body floating just off the 12th Street Bridge. Her car was still parked on the shoulder. Her purse was inside, untouched. Could be a suicide, but why would a woman, who just paid you twenty thousand to work a case, off herself like that? I'm convinced it's foul play, but I haven't found a motive yet."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because you were the last person to see her alive, and I'm hoping you might know something else that could help us."
She froze. She knew things, all right--things she wasn't supposed to know, and Helena Beame was dead. She wondered if the part Beame played had really come to an end and if her own could be very far behind. The expendable nature of people--people used as pawns in a game of chess between the nameless and faceless--sent a sudden, inconsolable chill down her spine.
"Sorry," she said at last. "I can't think of anything."
Faraday nodded. "Now this is going to be kind of an odd question, Miss Grace, but did you ever get the impression that Beame wasn't who she said she was?"
Charlie was keenly aware that the next word she spoke could determine her entire future. She could expose a government conspiracy and aid in the investigation of a possible murder, or she could slink back to the shadows with her secrets, where Tommy would be waiting. Tommy--she'd almost forgotten all about him. She knew what she had to do, what she had to say, and she said it for Tommy.
"No. It never occurred to me, Detective. Is that a new lead you're following?"
Faraday shook his head. "Just a gut feeling that something was a bit off. Her profile checks out, though, and I suppose that's the important thing."
"Well, anything else?"
He pressed the button behind his ear once more. "I think that about wraps it up for now. I may be in touch with you again."
"Of course."
Faraday started toward the door, then paused, turning back to the office briefly. "I know you don't like me, Charlie, but I also came to warn you. This case you're working--it's brought you close to all of these people, and they've all turned up dead. Be careful, all right?"
"All right."
As he disappeared into the darkening rain, Charlie was struck by a sudden bolt of regret for underestimating him. He was still a jerk--she had no doubt about that, but she felt that she understood him on a deeper level now. She realized that he was just like her.
At exactly five o'clock, O'Hara stormed into the garage, complained about the price before paying it anyway, and then drove away in a rush, sliding and fish-tailing down the street. Charlie barely had the heart to yell at him. Once the place was empty, she locked up, phoned Tommy to tell him about Beame's sudden, mysterious demise, and then braced herself for the rain and the darkness that waited for her on the other side of the door. With a deep breath, she was swallowed up by the city.
Tommy set the phone gently back in the cradle and sat quietly, contemplating everything Charlie had told him. He made a conscious effort to tap his fingers against the table, like any normal person thrust into a situation that they couldn't control. He felt as if he'd been pushed into a corner.
"What's happened?" Fifty-two asked, watching from the doorway.
"Helena Beame is dead." His eyes were dim.
Fifty-two processed this herself. She cocked her head. "Shouldn't we be happy?"
"No."
"But she was a federal agent. She was chasing me."
"It doesn't matter. This isn't happiness. There's no warmth here."
"What about the other one?"
"What other one?" he asked.
"The other agent--what about the man in the blue suit?"
Tommy's eyes went bright.
"Stay here. Find a place to hide. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"What's happening?" she asked.
He grabbed his hat and coat. "Charlie's in trouble."
He ran to the door. He ran to the night. His heavy feet pounded against the pavement, leaving wide, splintered cracks in his wake. All his engines were roaring.
She pulled the car to the center of the garage, right on top of the hydraulic lift. After a flip of a switch, the lift stuttered to life and raised the vehicle into the air. She didn't necessarily pay attention to things like makes and models. All she needed to do was look at a machine, and she could tell what was wrong with it and what it needed. This one was no different. It was a classic by the looks of the frame, and she quickly deduced the problem with one glance at the blackened remnants of the brake pads. She was honestly surprised that the car could still stop.
She tried to throw herself into the work, to forget about everything else that was happening. Unfortunately, it was a fast job, and she knew she had the rest of the day ahead of her to languish in the dangerous combination of fear and boredom.
She called Tommy at the first opportunity and told him about Helena Beame's visit. He was interested, but spoke carefully, especially as far as Fifty-two was concerned. For all the both of them knew, their phones or the garage itself might have been bugged. They decided to save the rest of the conversation until Charlie was back home again, where, they'd decided, they were free from further scrutiny.
At 4:45 in the afternoon, the door opened, and Charlie's eyes rolled back in her head. She was expecting O'Hara again, ready to be rid of his car as well as his patronage. At this point, all she wanted was to go home, but, as she soon realized, that would have to wait.
Detective Faraday walked into the garage, strutting like the self-important man he was. The first thing Charlie noticed was that his suit--that same blue suit he wore the last time she saw him--was soaked, marked with large dark spots that let her know it was raining. She closed her eyes, half-focusing, half-wishing Faraday would disappear, and she could hear the quiet, steady tap of rain against the roof.
"Perfect," she sighed to herself.
"Miss Grace!" Faraday said, loudly.
"Detective Faraday." She mustered a forced grin. "Something I can help you with?"
"Oh, I'm just following up on the Francis Heap case. I was wondering if I could ask you just a few more questions. It won't take more than a few minutes of your time."
"Ask away. A few minutes are all I've got."
He stepped closer to the office, hovering in the doorway before leaning back against the frame with folded arms, occupying the same space Beame had claimed earlier in the day.
"Actually, this line of questioning pertains more toward Helena Beame."
She felt a lump in her throat, and the more she thought about it, the more sure she was that it was going to keep expanding until she could no longer breathe.
"You met her in person, isn't that right?" he asked.
"Right," she replied with a cough. "The night she hired us. After that, we communicated mainly by messenger... or should I say, she contacted us by messenger, giving us the details on Heap."
"Do you have any of her personal information? Address, phone number, and such?"
"I believe she left a phone number in the information she sent us, but I'm not positive. We haven't used it yet, though. We're a bit more independent than that."
"Have you seen her since that night?"
She blinked. "Yeah, she came here earlier this morning to see if we'd made any progress."
"Good," said Faraday with his devilish grin. "To be perfectly honest, I already knew that. I just wanted to be certain I could trust you and your answers."
"Surprisingly, deception isn't the best way to establish trust, Detective," she said with a grimace.
"It is in my line of work. You should understand that, Miss Grace. People don't necessarily feel compelled to answer every single question a detective starts flinging their way, especially when the seedier side of society is involved."
"So now I'm seedy? That's sweet. So who've you been following, me or Beame?"
"Neither of you, actually. I followed the money. She made an awfully large deposit into your bank account this morning." He pressed the button behind his ear, making a face as if listening intently to something. "Does twenty thousand sound about right? Seems to me that if she was making a transaction of that size, she'd contact you one way or another."
"Wow, Detective, I'm impressed. It almost seems like you've put some real effort into this case."
Faraday sucked his teeth. "Now, Miss Grace, don't let my hardass facade fool you. The truth is--if you're going to be out on the streets everyday, asking people questions they don't want to answer, you have to be a jerk. You have to be condescending. Sometimes, that's the only way people will listen or respect you. See, that's the kind of person the city'll turn you into if you stare into its eyes long enough. So what's your excuse?"
"Me? I was just born mean, Detective." She leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs beneath the desk. "So what's this about? Is Beame your prime suspect in Heap's death now?"
"Not exactly. Helena Beame is dead."
For a split-second, Charlie's heart stopped. She shot up straight in her chair, banging her knew against the lip of the desk, but at this point, she couldn't feel the pain. She couldn't feel anything.
"What?" she asked, hoping she'd heard something wrong or that her hearing had malfunctioned, inserting one of the names she dreaded the most into awkward sentences. After all, if the woman known as Helena Beame was dead, the rules of this game--Tommy's game that wasn't a game--were changing.
"We fished her out of the river early this afternoon. A bus driver hauling kids to a field trip spotted her body floating just off the 12th Street Bridge. Her car was still parked on the shoulder. Her purse was inside, untouched. Could be a suicide, but why would a woman, who just paid you twenty thousand to work a case, off herself like that? I'm convinced it's foul play, but I haven't found a motive yet."
"Why are you telling me?"
"Because you were the last person to see her alive, and I'm hoping you might know something else that could help us."
She froze. She knew things, all right--things she wasn't supposed to know, and Helena Beame was dead. She wondered if the part Beame played had really come to an end and if her own could be very far behind. The expendable nature of people--people used as pawns in a game of chess between the nameless and faceless--sent a sudden, inconsolable chill down her spine.
"Sorry," she said at last. "I can't think of anything."
Faraday nodded. "Now this is going to be kind of an odd question, Miss Grace, but did you ever get the impression that Beame wasn't who she said she was?"
Charlie was keenly aware that the next word she spoke could determine her entire future. She could expose a government conspiracy and aid in the investigation of a possible murder, or she could slink back to the shadows with her secrets, where Tommy would be waiting. Tommy--she'd almost forgotten all about him. She knew what she had to do, what she had to say, and she said it for Tommy.
"No. It never occurred to me, Detective. Is that a new lead you're following?"
Faraday shook his head. "Just a gut feeling that something was a bit off. Her profile checks out, though, and I suppose that's the important thing."
"Well, anything else?"
He pressed the button behind his ear once more. "I think that about wraps it up for now. I may be in touch with you again."
"Of course."
Faraday started toward the door, then paused, turning back to the office briefly. "I know you don't like me, Charlie, but I also came to warn you. This case you're working--it's brought you close to all of these people, and they've all turned up dead. Be careful, all right?"
"All right."
As he disappeared into the darkening rain, Charlie was struck by a sudden bolt of regret for underestimating him. He was still a jerk--she had no doubt about that, but she felt that she understood him on a deeper level now. She realized that he was just like her.
At exactly five o'clock, O'Hara stormed into the garage, complained about the price before paying it anyway, and then drove away in a rush, sliding and fish-tailing down the street. Charlie barely had the heart to yell at him. Once the place was empty, she locked up, phoned Tommy to tell him about Beame's sudden, mysterious demise, and then braced herself for the rain and the darkness that waited for her on the other side of the door. With a deep breath, she was swallowed up by the city.
***
Tommy set the phone gently back in the cradle and sat quietly, contemplating everything Charlie had told him. He made a conscious effort to tap his fingers against the table, like any normal person thrust into a situation that they couldn't control. He felt as if he'd been pushed into a corner.
"What's happened?" Fifty-two asked, watching from the doorway.
"Helena Beame is dead." His eyes were dim.
Fifty-two processed this herself. She cocked her head. "Shouldn't we be happy?"
"No."
"But she was a federal agent. She was chasing me."
"It doesn't matter. This isn't happiness. There's no warmth here."
"What about the other one?"
"What other one?" he asked.
"The other agent--what about the man in the blue suit?"
Tommy's eyes went bright.
"Stay here. Find a place to hide. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"What's happening?" she asked.
He grabbed his hat and coat. "Charlie's in trouble."
He ran to the door. He ran to the night. His heavy feet pounded against the pavement, leaving wide, splintered cracks in his wake. All his engines were roaring.
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