A dry, cold wind, the true breath of autumn, whipped down the city canyon, sending a skittering cascade of brittle, brown leaves across the hood of Davon's Civic. He sat inside, engine off, after leaving the Micheline, listening to the wind moan around his car and the slow, rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine. The confrontation with Mateo had left a grimy film on his spirit. He needed the cold, hard facts that only one place could provide.
He started the car and drove to the morgue, the skeletal branches of the trees along the parkway clawing at a charcoal-gray sky.
The county morgue at night was a different entity. The daytime administrative bustle was gone, replaced by a profound, humming silence. The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him in a world of stainless steel and chilled air. The corridor was flooded with stark, uncompromising light, erasing all shadows and, it seemed, all warmth.
The reception desk was occupied by a woman he hadn't seen before. She was smallish, with hair the color of faded straw pulled into a severe bun. Her posture was perfectly still, her eyes downcast as she filled out a form. Her attitude wasn't just professional; it was funereal, a quiet efficiency that seemed to blend seamlessly with the dead who were her charges. She looked up as he approached, her expression neutral, her gaze as deep and empty as a well.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was a soft monotone.
"Detective Deshaun. I'm here to see Clifford Burton."
She gave a slow, single nod, then pointed a slender finger down the main corridor. "He's in the examination suite. The coat rack and PPE are to your left."
Davon hung his worn leather jacket on a peg, the familiar scent of the cold city air clinging to it. He shrugged into the white polypropylene coverall, the sound of the fabric loud in the quiet, then pulled on the hairnet and latex gloves. He felt like he was preparing for a toxic clean-up, which, in a way, he was.
Just as he finished, the door to the examination suite swung open and Clifford walked out, clutching his hard-shell aluminum suitcase. He stopped short when he saw Davon, his face a blank slate. There was no flicker of surprise, no nod of recognition, no false pleasantries. It was as if he had registered a piece of moving equipment and was calculating its trajectory.
"Detective," Clifford said, his voice the same reedy, unaffected tone. He didn't smile.
"Clifford. I was hoping to catch you. Anything new?"
Clifford looked down at his suitcase, then back at Davon, his pale eyes magnified slightly by his glasses. "I was completing the final toxicology report. I found something beyond the alcohol we expected." He paused, as if choosing his words with clinical precision. "There were significant particles of synthetic drugs in her nasopharyngeal tract. A combination. Fentanyl and methamphetamine."
Davon felt a cold knot form in his gut, different from the anger with Mateo. This was a colder, more clinical dread. "Fentanyl and meth? Together? How much is 'significant'?"
"A dose that would have rendered most individuals catatonic, or dead from respiratory arrest, within minutes," Clifford stated, his head tilting a fraction. "It is a pharmacological paradox. The depressive effects of the fentanyl battling the extreme stimulant of the methamphetamine. I wonder how a person could even remain upright, let alone function with any coherence, under such a chemical assault."
Davon wondered too. It painted a terrifying picture of Cassey's final hours-a frantic, chemical-fueled desperation, or a forced ingestion meant to disorient and control. "Could it have been administered against her will?"
"Possible. The nasal membrane is an efficient delivery system. It could have been blown into her face, or she could have been forced to inhale it. There were no visible signs of restraint around her nostrils, but that doesn't preclude it." Clifford adjusted his grip on the suitcase. "It is a question you will need to answer, Detective. I have given you the 'what.' The 'how' and 'why' are your domain."
He made to move past Davon, then stopped, as if an ancillary thought had occurred to him. "I am late for a family dinner. It is my mother's birthday." The statement was jarring, a slice of mundane life inserted into their grim discussion. He looked at Davon, his expression unchanging. "Would you like to come?"
The question was so unexpected, so utterly out of place, that Davon almost laughed. He was about to offer a quick, reflexive refusal-the last thing he wanted was to make small talk with Clifford's family-but the words died in his throat. The image of his own empty, silent apartment flashed in his mind. The leftover takeout in his fridge, the case files waiting on his table, the crushing weight of being alone with his thoughts. The offer, bizarre as it was, represented a few hours of distraction, a buffer against the solitude.
"Sure," Davon heard himself say, the word feeling foreign. "I could use the company. I'll drive you."
Clifford considered this for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "Acceptable."
The drive was spent in a silence that was more observational than tense. Clifford offered no more lectures, no dark insights. He simply stared out the passenger window at the city preparing for winter, his reflection a ghostly presence on the glass. The tension Davon usually felt in his presence had diminished, replaced by a pervasive, low-grade curiosity.
Following Clifford's quiet directions, they pulled into a neighborhood that time had seemingly forgotten. Modest, single-story bungalows from the fifties sat on small, neglected lots. Clifford's house was one of the more worn ones, its paint faded and peeling, the small porch sagging in the middle. A rusting bicycle lay on its side in the brown, patchy grass, and a few stray, desiccated leaves were plastered against the foundation by a previous rain. The skeletal frame of a dead willow tree dominated the tiny front yard.
"Home," Clifford said, the word devoid of any discernible emotion.
The inside was a reflection of the outside-clean but worn, existing in a state of gentle decay. The air smelled of stale cooking oil and lemon-scented cleaner. A man who was clearly Clifford's father, with the same lean build and pale eyes, sat in a recliner in the small living room, watching a game show with the volume too loud. He didn't look up as they entered. A woman, plump and with a tired but kind face, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron.
"Clifford! You're late." Her voice was warm with reproach.
"Mother. This is my colleague, Detective Deshaun. I invited him for dinner."
Her eyes widened in surprise, then crinkled into a genuine smile. "A colleague! How wonderful. Please, come in, Detective. There's plenty."
Dinner was a quiet, awkward affair at a Formica table in the cramped kitchen. The two younger brothers, teenagers with sullen expressions, ate quickly and excused themselves without a word. The father ate in silence, his eyes never leaving his plate. Clifford's mother, whose name was Carol, tried valiantly to make conversation.
"So, you work with my Clifford? At the... the medical examiner's office?" she asked, passing Davon a bowl of mashed potatoes.
"Alongside it, ma'am," Davon said, forcing a politeness he didn't feel. "I'm a detective. Clifford helps provide the evidence we need to find the bad guys."
She beamed, looking at her son with pride. "He's always been so smart with... how things work. Even as a boy." Clifford accepted the praise with a silent nod, cutting his pork chop with surgical precision.
After dessert-a store-bought apple pie-Clifford walked Davon back to the door while his mother cleared the plates. The autumn air was sharp and clean on the porch.
"Thank you," Clifford said, his breath misting slightly in the cold. "For driving. And for coming. It made her happy."
"It was... good," Davon lied smoothly. "Thank you for the meal."
Clifford looked out into the dark, quiet street, where a few leftover leaves scuttled and danced in the wind. "The drugs, Detective. Fentanyl of that purity is not a street-level product. It is a tool. Find out how she got it, and you will find a thread. Pull it." He turned his pale eyes back to Davon. "The entire tapestry may unravel."
It was the most human, the most invested, Clifford had ever sounded. Davon felt a flicker of something that wasn't quite camaraderie, but a shared sense of purpose. "I will. Goodnight, Clifford."
The drive back to his own world felt like crossing a dimensional boundary. He parked in the underground garage of his building, a modern high-rise with a gleaming lobby and a silent, uniformed doorman who gave him a nod.
His apartment was on the fourteenth floor. He unlocked the door and stepped into the profound silence of his own space. It was nice, by any objective standard. A clean, open-plan layout with a wall of windows offering a glittering, panoramic view of the city lights against the crisp autumn night. It was also utterly devoid of life. No personal photos, no messy bookshelves, no signs that a person with passions lived here. It was a place to sleep and store clothes.
He pulled out his phone and typed a text to Claire.
«Clifford found something. Heavy-duty synthetic cocktail in Cassey's system. Fentanyl and meth. Dose should have killed her outright. Need to trace the source. First thing tomorrow.»
He didn't wait for a reply. He walked into the bathroom, stripped off the clothes that still carried the faint, clinging scent of the morgue and Clifford's sad house, and stepped into a shower as hot as he could stand. The water pounded against his skin, but it couldn't wash away the lingering images-the brutalized woman, the terrified manager, the dead-eyed attendant, Clifford's decaying family home.
He emerged, toweled off, and didn't bother with clothes. The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps on his skin as he walked directly into the bedroom. The king-sized bed, neatly made, seemed to beckon. He slumped face-down onto the cool sheets, his limbs feeling like lead weights. The exhaustion was total-physical, mental, emotional. The city's lights twinkled silently beyond his window, a universe of stories he would never know. He didn't toss or turn. The darkness rose up to meet him, and he fell into it, a deep, dreamless sleep claiming him almost the instant his head hit the pillow.
----
The knock at his door was not a sound but a sensation, a relentless, rhythmic pounding that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. Davon swam up from the depths of a sleep so profound it felt like drowning. The digital clock on his bedside table blared 5:17 A.M. in angry red numerals. The city beyond his windows was still a deep, pre-dawn navy, speckled with the unwavering lights of early workers and insomniacs.
The pounding came again, more insistent. Claire. It had to be. Only she would have the audacity-and the security clearance-to be hammering on his door at this hour.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on his bare skin. He grabbed a pair of grey sweatpants from the floor and yanked them on, his body moving on autopilot while his mind struggled to catch up. The previous night's exhaustion was a lead weight in every muscle.
He yanked the door open, ready to snap, but the words died in his throat.
Claire stood there, silhouetted by the hallway's dim light. She wasn't in her usual tailored blazer and slacks. She wore dark, fitted jeans, a black sweater, and a worn leather jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. It was her "working the streets" outfit, the one she wore when they needed to move fast and talk to people who spooked at the sight of a formal badge. In her gloved hand, she held two cardboard trays, each holding three steaming cups of black coffee.
"You look like hell," she said by way of greeting, pushing past him into the apartment. The scent of cold night air and strong coffee followed her in.
"You wake me up at five in the morning to critique my beauty sleep?" he grumbled, closing the door and running a hand over his face.
"I woke you up because you texted me a pharmacological bomb and then went radio silent." She set the coffee trays on his kitchen island. "Fentanyl and meth, Davon? In a dose that should have killed her? I've been up for two hours cross-referencing what Vice has on high-purity synth drug distributors. This isn't some back-alley dealer. This is a professional supplier."
Davon grabbed one of the coffees, the heat seeping into his hands. "Clifford said the same thing. Called it a 'tool.'" He took a long, scalding sip, the caffeine hitting his system like a jump-start to a dead battery. "So what's the play, McGuire? Why the pre-dawn raid on my apartment?"
She fixed him with a look that was all business, but with a glint of their old partnership in her eyes. "Because we're not waiting for the sun. We're hitting the Micheline's supplier network now, while the night people are still awake and groggy, and before Mateo has a chance to warn his connections. The girls who are just getting off shift, the dealers who service the club's back rooms-they're at their most vulnerable right now. They're tired, they're coming down, and they want to go home. They'll talk."
He looked at her, at the determined set of her jaw, the coffee she'd brought for a whole team even though it was just the two of them. She had already done the work, already built the bridge from the morgue to the streets.
"Give me five minutes," he said, turning toward his bedroom.
"Make it three," she called after him. "And for God's sake, put on a shirt. We're not trying to scare them that much."
---
Ten minutes later, they were in Davon's Civic, slicing through the near-empty streets. The sun was just beginning to threaten the horizon, a faint smear of pale orange behind the city's skyline.
"So," Claire said, sipping her coffee. "You had a family dinner with Clifford Burton." Her tone was carefully neutral, a detective probing a witness.
Davon kept his eyes on the road. "It was... an exchange of information."
"In his mother's kitchen."
"He gave us the best lead we've had," Davon countered, deflecting. "The drugs. He's a weird kid, Claire, but he's sharp. And he's on our side."
"Is he?" she mused, looking out the window. "Sometimes I wonder whose side a person like that is really on. His own, probably." She let the thought hang before shifting gears. "I've got a name. A low-level runner who supposedly handles the 'premium' deliveries for the clubs on the Micheline's strip. Goes by 'Silas.' He works out of a 24-hour laundromat on "6th and San Julian-in the heart of Skid Row."
"A laundromat. Of course." It was a classic setup. Constant foot traffic, the noise of the machines masking conversations, a perfect place to wash more than just clothes.
They pulled up a block away from the fluorescent glow of the Suds 'n Bubbles Laundromat. The air outside was damp and cold, carrying the faint, humid smell of detergent and fabric softener. Through the large plate-glass window, they could see a lone figure slouched in a hard plastic chair, staring at the churning suds of an industrial-sized machine.
Davon and Claire exchanged a look, a silent, familiar conversation passing between them. No words were needed. She would take the lead; he would flank. He would be the pressure; she would be the logic.
As they pushed through the glass door, the bell jingling a cheerful note that was utterly at odds with their purpose, the man-Silas-looked up. He was young, skinny, with hungry eyes and a nervous twitch in his jaw. He saw Claire first, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. Then he saw Davon, looming behind her, his expression unreadable, his presence filling the doorway.
The man's bravado evaporated. He was trapped between the spinning machines and the two detectives.
Claire offered a thin, humorless smile, holding up her badge just long enough for him to register the gold.
"Good morning, Silas," she said, her voice calm and clear in the humming room. "We'd like to talk to you about a recent delivery. A special order. The one that went to Cassey."
Silas's eyes widened, the panic immediate and unmistakable. The thread Clifford had told Davon to pull was right there, trembling in a plastic chair. And Davon knew, with a cold certainty, that this thread was connected to something-or someone-much, much bigger than a scared kid in a laundromat.