Composed by Kaiter Enless.
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A loquacious waltz droned phantasmically throughout the spacious foyer of Partridge Manor. Charles Jauther found the music simultaneously entrancing and unnerving. He paused beside the U-shaped double stairway which let up to the second floor landing and loosened his tie, eyes roaming aimlessly over peculiar marble statues and framed monochrome illustrations, and ornate synth-spun tapestries, looking for an exit from the oppressive opalescence.
“What is it, Charlie?”
Charles turned to his elegantly garbed wife and forced a smile.
“Nothing, nothing. Just nervous is all. I’ve never been to a showing this ritzy.”
“Whats there to worry about?”
The couple were met at the base of the left foyer staircase by a pale, middle-aged woman dressed all in black. Charles found her outfit curiously antiquated and her lynxish gaze disturbing.
“Mr. and Mrs. Jauther. So pleased you could both make it. I’m Ariadne Campbell.”
“Oh yes, we spoke briefly on the phone,” Catherine Jauther replied with a warm smile, “You’re Mr. Partridge’s secretary, right?”
“Yes. He speaks highly of your husband’s work. I’m sure he’s keen to meet him. This way.”
The couple followed the woman up the left stairway and then left again down a long corridor, lined with simply framed photographs of various people and places. Always there would be a portrait and a construct, a building, a painting, a line of code, directly across from it.
Charles gestured to the photographs.
“Who are all these people?”
Ariadne replied without turning or pausing.
“Mr. Partridge’s students—and their work.”
“There’s… so many… he must be quiet a busy man.”
“Industriousness is one of the few qualities you and he share.”
He felt that the words were meant as a subtle insult and wondered if it was the quality of his work she took issue with, or the philosophy that motivated it, or both. He decided against addressing the issue for the sake of his wife and continued following the icy hostess.
The hall of portraits let out into a massive ballroom where the bulk of the host of the stately manse had gathered. The buzzing throng huddled around a singular figure, pale and elegant, garbed in long white coat, tipped at the collar with similarly albescent fur, appearing more as one of the marble statues that lined the manor’s halls than a man.
Ariadne stopped before the pristine figure and turned towards the two new arrivals.
“Mr. and Ms. Jauther, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Partridge.”
The albescent man turned to greet the couple, revealing a sharp, bloodless face and keen, azure eyes.
“Salutations. So pleased you could make it.”
Catherine smiled and curtsied as Charles extended his hand and shook Lynder’s black-gloved own.
“We appreciated the invitation.”
Lynder nodded and then beckoned a young servant, who approached bearing a platter filled with drinks.
“Oh yes, sounds lovely. Thank you.”
“What kind is it,” Catherine inquired.
“Scharzhof riesling,” Lydner replied as he gingerly removed two glasses from the servants silver plate and handed them to his guests.
“That’s quite expensive, isn’t it?” Catherine cooed as she eagerly, but cordially, took a glass.
Lynder nodded, “Indeed, but, as the saying goes, one gets what one pays for.”
“Fraid I don’t know much about wine.” Charles declared flatly as he stared down at his glass indecisively.
Lynder raised his vessel to the light, gently swirling the topaz liquid within.
“The drink of choice of the ancient Mediterraneans.”
“Didn’t know they had Scharzhof riesling back then.”
Lynder turned to Charles with a faint smile gracing his bloodless face and then gestured for the man to follow him.
“I hear you’re planning a trip to Nunavut to record the wildlife.”
“Yes. I’ve recorded damn near every land-animal on the continent, but never a polar bear. Besides my wife has always wanted to see the north. So its a win-win.”
“Taking anyone else along?”
“Wasn’t planning to. Why do you ask?”
“Its dangerous up there.”
“Its dangerous everywhere.”
“Yes, but, on my island, for example, you stand little chance of being vivisected by a polar bear.”
“Equipment is sensitive. Won’t be getting too close; that is, if I’m even able to find any.”
“You will at least take a gun with you?”
“Don’t own any. Wouldn’t take one even if I did. Cat hates guns.”
“So do polar bears. Did you know that a man was eaten by one last year. On Sentry Island, up by Nunavut.”
“I know of the place, but I hadn’t heard. What happened?”
“Man named Ridley Garrick had taken his children – a son and daughter, both very young – up for a fishing trip. The isle is a popular fishing spot. While Garrick was distracted, a bear attacked the children-”
“However, Garrick was able to intervene before it could reach them and fought it – unfortunately, for him, he was unarmed, and thus, swiftly killed.”
“Did the kids get away?”
“Yes. RCMP was notified and found the bear eating Mr. Garrick’s remains. They shot it in the face – twice – and that was the end of it.”
“What an unfortunate affair.”
“One which could have been easily avoided through the addition of a lightly armed detachment.”
“Do you write for the gun lobby or something?”
Partridge smiled with amusement and took a sip of wine before replying.
“If I were a lobbyist, you’d have long ago returned to your wife out of boredom.”
“Ha, well, its just… you seem like you don’t like animals.”
“We are animals, Mr. Jauther. I’m speaking specifically about the bears. It is not a question of liking or disliking them, but of understanding their nature.”
“Its only because of our disruption that they attack.”
“I’ll not insult your intelligence by suggesting you truly believe that.”
“Condescend all you like, but we press into their territory. Disturb the natural balance.”
“The ‘natural balance?'”
“Yes. Natural harmony.”
“Mr. Jauther, there is no harmony.”
“Butterflies and pollination – that isn’t harmonious?”
Lynder downed the last of his wine and turned the sanguine dregs in the light.
“Even butterflies drink blood.”
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The body had no face.
Guiles Dörre recoiled from the bars of the tiger cage, inhaling deeply to steady himself. A horrified moan, stifled in his throat, choked by his slowly eroding constitution. The zoo’s emergency sirens blaring in the din. Scent of blood, heavy in the air, mingling odiously with the pungent alloy of the bars and the urine and gore of the caged and disemboweled.
The Bengal tiger crouched over what had once been a woman, canines and carnassials sanguine from the killing bite and its play thereafter. The body’s faceless head was strangely angled, one ear skyward as if to better hear the ringing alarm; the neck, clearly broken.
Fear further enveloped the night watchman as he realized the entryway into the animal’s cage had been rent by heavy bolt-cutters which swung wide with the night wind—bolt-cutters which lay within the cage beside the body of the dead woman.
He locked eyes with the moonlit beast, but thirty five feet away, as it dropped the ruddy, mangled corpse, arched its back and bared its fangs. Amber eyes glinting full with the pale bone of the moon.
Dörre raised his shotgun and fired.
The great feline collapsed in a bloody, matted heap.
Dörre swiftly reloaded, then cautiously moved through the wind-blown door and inspected the carcass of the beast where it lay upon the rutted ground beside its prey.
The body had no face.
“Very Dadaesque.” Elliot Moss cried, gesturing with his half-empty wineglass at the thin, nondescript mechanical pen laying upon the floor at the northeasternmost corner of the rectangular, low-ceilinged art gallery.
“Indeed,” Sabrina Vesora agreed, adjusting her scarf, studying the artifact as a crowd of journalists and local social climbers moved by. It was situated such that its nib faced the northern wall, a black sole-scuff-mark moving out in a slender arc from the nib to the right of the device, trailing off to nothingness.
“Highly abstract, yet, even still, the message is deftly inscribed.”
Moss nodded hesitantly, vaguely, uncomprehending, “Yeah,” He set his glass upon a nearby table and knelt, removing his phone and snapping a few shots of the pen, “Its great how imaginative the students have become with their art—shaking off all that stodgy hyperformalism.”
“I know! And look what they’ve come up with when they’re unconstrained—all that they’ve been able to say without speaking a word.”
“I’m not sure I get it,” a old man to Vesora’s immediate right remarked flatly, stroking his beard with his champagne-less left hand.
She cast the man a withering look and gestured to the pen.
“Its pointed towards the wall—to declare that most of our communications are superfluous, doomed to fail, fated to run into obstruction, into a wall. Yet, the scuff mark, moving away from the tip, out towards the center of the room, which compels us to turn our attention away from our own ‘writing’—from ‘the wall’—back to the lives of others, then, true communication is possible, but only if our instruments, and our empathy, move counter to our instincts.”
The old man furrowed his brows and tilted his head to stare at the pen from a different angle.
“Yeah,” piped up Moss, removing himself from the floor, phone photo-filled, “Its a metaphor. Social commentary—but subtle. Doesn’t beat you over the head with the message.”
The old man turned, addressing a finely dressed man with a custom-tailored black coat, tipped at the collar with white fur, “Oh. Hello, Mr. Partridge.”
“Salutations, Mr. Cramm. I was just speaking with Mr. Wakely, he tells me you’re planning something at the docks; but more on that latter—how’ve you been enjoying the gala?”
“Marvelously. As per usual. But I could use your expertise on this piece… not really sure what the artist was going for,” he replied, gesturing with perplexity to the pen by the wall.
Lynder Partridge’s keen eyes moved to the pen and lit up with recognition.
He then strode between the trio, knelt and gingerly plucked the pen up off the floor and examined it in his leather gloved hands.
“You’re ruining the installment,” Vesora exclaimed befuddled, “What are you doing?”
Lynder smiled opaquely, “Returning Mr. Wakely’s pen. He lost it around an hour ago.”
Composed by Kaiter Enless.
The art gallery buzzed like a nest of agitated hornets. Harmon, dressed in his finest dirty T and sun-eaten jeans and moving from the entrance to stand before the gala proper, found the chatter irksome and the low, odd-filtered light disorienting. He liked the dark and quiet.
Despite his proclivities he had agreed to attend Bluebird’s gala opening. Her first. She moved up beside him, breathless and beautiful, supple curves ill-contained by a tight, black sweater and revealing leggings over which she wore a similarly tight, black mini-shirt neath which shined newly polished leather boots with small, silver buckles. Harmon found the whole get-up to be a bit too form-fitting but he said nothing and mock-saluted as she approached.
“Thanks for coming, Harmon.”
“I’m surprised you thought to invite me.”
An expression of irritation palled her well-plied face.
“Been almost a month since we last met. Been last four weeks since we last talked.”
“That’s not true. I called you last week.”
He paused and furrowed his brows before responding, “You didn’t.”
“I swear I did. I’ve been so busy…”
“S’all right. I’m not complaining. Say. Which one is yours?” Harmon inquired placidly as he cast his sharp, green eyes out over the art school’s gleaming marble floor; so clean and shimmering he could make out the stark reflections of all who there stood upon it. Bluebird pointed to a series of paintings upon a silvery panel installation in the very center of the wide, rectangular onyx-colored hall.
As he followed her gesturing hand he caught the reflection of a curious figure from out the corner of his eye, to the immediate left. Thin and trim and garbed in a albescent coat, tipped at the collar with similarly milky fur. When he followed the reflection to its source he noticed that the ivory man was watching him. The man raised a glass of red wine, smirking slight. Harmon hollowly reciprocated the gesture. He felt suddenly strange. As if a liquid had settled within the core of his being.
Bluebird sighed melodramatically and folded her arms.
“You aren’t even paying attention.”
“Sorry. Got distracted. Who is that?”
“Oh my god. He’s looking at us! He’s coming over. He’s coming over.”
“Friend of yours?”
“That’s Lynder Partridge.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He flew in from the city just to attend this gala. He’s scouting for permanent additions to his museum. You’ve really never heard of him?”
Lynder Partridge strode up to the odd couple, his sharp, bloodless face opaque, luminous oceanic eyes masque’d by circular green-tinted sunglasses that made the iris appear as gold, his pose cordial and restrained.
“Salutations. I’m Lynder Partridge.”
Bluebird was so star-struck that it took her two seconds entire before she responded, and then, only shakily.
“L-lyla Couldry. I’m… I’m such a big fan, Mr. Partridge. What you’ve done with those library renovations in the city and her, in our little town, its just wonderful.”
“Why thank you, Lyla. And your friend?”
Harmon step forward, extending his rough and calloused hand. He didn’t expect Lynder to take it, yet shortly, the elegant ivory man did, extending one of his leather-gloved hands and grasping Harmon’s own, firmly and without hesitation.
“So pleased to meet you, Mr. Kessel. I’m pleased to see a roofer involved in the arts – architects have a long-standing history of interdisciplinary interest, as their own trade demands it, yet the actual builders who bring their creations into being and those who maintain them, are considerably less intrigued by graphic demonstrations such as those which garner the walls of this venerable establishment.”
“Why do you think I’m a roofer?”
“Skin is tan. Burnt about the neck. Your jeans are roughly worn at the knees, shirt, faded about the shoulders and back. Means you spend a lot of time in the sun, shorn of shade and a lot of time on your hands and knees. The only trade wherein that would occur in this town is roofing.”
Lynder remained wholly impassive save for the slightest trace of a smirk which vanished as quickly as it appeared. Momentarily, Serena walked up to the trio and greeted Lyla and then looked to Lynder and Harmon.
“Who are your friends, Ly?”
“This is Harmon Kessel and this is Mr. Lynder Partridge.”
“THE Lynder Partridge?”
“Indeed.” He responded flatly before turning and half-bowing to the woman whose eyes went momentarily wide with surprise. Lynder then cast his gaze out to the installation directly beside Lyla’s, “Is that your work?”
“Y-yes. I’m so nervous. Its my first gallery showing.”
“I shall have to take a closer look.”
Shortly, Serena and Lyla moved off a pace. It appeared to Harmon as if Serena had some important information to convey. He was mildly irritated that Serena hadn’t even so much as said, “Hi.”
“Looks as if the ladies are conferring. Shall we peruse the works together?”
The duo moved to stand before the center panel installation which harbored Lyla’s works. Paintings. Her centerpiece was a massive colorful oil painting of a large swan in mid-flight, gliding over the top of a pristine, azure pond, surrounded by reeds and cherry blossoms; petals dancing in the wind.
Lynder studied the piece a moment and shook his head before finishing off his wine and handing it to one of the school volunteers who took the crystal goblet with a smile and moved on to the next group.
“What do you think?”
Harmon studied the picture, “I think its pretty.”
“Indeed it is. That’s the problem. Its pretty and only pretty. Nothing but pretty.”
“I don’t think its that bad. Besides, art is subjective.”
Lynder spoke without turning, eyes to the swan, hands clasped gingerly behind his back.
“Subjectivity is objective. If it seems otherwise it is only due a lack of apprehension.”
“Not sure I follow.”
“I mean that those conditions which undergird subjectivity are themselves objective, even if one does not know what those are. To say otherwise is to say that the foundations of subjectivity are themselves subjectively determined. Now that is hardly plausible is it?”
“Well, put like that, I guess not. But why don’t you like the painting?”
“To answer I would pose a question in return.”
“Of what use is the art which does not seek to force life to imitate it?”
“Well, she’s not trying to force life to imitate anything. She’s trying to imitate life.”
“Precisely. She imitates life and in so doing, presents to the audience – us – an idyll of splendor with which we can do… what precisely with?”
“To appreciate escapism is degrade life itself. It is the act of a coward.”
Harmon wanted to respond. To defend Bluebird’s work, but words failed him. He had never met anyone who was so filled with such quiet passion and lacking the same, knew not how to meet it.
“You think that I’m being too harsh, don’t you?”
“Given your relationship to the author, that is understandable. Understandable but mistaken.”
“Seems kinda snobbish to me.”
“There is a marked distinction between snobbery and elitism.”
“You saying you’re an elite?”
“I said there is a distinction between snobbery and elitism. I did not say I was a member of an elite; that is another important distinction.”
“Lyla likes to say, ‘Art isn’t about being good.'”
“That would explain why her’s is so bad. Think of the trouble that ethos would cause if it were applied to other professions.”
“Whole lot, I imagine.”
“When one is in need of an electrician, what kind does one seek out?”
“The best. What does that have to do with painting?”
“When one selects a friend does one undiscriminatingly accept all, or does one critically discern the trustworthy?”
“Exactly. So if one holds such standards for electricians and friends, why not for art?”
“Good question. Don’t think many round here would be keen to answer it.”
Lynder briefly looked over his shoulder at the bright-eyed and youthful denizens of the school, mingling with their teachers and journalists and a couple of well-known local artists.
“Gird yourself. The vultures have arrived,” Lynder half-whispered to Harmon with amusement.
“You mean the journalists. I take it you don’t like um?”
“They have no appreciation for art. Their kind doesn’t belong here.”
“You’re awfully opinionated on art. You do any yourself?”
“I do. What about you, Mr. Kessel?”
“Well, sorta. I like to write. Fancy I’m decent enough. Never gotten anything properly published though.”
Lynder removed a small business card from his pocket and handed it to Harmon.
“If you ever wish to send my publishing house one of your manuscripts, give me a call and I’ll personally white-list it.”
“Thanks. Very kind of you. But uh, you haven’t read anything I’ve done.”
“It is refreshing to converse with one who is so unceasingly forthright.”
“Well, I appreciate that. I figure there’s enough lying and obscuring to go around. No need to add to it.”
Lynder turned and moved to Serena’s installation.
“Your friend’s girlfriend’s work is much more interesting.”
“She’s not Lyla’s girlfriend.”
“Oh? Could have fooled me. Once they walked off they moved together rather, how shall I put it… intimately.”
Harmon felt a sudden unease overtake him and shortly thereafter, anger. It was not incited by Lynder’s words, but by a consideration of the prospect that his word’s might be correct. He slowly turned and scanned the crowd. He couldn’t see Lyla or Serena. He ground his teeth and fractionally shook his head. No. It was ridiculous. Unthinkable. She’d never betray me. Certainly not in so deviant a fashion. She loves me, he thought determinedly. Breaking from his reverie, he refocused his attention on the spot where Lynder had stood.
He was gone.
Thompson shook his head, surveying Ariadne’s works upon the wall. All her photographs hung from their frames where she had earlier placed them, all save one; the picture of the man with the albescent jacket.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Campbell, I’ve no idea where it went. It must have been…”
Ariadne nodded gravely, “Stolen. Its alright, Mr. Thompson. Wasn’t your fault. It doesn’t matter, I didn’t like it anyways, lets just focus on the show.”
He turned to her and gave a wry smiled and nodded and left off to answer the phones and order catering.
Campbell hadn’t seen him coming. She hated how silent he was.
“Now that you’ve finally got your gala-showing, do you look upon your work any differently?”
She turned furiously to behold Lynder Partridge standing behind her, a lit cigarette in his left hand, his right in his pocket, dressed all in a dark, sleek suit of diamond-patterned blue. She knew he’d show up sooner or later given that Thompson had invited him; had been waiting for him to do so. She dug the photo of her eye out of her pocket and thrust it in his face, “Mind telling me what the fuck this is?” He raised a brow slightly took a drag and then removed his right hand from his pocket and slowly took the photograph, examining it methodically.
“It is a photograph of an eye, Ms. Campbell.”
“No shit. You know whose eye?”
“It appears very similar to your own.”
“It is. Why was it in my house?”
“I’ve no idea what you are talking about,” She could tell he was legitimately confused which in turn confused her, “Explain precisely what happened from the beginning.” She told the tale and upon finishing he nodded, more to himself than to her and flipped the photograph around such that she could see it.
“I induce you believe this is the photograph I took of you at my last gala?”
“Yes. Obviously. What are you playing at?”
He shook his head fractionally, a movement so slight it was almost imperceptible and would have been had he not been standing so close to her, “You forget how flustered you were during our last encounter, your gaze were quite narrow, besides, this is a digital photograph, not analogue. Like you, I hem to the Leica, it is the only camera which I presently own. In fact, I was utilizing Mr. Thompson’s darkroom in place of my own, which is currently under construction. I can show you, if you should like.”
“If you didn’t take it than who did? You were the last person to take a picture of me.”
“As I said, it is digital. Consider how many pictures of yourself are presently available on the internet. It would be a matter of the moment to seize one, download it, crop it, blow it up to such exaggerated proportions and then print it. As for who delivered it to your abode, I could not say, but I can say that whoever it is they’re no artist.”
“On that we agree.”
She was angry. She had been positive Lynder was at the bottom of it, yet the more she considered the situation the more she realized how ridiculous her accusations must appear. He was one of the most popular up-and-coming artists in the entire city and given his previous comments on her lack of ability there was no reason for him to pursue her. She shook her head, hell, even now he looked disinterested. His comments about the internet and the ease with which one might obtain a photograph of her also rang plausible. Lynder was too much an artist to craft such a shoddy composition, there was no life in it, no message, no force or vitality. She took the photo from Lynder’s outstretched, black-gloved hand, gazing at it fixedly. He was right. It wasn’t art, it was graphic design. It wasn’t him. Then still the question: Who had left the photo? Was it the man with the white jacket? If he was indeed the killer of Greely perhaps he believed she had seen too much. Perhaps he feared she could identify him…
“Are you quite alright, Ms. Campbell?”
“No… no I am not.”
She turned to leave but he stepped forth, his presence of sudden interest restraining her like an invisible lasso.
“Congratulations on your first showing.”
She turned and smiled a hollow, cold smile, “Thanks.”
“I know you resent me because of my critiques of your work but know this, if I critique it is only because I believe it will aid your improvement.” He gestured to her artwork where it hung upon the wall, now swarming with students and professors and journalists and socialites, “As it clearly has.”
His face registered no emotion at the insult; he merely raised his cigarette back up to his mouth and took a drag and expelled a puff of smoke respectfully to his unoccupied left.
“Hubris is a sword, Ms. Campbell, be sure you don’t fall upon it.”
When she arrived at Jamie’s apartment she was surprised, it was far less expansive and glitzy than she had expected, given he was a friend of Calvin’s. She knocked and Jamie quickly answered, smiling.
“Hey, you alright.”
“No, not really, not at all.”
She went inside and was given a cup of coffee and sat down as the television rang out in the background.
“This report just in… we warn you, however, the details of the case are graphic. The victim of the suspected homicide which occurred last night at 500 Rose Place has been identified as a one Jamal Greely. Sources tell us that Greely had spent time in a correctional facility in his youth for molesting his sister and, more recently, had been involved in a child trafficking ring which the police believe to have ties to the Serbian Underground, though this remains a matter of speculative correlation at this point in time. Greely was found in his home after a anonymous tip was sent to Detective Sebastian Blanca of the VPD. Alongside Greely Detective Blanca discovered copious amounts of drugs, principally heroin as well as numerous dog cages, some of which were filled with defecation and discarded diapers.” The reporter took a moment to exhale and inhale deeply, unable to continue any further, he blinked and cleared his throat and then continued reading his report, “Uh, no… children were found at the scene though it is believed he was keeping at least two, possibly three, children in his compound. The… caller has yet to be identified. No suspects have yet surfaced.”
“What an ugly mug,” Jamie sneered in between mouthfuls of yogurt he spooned into his maw as he watched. Ariadne looked up from him, to the screen for the first time since the report had came on and gasped. The face upon the screen tagged “Jamal Greely” was familiar to her.
“I know that man.”
Jamie spun upon her.
“You what now? How?”
“I met him last night.”
“He was murdered last night. Shit… that means…”
She nodded solemnly, “I must have left just in time. He must have been killed very shortly after I walked away from his stoop.” She shook her head, biting her lower lip, “I saw him, Jamie. The man who,” she gestured to the television, “Killed that piece of trash. I saw him.”
Jamie placed his hand upon her shoulder and she slumped against him, into an embrace. His warmth was comforting and very soon, Ariadne forgot about the photo of the eye and the man with the white jacket and the kidnapper on the stoop and Partridge and the galas and the art world and her dreams. In that moment there was nothing but her and Jamie and the synchronous beating of their hearts.
Campbell returned home elated. Finally, after all her struggles, she would be having her first major gallery showing, at one of the premiere lounges in the city and on a weekend no less where the maximal number of people would be likely to show up. It wasn’t just good, it was perfect. She moved sprightly to the kitchen, throwing her coat upon the kitchen counter and removing a bottle of wine from the fridge. She paused when she turned around to set it on the long faux-obsidian island. She had forgotten to open her mail, which sat in a thick cluster upon the table. Aridane set the wine bottle down and began shuffling through the papers, bills, bank statements, credit card offers and, at the last, a note that was wholly unlike the rest, all yellowish creme, with a tasteful silver ensign upon the upper left corner. It did not say who it was from but was addressed to her. She wondered if someone had delivered it by hand as she fished out a butter knife and slit the top of the tiny package. Inside was a small square, covered over in expensive parchment. When she folded it away a photograph of a human eye greeted her, sepia toned and eerie; it was beautifully bound in a simple black frame without ornamentation. With rising brows the woman set the photograph down beside the bottle and unfurled the parchment. It read: Do you see?
What the hell is this? Who would send this to…
She studied the eye on the table, it seemed familiar. It was certainly from a female subject. After a few more moments of deliberation she stood bolt up right and cursed underneath her breath.
Its MY eye. That means… Lynder… he’s the only person who has taken a photo of me recently. He took my picture at his last gala. It must have been him. It must have.
She picked up her phone and dialed the doorman.
“Eeeello, what may I do for you?”
“Grigs, this is Ariadne-”
“Oh hello Ms. Campbell, something the matter?”
“No, not really. I was just curious if anyone has come in the past couple of weeks, anyone you don’t recognize?”
“Uh, I don’t think so… oh wait, yeah, come to think of it there was a fellow came in early yesterday. Definitely didn’t live here, said he was visiting some friends. Had a white jacket, with a red design on the back.”
“What kind of design?”
“Looked like a chrysanthemum.”
“What is it? You know him Ms. Campbell, cause if he’s giving you any trouble I’ll-”
“No. No its fine, Grigs. Something just occurred to me. Thanks.”
Her hand trembled as she set the phone down. Her mind reeling back to the alleyway and the man with the white jacket and the chrysanthemum ensign. Who was he? Why was he here? Was he the one who had left the letter with the photograph of her eye? How did he get it? Did he know Partridge? What the fuck was going on?
Suddenly it occurred to her – the copies. She ran to her dark room and gasped.
Her copies of the man with the white jacket were missing. All of them.
The phone rang out from the kitchen. Aridane nearly jumped out of her skin and then shook her head and swore under her breath and ran to the source of the noise.
“Ariadne, its me, Jamie. I just wanted to make sure you were ok.”
“I know we didn’t exactly hit it off, we were drunk and all, its just… there was a murder. Right outside of Calvin’s place, near the alley you take to get home.”
“How the fuck do you know what way I take to get home.”
“Calvin told me. Or, Svetlana told me and Calvin told her. I just wanted to make sure you were ok, Calvin would have called but he was in a meeting, he’s starting to get big offers and, er, it doesn’t matter.”
“What happened, who was killed?”
“Dunno. Police haven’t released any names or photos, they just got a anonymous tip that something was going down in The Tombs. They show up and some guy is lying on the ground in his house missing half his head. Skull was crushed.”
“None. Lot of people live around there, even though walking at night you might not think it.”
“Well… thanks for calling me, Jamie. Listen… uh-”
“Is something wrong? You sound upset.”
“Yeah, actually, yeah something is really fucking wrong, someone broke into my place and stole my photos.”
“I don’t know. But I’m freaking out, does Calvin mind if I come over?”
“Like I said he’s in a meeting, he’ll be tied up for a while. You can come over to my place, I don’t live very far away from him. Ok?”
“Ok. Thanks Jamie.”
“No problem. I’m at 556 Essen Street. You know it?”
“I know it.”
“Ok, I’ll talk to you soon.”
She hung up and grabbed her coat, silently cursing herself for not scanning her pictures and saving them online.
If I’d just scanned them whoever the bastard who had broken in would be shit out of luck. Dammit.
She starred a moment at the photograph of her eye and then pocketed it and headed for the door, locking it behind her. As she headed for the subway a man with a crisp white jacket watched from the shadows of a local parking garage. Eyes like lanterns in the night.