Detective

8

I had now after three more days grown tired of waiting for the police to scope out Vahlov's cartels, so I took matters into my own hand. I searched the police database for the last known locations he had been known to bag up cocaine and took a cab there myself. But, like every half-decent cartel, they moved just about every week or so. The places I went were deserted and held no trace of ever hosting legal activities. At least to the inattentive observer.

I crouched down in the abandoned warehouse I was in and picked up an old, dirty rag with small rainbows and stars on. It looked innocent enough, but of course it wasn't. I twirled it in my fingers before sniffing it. No particular scent, but it was covered in a dried, crackly substance I recognized; Snot.

This belonged to the little girl Rose, as her name had to be. Despite his words, Vahlov didn't seem like a skilled botanist, so why use this particular category of metaphors to deliver his message? There were hidden messages tucked everywhere inside it, and one of them had to be her name. Rose.

I stood up again, discarding the rag on the ground. I continued to walk around some more, kicking away a few planks of wood and turning over some old plastic covers that concealed old tires, junkyard crap and so on. No matter where I went, what I turned over and what I picked up, I had the constant feeling I was being watched. And I let them. If they were watching me, that meant I was getting close enough for them to have to keep an eye on me.

After a long day of walking around in abandoned buildings and construction sites, I finally headed back to the station. When I walked in, Leon was waiting for me.

"Tell me you did not go out to an abandoned drug house without me."

"If it'll spare your heart of the agony, I shan't," I replied, walking straight past him to the coffee stations, just as my pocket buzzed. I fished out my phone and saw that it was yet another text from Amy. She had been texting me practically nonstop with witty and sarcastic messages that usually held no dear information to man other than the fact that she was immensely bored. This text was yet another one of the same old meaningless prattling.

I'm starting to think that old phone of yours doesn't know how to receive texts from iPhones—maybe I should try sending a dove with the same message and see which one gets to you first? My money is on the dove
- Amy

I rolled my eyes and shut my phone again.

"Russell," Leon gnashed. "I'm serious. Don't make me point out all the reasons why you shouldn't be alone in an old drug den."

"I won't, so you can rest your vocal cord," I replied, pouring myself a cup of coffee, just as another text buzzed in. I didn't even bother checking it this time. "I am more than capable of controlling myself, even if there were anything left at all for me to snort."

"I didn't know you had a sense of humor," Leon scoffed, not even a least bit amused. "Because that's hilarious. If I were to put a bag of coke in front of you right now—"

"—you would be the absolute worst cop on the planet," I said, sipping my coffee. I begun walking down to his cubicle. "Handing out cocaine to civilians? You'd put the entire department to shame."

"Very funny," Leon monotonously replied, just as I felt another buzz in my pocket. "Who is it that keeps texting you? Is it that waitress? What was her name again?"

"Amy." I replied as we took a seat in Leon's booth. He sat back in his chair while I leaned up his desk. "She programmed her number into my phone and I guess she must have programmed mine into hers as well."