ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 8: off with his tie!

      I purchased a bouquet of tiger lilies because the florist assured me that they mean pride and I’m sure Keith Donovan would be proud of his son. Okay, maybe not so much at the moment since he’s drinking and screwing himself into a hole, but in retrospect, he would be proud of Blake.  

      The orange and black speckled petals curl back to reveal the burgundy stamens, full of pollen that Sam doesn’t want to get on his suit jacket―prat. I hand him the bouquet on purpose and wait in the lobby of Blake’s apartment for the drunken idiot to rouse from bed.

      I know I have a case to figure out, which Sam keeps saying while I stand around the lobby, but today is the day when Keith Donovan was killed and I believe that as Blake’s kind-of-maybe-friend, that he remembers today. 

      “This is a waste of time,” Sam says.

      “You should know how he feels,” I snap.

   “Maybe you should go up there Akira, he’ll always listen to a woman carrying a gun,” Banks comments whilst picking at her mocha painted nails. “I mean, I’d go up there but from his little episode you told me about the other day, I don’t want to walk into something that I’ll need soap to forget.”

      Sam bites his lip to stop a string of colourful vocabulary to flow out, which would probably cause his PA to raise eyebrows. He doesn’t want to be seen with Blake, mainly because Sam thinks Blake’s a bad influence and if something happens, Sam doesn’t want to be responsible for filling out the paperwork.

      Like I said, Prat.

      I wanted to bring Banks along before Sam and I go up to Hell’s Kitchen where Officer Davenport was found. I told her about Blake whoring himself out to women so he forgets his lack of father figure, and she didn’t take it well. I mean, I suppose I could’ve worded it better but she needed to know. She’s currently finding new ways not to beat in Blake’s face and is currently chewing obnoxiously on a piece of strawberry flavoured gum.

      I sigh and walk up the stairs. My thick souled patrol boots scuff the trimming on every step as I reach the first floor and turn down the corridor of 54B. The floor’s quiet with no beat of bass or anything from the surrounding rooms. I slam my fist against Blake’s door.

      “Donovan!” I shout.

      There’s faint shuffling on the other side of the door but I don’t get a response. I smack my palm against the white painted wood and then wince as a sharp sting resonates up to my elbow. There’s a loud thump as if Blake fell onto the floor, knowing his current drunk status, I wouldn’t be surprised.

      “Blake Curtis Donovan, if you don’t open this door right now I’m going to kick it down and arrest you for underage drinking!”

      I continue to raise my voice until an elderly woman comes out of the apartment near the end of the corridor in a bathrobe and curling irons. She’s got a mug of coffee in one hand and the TV remote in the other; she pushes her gold-rimmed spectacles up her nose as Blake opens the door.

      “I appreciate the earthquake warning Akira,” Blake narrows his eyes at me and then looks at the old woman with a tentative smile, “Hey Mrs Branwick, sorry about all the noise.” 

      “NYPD business ma’am, please go back to your apartment,” I say as I grab Blake by the ear and slam his cheek against the wall beside his door. He winces but says nothing, he looks like shit. He hasn’t shaved in between the two weeks that I haven’t seen him and he’s dressed in boxers and a grungy Iron Maiden shirt. “Clean yourself up, we’re going somewhere.”