A City in Peril (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[sensateone]

The theft was so simple as to be boring.

He had done the due diligence: bought off the gangs paid for protection, bought off the rent-a-cops standing guard outside, blackmailed the Boss's secretary for the access he needed. She really should have chosen a better assistant - the secretary cried like a child once Anthony threatened to reveal the affair he was having with his sister-in-law.

Yawn.

He pointed the cringing man into the elevator and waited while he hit the proper buttons. Then, into the Boss's office, and into the safe predictably hidden behind the painting of Pinnacle city from a century ago. As soon as the safe was opened, with the password the secretary had stolen, Anthony tazed him into unconsciousness and took out the flash drive, then headed back for the elevator.

Anthony Trimont knew that the police were on their way. He had let the sniveling assistant hit the silent alarm deliberately. It was the last in a series of cat-and-mouse games that he was playing with them. When they arrived, he would be gone, back to his lair beneath the headquarters of the company that now belonged to him.

This was the final piece. Now, now, he would own this town.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“You know we’re going to be too late when we get there, right?”

“Mm.” Her response verged on annoyance, a sour secret clutched tightly between her lips.

“It’s always too little, too late with this guy.” The fat around his jaw and neck, remenicesent of a puppy’s, gave him a youthful appearance. In a few years, he’d look like Santa Claus.

“Mm.” Her gaze was kept hard out of the window, chin in her palm, noting the yellow globes of the streetlights.

He sighed, turned his attention back to the road. “You know, Vinny’s not approving any more overtime for this case. Why don’t you go home, have some wine, read a book.” The jovial face slipped into sly. “Hug all of your cats.”

“I don’t have cats, Ross.”

“Well, hug whatever it is that keeps you warm at night. Or do you cuddle up with this bozo’s case files?”

She turned away from the window then, sharp dark eyes in a dark face. The full lips pressed into a line, tugging down, then, a twist. She smirked, rolled her eyes, shook her head.

“That’s your one for the night.”

A jolly expression returned to his face, lighting up. “If we don’t laugh at this stuff, what else can we do? Cry?”

Her focus returned to the window. “Something like that.”






“Too little, too late, Detective Hathaway,” sighed a patrol cop. Outside of the building, yellow police tape flanked the perimeter. Dancing red and white lights cast flickering shadows across the bodies in blue uniforms. “Sorry ta break it to ya - I know you got a hard on for this guy.”

Day Hathaway simply ignored the officer, stepping gingerly across the pavement. Kneeling, she looked at a collection of broken glass at her feet. From the looks of it, it had nothing to do with the current heist. Didn’t mean that some jackass would outline it and consider it a clue. Not that she couldn’t understand the overzealous cops - landing this guy would be a promotion - your face in the papers, ticker tape parades, a raise, the whole brass ring.

She pressed her lips together; stood up and took a look at the building.

“Any witnesses?”

The patrol cop’s attention had been pulled away, called by his friends still fumbling through setting up a perimeter. He glanced back to her, unsure that she’d said anything. Another glance back to her - settling on her eyes, then, he snapped back to her attention.

“Any witnesses?” She repeated, coolly.

“Uh, yeah, guy that triggered the alarm,” and he gestured to a frail looking man in a business suit whose cheeks were red. She started that way - then stopped. Looked over her shoulder.

“Thanks.”






She listened impassively as the secretary stammered out his story. Misdirection. Deflection. Guilt. Fear. She waded through all of the typical emotions, waiting until something caught her interest, until gold could actually be mined. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel bad for the guy - people were just people - but she couldn’t afford to show it. As he spoke, his body spoke volumes. Tight shoulders that shifted imperceptibly lower as she approached, a tightening of his fingers on his coffee cup when she introduced herself. Eyes that wandered from her head to her feet, taking in her body, her figure, in easily digestible parts. Cheeks that were flushed.

Ultimately, what it all boiled down to was her usual: a long night of hitting all of her contacts, of pacing the streets, of waiting, of frustration. But beneath it all, the flicker of real interest, of finally, after so long on the vice squad, of actually having a real challenge.