Author's Note: Ah! Behold! Part II has finally been completed. Part I was released back in September, so this is long overdue. Sorry. Oh well.

I'll probably edit this at some point, but I think it stands relatively well as it is. If you haven't read Part I yet, I'd suggest you click that little profile name up there and check it out first, otherwise you won't know what's going on with the bigger picture.

The conclusion to the trilogy is coming soon, I just hope it doesn't end up another four or five month wait like this one was. Part III wraps up the case, sort of, but leaves the audience with a twist and open end, just because I like it that way. Anyhow, read this, tell me what you think.

Also, as a disclaimer, I do not own the rights to Pink Floyd et. al., Mickey Spilane et. al., anything. Objects and ideas belong to their respective owners mentioned previously, I'm simply using them.

Now, on with the show...

A Detective Story, Part II: A Russian

By the time I got to the crime scene, the storm was in full force. The constant barrage of icy raindrops didn’t seem to faze the crowd though, as I had to wade through a few dozen curious and eager tabloid and press junkies looking for a cheap thrill. If I got my way, they wouldn’t get the chance.

Fortunately, the guys were already ahead of me on that one. Screens had already been set up outside of the building; mobile, compactable, and translucent enough to shield prying eyes. The less they could see, the better—with one caveat. The less those reporters saw, the more their imagination went haywire.

They loved this.

When I finally got through the door of the café-turned-shooting range, there wasn’t much to be said about the place. It was like a Laundromat; stuck in the 70’s with no need to change, and it even had the classic red juke-box in the corner which was still cranking out the ominously eerie vocals of David Gilmour, adding a somewhat uncomfortable atmosphere to the otherwise quaint eatery.

“Fitting music.” Jace let the comment slide when I joined him by the main spectacle.

He shook his head and sighed.

“Apparently he liked it.” He nodded toward the bullet-perforated body which was now splayed across one of the window-side booths. The glass from the window decorated the corpse like broken Christmas-tree lights, the spattered blood and spilled coffee contrasted the pale blue of the seat cushions like a cheesy rip-off of a Jackson Pollock piece. There was blood on the other cushion as well, but nearly as much which had pooled around this guy’s body.

“Who was the other chap?”

“He was still alive when we got here,” Jace replied. “They took him out in an ambulance. Two bullets went through him, the other one was still in his liver.”

I cringed, eyes never leaving table. “From the looks of things, he got off pretty easily.”

“I’d say so.” He stepped towards the table, looking at the half-eaten sandwich as I squatted next to the bench, taking a look at the guy’s face.

“He’s Japanese.”

“You noticed?”

I snorted. Behind me, the jukebox changed tracks; the sound of a saxophone opening the next song. That sort of thing relaxed me, even if it did seem somewhat out-of-place in a bloodied street-side. For some reason, this music seemed like it would do better in a modern speak-easy or lounge—but nobody went to those anymore.

Jace continued; “You think this has anything to do with that Chinatown Mob-ring case we’ve been handling?”

I almost chuckled, but settled on a grim smile as I stood. “No, I don’t think so.” I said. “It does have to do with the same mob, though. That much is clear.” I shook my head. “But I don’t think this had to do with what we’ve been working on. This doesn’t look like a coup attempt to me.”

Jace gave me an odd look. “Doesn’t it?”

“No. If Kizaki’s boys did it, there’d have been no survivors. And if Motoko or her pals had done it… well, there’d have been a lot more blood.” Mushin Kizaki was the current head of the Chinatown Mob boys. We’ve known about him for decades, but as of yet we haven’t been able to solidly nail him with anything to get him behind bars. He’s been getting up there in the years, but his mind is still as sharp as a vintage record stylus—but no matter how loud his record screams bloody murder, an attorney finds a way to fault the music being played rather than player itself. Blame the record for scratches, rather than the player for faulty mechanics.

Kishugi Motoko on the hand—she was a piece of work. Ruthless, bloodthirsty, and as cracked as a broken mirror, but as elusive and intangible as wisps of smoke from a snubbed out cigarette butt. We’d had her in custody once, but we had no idea what had happened between the moment we left the room and the moment we came back in, a half-hour later. A few broken-up guards and a ton of broken-up things led the chief to the conclusion that she had escaped—big surprise there. She was a monster with that martial art of hers.

Technically, she was one of Kizaki’s higher-ups, but with the recent surveillance reports, my partner and I had been finding that she’d been going behind her boss’s back and at times, performing double crosses that even Kizaki didn’t know about. We already know that she’d been in cahoots with the Russians, but that wasn’t really much of a big deal since the Russians and the Chinatown fellows weren’t at each other’s throats. It was still interesting that she’d been in constant communication with them, though. Jace brought up the idea of an alliance, and I’d come to the conclusion that she got ambitious somewhere along the way and had decided to take over Kizaki’s throne. To a point, that could have explained the Russians’ help, and how radical she’d been getting.

“Could be a third party we don’t know about.” Jace rebuked.

I shook my head. “Not within the Chinatown mob. Kizaki has one loose cannon already—he wouldn’t risk having another one.” I took a breath, before pulling on some latex gloves and grabbing the tweezers from one of the crime scene guys.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving something.” I said. “Two bullets went through our survivor, right? So that means that there has to be two bullets that lodged themselves in the seat, right—” I tore one out of the wood underneath the cushion of the opposite bench. “—here.” I held it up, silhouetting it against the fluorescent lights of the café. “Does this look like a nine millimeter to you?”

“Slightly deformed from impact, but yeah, I’d say so.” Jace clenched his eyebrows in thought. “Kizaki’s guys don’t use nine millimeter ammunition.”

“You’re right. They’re the crazy bastards who prefer the .380 Mac-10s.” I continued to stare at the bullet. “And Motoko’s crowd rarely uses guns period.”

Jace shivered. “Knives. Yeesh.”

“Yeah.” I looked back at our dead guy. “So… who uses an affordable brand of weapon that shoots nine millimeters?”

Jace snorted. “Congratulations, you’ve narrowed the scope down to just about all of the firearms in Manhattan.”

I was silent for a moment, in thought. “Maybe not.” I handed the bullet and tweezers back to one of the other personnel. “Look at the amount of bullet holes here, and in our vic. In a drive-by, you don’t tend to have time to reload any weapons, and you want to make it as easy as you can to get off as many rounds as possible. That pretty much rules out handguns, revolvers, and assault rifles. That leaves us with submachine guns—the most popular being the Ingrams that our Chinatown friends are so fond of, and the Uzis.”

“The Italians use Uzis.” He followed my gaze. “Nine millimeter, too.”

“And while they don’t have the same rate-of-fire that the Ingrams have, they’re a hell of a lot easier to control.” My hand was shaking—it was time for a drink.

When I turned back to my partner, he had a smirk on his face like he had just solved the meaning of life. “And that explains why there aren’t holes all over the café—the limited zone of fire.”

“Yep. My bet is on the Italians. As for why…” I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I reached into my inside coat pocket and pulled out the stuff that I shouldn’t have, taking a quick swig. Jace just frowned as he saw me. His disapproving stare reminded me of why the chief assigned us together. “Yes, mother.” I mumbled, and stuffed the flask back in my pocket without taking the second sip I really needed. I felt like I was on probation for the alcohol addiction that I wasn’t supposed to have.

I took a breath as the background music changed tracks for the fifth time. “Who was the survivor?”

“I don’t know his name, and I couldn’t get his ID before the paramedics closed the doors and drove off with him.” He sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and starting for the door.

“Damn.” I followed him outside.

The crowd had become more of a mob that threatened to storm our castle; from the dozens that were already there when I arrived, even more seemed to have popped up out of nowhere. The rain didn’t help matters either, pouring down like the heavens themselves were sending us an omen.

The ride back to the precinct was quiet. I had settled for shotgun, but that gave me more chances to think and stare out the window. It was only fair after all—this was Jace’s car, not the cruiser we normally had. The department called me in from home; must have done the same for him. What a pain. He had a wife and two kids—I’m sure they weren’t very pleased about it either.

When we got back to our desks at the station, there was a sealed envelope lying on my desk—one of those big ones that they use to put special reports in. I had thought at first that it could have been from one of the other guys in the station—but it didn’t have the precinct’s stamp on it—and any reports regarding cases were handled by the chief, not by me.

“Rick,” Jace had raised an eyebrow when he saw me hefting the slim package. “Personal mail isn’t supposed to be delivered here. You know that.”

I cast a disgruntled glance in his direction. Nothing like a having a bell around my neck in case I do something wrong—whether that be mail trouble or a quick swig of alcohol.

“This isn’t my personal mail.” I replied, annoyed. “I don’t know what this—” As I tore the end open, several pieces of paper slid out of the rip, along with a photo of a male and a copy of a birth certificate.

“What...?” Jace was over my shoulder now, looking at the items as I was.

“Jace,” I said, picking up the photograph. “That’s our vic.”

“Yeah, but he’s alive here.” I nodded as he spoke. “What’s that?”

I handed him the Polaroid and picked up the birth certificate Xerox he had pointed to. “Says here the guy’s name is Sōshi Kyōchiro, born thirty-some years ago in a hospital in Okinawa.” I looked at him, musingly adding, “Might be helpful to add that he’s recently deceased.”

“That’s a Japanese name.” He said, ignoring my comment. “What would a Japanese man be doing in with the Chinatown gang?”

“Jin had mentioned having a Japanese acquaintance that was in with the Chinatown guys like he was.” I mumbled, staring absently at the photo Jace handed back to me. “He said he wasn’t very fond of him—the guy was too loose with his lips, apparently.”

“Selling secrets to everyone?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” I shrugged. “Jin’s a badge-exclusive informant, but he still costs money. From what little he’s described of this acquaintance of his, I’d be willing to bet this guy sold to anyone—badge or not.” I sat back in my chair. The guy sounded stupid—information is a valuable commodity these days, one that is killed for in some areas. Open your mouth too far near the wrong people and you’re bound to get a bullet down your throat—this guy just seemed to have learned that the hard way.

“And you think that the acquaintance of your friend is this…” Jace glanced down at the birth certificate. “Sōshi Kyōchiro?”

“That’s my guess. There aren’t many Japanese mugs running around in the Chinatown crime ring.” I resisted the urge to smirk. “Coincidences don’t happen in this business.”

The shrill ring of Jace’s phone broke the thoughtful silence that had started to set in. After a few muffled words of approval and ‘okay’s, he shoved the thing back into the pocket of his coat and looked at me.

“Our survivor’s awake.” He said.

A dramatic flash of lighting and a morbid-sounding crash of thunder later, the two of us were in the unmarked cruiser and headed full speed toward the hospital. We were out of fresh clues, and ones we did have were wearing thin. Hopefully, the guy in the hospital would provide us with some desperately needed information.

“Hello, Detective.” The prone figure on the bed was none other than my Chinatown informant, Jin. He was as calm as ever, though undercurrents of pain were laced underneath the façade like gravel underneath the surface of a puddle.

“Well, you’ve certainly seen better days.” I wasn’t that shocked. Jin had spoken of that Kyōchiro guy on numerous occasions—and it wouldn’t surprise me if they had been in a partnership, of sorts. Japanese stick together in a Chinatown gang, sort of thing.

He snorted, but came out more like a sputtering sigh. “I suppose I have.” He started, voice scratched like a dying, overused copy of Piper at the Gates of Dawn. I thought it odd to see him like this—cunningness gone, weakness and vulnerability ever-present. It was almost scary, in a way.

I moved to the chair and sat down, Jace closing the door and leaning against the adjacent wall. He at least had the courtesy to remove his hat. “I need to know what you and Sōshi Kyōchiro were talking about.” Bluntness was what I seemed to be best at in these situations.

“Straight to the point then, eh?” A sardonic twitch of a smirk was barely evident on his face. “No use in hiding it, I suppose.” He inhaled as deeply as the morphine-dulled pain would allow, and began to speak.

From what he had said, I got the impression that the bigger picture of this whole thing was a lot bigger than I had originally anticipated.

Jin laid out the basic picture for the two of us first, and it was something like this:

This Kyōchiro guy was the guy I had suspected—the information seller with a loose trap. But what I hadn’t known was that he more bartered information than just sold it. In return for giving information, he’d request getting different information as part of his payment—effectively turning him into the inner city gossip dealer. In my line of work, those are the dealers that end up killing more people than drug or arms dealers.

Anyhow, this guy had apparently dug up some interesting information involving some juicy dialogue between a few of the mob rings. According to what Kyōchiro had told Jin, Motoko and her splinter cell had made contact with my ever-elusive Russian friends, which the Department had already known—or at least suspected. What we hadn’t known yet was that the suggested alliance between her and the Russians did, in fact, exist. That explained the constant trysts down near the docks with Russian and Chinese liaisons.

But the whammy wasn’t for another few rasps of Jin’s hoarse voice. Apparently, Kyōchiro knew what the details of the alliance were. In return for the Russian’s help of uprooting Kizaki, Motoko promised to push her support behind the Russians to take down their favorite venture capitalist, Stockholm.

Jace was shocked, to say the least. I was mildly surprised at the news, but it made perfect sense. The Chinese and the Russian mobs didn’t have any specific reason to despise each other—not like the bitter rivalry between the Chinese and the Italians. Now that was a gang war, but it’s best not to go into that again. Leave the past alone, eh?

There was only one thing he said before his heart-rate monitor went through the roof with pings. It didn’t make any sense, but I was sure it would fit into the puzzle later. He forced it through his lips even as his air passages closed with stress.

“Stockholm knows.”

Vague ambiguity has always been a pet peeve of mine.

We left the hospital at that point, but we were still no farther along on the case. We had a few pieces of information that backed up what I had already suspected, but otherwise, it was a wasted trip.

In the car, I found that I was again asking questions to myself. Who attacked the pair of informants? Was it Kizaki trying to tie up a loose end and silence a loose cannon? Or was it just another hit made by a group of Italians who just wanted to do some damage to the Chinese?

That was when it hit me. Stockholm was behind the shooting of the café. Not just Stockholm, but the Italians as well. I had seen a file years back that had suggested a strong Italian presence down at the Docks, but had filed it away in my memory with no real use for it. If that file was true, it wouldn’t be hard to believe that Stockholm at least has connections with that ring—if he’s not personal friends with the higher-ups of the place, anyhow. But that last phrase uttered by Jin… That fits the puzzle.

Stockholm could have gotten wind of the fact that it was Jin’s help that had delivered the false ID lead of the whole Dockside Affair. It was with Jin’s help that I discovered the beginnings of a capitalism-gone-wrong scheme. It was with Jin’s help that I had finally found the first pins to tack down Stockholm.

If Stockholm had gotten wind of this, he’d have every reason to take Jin out. Perfect motive! If I was right with my musings, than we’d had it backwards when we had assumed Kyōchiro was the primary target. Kyōchiro had just been an innocent bystander in this case—shot up, but not on purpose.

But… that didn’t really feel right in my gut. The Italians never left a job unfinished. Sure, they sprayed the bejezus out of that diner with lead, but still… they shot at the wrong guy. The bullet holes were aimed more toward Kyōchiro than toward Jin. That couldn’t have been coincidence that the Italians waited for the two of them to be together before they struck. Coincidences just don’t happen in this business. Not now, not ever.

When we got back to the precinct, I told Jace to go home and sleep on it. It was already four in the morning and neither of us had gotten any sleep. We’d be worthless the next day, but if we got rest, we’d at least be alive.

By the time I was in front of my apartment door, my cell phone rang—unidentified number that the caller ID didn’t recognize. Two guesses as to who that could have been.

“Hello, Detective.” The greeting was heavily accented and laced with smugness.

“Hello.” I replied, carefully. It was the Russians—what could they possibly want?

“We believe that it is time you met someone,” the man said. “Come to the hotel on Adamson Street as soon as you can—and please, Detective, be discrete.”

If I hadn’t been as tired as I was, the smirk that tugged at my lips probably would have come through. “You don’t have to tell me to be discrete. After all—what are friends for?” The sarcasm leaked through only because of my aforementioned fatigue.

The voice on the other end of the phone laughed. “Of course.”

The line went dead.

The rain outside showed no sign of letting up. In the time it took for a bolt of lightning to rip the sky in half, I was already in the lobby of the run down hotel which had certainly seen better days. The bored looking college student at the counter simply blinked as I came through the doors, his chin resting on the palm of his hand.

I was about to open my mouth before a Russian accent cut me off.

“Detective,” the feminine voice behind me sounded like an angelic demon’s horny moan of seduction.

I turned around, spotting the pair of mile-long, leather clad legs which stuck out from behind a newspaper. They uncrossed themselves; the stilettos clopping onto the cheap linoleum floor as the paper neatly folded itself, guided by a pair of leather gloves. A thin, pale face appeared behind the wall of pulp, with dark eyebrows that were visible even beneath the bangs that stretched down to block one of her eyes.

Her blood red lips were curved into a smug smile.

“You look like hell.” She stated bluntly, rising out of the over worn couch. “Did we wake you?”

“If you people had phoned five minutes later I doubt you’d have been able to wake me.” I replied, equally blunt.

Her grunt was the only reply, as she looked at the college kid behind the counter. He simply raised his hands in defeat and walked out of the room, disappearing behind an office door, letting it lock behind him.

“I’m Olga. I trust you have questions?” she asked, tilting her head upwards ever so slightly, making me realize that she was actually shorter than I was—even with those killer stilettos.

The question was about as rhetorical as a newspaper ad.

I got straight to the point.

“You sent Kyōchiro’s identification records?”

“Of course.”

I nodded to myself. I had already figured as much, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Who attacked them?”

“You already know that, Detective.”

“Stockholm.” I muttered. “Then what was so important that he wanted them dead for it?”

Olga sighed, lighting up a cigarette as she did so. After the end burned brightly, she looked around the lobby, and started. “Stockholm has connections with the Italian mob. This you know. What you don’t know is that the Italians have connections with the Chinese mob—secretly. Mister Kizaki has been setting up secret negotiations with the Italian mob boss in preparation for Motoko’s coup. On the outside, they’re still sworn enemies, but to Kizaki, they’re secret bosom buddies.” She smirked at her own comment.

I was too tired to smirk. “How does this pertain to Stockholm and you guys?”

“First, you have to understand who Kyōchiro was.” She said, looking down at her cigarette as she leaned on the counter, tapping the end into an ashtray. “He was one of our informants—he was sent undercover into the Chinatown ring as a plant. Motoko knew he was there, and used him as a source of communication between us and herself. He was, essentially, a tool we traded for her cooperation.” She looked up, glancing at the office door which the counter associate had disappeared behind, before continuing. “She often used him to spy on Kizaki, and, in turn, the Italians. She knows of Kizaki’s secret alliance thanks to Kyōchiro.” She looked back at me. “And since she knew he was also the perfect undercover tool, she sent him into the Italian’s ranks every once in awhile, where he eventually ended up working in a certain Dockside shipping warehouse.

“He found out some rather interesting information regarding Stockholm, and was responsible for ‘accidentally’, shall we say, letting a file full of compromising evidence fall into one Alexi Rokov’s lap.”

“That was the man who was killed for blackmail a few months ago.” I stated. “Kyōchiro was the one who did the snooping for him?”

“Well, not for him, exactly. Rokov was one of our direct undercover agents in Stockholm’s ranks, but he got a tad greedy with the blackmailing incident. I, myself had warned him of the consequences of greed, but…” she blew a wisp of smoke into the air, “you know how men with the promise of power tend to be.” She sucked on the end of her cigarette.

“I think you should stay here for the night,” she said, turning around and leaning her back against the counter.

I raised my eyebrow, before tiredly uttering, “Is that some sort of lazy come-on?”

She smirked that smirk of hers again. “Of course not, Detective. Stockholm’s undoubtedly got your place under surveillance.” I noticed how she stretched her legs and turned her face towards mine, a faint glint of mischief twinkling in her eyes. “We like to ensure that our friends are under proper protection.”

After a split second of silence, she nodded toward a door at the end of the hallway, leaving a key on the countertop. “That room’s already been paid for. Use it.” She passed close to me as she stepped toward the door, sure I got a full whiff of her greatest tool—that dangerous seduction.

“We’ll meet again, I think.” Her words were punctuated by the soft hydraulic hiss of the door closing behind her.

The only thing I noticed in the room was the bed and the table next to it. There was a book on the table—Kiss Me, Deadly, by Mickey Spilane. I must have read that book forty times in my youth. I loved Spilane’s stuff as a kid. I almost leafed through it for nostalgia’s sake, but I was too damn tired.

If I dreamt at all that night, the dreams were of little relevance.

When I came to, the clock on the bedside table read a blaring ten-thirty—and my phone screamed out a blaring ring of shrill attention seeking.

“Rick—” Jace sounded remarkably dire, “—the chief is pissed. You had better get back here quick. I think you’re in for an earful.”

I shook my head in an attempt to clear the semi-conscious grogginess of a late morning after a late night. “What’s got his panties in a twist?”

I could hear his sigh. “You were seen with a hooker last night who just happened to be a regular face in the FBI’s handbook of Russian Mob intelligence.”

I ran a hand through my unwashed, ruffled hair. “I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jace.” I replied steadily. “I crashed at a motel because I was too tired to drive. That’s all.”

“Sure.” He said, clearly not amused. “Look, I don’t give a damn where you are or what you do on your own time. Like I said, it’s the chief who’s got the beef with you.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Just get back here soon. I’ve got to go—another call’s coming through.”

“Right.”

I hung up after that. Climbing out of the bed, I stared back at the novel on the bed stand, and decided to throw it in the inside pocket of my coat. It couldn’t hurt, and at least I’d have something to do while I wait for my berating by the chief. Besides, who’d miss it in this place? The reason it was here was probably because somebody didn’t want it anymore.

The ride back to the precinct had my mind running on the previous night and what Jace had told me. How could the chief had known that I met with a Russian Mob contact so soon? I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had found out later, since I was too tired to cover my tracks that night—but less than six hours after the fact? My only guess was that I had been tracked, but by whom? The Russians wouldn’t compromise themselves so easily, especially when they hadn’t used me as their pawn yet. They couldn’t afford to risk losing me, could they?

As I pulled up to a stop light, I thought harder. Who else was present in the lobby of the hotel? There was me, and Olga, and—

—And the teenager behind the counter. He had disappeared into that back room. Did he tip someone off? He certainly didn’t go to the police, but I’m sure he could have been an informant for somebody and was on the look out for my face. A mug like mine most people don’t tend to forget.

I pulled the car into the precinct’s parking garage and started for the door. Now was the chief’s time, not mine. I couldn’t afford to dwell on who had tipped him off.

In minutes, I was standing inside his office, being given the typical lecture of why I should be an outstanding citizen and not sleep with hookers. His fierce yells and passionate displays of misplaced, furniture-oriented hatred only punctuated his precise arguments. The conversation just digressed from there.

It eventually became rhetoric—why shouldn’t he discharge me for confiding in the enemy? The only reason I walked out of that office with my badge still firmly in my pocket was because I had been able to explain a misunderstanding, elaborate on a bias, and pull the old ‘the department still needs cops like me’ spiel.

He bought it, but I was taken off of the case anyhow. He didn’t give me an explanation as to why, but I figured it had something to do with the Russian factor. It wasn’t until I had passed the wastebasket that I saw the cigar butt lying at the bottom like a freshly ejected shell casing.

I had figured as much. I saw the first inklings a few months ago when he had first been paid off by Stockholm—of course he’d be paid off again. I was nauseated by the time I got back to my desk, the smell of blatant corruption sickening my soul and my conscience.

Jace broke me out of my trance. “What happened?”

I took my time to look at him. “You’re off the case,” I said succinctly. No need in getting too complex.

“Just me?” He quirked a suspicious eyebrow.

I pulled my badge out of my pocket and stuck it in a drawer, before standing up. “Jace,” I started. “It’s been great working with you, for the short time we’ve been assigned together.”

“What?”

“When they come for my badge,” I continued, “You saw where I put it. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you anything else, at this point. If I did, you’d be suspect as an accomplice.”

“Accomplice to what?” He shook his head. “Rick, what the hell are you planning?”

I was already to the stairwell by the time he finished his sentence, fishing around in my pocket for my phone. I had a rather important call to make to an old friend of mine, and since I was officially off-the-clock as a cop, I’d need all the help in the business that I could.

The call was over before I arrived at his doorstep, hanging up just in time for me to knock—if only for theatrics. The sign on the door read ‘Private Eye’—and for good reason. This man was one in a million. He was a legend on the streets; known for his quick thinking and equally quick trigger finger. He was a master at negotiations and situational evaluation.

On the streets, he didn’t only know the Law, he was the Law. He was the judge, he was the jury, and oftentimes, he ended up the executioner. And above all, he was my ex-partner.

Before my hand finished its knock, the door was open, revealing the half-smirk of his face, the mischievous Cheshire-twinkle in his eyes, and the subtle bemusement in his overall posture.

“Well, well,” he said, almost chuckling. “Look who it is.”

“Hello, John.”

He was Jonathan H. T. Keaton, the Private Eye.