Fae Noir- the Murderer in Blue Read online

  There was a silence, and I looked back at Frank. He was staring at me, astonished at what I assumed was a diagnosis of excessive overconfidence. In fairness, excessively despondent curmudgeon filled opinions paired with dramatic flare and just a hint of not giving a shit what others believed to be accurate about what I was, did come across that way deliberately because as it so happened, I was excessively confident that his opinion on me was not particularly relevant.

  "I was reading that!" Frank exclaimed. He seemed more contrite about being reprimanded than my seizure of our case file.

  "Technically, you were griping about it, without having read it." I retorted, not looking up from the page. "Go home and have your mom pick out some nice clothes. We can get started once you're ready for big boy work."

  This elicited more amusement, but a fair amount of respect from the others in the room. Sometimes, it was a necessary thing to express exactly how little shits you have to give about someone else’s opinion, just to maintain the respect you have for yourself, but the absolute level of smirking on the floor was a marker that I had managed I had obtained respect of those around me.

  The silence was a delight, and I smiled sardonically, and I sipped Frank's coffee before spitting it back in the cup. "What in the name of all that is right and good in the world do you put in your coffee?"

  "Almond milk? I'm lactose intolerant." Frank shrugged. "How do you take yours?"

  "Black. Seven sugars." I retorted. Fae did not evolve in such a way to permit proper digestion of lactose. Neither did humans, mind you. Humans, however, did also not evolve to subsist entirely on sugars.

  Meat was fine, though it took me some time to warm up to it. Nobody ever bothered to tell Fairy Godmothers that animals happened to be made of food, so meat had been an experience for me. Bacon was what convinced me. It was, however, fairly widely accepted that as almonds were not mammalian in design, they were not lactating entities, and Almond milk was a misnomer.

  "Of course you do." Frank sighed. He got up, finished the cup, my washback included, then started heading towards the elevator. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't let snarky Sally spit in my cup again."

  "You didn't seem to mind the first time!" Captain Channing called after him.

  "Who willingly drinks almond milk?" I asked, before grabbing a generic mug, and pouring a fresh cup of coffee. I had very sharp opinions on the subject of almond juice.

  "Half of us." Captain Channing replied. "It's easier on ulcers than coffee with standard milk."

  "I'd rather die of the ulcer." I said, raising my mug to the Captain.

  "You don't have a health obsessed wife who will scream at you to within an inch of your life, for holding such an opinion." Channing retorted.

  "Unfortunately." I agreed, before sipping my coffee. "Though I can't imagine too many self respecting straight women would find Officer Gillard appealing, I find my own capacity of attracting the fairer sex sadly underwhelming, in spite of my better attempts."

  And with one single sentence, the entire dynamic of the room changed.

  It was astonishing, sometimes, precisely how fast open lesbianism changed the tone of people around you, but I was hardly one to give much of a damn what others thought about it.

  I could, however, tell one thing. I had expected it to go over like a fart in a phone booth.

  If anything, it seemed to make the guys around me more, not less comfortable. Strange.

  The Missing Barista

  It took Frank 19 minutes to straighten his stupid bow tie, get his shirt to a respectable level of wrinkles, put on his dress slacks, and his poorly polished shoes. The dress jacket was a nice touch, though probably just as impractical in the humid 30 degrees Celsius August heat as my own black attire. It seemed that even Frank had a basic understanding that in some circumstances aesthetics deserved the impracticality.

  Frank insisted on driving. We were to use his car. It was not a fancy department issue car. Frank had a beat up beige Volvo from the late 80's. It didn't even have power windows. If we're being honest, I'm not sure it's safe for anyone to drive, and I certainly wouldn't be comfortable driving it. It leaked on the parkade ground. The tires were old, worn, and the drums covered in rust. The passenger side mirror was missing. This was not an appropriate car for police work, it was a car other police pulled over.

  Frank pointed to the black smart car across the parkade. "Can you believe that putz? Who drives something like that in our line of work."

  I didn't say anything. I did, however, smirk.

  Frank tried to start the car. There was a truly unhealthy grinding sound. Then, the car backfired, before smoke started coming out from under the hood.

  Frank groaned, and put his head to the horn.

  "How about we take my car?" I suggested.

  "Yeah, yeah. Fine." Frank grumbled.

  "Well, we do have work to do this week." I retorted. "This thing needs a tow truck and a repair shop. Or a scrap yard."

  We managed to extricate ourselves from his ugly death trap, and I started walking across the parkade. It was a purposeful stride. I wasn’t particularly hiding my direction.

  "Which one is yours?" Frank asked. I could taste it. The sense of foreboding building in him, as he realized the direction I was heading.

  I held up my key, and pressed the unlock button.

  The blue smart car beeped.

  "Oh. Hell." Frank grumbled. "I'm never going to hear the end of THIS, am I?"

  I got into the driver's seat, and waited for him to get in. The air conditioning was a welcome respite, and as much as Frank didn't want to admit it, I could see the relief on his face.

  "Can you believe that putz?" I asked, gesturing to his car. "We're lucky that thing didn't explode."

  Frank winced, as I put the car into drive, and managed to keep his foot from further exploring his large intestine by turning the radio to the local news channel, and focusing on the sports report.

  I pretended not to smile, as the anchor listed off the previous evening's scores. For some perverse reason I found a great deal of comfort by the irritation on his face, brought on by the report. He looked suitably relieved when the news station switched to traffic and weather, like it did every ten minutes.

  "You a sports fan?" He asked, quietly.

  "They don't cover British football, but the local boys aren't bad. I wouldn't go so far as to wear one of their jerseys to WORK, mind you." I replied, focusing between the road and the GPS, who was giving me directions to one of 917 Sharkbucks locations within a 40 mile radius.

  "Yeah, yeah. Lay it on me." Frank chuckled. "You're hardly the first Vancouver heckler I've worked with."

  "I happen to like teams that actually win championships from time to time." I added, bemused.

  "Do you even understand the rules of hockey?" Frank asked.

  "Same as football. The ball goes in the net. The team that does this the most wins." I shrugged.

  "There aren't balls in hockey." Frank retorted.

  "In 400 meters, turn right." The GPS suggested.

  "Do you always drive with that thing on?" Frank asked.

  "Hmmm?" I looked between Frank, and the GPS. "Oh. Yeah. Tim Tim does a pretty good job making sure I don't get lost."

  "Why don't you just use a map?" Frank asked.

  "I don't know how to read maps." I paused, as the light turned green. It was true. I couldn’t. Maps worked in a linear, two dimensional way that ignored the other nine dimensions of navigation and dimensional relativity, and my fairy brain could not translate them into a working navigational plot. "Though, I use it mostly to free up my mind, to focus on the road, and the case. I have an innate sense of direction, but focusing on where I'm going is a very intense process." I added, once I was less needing of my attention span.

  "Oh." Frank paused. "I just find it really god damned irritating."

  "Which God? Shiva? Buddha? I could see Loki enjoying it, but not Thor. He never did like being told what to do, but Lo
ki would enjoy making it say "recalculatign" all the time." Brushing off the insult to poor Tim, I parked the car, placing the siren on top, to avoid being ticketed. "Zeus would also probably sass it for daring to tell him what to do. Or he would seduce it. Or both."

  "That looks preposterous." Frank pointed out.

  "Says the man who owns puke green crocs." I retorted, before entering the cafe.

  "They are stylish!" Frank shouted.

  My opinion of him discovered it could go lower, but I refrained from commenting. Instead, I focused on the job at hand. Badge came out of pocket. Serious face of seriousness.

  "Sergeants Noir and Gillard. V.P.D." I said, calmly. All traces of the previous conversation vanished from my face. "Is there a manager I can talk to?"

  "Is this about Tracy?" The barista asked. "I'll get the manager right away."

  "Hey, hot heels, you're going at this wayyyy too brash. These people are grieving their missing friend. How about I handle the chit chat?" Frank asked.

  If Frank wanted further opportunity to embarrass himself this day, I was not about to stop him. There was something endearing about his idiotic intent to dig his own grave.

  Instead of questioning, I ordered a cup of black coffee, with 9 sugars(because it was Sharkbucks), and took a seat, while Frank had a conversation with the manager.

  "Hey, are you with that annoying detective guy?" One of the other baristas asked.

  "Sadly. Yes. He has no sense of style, nor tact." I nodded.

  "Or professionalism. Yikes. He's complaining about the Lions score, while questioning my boss about a missing employee." The barista nodded.

  I gestured to the seat next to me. "Azura Noir. I'm sorry to hear about your friend."

  "How do you know she was my friend?" The barista asked.

  "You care about how much care is going in to the questioning of her disappearance." It was a simple deduction. "And you care enough to seek me out, when you think I need to know something. I'd also wager you were the only one who cared enough to report her when she didn't turn up for work instead of assuming something better had turned up, implying you know her well enough to have heard if something better had turned up."

  "Well. Yeah, I guess. When you put it that way." The barista nodded. "I'm Eva."

  "Well, Eva, what kind of person was Tracy?" I asked. "What were her hobbies? Favorite local bands? Bars?"

  "Tracy didn't have hobbies. She was trying to put herself through school to be a registered nurse." Eva replied. "She was the most focused, driven person I knew."

  "Knew?" I gave her a suspicious frown. "You're not telling me something."

  "She met this guy, but wouldn't say much about him. Ever since they started dating, she became more reclusive, if you can believe it. When she didn't come in… I started assuming the worst. No real reason why." Eva said, quietly.

  "No real reason, or no reason you think I'll believe?" I retorted.

  "Okay, yeah. I sort of dabble in tarot card reading as a side job to make money at local festivals and events, and when she went missing I tried doing a card reading." Eva winced.

  "And the death card came up?" I guessed.

  "Yeah, but-" Eva began.

  I held up a hand. Sometimes, being an ex-Fairy Godmother was weird in this job. You learned to trust people, who others dismissed as being crackpots. I was absolutely certain that there was a faint magical scent, or aura to this girl, but if she had said that to Frank, I'm absolutely certain he wouldn't even make a note of it. I was absolutely happy to trust a woman who admitted that she was trusting magical cards, over someone who lied to my face about anything, or made up a reason to explain their "gut" or "6th sense", that were actually just internal biases, or assumptions running wild.

  "I'm not judging. I just want to know how you came to the conclusion you did." I told her. "Can you think of anything else? Anything weird she might have done in the days up to her disappearance?"

  "She had this really angry phone call." Eva said, after a few seconds of thought. "I think it was from her dad."

  Flipping through my notebook, the name Fred Lincoln was written down for Tracy's father's name. Frank was quickly wrapping up his questioning, and I decided against embarrassing the girl in front of her coworkers by having Frank overhear the current conversation. Frank wasn’t a pleasant person, as near as I could deduce. He liked to make people feel self conscious, because he felt self conscious. It was a vicious cycle that resulted in a lot of people feeling dumb about themselves, and very little being accomplished.

  Instead of forcing her to reveal anything that would assault her own self conscious state, I handed her my card.

  "You call or text me if you remember anything else, or if you just need someone to hear you out, about Tracy, okay?" I instructed.

  "Thank you, Officer." She nodded.

  Frank crossed his arms, and I got up.

  "Did you get her number?" Frank joked.

  "I have a rule against getting involved with suspects or witnesses." I retorted. "It's called the professional ethical obligations and standards guide book."

  "Well, the manager didn't know anything." Frank grumbled, not commenting on my retort.

  "He wouldn't. Eva subtly implied that he didn't care too much about his employees. I've got a couple leads." Flipping through my book, I groaned.

  "What?" Frank asked.

  "Fred Lincoln." I said, quietly.

  "Local car shop salesman." Frank nodded.

  "Missing person's father. Whom Eva overheard having an irate chat with, a couple days before her disappearance." I winced.

  Frank closed his eyes, and swore under his breath.

  "I hate leeches." He grumbled.

  "That's an insult to leeches. Don't tell him about your car. He'll try and sell you a new one." I added.

  Author’s note: While I have a great deal of respect for minimum wage employees who get routinely abused by the public, as I am one of them, second-hand car salesmen are a different breed. I don’t dislike all of them, necessarily. That being said, most of them tend to prey upon people who are desperate, or can’t afford a new car. Most of them don’t care that they might be selling a car to a single mother with three kids, knowing full well that they’re defective, and will need repairs that said single mother can’t afford. I was raised by one of those single mothers, and we had a particularly bad christmas one year, because one of these people "forgot" to tell us the water pump had a partial blockage that kept getting worse. More to the point, however, should you, a second-hand car salesman, feel offended by this commentary, and line of jokes, that is, just perhaps, more a comment on your own ethics, and less my sense of humor.

  Salted Leeches

  Sometimes, you drive up to a place, and you get a feeling of dread, that tells you to run because something sets off your brain's logic processes. Some minor thing out of place makes your hair stand on end.

  Sometimes, you're just dreading dealing with the situation. A sleazy car salesman. A family gathering you don’t want to go to.

  For some people, these can be very hard to differentiate.

  When you are a magical entity who exists mostly on belief, however, it is an entirely different instinctual process. An area can be charged with good feelings, obnoxious salesman feelings, and tense feelings.

  Or outright dangerous feelings.

  As Frank and I walked through the car lot, however, it was evident that even Frank found something out of place.

  He looked around uncertain, then placed his hand on his side-arm.

  I didn't hesitate to do the same, and took a quick slide between two SUVs.

  "What is it?" I asked, as Frank took a spot next to me.

  "It's 10 A.M. on a Monday. Shops like this, with bargain bottom pricing usually have people on the lot. We should have been greeted by a weasel-eyed salesman by now. You, yourself, said I shouldn't tell them about my car, because they'd try and sell me another one. There isn't even anyone washing these cars, and it hasn
't rained in 4 days. The bird crap on the windows deters customers." Frank pointed out. "You?"

  "Place feels wrong. There's something not right in the air." I shrugged. Explaining to this stranger that I'm a failed Fairy Godmother, who is getting bad magical vibes from this place wasn't high on my to do list.

  "Instinct, huh?" Frank asked. "No tedious how's, or why's. You just feel something off, and trust it. I can respect that. I've known cops who ignored that feeling and gotten themselves shot for it."

  There was a lot to unpack there, and Frank's tone suggested the topic was personal. Now wasn't the time, or place. The belief that radiated from him suggested that both his acceptance of my explanation, and his stated reason for why he agreed with it were true. It was a sad belief. It had names and feelings attached. It was personal, and painful, and there was an undertone of resentment towards those names for not trusting their instincts more.

  "I'm going to dash behind that blue Chevy. See if I can get a better view from the box." I told him. We seemed to just click in that moment. It was strange to go from openly being overtly hostile to his every fibre of being, to trusting him so forcefully. Danger, adrenaline, and survival instincts were strange bedfellows who bred a camaraderie of trust in just a few short moments.

  "Stay down. I'll keep you covered." Frank nodded. His demeanor shifted, along with his beliefs towards me, upon realizing that I was willing to take the lead, and the more dangerous task. THERE. Finally. Respect.

  I paused to take my heels off, and hide them under the SUV. This was met not with a more upward shift in demeanor.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Frank asked.

  "The heels click on pavement. They'll make a LOT MORE noise on the bed of a truck." I explained.

  "Ah. Yeah. That's why most of the girls on the force wear sneakers or dress shoes." Frank nodded.