Vivian’s eyes darted from shadow to shadow as Sterling pulled the car between two other cars, masterfully parallel parking half a block away from Vucko’s. As he parked and killed the engine, Sterling said, “We just go in as if we’re any other patrons. Have a look around and see if we can figure out if Stone is there.”
“Drinking on the job…” Vivian said. “Is that allowed?”
“Well, it’s sort of important to the case. Also, I won’t tell Garnett if you don’t.”
They got out of the car and headed in the direction of Vucko’s. It stood out in a strange sort of calm, the soft blue lights in the window beckoning them. It was smaller than Vivian had been expecting, which she figured might work out to their advantage.
As they made their way to the entrance, Vivian scanned the streets. Somewhere on the other side of the street, a small group of people were speaking animatedly and laughing about something. However, on their side of the street, her gaze locked on a solitary figure seated at a table outside a bakery that had closed for the day. He was scrolling on his phone but the mere sight of him alone raised a red flag in Vivian’s mind.
"Over there," she murmured to Sterling. "To the right, in front of the bakery. The loner. See him?”
Sterling followed her gaze, his features tightening with the familiar edge of suspicion. "Yeah, I see him. Let’s keep him in the back of our minds."
Sterling pushed through the heavy glass door into Vucko's. They were greeted by soft music, a mix of eclectic lounge and hip hop, at a low volume. It was a very minimally decorated place, rather gloomy in an academic sort of way. There was sleek, dark wood paneling on just about every surface, and the air carried a mix of cologne, perfume, and the aromatic tang of citrus garnishes from expertly crafted cocktails. Vivian estimated there to be roughly twenty-five patrons, their laughter punctuating the music. Several tables were situated along the floor, including two large booths, and a long, elegant bar ran almost the entire length of the back wall.
Vivian cataloged each patron, a skill honed by necessity, noting the couples nestled in dim corners and the clusters of friends who leaned in close. It was a skill she’d gotten quite good at as a thief, honing her ability to pick out security or a cop in disguise in a large crowd. Here, though, it was a bit more difficult as she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for.
A woman by the bar flicked a glance her way, her eyes sharp with curiosity before returning to her gin-soaked reverie. The bartender, a man with a trimmed beard and sleeves rolled to the elbow, ruled over the bar area. He was holding a conversation with someone while making two different drinks.
"Sort of charming, don’t you think?" Vivian whispered, her voice barely carrying over the din.
"For a martini bar, sure. I think I’d just rather have whiskey, though. I like my bars and my drinks simple."
“And your cases?”
He smirked and shrugged. “I’m beginning to understand that even the small ones aren’t all that simple. You’ll come to find that out, too, soon enough.”
They navigated through the maze of tables, finding an empty one tucked in a corner that afforded them a view of the entire room. Shadows clung to the edges of the space, offering anonymity and intrigue in equal measure. Every laugh, every sidelong glance, every toast raised felt laced with the potential… for what, Vivian wasn’t sure. She felt entirely too on edge, loaded with the thought that their killer might very well be in this room.
A waitress came over and took their orders. Vivian ordered an apple martini, and Sterling did the same. He ordered as if he was forced to, not giving it much care or thought. When the waitress walked away with their order, Sterling leaned slightly across the table, his voice carrying a playful edge that contrasted the tension in Vivian's shoulders. "What do you say we announce we're looking for art appraisers? And—oh, by the way—is there a Thomas Stone present?"
Their drinks appeared rather quickly. Vivian had been so focused on studying the entire room that she’d never even seen the bartender make them. As the waitress set the drinks on the table in front of them with a practiced smile, Vivian leaned closer to get her attention.
"Excuse me,” Vivian said. “But by any chance, would you happen to know if a man by the name of Thomas Stone has come in tonight?" As an indicator of her seriousness, she showed her badge, keeping it flat on the table so no one else could see it.
The waitress’s eyes flicked to the badge, then back to Vivian’s face. “I have no idea. I don’t really catch their names, you know? Even the ones who flirt with me, I tend to ignore them.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. Do you think you could keep an ear open and let us know if you do hear of a Thomas Stone being in the bar?”
“Yeah, sure.”
As the waitress left once again, Vivian checked her watch. It was now 9:06. Whatever Thomas Stone had been expecting would be taking place in nine minutes. Or maybe a few minutes earlier or later, depending on the punctuality of whoever might be involved.
Scanning the space once more, she felt the weight of unease settle in her stomach. She felt like they were missing something, that something wasn’t quite right. She sipped from her martini twice, her eyes going to the door.
Her mind ventured to the man sitting outside at the other end of the block, by himself, on a dark street. Now that she was out of his sight and could no longer see him, something about his presence seemed more ominous than it had before.
Suddenly, he felt very misplaced and it made her feel uneasy.
"I'm going to check outside," she said. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I don’t know. I don’t really feel right. I think we’re missing something.”
“Keeping an eye on the loner you spotted?”
“Yeah. I won’t be long.”
“Okay. Call or text if you see anything out of the ordinary.” He then sipped his drink and grimaced.
She rose from her seat and moved as casually as she could across the bar. With each step toward the door, the anticipation twisted tighter inside her. As soon as Vivian stepped out into the chill of night, she turned instinctively to the left, searching for the solitary figure that had pricked her suspicion earlier.
He was no longer there. The front of the bakery was totally empty. Frowning, Vivian looked at her watch again. It was 9:09. Swallowing the flare of frustration, Vivian pivoted sharply on her heel. She’d intended to walk to their car and then come back, checking for any people walking by themselves, particularly those who might be clinging to the shadows.
But as she started that way, her ears caught the discordant sound of something thumping against the ground. It was light, but it was there for sure. It sounded almost like someone falling, their back striking the concrete.
A shadowed alleyway yawned beside Vucko's, its darkness seeming to avoid the weak light spilling from the street. Vivian's hand drifted to her Glock, secured at her hip beneath the casual drape of her jacket. Her fingers curled around the grip, a cold comfort against the unknown noise in the alley.
Going for your gun just because you heard a noise in a dark alley, she thought. Maybe I’m overreacting.
That, or maybe her instincts were trying to tell her something.
Cautiously, she moved forward, her footsteps soft and quiet on the sidewalk. The noise came again, and this time it was followed by a scuffling—the sound of a struggle. She closed in on the mouth of the alley, the dim glow from a flickering streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows that reached further into that dark space.
"Interpol," she whispered to herself, a reminder of the authority and duty that cloaked her. Her past life—art thief, fugitive—was a specter that no longer held sway. This was who she was now, a hunter in the night chasing down specters far more dangerous than herself.
Her grip tightened on the Glock and with a measured breath, she stepped into the alley.
Two figures struggled against the grime-slicked brickwork, one pinning the other to the wall by pressing hard against their face. The motion was covering the man’s mouth, which explained why there had been no cries for help. But this violence paled in comparison to what she noticed next.
The man pressing the other one to the wall had a knife in his hand. The moment Vivian stepped into view of the fight, he was attempting to angle himself so that he could stab his victim while still holding him against the wall with his face.
"INTERPOL!" she yelled as she drew her gun. Her voice was iron, an attempt to wield authority in the dank gloom of the alley. For a moment, nothing happened. The world seemed to freeze; the man with the knife only glanced her way, his eyes wild crescents in the dark. The face was familiar, seen in reports and online.
It was Thomas Stone.
In the distraction of it all, the blade arced down, glancing off the pinned man's arm. The wounded man yelled out as his assailant bolted. He moved quickly, his form a blur that melted into shadows.
For a fraction of a second, Vivian wavered, torn between the need to catch the knife-wielder (who, she was only then beginning to assume, may very well be their killer) or to tend to the wounded man. But instincts honed from years on the run whispered fiercely—capture now, care later. With the decision made, her feet pounded the pavement, every step a hammer strike of resolve.
She ran after the man as well as she could with her Glock in one hand while she dug her phone out with the other. She pulled up Sterling’s number through recent calls, making it a bit faster and simpler for her swaying arms as she ran. It rang just a single time before he answered, his voice expectant.
“Yeah, are you—” he started.
"Sterling," she barked. "Suspect fleeing, armed with a knife. Alley beside Vucko's. Victim needs attention."
Her shoes slapped against the cobblestones, each step propelling her forward with a mix of adrenaline and determination. The alley gave way to a tangled maze of backstreets, the city's veins and arteries laid bare beneath the night sky.
"Copy that," Sterling said, his voice calm in contrast to Vivian’s pounding pulse. "On it."
"Eastbound," she gasped out the direction, her lungs burning with effort to keep up with the fleeing figure. Ahead, the suspect dodged around a corner, his silhouette a fleeting ghost. And he was navigating this alley as if he’d staked it out many times before. He knew the terrain, and he knew where he was going.
Her fingers tightened around the Glock. She knew to only fire it if it was absolutely necessary, and she hoped it would not come to that. She was confident she could catch up to him, despite his familiarity with the area. So, in that regard, she pushed on, stampeding down the dark, grimy alley with her eyes locked on Thomas Stone, just several feet ahead of her.