Journal Noir (Published by Insomnia Press)

[tcepsa]

Please note that the following is a dramatization.

I sigh and lean back in my chair for the umpteenth time tonight. I keep looking for answers, but tonight they're sulking in the shadows of my mind the way the roaches scurry for cover when I turn on the light in my apartment. Or my office. Or open my car door. Gotta focus. I shake my head to clear it. Big mistake; now it's so clear it's empty. Nothing. Like my glass. I grab it and head for the fountain down the hall, letting the water run a minute or two in the hopes that it'll be marginally cold by the time I fill up. Futile as always. Like this search. I take my tepid water and walk back to my desk, risking a tentative sip as I sit down. I grimace at the taste, but manage not to cough; seems my cold is finally subsiding a bit. First good thing that's happened tonight.

I light a stick of incense that I got off some joker in Chinatown who promised me it would bring "great mental clarity." Yeah right. It smells okay, though, so I let it burn and watch the smoke twine through the still air and dance out across the ceiling. I lean back again and watch the neon glow from the street outside get cut into bars by my blinds. A cage of horizontal light, to complement the cage of darkness locked around my brain. I run my fingers through my hair and reach to take another sip of water, but the sound of my office door opening distracts me and I knock over the glass. Cursing, I try to find something to soak up the water as it oozes its way into my sparse notes. I don't know where my towel is. I find a spare shirt that I keep around for cases when I have to spend a night or two at the office and begin to blot ineffectually at the now-soaked papers. Not that there's anything worth saving.

"Catch you at a bad time?"

I realize who's just walked in and surrender my losing battle to the flood. It doesn't make any difference, now that she's here. My partner. My former partner, I should say. We were a team for about two years. Then I took this case. It went well at the beginning. The clues seemed to lead to a pretty clear conclusion. But then I stumbled across some stuff from my own past, and it led to a rift between us. When you can't trust your own partner, well, things just don't work the same between you anymore. I bare my teeth in what I hope is a convincingly nonchalant smile.

"Nah, just doing a bit of chromatography. The boys down in forensics are pretty busy these days, you know..."

"Right. Mind if I come in?"

"Make yourself at home," I say, as she settles into the chair across from me, "Incense? Guaranteed to clear your mind."

She sniffs the air, "If that's the reason you're not getting anywhere with this, I'll pass. I wouldn't be surprised. It reeks."

"Is that what you're here for, to badger me? Because if that's so, you're certainly not helping the investigation."

"Oh don't worry, I won't take much of your valuable," she glances pointedly at my desk, "lab time. But there are some other things you need to look into regarding this case."

Stung, I settle back to listen. A chance of finding new leads seems decidedly better than blow-drying the dead-end ones.

To be Continued

Comments

[fad-knitter.livejournal.com]

Hmm, as a female, you put the words blow-dry and dry-ends in a sentence and I think hair. If one person doesn't get your meaning, most likely others can be confused. You have to decide which is more important: your work as it is or people understanding your work.

I usually screw my readers, but that's not everyone's style