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Part VIII: Deja Vu

The rain pounded the pavement, the cars parked along the greying buildings, everything around them. They stayed dry.

Somewhere in his mind, Wolfwood knew that he probably looked ridiculous--dressed all in black as he was--standing beneath a pink umbrella decorated with flowers and hearts. But for some reason, that cynical, bitter part of his mind--the part that got him into bar fights from time to time--stayed quiet.

Perhaps it, too, was taken in by the smell of lavender, the soft gaze of blue eyes.

"Figured it out yet, or do you give up?" The mysterious girl smiled brightly at him.

Ever since she had first approached him and spoken, he had been wrestling with a feeling of /deja vu/. Eyes like that, a sweet face like that, a voice like dripping honey. It was all too familiar, but nothing was coming to him.

It was a bothersome feeling because his memory was usually quite good. Vash always accused him of having a mind like a steel trap. Dates, names, obscure facts--Wolfwood remembered it all. His partner would probably laugh if he were here to see such an innocent-looking girl be the cause of such strain on his brain. Where was the steel trap now?

He shook his head once, firmly.

"Hmm...would it help to imagine me with braces?" she asked and raised an eyebrow.

Because he was desperate at this point, Wolfwood found himself humoring her. He looked at her cheery smile, white and unstained, and imagined rows of metal strung across them. And just like that, he could feel a memory tapping him excitedly on the shoulder.

His mouth opened, then snapped shut, and then opened again. A surprised look crossed his face.

"Holy...Milly? Milly Thompson?" He took a step back and examined her carefully.

"Ah, ha! So you do remember me!" She sounded triumphant as she tilted her head to one side.

He nodded, noticing that he couldn't stop smiling. Somehow, she hadn't changed. Not at all. Here she was, almost exactly as he remembered her: Milly Thompson from 10 years ago. And yet, at the same time, everything was different.

Back then she had had braces and her bangs had been too long, always falling into her eyes. She had reminded him of a puppy back then, loyal and innocent. Though she had been a terribly shy thing, she had smiled at everyone, almost as if she were willing them to like her. She would shuffle down the hallway, head up, wide-eyed and optimistic no matter what they called her. Wolfwood had always wondered if she had believed that they might realize what a good person she was if she smiled enough.

The woman before him now had come into her own. Perhaps there was a shy, awkward girl at her core, but this Milly was confident--confident enough to approach strange men on the street and share her umbrella with them. She was alive and warm, and Wolfwood felt drawn towards that heat.

"Milly Thompson, I can't believe it! How are you?" He wasn't usually one for small talk, but he didn't mind at the moment. Milly was a welcome breath of fresh air from a past that seemed much further away than he thought it should seem.

"I'm fine, fine," she replied and nodded her head like she was agreeing with herself. "Work keeps me busy." Her eyes drifted towards the alley and the police line. They caught on the grim outline in chalk on the ground. Though the rain had erased much of it, the shape still stood out. Her smile faltered and then fell away completely.

Wolfwood winced. He didn't like the idea of sweet Milly Thompson having to see a crime scene. She surprised him when she said, "So this is it? This is where she was murdered?"

He shook his head. "Yes. This is it. What are you doing here?"

Glad for the distraction, she turned to face him again. "Official duties!" she said.

"For your job? What kind of work do you /do/?"

"I work at an insurance company." She twisted the umbrella handle in her hands almost nervously and Wolfwood could feel a splash of rain across his neck. "One of our new clients is buying this area--everything for ten blocks in either direction. But with a murder..." she trailed off and let the implication stand.

Wolfwood had seen it before, insurance rates skyrocketing after a tragedy. Especially a very public one. He studied the buildings around them, sizing up their value. They weren't new, but they looked sturdy. Mainly, everything around here had a disused and outdated air. The sidewalks were cracked, the alleys covered in graffiti, and the streetlights flickered at night. He hadn't even known the area was for sale before Kelly's murder, and now he wondered what the buyer planned to do with it.

"I see," he said. "One murder and your company panics. So they sent you out here to take a look at the scene of the crime?"

"More or less," Milly said softly. Her eyes strayed again to the alley and then back to Wolfwood-'s face. "I was told to 'assess the proximity of this alley to the main road' and 'take note of any potential insurance-related concerns.'" She said all this with a mockingly deep voice, pursing her lips and pulling her brows downwards. It was the perfect imitation of a boss. Wolfwood could almost see his old station chief shining through Milly-'s young face. He found himself laughing.

"Pretty vague instructions."

Milly sighed. "Aren't they? The boss says he can tell from a map where the murders happened, but that he wants a real understanding of how it /feels/."

"That's a lot of pressure for you. And if you say the area 'feels' unsafe, what will happen to your client's insurance rates? The rates you originally quoted?"

"Well...I can imagine him wanting to find another company, if you know what I mean."

Wolfwood could well imagine. Having a Picasso murder on your property--or soon to be property--was a sure-fire way to make the value of your land decline dramatically and the insurance plan covering it to cost more than you were willing to pay.

"Oh," said Milly suddenly, as if she just remembered something. "I'm being so rude! What are you doing here, Nicholas? I haven't seen you in--"

"Ten years," Wolfwood finished.

"Ten years? So long! You haven't changed. You're taller," she said and rose to the tips of her toes, which made them almost the same height. She was probably used to being the tallest person around and she frowned a little that Wolfwood had a few inches on her.

"So are you," he said.

She glanced down at herself. "This? Oh, this is nothing! You should have seen me last year, I was taller."

He gave her a blank stare for several seconds and then burst out laughing. Somehow, only Milly could make a joke when they were standing in front of an alley where a girl was murdered.

"But seriously, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"Believe it or not, I'm working, too," he began then a ringing sound interrupted him.

"Sorry about this," he said. He fumbled in his jacket pocket. "Wolfwood," he barked into the phone, strangely irritated at having to stop his conversation with Milly to answer it.

"Got your message," Vash said, a smile in his voice. "All seventy five of them."

"Ha, ha," replied Wolfwood. He turned away from Milly a bit, but under the umbrella, there as no real chance of privacy. "I only left /three /messages and only because it was important. Where the hell were you?"

"You assign me interviews and then yell at me for doing them. What can I do to please you, Wolfwood, dear?"

"For starters, never call me that again. After that, pull up everything--absolutely /everything/--we have about number nine."

There was a pause on the other end and then Vash said, "Angela Beasley? What's up?"

"I've got a picture that you're going to want to see. Trust me. Once you get all those pulled and on my desk, get ready for a long night. We've got work to do." A note of guilt stained his voice. "Listen, Vash. I know you were set to leave early today and have tomorrow off but..."

Vash didn't miss a beat. "It's not a problem; if you've got something, off days can wait. You coming in? Where are you?"

Wolfwood glanced down at Milly who was politely averting her eyes to show she was trying not to eavesdrop. Sadly, there wasn't much around here to look at, so her eyes were trained on the alley.

"I ran into an old friend and I--"

"What's her name?" Vash asked, his voice like that of a thirteen-year-old boy talking about dirty magazines and who he saw kissing who.

Wolfwood gave a melodramatic sigh. Leave it to Vash to be too astute for Wolfwood's own good. "I'm not telling you. Butt out."

"When'dya meet her?"

"High school," Wolfwood said through gritted teeth.

"Is she pretty?"

Wolfwood studied Milly's profile. "Yeah," he said softly.

"When's the big day? Can I be your best man?"

"Shut up. I'm on my way. I'll be there in...half an hour. Alright?"

"Alright, alright," Vash pouted./ "But you better be nicer to me or I'm not coming to Junior's first birthday party and that's final." /

"Shut up!" Wolfwood said and snapped the cell phone closed with more force than necessary. Milly turned away from the alley and looked at him, still smiling.

"Uh...sorry. That was my partner," he apologized.

Her head tilted to the side in what he was learning was a habit of hers, something she did when she was thinking. "Partner? Like...?"

"Yeah. Believe it or not, I'm a detective."

Her eyes widened and then swept up and down his lean frame. Perhaps, he thought, she was wondering if detectives usually wore so much black.

"A detective? But that's wonderful. Congratulations," she said before the implications struck her. Then she frowned. "But then...that means...you...?" She looked quickly at the alley and then back again, frown deepening.

"Yep, this is my case. For whatever that means." He knew he sounded bitter, but he couldn't keep it all from tainting his voice. He was frustrated with his progress on this case and he was sure his whole precinct knew it. Now Milly knew, too.

"I'm sorry, Nicholas. This would be a tough job for anyone. Picasso isn't...normal." She shuddered visibly.

He nodded. He was used to handling highly-publicized cases, but there was certainly an air about the Picasso murders that lingered and left the public spooked.

"Sorry you have to deal with this," he said gesturing to the alley. "I really am."

"A job's a job," she said and smiled winningly. She made a small "Oh" sound again and moved the umbrella so that she could see the sky above. "The rain's stopping."

Wolfwood looked up, too. Sure enough, seconds after she said it, the downpour around them lessened before turning into drizzle that just as quickly stopped entirely. "Guess that's lucky since I have to head back now." He heard the note of regret creep into his voice, but couldn't stop it.

Milly closed the umbrella and let it hang at her side. "Oh, well then," she said simply.

"Well then," said Wolfwood. "I, ah...it was, ah, nice..."

"Yes, it was. We should see each other again sometime."

"That would be...ah..."

Milly reached in the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a pen and a small notepad. She wrote her name neatly and then a number beneath that. "Call me," she said before adding, "if you want."

Wolfwood took the piece of paper, folded it and slid it into the pocket of his slacks. "Thank you."

"And thank you. You'll be careful, Mr. Detective?"

"I'll...I'll try," he said in a nervous stutter. What was wrong with him, acting like a teenager?

She lifted a hand to gently squeeze his arm. "You do that," she said.

He turned on his heels and took a few steps away. He stopped. Something more needed to be said. He faced her again.

"Ah, Milly?"

"Yes?"

"Can I give you a ride?"

She beamed at him. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't work too far from here. And I have work to do so I'd better stay."

"Oh, right." He stared at his feet for a moment. "Well, listen. Don't...don't stay out here too long by yourself. Be careful."

"Why, Mr. Wolfwood, you're concerned about me! That's very sweet of you, but I'll be fine."

He nodded shortly and then seemed to decide to leave it at that. He didn't say another word as he left the cluster of greying buildings.

Milly stood and watched the whole time as Wolfwood hurried away; all but jogging down the lane and then turning left towards where his car was parked. The expression on her face was thoughtful, and not for the first time, she appeared far wiser than her years.

She turned back to the alley and studied it. Looking at the soaking, littered, dark corner of the city, a terrible chill like fingers grazing over the skin of her back made her shudder.

She moved off a while later, not wanting to stay and look at the grim scene.


Part IX: Detective


In the shadows, a man watched. He did not mind the sound of rats scurrying in the darker parts of the alley where he waited. He did not mind that the tattered awning he stood beneath provided poor cover from the rain and that he was almost soaked through to his bones. He was hidden, that was enough.

Besides, other things concerned him and they were all he could deal with at the moment.

All the papers, all the newscasters, all the cheap scandal magazines--they all called this man "Picasso." He liked the name well enough. After all, he appreciated art. No, he didn't understand it, didn't really like it. But he could appreciate art.

He had just found an example of it. Stumbled across it, actually. And his mind was whirling away, almost in a panic over what to do because this was not how things were supposed to happen.

The panic had begun when Milly had left her office and started to walk. He had not known where she was going. All he had known was that Milly should have been in her office, working before her big windows so that he could see her. Yet that annoying little man had sent her out, ruined her routine, left her walking the streets while the clouds threatened rain. Picasso had had no choice but to follow.

She had seemed so small beneath the high-rise buildings that crowded around her. She had not known he was there, behind her. But then, they never did. Not until it was too late.

The screaming of his brain had told him something was wrong when Milly took a familiar corner, and then another. He knew, yes he knew, that this area was very close to where his game with Kelly had come to an end. It was close enough that he imagined he could hear the sound of Kelly's heels on the pavement as she hurried, hopelessly, through the shadows.

And then it was there, ahead of him, that alley which he had not expected to see today. It was for seeing another time, when he needed to relive the feelings of that night. Now was not the time, not when he was playing a new game. It was wrong, all wrong.

He had felt a sweat break across his brow and beads of it drop down the ends of his hair onto his face and neck.

He had hidden easily, pushed his back against the wall, turned his head and kept his eyes open. He watched, he waited, always thinking, "Milly should not be here."

The situation spiraled downwards like a car thrown over a cliff when he realized for the first time that Milly was not alone. Someone was standing before that alley, his back facing him. This stranger was motionless, simply looking into the black maw of that space as if searching for secrets in the silence and darkness. It was then that the rain started.

And against all reason, his Milly--his perfect, perfect Milly--walked up to this man, this stranger, opened her umbrella, and spoke. The man called Picasso could not hear what she said, but would have done anything to have.

As he watched, the man turned to face Milly, his profile to Picasso.

The man dressed all in black, except for the clean white button-down worn beneath. At first glance, his clothing appeared casual, almost careless. But then one would noticed the shine of the shoes, the tailored cut of the suit, the ironed-in creases making the front of his slacks look as crisp as a folded sheet of paper. And then one could start to make guesses about what one could not see. There would be no dirt beneath this man's trimmed nails. There would be no holes in his socks. His hair only looked rumpled because he styled it that way.

Picasso registered all these details, but none of them seemed tangible or real.

He stopped breathing. Something went pop inside him; something fluttered violently before his eyes. All the color was sucked from the world for just a moment, long enough for everything he knew to stop making sense.

Later, when Picasso tried to conjure up the moments just after the man turned and just before he found himself running almost blindly through the alley, he would recall nothing. No thoughts, no sensations. It was a floating kind of madness that seized him, one as intense as the moment just before a kill. The moment right after it. He was caught up in it, blinking in the glare of it, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking. He was lost.

No, when he thought about it later that night, nothing would become clear to him until he remembered that movement had caught his eyes. It had vaulted him from that empty space where he could only focus on one thing, and not because he tried to, but only because it was there and would not be ignored.

Quite suddenly, the man was walking away, and Milly was walking away, and Picasso felt a little tug from the back of his mind telling him to follow her, to not let her get away.

But his heart, his body, the panicked voice inside his skull, they told him to go the other way. To follow the man.

And maybe he knew then that it was because this man was different.

Picasso, standing there in his moment of indecision, wondered about the mind behind those eyes whose color he had not been able to discern. He found himself wondering what made him tick, just as he had wondered what made his darling Kelly tick, his darling Milly.

This man, with his long frame and his casual stance, this man who was a series of fascinating contradictions piled atop each other, this man with his sharp, calculating eyes. Looking at him brought to the surface of his mind thoughts that he had long put to sleep.

And so when this man walked away, separated from sweet Milly with her blue, blue eyes, Picasso was torn. He should follow her, that he knew. He needed to see her life, how she lived, how she worked. He craved it.

But somehow, he was disgusted with her. How she had smiled at the man in black and how he had fumbled all over himself for her. How she had touched his arm so intimately.

The decision seemed to make itself for him: when Milly disappeared from his sight, he did not follow her.

Instead, he took the path through the alley that the man had taken. He hurried, his feet splashing in the puddles on the ground. He didn't even spare a glance to where his Kelly had died.

He heard the sound of a car door closing and came to a halt, cautiously glancing around the corner of a building that fronted a parking lot. The man was inside a sleek, black car polished to a shine. He buckled up, backed out of the parking space, and turned out of the parking lot, heading away from where Picasso stood.

Picasso's eyes narrowed, studying the distinct logo adhered to the back window of the man's car.

His breathing was still too fast, his mind still fevered. The shield-shaped sticker on the man's car did not calm him at all.

"J.C.P.D." he read aloud. /A cop/, his mind supplied.

"No," he countered. "A detective."

And for some reason that even he could not say, Picasso smiled.

To Be Continued...

Whew. Wow. Done and done. So, sorry about this chapter: please forgive the excessive passive voice. But they're finally out of that damn alley and now we can get to the good stuff. From now on, the creepy stuff starts to happen and the story should get fun in a naughty kind of way.

And again, thanks to everyone keeping up with this! It means a lot to this old, fanfiction veteran.

If the formatting on this is waaay bothersome, kick on over to ff.net and give it a read there where it's a-okay.