Reporters showed up at Owen’s door Saturday afternoon. They were there as he walked up the street with his bags full of new work clothing. They swarmed him as he approached his house. He and his wife were besieged by flashing cameras and the heads of microphones. The reporters shouted questions at him, most of which were lost in the noise. Those that came through were utter nonsense. They asked him if he was working for Evelyn Van Deign and if he had left the police force. All of that was true. Evelyn had said so on television the night before. One reporter, though, had the gall to step forward and ask if Owen himself had fired the bullet that had killed Troy Van Walls. He asked if Anton was just taking the heat for it. Esmerelda bared her teeth and Owen knew she was thinking about grabbing the pickaxe above the mantle and clearing the front lawn with it. He nudged her with his shoulder. Having worked with humans for twenty four years, he was far more adept at keeping his temper in check when it came to their curious and creative nature. He said no comment so many times that the words echoed in his head as he hurried his wife up the walk and into the house. Along the street, he saw many of his neighbors standing and watching with furious scowls on their faces.
On Sunday, he was able to get himself a new sidearm. It was different from the one he’d been given as a policeman. At some point, some idiot gun maker had thought to make a pistol for dwarves. It had a thinner grip, but was made of denser material. The trigger guard looped bigger. It looked almost as if it had been designed for its aesthetics. The weapon packed quite a punch, too. Most humans couldn’t handle the kick with one hand and therefore couldn’t shoot it with any sort of accuracy. Dwarves, on the other hand, were built for kick. They naturally compensated for it when they fired and, therefore, were more accurate with it than any other type of pistol. What the maker had never realized was that the average dwarf didn’t use a gun. Ever. They collected weapons, but they much preferred the hand to hand variety. So the gun, nicknamed the battle axe, had gone largely unsold. Owen was able to get one on the cheap with enough ammunition to last him several months even if he went to the firing range twice a week.
On Monday morning, he arrived at his new office in a brand new suit. Evelyn had called to give him the address. It was located in uptown Manhattan on the fourth floor of a nondescript little building. The commute was easier and he would get to make his own hours. Inside, there were three rooms including an outer office for a receptionist (which they didn’t have), and two inner offices, one for each of the two detectives. Each office, including the outer office, had a storage closet, which was nice. The one in the outer office was a giant, walk-in affair. He was already considering turning it into a regular room. Rupert had chosen basic, but not cheap furniture and left the bill on the outer desk. There were also bills for two months’ rent plus a security deposit. The electricity and internet lines had all been hooked up and there were bills for those as well. A bank account had been opened in the company’s name and one hundred thousand dollars had been placed into it. Another hundred thousand would be deposited upon completion of the assignment. He could file an expense report with Evelyn’s office when it became appropriate.
Jessica showed up in her glory, taking in the office, sitting in her chair, typing nothing on her keyboard. She was eager to get started on the case, as was Owen.
A lot of the work they would be doing today should have been done by the police on Thursday or at the very latest Friday. Now, though, it was up to Owen and Jessica Church to pick up the cold trail and find the men who’d been involved with Troy Van Walls. Owen was concerned about the lapse in time. Though it was only three days, it was more than enough time for cut rate thugs to disappear into the gutter.
When he told this to Jessica, she answered. “Captain Walters gave me the opportunity to question some witnesses and suspects over the weekend.”
“Do we know how many there were?”
She shrugged. “According to the six that were brought in on Thursday night, there were anywhere from ten to fifteen men in the group.”
“There’s no way there were fifteen.”
“That’s what I thought. Maybe ten, though.”
“Maybe,” Owen agreed. “It’s tough to tell when you’re just knocking them down.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Did you notice the two by his sides?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Lieutenants, for what it’s worth.”
“Right,” she responded. “They were hard edged and tough. They also both had those funny tattoos.”
“A few of them had those tattoos.”
“None of the ones we picked up,” Jessica corrected. “And the tattoos seemed to be done in various stages. Those two were older, in good shape, and their tattoos were filled in with a lot of detail.”
Owen nodded. “You think that means something? Maybe Van Walls, or whoever, was running a street gang?”
She shrugged. “I doubt it. Have you ever seen tattoos like that before?”
“No.”
“I have, once. That kind of work is almost impossible to do by hand alone. Elf artists use magic to enhance the design. These artists are usually employed by some other elf who wants to brand his cattle, if you get my meaning.”
“Yeah,” Owen muttered. “Yeah, I get it.”
“The guys we picked up aren’t talking. They were mostly drunk or high and are using that as a defense. They don’t remember most of what went on. They’re lying, though. They’re too scared to remember.”
“So where should we go?” Owen had expected them to start at Lancey’s but Jessica had other ideas.
“The ME turned up an identity for the dead human from Taggerty’s. He lived in the Recess Projects off the Belt Parkway just past Sheepshead Bay.”
Owen shook his head slowly. “This ought to be fun. Shouldn’t we bring a SWAT team with us?”
Jessica smiled broadly at him. “Why do we need a SWAT team when I have you?”