Tannehill sat on a bench next to the inner bay throwing someone else's discarded stale to the gathering crowd of seagulls. They squawked in protest of their breakfast offering, demanding both more and better.
His gaze focused loosely on the suburbs across the bay and he felt the acid of the orange juice begin to settle uncomfortably in his chest.
"Why bother? Why not let the police do their job -or not- and move on? He wasn't worth a damn as a partner - sloppy in his methods, sloppy in his choice of clients, spending more time convincing me why he deserved a 55/45 split of any proceeds because he was the 'face of the business.'"
"He wasn't worth much as a human being, either. How many marriages had he ruined either in pursuit of his own amorous needs or the desire for a quick buck? How many crimes - petty or otherwise - had he committed? Tannehill coughed up some of the orange juice while a seagull next to him shat in protest at breakfast's early closing time."
Human, though. He was human. I let this one go, then it's just another voice silenced without any reason. Then I'm no less sloppy than he was, abandoning a case because it wasn't convenient to see through to the end. Whatever the guy's moral composition, he was a man and deserves some dignity in death even if he didn't choose to pursue it in life.
Tannehill sighed, stretched, brushed the bread crumbs from his jacket and looked at his watch. 10:37. Nearly another two and a half hours before his photos would be processed.
---
Tannehill spent the next two hours wandering downtown admiring the mix of new art deco buildings and tenements while listening to the echo of traumatized seagulls who were quickly wasting away to nothing throughout the city.
He appeared at the main entrance of The Daily Courier promptly at 1 PM where Spinoza was waiting for him with a sealed manila packet.
"You weren't lying about those photos," Spinoza handed the packet to Tannehill.
"Nope."
"That broad would be some looker even with all of her clothes on."
"Yup."
"Gee, you're chatty this afternoon."
"You eat lunch yet?"
"Nope," now it was Spinoza's turn for verbal tennis.
"C'mon, I know this place around the corner with the world's best egg sandwich. My treat."
"You're just killing time until I get off and can drive you back home rather than take the jigsaw puzzle that is our municipal bus system."
Tannehill shrugged. "At least you get a free lunch out of it."
"Curious turn of phrase, don't you think? By the way, when are you getting your car back?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Hard to say. When a car goes into the bay, it can take a while to repair it. Good thing it didn't go into the ocean. The added salt would've been killer on the paint job."
"You got any leads on this thing?" Spinoza pointed to the packet.
Shrug. "Your sexy socialite's name and a very surly doorman."
"From terse to cryptic in one fell swoop. I assume you're going to explain these things to me?"
"Sure, if you come with me to get that egg sandwich. I'd also recommend the orange juice."
"OK," Spinoza sighed, "but I'm not leaving the office until 4 PM. And that's assuming I don't get called to a crime scene."
Tannehill crossed his finger of his heart, "I promise that no crime will occur in Capital City until you've safely deposited me back home."
---
Spinoza dropped Tannehill off in front of his office and then sped away to brood silently at a neighborhood bar or moonlight as a cabaret singer - two options Tannehill always assumed were equally likely.
Tannehill opened the door to his office and was instantly confronted with the overpowering smell of bleach. Less than 24 hours after the violent death of his associate, the CCPD had inspected the crime scene, removed the body and cleaned every potential shred of material evidence at the scene. Whatever else citizens assumed about the CCPD, the department was efficient. If they bothered to solve this particular crime, they'd likely have a suspect caught within the next 24 hours and executed another 24 hours after that.
He swapped his chair for Snell's and sat at his desk, digging through his bottom drawer for his rye. He took the final pull from the bottle before acknowledging the realization that the smell of bleach wouldn't do much to facilitate his concentration, so he got up and left.
He found his way to The Happy Hour Diner and sat in the previous night's booth, unwrapping the cord on the photo envelope and flipping through the pictures.
The waitress from the previous night appeared behind him. "Is that why you drink so much coffee? So that you can look at smut all night?"
He didn't alter his gaze. "I produce it too. These are my original creations."
She peered over his shoulder and squinted, "never imagined we had an artist in the neighborhood." She whistled low, "that's some dame. Looks and acrobatics all in one package."
Tannehill turned to face her. She was taller than the average woman but attractive. Her light brown hair was pulled back and fastened with a pencil. The escaping wisps messily framing her face. Faint freckles spreading from the bridge of her nose complimented her green eyes. The eyes had some puffiness, which he assumed was due to long, late shifts at The Happy Hour. Her even greener dress was complimented with faint grease stains spreading across her breast. Tannehill guessed her to be in her late teens or early twenties.
"None of this scares you off?"
"I've been around long enough to know what men are capable of and this isn't a capital offense. Besides, you don't strike me as a trenchcoat and smile type of guy, if you catch my drift." She sat down in the booth across from Tannehill.
Tannehill looked around the diner to see who she might be neglecting but only spotted a blue-collar at the end of the counter nursing a meatloaf and staring ahead. "I do. I'm a PI. This is a job I'm working on."
"Ooh, exciting," she opened and closed her palm rapidly, "hand them over. What are you trying to solve, whether or not she or her paramour is bustier?"
"No, the death of my partner."
She stopped browsing and looked at him, "I'm sorry."
Tannehill shrugged, "we weren't close."
"What are you looking for in these photos?"
"Any clue that connects my partner to either of the two people in the photo."
"I don't know about any clue, but she's got good taste in music."
Tannehill cocked an eyebrow, remembering Mrs. Sugarbaker's comment earlier about jazz. "How do you figure?"
The waitress pointed to a poster on the wall behind the lovers. "That's The Tritone. It's an old-speakeasy that's a jazz club for local musicians now. It's on Lafayette. Never been, but I've heard a lot of good things."
Lafayette was a couple of blocks west of Highwater street downtown, so likely close to Emily Brunner's apartment. If she liked jazz, had a poster of a jazz club on her wall, and lived near it, she was likely to be a frequent patron. It'd be easier to approach her at a jazz club rather than stalking her outside of her apartment or finding one dumb excuse after another to get past the doorman.
"Do you want to go?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
"Er, uh," Tannehill colored, "no. I just thought if I'd go, I'd better take someone who appreciates jazz and you said you've never been..."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She whistled again, "you're a fast operator." She paused and turned her head in thought. "I get off at 10. I'm Vera by the way." She extended her hand.
Tannehill took it. "Charles. Everyone calls me CH, though."
"Alright. I'm in. How could I not trust someone claiming to be a PI while looking at pornography in a diner. And don't worry, I'll change. I've got this exact same outfit except in a lovely powdered blue." She stood up from the booth, smirked and curtseyed. "I'm assuming you want something to eat?"
"A cheeseburger with fries, please. You don't happen to have access to a car do you?"
"My, you really know how to butter a girl up. No, sorry, but I can probably show some leg and get us the front seat of the bus." She turned and headed back toward the counter.
Tannehill looked down at the pictures again, muttering. "The things we do for love." He took comfort in the fact that his new aviary friends would likely approve of his dinner choice for the evening.
[Author's Note: This week's edition is 1469 words. The running total is 10973. I didn't originally intend for Vera to be so quick-witted (only that she'd make the connection to the jazz club) but realized that if she doesn't mind a diner patron looking at porn, she'd need to have a personality to match Tannehill's.]
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