1:07 P.M.
The county morgue's silence felt heavier than any crime scene's chaos. For Detective Davon Deshaun, each step on the polished linoleum echoed with the ghosts of past failures. The air carried a frigid blade of antiseptic and latent decay that clung to the back of his throat.
He shoved his hands deeper into his leather jacket pockets, seeking comfort in the familiar scent of worn leather. His eyes found their anchor in the administrative bay: Samantha, a robust woman with rich chocolate skin, her hair perfectly tucked under a crisp black beret. Her uniform strained pleasantly around her soft middle, a testament to the half-eaten salami sandwich on her desk.
"Heyyy gurl!" Samantha's voice boomed through the quiet. Detective Claire McGuire offered a weary smile, the tension from their Starbucks trip still evident in her shoulders.
"Keeping the lights on, Sam?" Claire said.
"Someone's gotta." Samantha winked at Davon. "Deshaun. You'll scare the corpses back to life with that face."
Davon grunted. "Wish they would. Make our job easier."
After brief pleasantries, Samantha gestured to coveralls. "Gear up. Suite two. Fair warning - the new kid's extra serene today. Gives me the creeps."
Suiting up felt like putting on a second skin that smelled of bleach and sorrow. The autopsy suite presented a stark contrast - a pool of blinding white light in a shadow-draped room. In its center stood Clifford Burton over the steel table.
He turned with unnerving fluidity. The harsh light bleached his already pale skin, making his wire-rimmed glasses look like ice. His flat eyes found Claire first, then drifted to Davon with deliberate disinterest.
"Detective McGuire. Detective Deshaun." His reedy voice matched the room's chill. "A grim occasion to see you again." The repetition felt scripted. Davon's stomach tightened. He's performing. But for who?
"What have you found, Clifford?" Claire asked, her professional mask flawless.
"The victim, Cassey Slazar." Clifford used a pointer without touching the body. "Cause of death was a single tremendous blow to the temporal lobe with a dense wooden object. Treated pine. Fragments were recovered from both the cranial fracture and defensive wounds on her hands." He paused. "She attempted to shield herself. A futile but brave effort."
He produced an evidence bag containing the crumpled, stained note. "This was clutched in her left hand, sealed from view. The killer was likely unaware." He held it out like a minor artifact.
As Clifford detailed liver temperature and rigor mortis, his detachment remained absolute. When they moved to leave, he extended a gloved hand. "Detective McGuire." Claire's shake was brief. He turned to Davon, his hand hovering between them.
Davon looked from the hand to Clifford's eyes, remembering Claire's words: "You were incredibly rude to Clifford." He saw the faint smile. This was a test. Davon gave a slow, deliberate head shake, hands remaining in his pockets. "We're good."
Clifford's smile didn't falter. He withdrew his hand smoothly, as if the rejection was merely another data point.
Back at Samantha's desk, shedding the suits brought relief.
"Watch your backs,"Samantha murmured. "That one... he's got dead eyes."
Outside, the afternoon sun felt like a weak imitation of warmth. Davon filled his lungs with clean air. "Claire, your car's still at the precinct."
"Leave it," she said, striding toward his Civic. "I want to look the manager of the Micheline in the eye. His club isn't just where she worked - it's where she was beaten to death."
Returning to the Micheline Entertainment House felt like walking back into the belly of a beast that had tasted blood. Though police tape was gone, a psychic stain remained. In harsh daylight, the club stood exposed as a gaudy corpse. A few hardcore patrons hunched in shadows, served by women with hollow eyes. The air hung thick with spilled liquor, stale perfume, and the acidic tang of bleach fighting a darker, more persistent odor.
This is the stage, Davon thought. The perfect sensory overload to mask a murder.
A woman with brassy blonde hair and a weary Texan drawl approached. "Back so soon, officers?" The title sounded like an accusation.
"We need to see the manager. Again," Claire stated, leaving no room for discussion.
The woman's smile vanished. She jerked a thumb toward a dark staircase. "He's in. Probably expecting you." Her eyes held a challenge.
The journey upstairs felt like descending into underworld. They passed the hallway leading to private rooms - where Cassey died. Davon's senses heightened, his hand drifting toward his weapon.
He pushed open the heavy, unmarked oak door without knocking.
The manager, Mateo, jolted in his chair. His deep tan and surgically enhanced handsomeness looked strained under the office lights. Dressed in a garish Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, his face shone with sweat.
Davon cleared his throat.
"Dios mío!" Mateo gasped, his Mexican accent thick with panic. His ringed hand slapped a hidden button. A young woman scrambled out from under the desk, avoiding their eyes as she fled, closing the door with a silent click.
Flustered, Mateo fumbled with his zipper. "Please. Sit," he said, his words slow and measured in a pathetic attempt at calm. The drawn-out pace grated on Davon's nerves.
As they sat, Mateo's dark eyes darted to Claire, the earlier lust replaced by raw fear.
Claire placed her badge on the desk with a definitive click. "We're not here about employment. We're here because she was murdered. On your property."
A tremor started in Mateo's hands. His slick facade crumbled.
"Your 'I was here all night' story needs detail," Davon said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned forward, invading the man's space. "How does someone beat a woman to death a stone's throw away without you hearing anything? Or would you prefer to tell us what you really know?"
Mateo swallowed. "I was in here. The music... it gets very loud. You know how it is."
"Loud enough to cover a murder?" Claire pressed, her tone icy. "Convenient."
"It's a tragedy! This is a high-class business! I can't watch every girl, every customer..."
"Who said anything about a customer?" Davon cut in.
Mateo froze, realizing his misstep. "I... I assumed... The girls don't fight like this."
"You assumed the killer was a patron?" Davon leaned closer, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper. "Why? A history of violent customers? A list? Withholding that makes you an accessory."
"No list!" Mateo's composure fractured. He ran a hand through his hair. "Some girls... complicated lives. Bad boyfriends. Drug problems. Cassey... she had angles."
"Angles?" Claire asked.
"Whispering with other girls. Private phone messages. Ambitious. Maybe she owed money. Cheated a supplier. Stole." He spoke rapidly, throwing out theories. "I'm just the manager. I don't know their private lives!"
"But you know enough to suggest she was a thief who brought this on herself," Davon stated flatly.
"I didn't say that!" Mateo's eyes darted to security monitors. One screen was dark. "I'm trying to help! Give you possibilities!"
"Then help us," Claire said, standing. She placed a card on his blotter. "Give us names of these 'bad boyfriends.' The people she owed. The girls she whispered to. And we'll need your full, unredacted client lists for the past month. The real ones."
Mateo stared at the card as if it were a scorpion. "My clients... powerful men. Discretion. This will ruin me."
"A woman was ruined in your club, Mateo," Davon said, standing to loom over the desk. "Think about that. We'll be in touch."
They left him sweating in his Hawaiian shirt. The moment the door clicked shut, tension erupted in hushed tones as they strode away.
"He's lying through his perfect teeth," Davon growled.
"He's not just lying," Claire shot back. "He's actively pointing us elsewhere. 'Bad boyfriends.' 'Drug problems.' He's setting up a fall guy."
They emerged onto the grimy sidewalk. Davon yanked his car door open. "He's scared. He knows something. That music story was an insult."
Claire got in, buckling her seatbelt with a sharp click. "He's hiding the reason. The club's a front. His panic about the client list... that's fear of exposure. Money. Power. People who make problems disappear."
Davon started the engine but didn't pull out. He turned to her in the fading twilight. "You were good in there. The way you pivoted to the client list. He looked sick."
Claire met his gaze, surprised. A faint smile touched her lips. "You weren't so bad. The way you pounced on 'customer'... that was sharp." She looked away, pensive. "We're a good team, Davon. Even at each other's throats. It's why this... tension... is so hard."
The raw honesty hung between them, more unsettling than any lie. Davon had no reply. He put the car in drive and pulled into traffic, the dark current of the case pulling them forward, united and divided.
The city blurred past his windows, a stream of light and motion that felt disconnected from their grim reality. Claire stared out her window, the reflection of passing headlights tracing patterns across her face.
"He mentioned she was getting messages," she said quietly, breaking the silence. "Private phone calls. We need her phone records."
"Ortiz will have to pull strings with the provider," Davon said. "That'll take time we don't have."
"Then we lean harder on the other dancers. Someone knew who she was talking to." Claire turned from the window, her professional focus returning. "And that dark monitor in his office - you saw it?"
"I saw it. Either broken, or he didn't want us seeing what it shows."
"Exactly." Claire's voice gained intensity. "He's hiding something in that club beyond the usual vices. The way he talked about 'powerful men'... this feels bigger than a random killing."
Davon's grip tightened on the wheel. "You think this is about the client list? That someone killed her to protect their identity?"
"Or she was killed as a message. Or she saw something she shouldn't have." Claire's mind worked visibly behind her eyes. "Mateo's not just afraid of us. He's afraid of them."
They drove in silence for several blocks, each processing the implications. The case had shifted from a brutal murder to something potentially more sinister - a conspiracy protected by wealth and power.
"We need to work this from both ends," Davon finally said. "You take the client angle - see if Vice has any whispers about the Micheline's high-profile patrons. I'll lean on the dancers, see who Cassey trusted."
Claire nodded slowly. "We'll have to be careful. If Mateo's warning is real, we're stepping into dangerous territory."
"Since when has that stopped us?" Davon's smile was thin and humorless.
"Since we have a captain breathing down our necks and thirty days to solve this." Claire's practical tone returned. "We can't afford missteps."
The precinct came into view, its windows glowing in the deepening night. Davon pulled into the parking garage, the sudden dimness feeling like entering another world. He killed the engine, but neither moved to exit immediately.
"Tomorrow," Claire said, gathering her things. "First thing, we hit this from both sides. And Davon..." She hesitated. "Watch your back. If there are powerful people involved..."
"I always do." He met her eyes, and for a moment, the professional distance collapsed. "You too."
She nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. Then she was out of the car, her footsteps echoing through the concrete structure. Davon watched her go, the weight of the case settling heavily on his shoulders. They were digging into something dark, and he suspected they had only scratched the surface.
Inside the precinct, the night shift moved with tired determination. Davon headed straight for the evidence locker, needing to see Cassey's effects again. The note Clifford had recovered felt more significant now - not just a personal message, but potentially a piece of something larger.
The evidence clerk handed him the clear bag containing Cassey's personal items. Her phone, a cheap smartphone, would be their priority tomorrow. But it was the note that drew his attention. Smoothing it carefully on the counter, he read the handwritten words again:
"The peacock dances at midnight. Don't trust the shepherd."
Cryptic. Meaningless, or perfectly clear to someone in the know. He photographed it with his own phone, then returned it to the evidence locker.
At his desk, he began compiling what they knew. Cassey Salazar. Twenty-three. Worked at the Micheline Entertainment House. Brutally murdered with a wooden object. A cryptic note in her possession. A manager hiding something. Powerful clients. And a medical examiner whose calm demeanor felt increasingly like a mask.
The pieces were there, but they refused to form a clear picture. Davon rubbed his eyes, the long day catching up with him. Thirty days. The clock was ticking, and somewhere out there, a killer was counting on them failing.
He packed up his notes, the case file heavy in his briefcase. As he walked back through the quiet precinct, his phone buzzed. An unknown number. He answered warily.
"Detective Deshaun? Clifford Burton. I've completed my preliminary analysis. There's something you should see. Can you come to the lab?"
Davon checked his watch. "Now?"
"If you want the full picture. It's... quite interesting."
The call ended before Davon could respond. He stood in the parking garage, weighing his options. Clifford's timing felt deliberate, his tone unsettling. But if he had new information...
Davon texted Claire: "Clifford called. Has something new. Heading to the lab now. Will update you."
He started the car, the engine roaring
to life in the concrete space. Another piece was about to fall into place, and he had a feeling it would only deepen the mystery. The night, it seemed, was far from over.