A sudden autumn rain had soaked the surface of Lancer Avenue. At the very end of that old street stood the Ritchie Apartments—five red-brick buildings, each six stories high, arranged in a neat row like forgotten giants lingering in a neglected corner of the city. Between the buildings, a few plane trees swayed, their faded leaves trembling in the cold wind.


    Carl’s patrol car was parked in front of Building No. 3. A passing maintenance worker was sweeping away puddles, and the sound of the broom scraping the wet ground echoed distinctly in the quiet courtyard.


    The manager’s office was on the first floor, to the left. Though it was part of the same red-brick structure, it seemed conspicuously smaller. Through the yellowed glass window, Carl could see Mrs. Maggie watching the midday news. As soon as she spotted him, the widow in her sixties rose to open the door.


    “Hello, Officer.” She still had breadcrumbs on her apron. “I was just about to make some tea.”


    A damp, musty smell hung in the tiny manager’s office. The walls were plastered with faded notices. An old television set broadcasted the news at a low volume, its voices barely audible.


    “This place used to be so lively,” said Mrs. Maggie, bringing over two steaming cups of black tea in chipped porcelain cups. “This used to be downtown before they built the subway. But now..." She sighed, gazing out the window at the empty courtyard. “The young folks have all moved on. Who’s left are either the elderly or people living alone.”


    Carl took a cup and surveyed the cramped room. In one corner were some parcels, likely packages she was holding for tenants. “How long have you worked here?” he asked.


    “Close to twenty years,” she replied, her eyes softening. “I’ve watched this place go from bustling to run-down. By the way, Officer, about Mr. Shimura—” She paused suddenly. “Has something happened to him?”


    “No, just a routine inquiry,” Carl said casually, his gaze lingering on a set of faded tenancy rules tacked to the wall.


    “Mr. Shimura is a good man,” Mrs. Maggie said at once, a note of sympathy in her voice. “He’s always so polite, often offering to help me with chores and taking out the trash. Whenever I see him come back alone, I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.” She fiddled with her teacup. “He drifts through the city with no relatives or friends, always on his own. Sometimes he comes home a bit drunk, but he never bothers anyone.”


    "He lives alone on the sixth floor," Mrs. Maggie said. "The entire floor is empty except for him. Must be lonely up there."


    “Are all the other apartments on the sixth floor empty?” Carl set down his teacup, its porcelain clinking softly against the wooden table.


    “May I take a look upstairs?”


    “Why not? Nobody’s living there anyway.”


    Mrs. Maggie enthusiastically removed a ring of keys from the wall.


    The elevator was old and creaked with each movement. Carl noted that the panel only listed floors one through six, with no basement option. On the sixth floor, the musty odor was stronger. At the end of the corridor, a flickering fluorescent light lent the place a strangely eerie feel.


    Mrs. Maggie opened the door to Apartment 601, and dust motes danced in the air. Facing south, the room was well-lit. Carl stepped onto the balcony, taking in a full view of the courtyard. His eyes drifted toward Building No. 5—Apartment 403—where, according to Agent Smith’s earlier intel, that couple had once lived before they met their end.


    “From here, can you see everything on the fourth floor of Building No. 5?” he asked suddenly.


    “The view’s not great from here,” Mrs. Maggie said, joining him on the balcony. She pointed to 602 next door. “But Mr. Shimura’s place over there has a much better vantage point. When he first rented the apartment, he even mentioned how you could see everything across the way from that balcony.”


    Carl noted her words silently, his mind turning them over as he studied the gap between the two buildings.


    “By the way, Mrs. Maggie,” he changed the subject, “did you see Mr. Shimura come home last night?”


    “No, I went to bed around eleven-thirty,” she said, twisting her fingers nervously. “But he’s always quiet. Even if he did come back, I might not have heard him.”


    “There should be security cameras, right?”


    Mrs. Maggie’s expression became uneasy. “It’s odd, really. The surveillance system has been acting up lately—sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. We reported it to the security company. They sent people to check, but whenever they came by, the system worked just fine, so eventually they just dropped the matter.”


    After parting ways with Mrs. Maggie, Carl sat in his patrol car, thinking over the clues he’d gathered. Another faulty camera system, suspicious timing, the victims’ apartment positioned so close to Shimura’s. From Shimura’s unit, he could observe the victims’ every move. Rationally, it seemed possible that Shimura was the killer—he had the best opportunity. But what was the motive?


    Rain drummed steadily against the windshield, matching his gloomy thoughts.


    Kim returned to the car after wrapping up his part of the investigation. He slid into the passenger seat, bringing in the damp scent of rain.


    “I’ve asked around,” Kim said, flipping through a slightly damp notebook. “On the third floor lives an elderly couple. They say they have no impression of Shimura—never even heard of him. The fourth floor houses a blind man named Morris. He said he went to bed early last night, right after listening to the evening news at ten. In 502, there’s a woman named Linda,” he paused, “she says Shimura always walks hunched over like a frightened rodent. When she runs into him and greets him, he never looks her in the eye, never responds. Instead, he scurries off immediately.”


    Carl listened as he watched the world blur behind the rain-streaked windshield. For a moment, reality felt oddly unreal. The wipers swished back and forth rhythmically. His gaze settled on a surveillance camera mounted on a lamppost outside. Its blinking red light reminded him of what Mrs. Maggie said about the apartment’s faulty cameras.


    He pieced together the timeline in his mind: Shimura left Le Petit Café after one in the morning. It took fifteen minutes to get from the bar to the park, and another twenty or so to get from the park to his apartment. The coroner’s report placed the time of death between two and three in the morning.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    “That’s a bit too convenient,” Carl muttered. “And the motive? Crimes of passion?”


    “What’s too convenient? What motive?” Kim asked.


    “Shimura’s choice of apartment,” Carl said. “Top floor, best view, directly across from the victims’ place. Mrs. Maggie says he often helped her with the trash. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? A man who never looks anyone in the face, who keeps his head down, yet he’s proactively doing favors?”


    “Maybe he just wanted to seem friendly?” Kim suggested.


    “And the surveillance,” Carl went on, “it’s erratic. Always happens to fail at the wrong times, and magically works again whenever technicians come. Too perfect.”


    He lifted his phone and called headquarters: “Check into the security company in charge of Ritchie Apartments—focus on their repair logs for the past week or two. Find out who was dispatched for repairs. Also, review all regional surveillance feeds, especially the routes between Le Petit Café and Nightdew Gardens, from half past midnight to three in the morning.”


    “Boss,” Kim spoke up, “I spotted something interesting in the trash room downstairs. In a bag labeled with Shimura’s name, there was an expired adult magazine wrapped around some camera cleaning supplies.”


    Carl frowned. “Check his bank records. See if there were any large purchases recently.”


    Kim nodded. “I’ve started the process, but without solid evidence linking him to the crime, it’ll take days due to privacy laws. We can’t just bypass them.”


    Rain drummed louder on the windshield. Carl looked at the indistinct silhouette of Building No. 5. Something important was hidden among these seemingly unrelated details. “Kim, go back to HQ. Report the progress. Have them list Shimura as a prime suspect. How many officers are watching him now?”


    “Just two, taking shifts,” Kim replied. “They’re local patrolmen.”


    “That’s not nearly enough,” Carl said. “Request more manpower from headquarters. Keep a close eye on Shimura.”


    “What about you, Chief?”


    “I’m going to speak to another patron from the bar last night.”


    Fisher Street lay under a dull gray sky. A construction site’s tower crane thrust like a giant iron arm into the gloom. Outside the site, muddy tracks ran across the ground, and an excavator roared as it pushed aside puddles, sending up sprays of brownish sludge.


    Carl parked by the construction gate. The faded “WILSON Construction Company” sign clung to a corrugated fence, under which a few peeling safety notices lingered. In the guardhouse, an older security guard was dozing.


    “Excuse me,” Carl tapped on the glass, “I’m looking for Thomas Yamia.”


    The guard jerked awake, blinking in confusion. “Thomas? What do you want with him?”


    Carl flashed his badge. “I need to ask him some questions.”


    In an instant, the guard’s demeanor changed. “An officer! Did that bastard finally do something bad? I knew he was trouble, bound to happen eventually.”


    Carl felt a flicker of annoyance at the guard’s glee."That''s not the issue," Carl said curtly. "Where can I find him?"


    “Of course, Officer. Fourth floor, east side. Works alone, that one. Want me to call him down?”


    “No need, I’ll go find him myself,” Carl said curtly.


    Crossing the muddy site, Carl entered the skeletal building. Steel and concrete beams were exposed to the damp air, which smelled of wet cement and lime. The temporary elevator was out of service, so he took the stairs.


    Each floor felt emptier than the last. The second floor had piles of red bricks; the third was scattered with construction materials. The voices of workers and the roar of machinery faded as he ascended.


    On the fourth floor landing, he heard the clang of metal.


    Thomas was working alone in the eastern section, hefting steel pipes. He wore mud-stained work pants and a sweat-soaked vest. His short silver hair had a metallic sheen in the dull light, highlighting his sharply chiseled features.


    “Thomas Yamia?” Carl showed his badge. “Detective Carl, Major Crimes.”


    Thomas didn’t even look up, continuing to lift a five-meter-long steel pipe with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. Carl noticed a fresh wound on his arm, a dark red scab not fully healed.


    “I need to ask about something that happened at Le Petit Café last night,” Carl said.


    Thomas finally paused, turning to face him. He stood a good head taller than Carl, his brown eyes flickering with a dangerous intensity. Carl had seen eyes like that before—eyes that reminded him of a predator poised to strike.


    “What do you want to know?” Thomas asked in a low, raspy voice, like metal scraping metal. “Ask away.”


    “Do you frequent that bar?”


    “From the site to the bar is half an hour,” Thomas said, resuming his work. “After shift, I go there for a couple of drinks.”


    “What time did you arrive last night?”


    “Around ten-thirty.” The clang of steel pipes echoed in the empty space.


    “How late did you stay?”


    “Past one.”


    “Did you see that couple?”


    Thomas stopped again. “I saw them.”


    “What were they doing?”


    “Making out in the corner booth.” His tone grew colder.


    “Did you notice them arguing?”


    “No.”


    “Other witnesses say they had a fierce quarrel.”


    “I said no,” Thomas repeated, voice taut with impatience.


    “And you were…?”


    "Look," Thomas snapped. "I had a few drinks and talked to some people. Whatever anyone else did isn''t my business."


    Carl felt the tension rising, but pressed on: “Have you noticed anything unusual about Shimura—?”


    “You mean that stray dog of a man,” Thomas interrupted, voice dripping with contempt.


    “Did he do anything suspicious?”


    “I told you, what other people do is none of my business.”


    Carl saw Thomas’s muscles tense, veins standing out like cords. Still, he tried: “You spoke with the bartender,Devin. What did you two talk about?”


    Thomas didn’t answer. He simply stared, his silence a loaded weapon.


    “What’s your relationship with Devin?”


    Before the question was fully out, Thomas lunged with the steel pipe. It sliced the air close to Carl’s face, forcing him to recoil. Carl’s hand flew to his holster, but as he looked into Thomas’s eyes, a primal dread seized him. If he drew his gun, he might not be fast enough. Thomas looked like he could run him through before Carl could even aim.


    The fear felt utterly real and paralyzing.


    “I’m done talking,” Thomas said, voice distant and cold. “Now get out.”


    Carl suppressed a tremor in his legs and hurried away. Back in his car, he gasped for air, his heart pounding. “Damn it!” He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.


    Rain beat against the windshield, the tower crane looming in the distance like some enormous beast. In twenty years as a cop, he’d never retreated during an interrogation, but that sense of visceral dread…


    “Pike, do you have any extra personnel?” Carl spoke into his phone after a moment, still catching his breath. “Check on a Thomas Yamia at Wilson Construction Company. Also, have someone talk to that guard. He might know something. If you see anything suspicious about that man, don’t act rashly. He’s extremely dangerous.”


    After hanging up, Carl felt drained, as if something had siphoned away all his strength.


    A construction vehicle rumbled by, splashing mud on the windshield. Carl gazed up at the gray sky, suddenly feeling as if this city were becoming unfamiliar territory.


    After the rain, dusk settled softly over the city. The setting sun broke through the clouds, bathing the city in golden light. Plane trees along the street shimmered in the breeze, raindrops sliding off their leaves and catching the light like tiny crystals.


    Carl sat by the window in the Helena Restaurant. The décor was simple yet tasteful—beige wallpaper hung with a few impressionist reproductions, and warm yellow lighting that created a welcoming atmosphere. Only a few customers dotted the tables at this early hour. Gentle jazz played softly in the background, punctuated now and then by the clink of silverware against porcelain. Carl idly flipped through the menu, waiting for the meal he’d already ordered.


    Through the glass, he could see a fountain square across the street, haloed by the evening sun. Passersby stretched long shadows across the pavement, like silhouettes moving through a living canvas. In the distance, the church bells tolled, their gentle notes lingering in the damp air.


    Just then, the restaurant door opened, the chime of a small brass bell announcing a newcomer. Carl’s heart skipped a beat—it was that elderly gentleman who claimed to be an antiques dealer. He wore the same immaculate black overcoat and an elegant suit beneath it, topped with a bowler hat. The familiar ebony cane in his hand tapped lightly on the floorboards as he approached, the sound hinting at some unspoken signal.


    A subtle fear washed over Carl once more. So recently, he’d encountered Thomas Yamia’s disturbing gaze at the construction site; now he faced another presence just as unsettling. Despite his polite demeanor, there was something dangerous about him. If Thomas was a prowling beast, this man was equally dangerous, but in a far more elegant, inscrutable way.


    Carl forced himself to remain calm and offered a polite nod. “Good evening.”


    The old gentleman said nothing, strolling directly to Carl’s table. His polished shoes made steady, measured sounds on the wooden floor.


    “May we talk?” Carl gestured to the chair beside him, scraping it softly against the floor. The old gentleman sat down with effortless grace. A blonde waitress approached in clicking heels, her voice cheerful against the quiet hum of the restaurant’s jazz.


    “Would you like to order something, sir?” she asked, offering him a menu.


    “Black pepper steak, medium-rare,” the old gentleman said. “With fries and steamed vegetables. Black pepper sauce on the side. And a glass of red wine, please.”


    “Any starter, sir?”


    “No, thank you.”


    “Dessert?”


    “No, that won’t be necessary.”


    As the waitress turned away, Carl spoke up: “Excuse me. If the kitchen hasn’t started my order yet, could you change it to the same as this gentleman’s?”


    The waitress nodded, heading back toward the kitchen, her footsteps diminishing into the background.


    “Well, this is quite a coincidence,” Carl said, forcing a conversational tone. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”


    He focused on the old gentleman’s eyes—clear, sky-blue eyes as calm and deep as the first time they met.


    The old gentleman remained silent, his gaze drifting slowly around the restaurant’s interior.


    “This place has good taste,” Carl continued, filling the silence. “The décor, those impressionist prints on the walls—one of them is a piece by Yass, his final work before his death. The original’s still at the Wexley Art Gallery. The lighting, the wallpaper…it all evokes a kind of nostalgic charm, like an old private club from another era.”


    Still, the old gentleman said nothing. He merely let his eyes roam quietly, betraying no reaction to Carl’s attempt at conversation