3:45 AM
The VIP room of The Blue Velvet looked like a slaughterhouse designed by an interior decorator.
Detective Erin Thorne stood in the doorway, snapping her gum. She didn't step in yet. She just watched.
The CSI team moved like white-suited ghosts, photographing blood spatters on the Persian rugs. The smell was a nauseating cocktail of iron, expensive cologne, and voided bowels.
"Talk to me," Erin said, her voice raspy.
Officer Miller, a young uniform who looked like he was trying not to vomit, stepped up.
"It's a mess, Detective. Three DOAs. Vargas is in the chair. Tony—his lieutenant—is by the desk. The Driver is against the wall."
Erin stepped over a piece of shattered vase. She crouched next to Tony.
"Fingers broken backward," she noted, shining her flashlight on the mangled hand. "Face smashed into the desk corner. Brutal. Angry."
She moved to the Driver.
"Throat crushed," she whispered. "Collapsed trachea. Efficient. Fast."
She stood up and walked to the desk. Vargas sat there, eyes wide open, staring at nothing. The cut on his neck was a thin red smile.
"One clean cut," Erin muttered. "Surgical. No hesitation."
She turned to Miller. "Where are the guards? This room is soundproof, but someone had to let the killer in."
"That's the weird part," Miller said, flipping through his notepad. "We have two bouncers in custody. Massive guys. They claim they were outside the door the whole time."
"And?"
"They say the door opened, and a kid came stumbling out. Said he was crying. Screaming that Vargas was choking on a steak."
Erin stopped chewing her gum.
"Crying?" she asked.
"Yeah. Hysterical. Begging for help. The guards rushed in to save the boss, and the kid locked them in with the bodies."
Erin looked around the room again.
She saw three different killing styles.
Tony: Brutal, enraged brawling. Driver: Military efficiency. Vargas: Cold, execution-style precision.
And the witness description: A crying kid.
It matched Leo's statement from the hospital. He was crying. Then he stopped.
"Did they get a description?" Erin asked.
"Average height. Brown hair. Cheap suit. Said he looked like an accountant who got lost."
Erin felt a chill crawl up her spine. The image of Arvin flashed in her mind. The bruised ribs. The split lip. The way he apologized to furniture.
No, she told herself firmly. Arvin faints if he sees a needle. This guy took out three armed cartel members in a locked room.
"Detective!"
A tech called out from the corner. "We found the DVR system for the security cameras. It's behind the bookshelf."
"Is it working?" Erin asked.
"Yeah. But the file for the last hour is... weird."
Erin walked over. The tech played the footage on a portable monitor.
It showed the office. Vargas eating his steak. The door opening. Arvin—or someone who looked exactly like him—walking in.
But the angle was bad. The camera was high up in the corner, and Arvin kept his head down. He was just a trembling shape in a suit.
Then, the violence started.
It was a blur. The camera's frame rate couldn't keep up with Dante's speed. It looked like a glitch. One second Tony was standing; the next he was on the floor.
Then, the gunshot. The Driver fired at the ceiling.
Crack.
The plaster dust rained down, coating the camera lens in a fine white powder. The image turned into a milky grey fog. You could hear the screams, you could see shadowy movement, but you couldn't identify a face.
"Lucky," the tech muttered. "Or calculated."
Erin stared at the grey screen. She rewound the footage to the moment the killer walked in. She paused it on his hands.
He was wringing them. Nervous. Terrified.
He's terrified right up until he kills them, Erin realized. It's not an act. He really is scared.
She looked at the body of Vargas.
"Print it," Erin ordered. "I want every frame analyzed. And get a sketch artist for the bouncers."
She walked out of the club, needing fresh air. The rain had started again.
She pulled out her phone. She hesitated, her thumb hovering over a contact name.
Arvin.
She didn't call. Instead, she put the phone away.
"If it's you, Arvin," she whispered to the wet street, "you better run."
7:00 AM
Arvin stood in his shower. The water was scalding hot, turning his skin pink, but he couldn't stop shivering.
He scrubbed his hands. Again. And again. Until the skin was raw.
Out, damned spot, he thought hysterically.
He turned off the water and stepped out. He avoided the mirror. He got dressed in his backup suit—grey, slightly too big.
He had to go to work.
If he called in sick today, after leaving early yesterday, it would look suspicious. Routine was his armor.
He grabbed his bag. He checked his phone.
5 Missed Calls from Henderson.
1 Text from Nova: "You okay? You left in a hurry."
Arvin didn't reply. He walked out of his apartment, locking the door with three turns of the deadbolt.
The commute was a nightmare. Every siren made him jump. Every police officer looked like an executioner.
He reached the office lobby. The security guard, old Mr. Henderson (no relation to the boss), nodded at him.
"Morning, Arvin."
"Morning," Arvin squeaked.
He made it to the elevator. He made it to his desk.
The office was buzzing. People were huddled in groups, whispering.
"Did you hear?"
"The Blue Velvet? Yeah, massacre."
"They say it was a rival gang."
Arvin sat down. He turned on his computer. He opened a spreadsheet.
"Arvin."
He froze.
Nova was standing at his desk. She didn't look happy. She looked worried.
"You didn't text me back," she said.
"I... I fell asleep early," Arvin lied. "Migraine."
Nova scanned him. She saw the raw, scrubbed skin of his hands. She saw the dark circles under his eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.
She pulled a chair over and sat down.
"Arvin," she lowered her voice. "Two detectives are in Henderson's office right now."
Arvin's heart stopped. "What?"
"They're asking about Brad," Nova said. "Since his car was at the crime scene. But..."
She hesitated.
"But what?" Arvin pressed, his voice tight.
"I heard them mention a description," Nova whispered. "They're looking for someone who visited the building yesterday. Someone who left at 5:00 PM."
Arvin stared at her. 5:00 PM. The exact time he got in the car.
"Why are you telling me this?" Arvin asked.
Nova looked at his hands again.
"Because," she said softly. "You left at 5:00 PM, Arvin."
Silence.
Arvin looked at the kindest person he knew. He realized, with a sinking horror, that she wasn't asking if he did it.
She was asking how she could help him hide it.
She knows, Dante whispered. Or at least, she guesses. Careful, Arvin. One wrong word and she becomes an accessory.
"I took the bus," Arvin lied, looking her straight in the eye. "I went home. I watched TV. I slept."
Nova held his gaze. She was searching for something.
Finally, she nodded. She stood up.
"Okay," she said. "If anyone asks... I walked you to the bus stop. We talked until 5:15."
She walked away before Arvin could respond.
Arvin sat there, the air rushed out of his lungs. She just gave him an alibi.
She just saved your life, Dante noted. I like her.
Don't, Arvin thought, staring at Nova's back. Don't you dare like her.