Elliot had long since stopped counting the number of throats she'd slit. Cracking open the mirror above the steering wheel, she put her thumb to the surface of the glass and attempted to wipe away the blood. She took out her half zipped pocket book, receipts slithering out and splaying across the front seat, joining countless others. each identical apart from the date. She'd forgotten how many years she'd been in the business of homicide. Apparently, enough to know every corner of Bergen where home depot employees never asked about the unusual items she filled her cart with. After reapplying a thick layer of lipstick, Elliot flipped the mirror back to it's resting position above the dashboard and hovered her foot over the ignition.
The sky was an endless curtain of stars wrapped around city buildings, seeming to lift their silver heads up to the stars. The corporate offices and soaring buildings of Bergen stuck out like a snaggle tooth from their brick surroundings. Each metallic tower stood barely four yards away from the others like dentures hooked into the slots where historical buildings once perched. Elliot pulled into the nearest drive through joint, slipping her hand into a grease splotched paper bag. She studied her phone, watching the flickering names across the map trail in different directions. R. Vasquez pulled into 891 Prewitt Lane, A. Skrulle hovered over highway 65 and Dr. Oliver Whittle approached the nearest convenience store just as he did each Tuesday night. However, Elliot wasn't searching for R. Vasquez or A. Skrulle or Dr. Oliver Whittle. Her eyes darted across the screen, scanning the names for the particular one she needed. Her eyes rested on a name to the north of A. Skrulle. Typing the predicted route into her gps, Elliot started the car and rolled down her side window.
Finch jogged across the street, narrowly avoiding the raging corvette furiously blaring it's headlights. He was barely visible to the common passerby, his meticulously ironed uniform appeared threaded into the almost identical navy blue of the night sky. Raising the weak flashlight on his phone, he stumbled onto the sidewalk, nicking his ankle against the curb. Anxiously, he withdrew his left hand from his pocket, his fingertips melting against the warm metal key tucked against his thigh. He quickened his pace, wicking his blazer against outreaching tree branches. Abruptly, he turned north and halted on the opposite side of highway 65. He could barely hear the roads above him thanks to the canopy of wilting trees pressed against the bottom of the bridge.
The silence the tree fronds provided wasn't uneasy nor calming. The air felt as if it had no temperature, bumping into Finch's exposed skin. It carried a scent Finch couldn't seem to place but felt all too familiar. He sat down and dug his fingernails into the caked dirt, waiting. He occupied himself with the most mundane of things until he'd convinced himself that whom or what he waited for wouldn't show. But, as soon as he stood up, he felt the urge to sit back down again and wait a few more minutes. This is how Finch spent each of his nights. Ironing the hand me down uniform to a school he'd not set foot in, approaching the spot opposite of highway 65 and waiting for hours until any appearance seemed unlikely. And, Yet he waited even more. By the time Finch allowed himself to fully depart his waiting spot, the sky was painted gold.
Elliot's ears were a flushed pink color from the cold by the time she had caught up to the name on her screen. She put her car in park and blew into her cupped palms, the heat of her breath stinging her bare fingers. For as long as she could remember, Elliot insisted on wearing fingerless gloves. They were useless in protecting her chapped fingers from the cold of Bergen nights but, they were effortlessly cool. One who performed the work that Elliot did would opt for thick gloves to hide fingerprints. She considered her bare fingers the mark of her work for she'd burnt off her fingerprints on a fireplace when she was only six. She couldn't remember if it was intentional or if she had slipped and burnt them in a less valiant way. In either event it afforded her the ability of naked fingers even if a warm pair of gloves did have more purpose than just covering fingerprints. She reached across the chilled leather seat and opened the passenger door, glancing at her watch. A boy cloaked in mud and sunlight fell into the empty passenger seat, his shirt collar in disarray around his collarbones.
